Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Your absence has gone through me

Like thread through a needle.

Everything I do is stitched with its color.

—W.S. Merwin, “Separation”

Now he’s done it.

He’s disappeared before, usually for hours at a time, but when the Young Wolf also left without a word, they knew.

Cayde had really done it this time.

They actually suspected something was wrong around the five-hour mark. That was five straight hours without something in the Hangar tipping over, and because of that the Hunters expressed concern to Amanda, who had come to see Zavala, who alerted Ikora, who shared a bland look with Hawthorne, who couldn’t care less about the missing Exo. Ophiuchus rolled his eye. He supposed Cayde had gone to see about one of his stashes, and they’d agreed.

They brushed it off.

Around day two, when Hunter traffic began to overtake the Courtyard, they tried to contact him, to no avail.

(By day three, the Courtyard had been converted into an outdoor lounge, and Zavala was ready to blow a gasket.)

On the fifth day, many of the Hunters seemed to have taken the hint that they could… quite literally do whatever they wanted, so long as Zavala approved it; so a lot of them chose to run Shaxx up a wall, and others decided to further test the new arena called Gambit. Most of the time they went patrolling and scavenging, trying to keep busy with smaller activities until their mentor returned.

Many more were still concerned about their pending scout reports and Flashpoint rewards—Titans and Warlocks included—and Ophiuchus had the thought that if their young Champion were not so busy cleaning up the EDZ, the bulk of her days would likely resemble Ikora’s when Osiris left the Tower.

A full week and three hours after he left, Cayde called home in the dead of night, saying he was fine and assisting Petra Venj with a small “clean up job” in the Prison of Elders. Ikora couldn’t be bothered to stress, but watched amused as Zavala’s head hit the table in his office with a bang.

Three days later, the young Nightstalker returned, exhausted from her exploits in the EDZ.

The next day, she vanished.

xXx

Zola Farai has been gone for thirteen hours, and the Tower is in a state of disquiet; but it isn’t the flamboyant kind of mass hysteria. No, this was a fog. A thick cloud of doubt seems to have taken the Guardian’s place, settling over the Tower almost in defiance of their attempts to believe all was well. People went about their daily business, but there was none of the usual music, chatter or noise. Everyone spoke in whispers and falsetto, and even the new Guardians could sense it: they were all sick with worry.

None more so than their leaders.

It’s nothing new for Zavala to bark out orders—whenever he’s in a particularly foul mood, which is rare, he has the tendency to unload—but it is another thing entirely when Ikora Rey snaps at her students.

The first time it happened was a complete shock; it was one of her more experienced Sunsingers, one whom she greatly respected and he in turn idolized her (though he will never admit it), and he had stood there, white Awoken eyes blinking in confusion.

He asked her whether she wanted anything from the dining hall—which was not an unusual inquiry, as he occasionally brought her lunches—and she had said, scathingly,“I believe there are far more important tasks that require your attention, Guardian.”

Jaxson Van Doren is his name, and he stood there, staring at the side of her head for a hurtful moment before apologizing for nothing and taking his leave. A few onlookers tried to recover, unfortunately in vain; turning and jerking their heads away rather dramatically just as he was walking out. Pretending not to have noticed.

But notice they did. And Ikora knows.

Her response was both erroneous and avoidable; so much so that Ophiuchus’ shock and disapproval had burst through the radio. All she had to do was say no.

But, he knows, that particular choice of wording was a tell. There was currently nothing pressing for the Guardians to deal with aside from Legion scavengers stranded across the solar system. This could only mean that Ikora is upset at both Cayde and Zola’s absence, and her agitation is only made worse by the fact that they can do nothing to help.

Tracking has proven useless. She’s tried to get Zavala to send a fireteam, but they have no scouts to spare, and even if they did, the Commander wouldn’t send them; he’s been calling more and more Guardians from off-world missions, insisting that their focus should be on home. Communication with the Reef in general is all but impossible to establish, never mind trying to contact their own.

In short, efforts on the Tower's end are futile and pointless. They would have to sit and wait until their Hunters returned. Ikora is justly afraid, frustrated, but is also lunging out at anybody who approaches. She wants to be alone. That much is clear to him. Ophiuchus will normally temper any extreme Ikora tends to lean to, but for now, he will allow her fear to manifest and release however it deems fit. Hurt feelings are a small price. Greater is his fear of what would happen if hers are not permitted escape.

Over the next multiple hours, the Bazaar will gradually see less and less activity.

xXx

It isn’t that hard to guess why she left. Everyone knows she went to the Reef to go get Cayde, but that should have been a simple stop and grab operation. A full day has now passed, and as far as they know, Zola is still in the Reef. For what purpose, none can say for certain. No one knows what’s going on in the Prison of Elders. No one knows why Cayde had to leave in the first place, or why he took the Nightstalker with him. Is he in trouble? Most likely. Could the threat in Reef space be so bad that he had to call their most powerful Guardian away from the Last City on Earth? That is also a possibility, but one the Tower is furiously hoping against.

Ophiuchus cannot help the nervous flutter in his systems. This is worse than when Osiris left. Back then, at least everyone had the sense that he was leaving the Tower for good, but this was a conundrum. He can’t fathom why it could be taking this long for them to finish the mission and come home.

He was alone with Ikora, at her usual post on the Bazaar overlooking a most beautiful eventide when he felt Sundance die.

It was a cold snap, a chilling breeze, a dark mist. Something has been severed, removed, and it takes a moment for him to realize her presence had shot through their link, whispering his name in forewarning. He seizes, horrified.

“Ikora—”

The glass in her hand shatters when it hits the floor and she gasps, staggering backward and pulling at an invisible lance in her chest. Her eyes slowly widen in… in…

The only word to describe what he saw in Ikora’s eyes is naked panic.

Quickly, she puts a hand to her ear. “Zavala.” Her voice shakes.

“I’m coming,” is the immediate, choked reply. Fear hiding beneath bravery.

“… G… Guys?”

A third voice sounds over the radio—Phasma patching her through him—in broken pieces. Small, childish, fearful. Even on this side of the galaxy, her sorrow and anguish reach through the comms, claws honed and poised to score, wrapping an iron gauntlet around already strangled throats. Ophiuchus trembles.

“Zola!” the Commander barks, injecting force to atone for his lack of strength, “what’s happened?”

A tiny sob breaks over the microphone. “He… he’s gone.”

Scorching amethyst flames upend the neat stack of books on her station. Through the corridor, Ophiuchus can feel another familiar surge of Void—cold, dark, and painful—making its way to them.

Like a dying candle, the sky burns out.

xXx

Ikora has one ear on Zavala’s humanitarian speech and another on an internal conversation.

“It’s really not that complicated.”

“Pfft. Okay, bookworm.”

“No, really, it’s not.”

“Ikora,” Zavala calls, knocking her completely out of her thoughts, “if it’s possible I’d like for you to personally oversee this escort.”

She recovers quickly. “That’s fine, Commander.”

“See me when they’re settled.”

Apparently, she’s guiding refugees into the City. Or that’s what she gleans from the bits and pieces she caught.

In her ear, Ophiuchus huffs. “It’s Battleship, not a Vex interface.”

“I can hack a Vex network because I can see it,” Sundance counters defensively. “And with the way you’re explaining these rules, it sounds to me like a gateway for cheating.”

Ophiuchus buzzes. “It’s strategy. That’s simple.”

Sundance chuckles, not quite convinced. “Spoken like a true alpha geek.”

“…”

“That’s a compliment!”

“Cayde is a horrible influence on you.”

“Correction: I’m a bad influence on him.”

Ophiuchus turns to a third opinion. “Delta, what do you think? Is Battleship a hard game?”

“I think you both need to calm down,” laughs Zavala’s Ghost. “And no. Zavala loves it, actually. Beats me every so often.”

Ophiuchus huffs in triumph, Delta laughs once more, and Sundance groans. “How did I get stuck with the nerds…”

Ikora’s lips twitch just so, betraying a smile. She lifts her head and finds Cayde grinning at her from across the table. To her right, Zavala’s shaking his head into his papers, clearly not happy with his secret being disclosed.

Within her comm, they continue to argue, completely unaware that they’re no longer speaking in their code. Ghosts, she thinks.

xXx

All fireteams have a certain connection; one that runs deeper than mere friendship. It is the unification of two or more unique individuals, banding together to fight, protect, and keep. It is a contract, a bond, a promise. It is kinship. Brotherhood. Family. Some are stronger than others. Ophiuchus believes theirs was perhaps the strongest of any.

That is why no one else felt what they had felt.

What they did feel was the combined might of their Vanguard’s power rippling through the Tower in subtle waves as they stormed together to the Hangar. Anyone on their path made a point to steer clear.

They both paced back and forth for a while until Amanda got tired of them—their presence alone had all but cleared the Hangar of any Guardians and her helpers—and asked outright what the problem was…

Zavala only gave her a look.

Holliday has seen much, been through much, but Ophiuchus had before never seen her face crumble as it did in that moment. Had never before seen the Commander embrace anyone the way he did her.

The time elapsed was three hours, but it felt like three eons before the ship docked and the hatch finally opened. She carried him out, fell to her knees cradling him when she reached the three of them and they fell with her; because he was as much her friend as he was theirs, as much a brother as he was a mentor. Not a word was uttered. Not a sound was made, save for the cries of grief of the strongest Guardian who ever lived.

xXx

As they cover the body, Ophiuchus feels something heavy settle someplace where he thinks his heart would be, if he had one. Cayde was a nut. An idiot. Reckless and always looking for trouble… but he had a head on his shoulders. It wasn’t a good head, but it was a head. He was a jokester, a prankster, and an all-around goofball—but when circumstances called for sober thought and deliberate action, he responded accordingly. He knew how to fight. Having been a lone wolf for so many years, he knew how to survive. At the same time, he understood teamwork, and the significance of having a friend. He valued his friends. Cayde was a mess, but to Ophiuchus, he always seemed… invincible.

And now he’s gone.

The three sets of eyes in the room could not seem to look away from the table; did not want to accept what was plain before them. From a dark corner, Zavala’s eyes shone a brilliant blue that was almost hot white, blazing. Ikora’s hands were curled into fists where they rest at her sides—her face betrayed nothing. The only other indication of strong emotion was the quiet burn of the Void emanating from the sole living Hunter in the room. Either she is making no attempts to reign herself in, or she is trying and failing miserably. No one calls it to light.

“He had the worst jokes,” Ikora suddenly says, voice low and tempered. A gloved hand rests on the table. “Even worse timing. I wanted to laugh… I really did. We should’ve been there.”

No one adds to or contradicts her statement. She turns to the Guardian. “This is not your fault. This…” and her voice takes on a hostile edge, one that sends Ophiuchus into alert, “is on the head of Uldren Sov. But if he thinks this is the end, it’s not. It’s the beginning.

“We’re going to fight him.” He feels the Guardian’s Light respond that order, and his furious Warlock turns to address Zavala. Oh, no. “Do you hear me? All of us. Every Titan, every Warlock, every Hunter. We will take the Reef by storm; and we will mount the head of that son of a bitch on his precious throne!” By now the volume of her voice has climbed to proclamation levels, but she softens when she looks back to the gold insignia. “For our fireteam. For Cayde.”

What’s scary is, she would do it. She would, without a second's hesitation, lead every single Guardian to the Reef in a full-blown manhunt, and tear that still fragile patch of ships and rocks apart looking for the Sov Prince. What’s even more frightening? The fact that the Guardians—the Hunters especially—would follow her in an instant. Her intentions are just, he will grant her that, but the ends will not be worth the means. To leave the City defenseless is a very, very, very horrible strategy that is sure to undo centuries of work and cement humanity’s extinction.

But she cannot see this, not through her pain. And Ophiuchus knows if he were to say anything to try and anchor her, she would not hear him. Even now, as he tries to fill her mind with peace, she is fighting against it. Zavala, however—

“No.”

Yes, Ophiuchus says to himself. Balance her. Call her back. Bring her back.

Predictably, she blinks and bristles. “What did you say?”

Zavala steps forward. His mouth moves and sound comes forth, logic and reason… but strangely, he does not seem to be in his body. “We are not an army. We are not conquerors. We are Guardians.” And he pins a certain Guardian with piercing blue eyes, having felt her earlier approval of Ikora’s proposal. “We need to keep our eyes here; on our home. Our people. The Traveler. The Reef was lost the moment it lost its Queen. So if another Sov wants a stretch of lifeless rocks… let him have it.”

Ophiuchus blinks to himself at that last part. That last part. Was not what he was expecting to hear. At all. He does not endorse the idea of unleashing every Guardian upon the Reef, but surely they could spare a few fireteams to end the Prince’s reign of terror? What’s to stop him from killing someone else?

“Let him have it?!”

They turn to the simmering owner of the voice, who has been remarkably quiet thus far, and find that her deep violet eyes are trimmed with a burning lilac. She is by no means an outspoken girl, but her emotions tend to get the best of her at times. This was no exception.

Zavala is unimpressed. Tired. “Yes. I will not leave the City defenseless in order to give chase to a rogue prince.”

Zola shakes her head, disbelievingly. Her gloves groan as her fists tighten. Tears well in her eyes, but she will not let them fall. “We’re not an army, yet we fight in wars. We’re not conquerors, but we parade around every planet in the solar system. We use guns. Weapons. We kill and fight and do it all over again in the next mission. Remind me what our purpose is?”

“To defend,” the Commander bellows, drawing himself up to full height and glaring down at her. The Void swells, and she does not look away. “We do not go looking for war like some bloodthirsty mongrels! The City is still reeling from the slaughter and decimation Ghaul laid upon it, and you would be so quick to leave them to the wolves?”

It was bait, which is very rare to hear from him, and Ikora sucks in a breath. Zola does not take it, but her eyes betray her hurt. She has spent time with the citizens, and they know her. Love her. Ophiuchus does not doubt that she holds their lives above her own, just as Zavala does.

Just as Cayde did.

“No one’s asking you to abandon the City, Zavala!” she exclaims, voice thick. “Even I know that’s a bad idea. When Phasma woke me, she said my purpose as a Guardian was to drive out the Darkness. That means all of it. I get that you don’t want to leave, but you haven’t seen what I’ve seen. What Cayde saw. Uldren and his Barons are a threat to the universe. You’re trying to prevent a second Red War, but if we let him go free, he’ll be knocking down our door soon enough.”

There is truth in what she says, but Ophiuchus does not doubt revenge will be on the plus side of this conquest. Zavala does not challenge her. Years of saving the day again and again—years of defying all odds and forging her own destiny as a Guardian has earned Zola the Vanguard’s ear and respect; and that is what gives her the sole right to speak so boldly to them now. The Commander gives no response as his Light recedes, and hers continues to pulse around them. He circles to the other side of the table, sad eyes falling over the white and gold sheet.

Ikora breathes, brown orbs flashing gold as she feels the anger in Zola's Light, trying to calm herself before she speaks. “This is Cayde we’re talking about. For us to do nothing is… is…”

Awoken eyes flash in challenge. “Say it.”

“Cowardice.”

And it was the way she hissed the word that let Ophiuchus know the next few months were going to be very long for everybody.

But if Zavala took any offense, he did not voice it. “I refuse to bury any more friends,” he whispers.

Suddenly the Void is gone, and with the loss of its heat the room goes polar. “You won’t have to. Uldren Sov is mine.”

With that, the pride of the Tower takes her leave. They do not try to stop her.

Now completely alone, the Titan and Warlock Vanguard stand silent, unmoving, Ikora’s honey gaze transfixed on the golden emblem. His irises bore into her, but she refuses to look at him.

After a while, she shakes her head. “This is madness, Zavala.”

“What’s madness is that you both seem to have forgotten that the City is fragile,” he counters sternly, though not unkindly. “We can’t afford to waste time playing with the Sovs. Earth needs us here.”

“And you’re just content to let him roam?” She rises to look at him, but it is not a question. “Allow him free game to hunt and kill with Cayde’s gun?”

Blue eyes drift over her shoulder to the doorway. “I have no doubts Zola will ignore my orders and hunt him down anyway. He will be dealt with.” The Titan moves to walk around Ikora, and even his subjacent shoulder piece looms over her smaller frame. “What you seek is vengeance, Ikora. Not justice.”

“Are they so different?” she glares at his retreating back.

He does not stop, but imparts over his shoulder, “when it comes to the safety of my City, yes.”

xXx

The news spreads fast. It’s unclear who allowed it to get out, but Ophiuchus suspects either Amanda or the Young Wolf tipped it to someone. Whatever the case, Zavala saw fit to give the announcement anyway, as a formality if nothing else. The Tower immediately fell into deep mourning.

The service was to be held tomorrow evening. Zola would not be there to attend it.

xXx

The very next morning, a vengeful Huntress departed from the Tower on what would become a nearly three-month hunt for the Awoken Prince and his band of Scorn. Ikora, for all her previous bravado, asserted that she could not join her. She did, however, offer the Hunter a place to start searching: The Tangled Shore. Her desire to jump in a ship and take off alongside the girl was apparent; though despite her longing for the Sov Prince’s head, and the fact that Zavala never expressly asked it of her, the Warlock Vanguard made the conscious decision to stay behind.

“I wish I could help you more. But the City needs a unified Vanguard… Or at least the illusion of one.”

Ophiuchus does what he can to abate her distress; whispering comforts in her ear, nestling his presence on her mind. Since their last confrontation Ikora has left herself open to him, to hearing his thoughts and receiving his counsel. Humility on a level so personal is a new concept for her, and so it takes some effort to fall into something easy, such as silence or conversation. Her past mistakes are fresh in her mind, he knows. She is trying not to repeat them, and he loves her for it. They are not quite where they were before her adventures in the wilds, but they are close enough for him to do what he needs to do.

Thankfully, she at least allows herself the respite; she does not push him away or block him out. Ikora leans into his touch when they are alone, pressing back against him in acknowledgement and gratitude. Their interactions in this way are once again devoid of speech, but that is okay. This is what Ikora needs, and he is more than willing to be her source of strength until she finds hers once again.

xXx

He floats, bobbing up and down by her head. She is seated on one of the two loveseats in her library, nose entombed in some dark brew of berries and herbs she’s concocted. “He’s declared the Reef a restricted zone.”

“Hm.”

“That timing seems funny to me.”

Only a quiet raise of brow, but she knows exactly what he is alluding to. Her eyes are glued to the tea. The gears in her head are working overtime.

He says it anyway. “This took eleven hours. And happened in the middle of the day. It almost seems as though he waited until she left to do this.”

“Indeed, it does.”

Ophiuchus studies her. She is trying to be aloof, hiding behind the rim of her mug.

“I don’t suppose she could be punished if she never knew,” he lofts, intending to incite a tangible thought out of her.

Ikora smirks, but it’s wrong. Then her eyes meet his, and Ophiuchus stills at the storm clouds he finds rolling through them. “Clever Ghost,” she says, just a note of sadness to her tone, deft fingers running through the cones of his shell. The smirk turns bittersweet. He works to hold her powerful gaze. “Trying to sway her would have been a waste of his time. This is clearly his way of helping… however unostentatious he’s trying to be.”

He flips his shell, partly in silent agreement. Aloofness had nothing to do with it.

Gold slivers of an aging sun peek through the blinds, reflecting off of him and onto her hands. Dust motes float by, though not in great numbers, and Ophiuchus observes them blankly.

Nothing more is said.

He goes back to reading, while she continues to nurse her tea.

When the time comes to honor Cayde, both Ikora and Zavala stand tall, and she does not shed a single tear.

xXx

Records of the Vanguard, GL-I3 39

CY6: Oookay.

ZAV: Was anyone injured?

IR: Nothing’s been reported as of yet.

CY6: How are you two so calm?

IR: It was a Crucible match, Cayde.

CY6: Let me rephrase. Why is no one concerned about the giant sledgehammer?

IR: It was a Crucible match.

ZAV: Shaxx tells me it wasn’t the Hammer of Sol. It was bigger. More powerful.

IR: He’s worried?

ZAV: That or excited. It’s hard to tell in writing.

CY6: Well I’ve got a couple of guys who never want to set foot in the Crucible again. Bad enough they have to deal with Nova Bombs. All we’ve got is sticks and knives. My poor Hunters.

ZAV: The Hunters have reported new abilities as well.

CY6: Yeah. A crackle stick. I fail to see how that helps.

IR: Hurt feelings aside, this only confirms what I’ve been saying. The Light is changing.

CY6: Ya don’t say.

ZAV: We’ll be monitoring this in the coming days. I’m going to brief this Titan before we let him back into the field. Keep me appraised of any new cases.

xXx

“Have you received the latest reports from Nessus?”

“Yes.”

“What do they say?”

“They complain, mostly. Something about being uncomfortable around too many evil robots. The Vex are constantly trying to jumpstart configurations, which is nothing new…”

“… But?”

She sighs. “Apparently, the process involves… sacrificing themselves to the machine.” They both shift uncomfortably. “Strange as it is, we’ve been observing this over the past year on both Nessus and Io, and have concluded this is common behavior.”

“Hm.”

“I’ve advised any and all Guardians en route to stop them, but Failsafe is monitoring the situation. It’s nothing that requires our immediate attention.”

“Understood. And the Hidden?”

“Keeping what’s left of the Almighty under surveillance, per your request.”

Zavala nods. As anticipated, the conversation comes to an awkward halt for the fifth time this morning, and the sun isn’t even fully risen yet. Ikora’s hands meet behind her back, while Zavala’s rest on the railing of his post; both of them overlooking a slumbering City. A peaceful scene, if one was to ignore the way both Vanguard’s fingers seemed determined to choke the life out of meat and metal. This is remarkable, Ophiuchus thinks. They have spoken of nothing but intelligence and planetary occupations for the last twenty minutes.

Zavala had asked her last night to be here. Ophiuchus doesn’t know the Commander all that well, but the Ghost likes to think he knows enough to deduce that he did not need her physically present to deliver this minutia. And if Ikora still has her wits about her, which she should, then she knows this, too.

It has been three days. They have not seen one another since the service. There has not been a healthy exchange of words since they brought Cayde home, and Ikora has so far been content to discuss anything relating to Vanguard operations through formal documents. And nothing productive ever comes of those meager talks; she always finds something to disagree with. Even as he sits in her ear, Ophiuchus can feel a subtle prickle of something raw—not Light, but the energy is charged and hot, and he feels that it stems from his Warlock. And given the way her words are purposely cut and shaped to business, Zavala also senses an uneasy current; and is most likely stalling for this reason.

They stand together but apart. Ikora has placed enough space between them that another body could fill the gap, and Ophiuchus tries not to believe this is intentional.

Zavala’s grip on the railing tightens, though his shoulders give way when he sighs. “Ikora—”

“Will that be all, Commander?”

The Awoken's head jerks at the needle in his title, sharp and angular as it was intended to allure. He does not look to her, will not rise to it, keeping those ever-watchful eyes on his City; but the metal beneath his hands finally starts to groan. He is irate. “No, it is not,” he says lowly, mindful of Tess and Shaxx in their respective corners. “It is unlike you to allow the evident to go unspoken. You know why I called you here.”

In other words, spit it out.

But Ikora laughs. She laughs a cold, voiceless laugh that should have been a chuckle, but is not for the genuine mirth that she for some reason has found in this situation. Ophiuchus retreats even further into the molecules of her comm. He does not like the sound of it at all. “If anyone has something to say here, it’s you. I came at your behest.”

“Because there exists a problem that only you know how to fix. And I need your insight.”

“Is that so?”

“Ikora.” He turns to look her in the face, a slight plea to her name, and in doing so the hand that was morphing the railing leaves, revealing a large and permanent print. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be. It wasn’t my intention to offend you in any way.”

The short-haired woman scoffs. “My feelings had nothing to do with it,” and that is as clever a lie as she has ever told, “though I will admit to a plethoric reaction. You were right. The City needs us here.”

Zavala must have heard that vaulted candor. A thick eyebrow arches. “You’re a fool if you think I would believe that.”

“Believe what you will,” she airs. “The fact remains.”

The Titan says nothing, initially. He studies her, blue eyes searching her brown ones, though for what, Ophiuchus cannot say. Ikora will not betray witness to a lie. “If you’re certain.” The way he words it could be interpreted as a question, and a doubtful one at that, but it is one she does not answer. Zavala watches her a moment more. “The Consensus will meet within the week,” he says cautiously. “There are… things we will need to deal with.” He does not need to speak it for either of them to know what he means.

Her lips give a diminutive twitch. It is nothing she desires to discuss. “When the time comes for it, yes.” And the space seems wider, now.

Zavala is doing a marvelous job of pinning her down, forcing her piercing gaze to hold his unwavering stare. Neither Vanguard can look away, both of them too stubborn and determined to outplay the other. “Is there anything you would like to have prepared to say to them?”

“Not especially. When they ask, we will simply recite the conditions of the Dare.”

Bold. Zavala clearly meant for them to formulate a plan of speech together. She is testing dangerous waters to assume he would just agree to that, but Ophiuchus sees something in his face soften. Relief. He nods, mostly to himself.

The silence turns deceivingly cordial for a moment.

“People are talking,” he rumbles. “I’m sure by now you know. Rumors of our… discord.”

Ikora waves, annoyed. “And the Factions will try and use this as an excuse for impatience. This isn’t news. Hideo’s been in my messages for days; he wants action.”

“Mine as well. They’re all… anxious.”

Ikora stares for two seconds. “Everyone is anxious, Zavala. Or has your own apprehension blinded you that much?”

The hook has been recast, and sky blue eyes flash. “I see well enough,” and his voice grows harder with each word. He’s taken it. “It’s not apprehension to want to keep our people safe.”

“But it is apprehension to scrub all off-world missions and attempt to set a curfew for seven in the evening,” Ikora retorts harshly, and the Titan takes pause. Zavala did want to place a curfew on Earth-resident Guardians, but she shot that down immediately. And that was before the proposal leaked and received public backlash.

Then, suddenly, Ikora’s voice turns smooth. Sweet. In her mind, Ophiuchus implores. He knows exactly what’s about to come out of her mouth. “You’re not fooling anyone. It’s often said that a man who flees from his fear will find he has only taken a shortcut to meet it.”

Now something behind Zavala’s blue eyes shift, and suddenly they’re no longer glowing; the equivalent of aquamarine stones. Ikora’s are sharp as steel, bright as amber. The Void howls between them, straining to be set loose, but neither Guardian will allow it escape.

Zavala opens his mouth as if to speak, and cuts off his own voice even as his chest rises. The two engage in a wordless exchange, communicating a dark message through their gaze.

Finally, Zavala asks, slowly, “will this arrangement impede you from performing your duties to this City?”

Ikora does not flinch. “It will not.”

“Very well.” And he turns back to the Traveler. A dismissal. “In a few hours, Fireteam Auburn will be investigating claims of a Fallen dealership in the Winding Cove.”

Ikora is walking away now. “I am aware. Their report will be on your desk by nightfall.”

The charge in the air gradually recedes the further she walks. Despite not having a respiratory function, Ophiuchus remembers to breathe.

xXx

He waits until she’s firmly closed the door to her office to phase in an explosion of Light particles.

“Tolkien also said ‘his grief will teach him wisdom.’”

She keeps walking, and summons a tablet.

“Ikora.” Ophiuchus zips around her face, intentionally knocking the device out of her hand and not caring that it cracks against the floor. Forcing her to look at him. He is furious. “You were disgraceful and vulgar. I can’t believe you said that.”

His Warlock’s eyes are unyielding, barbed and shielded. Her voice is even colder. “That was nothing compared to what his Titans have said behind his back. He knows I don’t agree with his decision to call everyone home.”

“Ikora,” Ophiuchus pleads, exasperated and dismayed because she’s better than this. “Zavala disagrees with you on multiple issues, but he’s never stooped to this. You all but called him a coward!”

She snarls and pushes him aside with a backhand, retrieving her tablet. “I never called him a coward, Ophiuchus.”

“Only in so many words,” he buzzes angrily, and follows her to the desk. “We both know you pride yourself on your ability to manipulate speech.”

Ikora taps away for a bit. “I’ll need to know if Devrim Kay is available to assist with the Winding Cove investigation.”

Ophiuchus deliberately waits ten seconds before responding. “This is not the end of our conversation,” he warns.

“No,” Ikora agrees, “I would imagine this is only the beginning.”

xXx

As it happens, Ophiuchus doesn’t bring it up for the rest of the week. Ikora continues to communicate with Zavala through the written word, and the Ghost says nothing of it.

Neither of them sees the other again until the meeting.

He is genuinely surprised they manage to sit beside one another. They’re stiff, and their words are to the point, but they sit together. Companionable. Though their discomfort is quite obvious, as well as the fact that both Vanguard would rather not be in the room in general, it is impressive how affable their responses have been thus far. Almost as though they had never been fighting in the first place.

And they were able to make it halfway through scheduled time before Hideo asked about their newest vacant position.

Lakshmi-2 was about to propose a new feature for the next Faction Rally when his soft, patronizing voice cut in, politely and yet pointedly placing his pen on the table to command attention. “I personally think we’ve ignored the elephant in the room long enough.” Ikora and Zavala stiffen, in preparation and annoyance, Ophiuchus thinks. Hideo's eyes narrow, passing between them. “Are there any immediate candidates for the new Hunter Vanguard?”

Zavala heaves a breath. Ikora’s golden eyes lock with the Executor’s. Challenging.

“As I stated before we began,” Zavala says, deceptively calm, “We are now faced with issues on multiple fronts; the Vanguard not least among them. The process will not be quick or easy.”

The man remains outwardly calm, but Ophiuchus catches the impatient flash of his dark eyes. “Are you or are you not actively seeking for a Hunter?”

Zavala glowers. The words are low. “There are no plans to appoint a new Hunter at this time.”

Everyone at the table reels in shock and confusion. Everyone except Hideo. “So who will lead them?” he prods, voice easy and patient, but he’s clearly trying to start something. “Surely the two of you can’t take them all under your wing. And in addition to your numerous Warlocks and Titans?”

“For now, Ikora and I will do what we must.” And the tone of his voice suggests that New Monarchy should leave the issue alone.

Lakshmi steeples her fingers, light blue eyes flicking between the Commander and his counterpart. “If I may offer a suggestion. Crota’s End.”

Hums of agreement sound across the table.

Ikora and Zavala are having none of it.

“Absolutely not—"

“Zola is young—"

“She is strong,” Arach Jalaal insists, confused as he studies both of them, “stronger than any Guardian we’ve ever seen or known. And the Hunters respect her. She is the perfect candidate.”

“To have her at the forefront of leadership is also sure to boost morale,” Lakshmi agrees. Her cool, calculating optics blink at both Vanguard, also thrown by their reactions. “Reputation on the battlefield aside, her renown in the City alone is most impressive.”

“A pity she isn’t here,” Hideo cuts in breezily. Beneath the table, Ikora clenches a fist. “Run off to kill the Awoken prince. The last thing we need is a fly-by-night Hunter at the helm.”

The fist is outlined in purple, now, and Ophiuchus can feel his charge getting hotter by the second. Ikora, he tries.

She doesn’t hear him. She’s about to open her mouth and say something particularly damaging and there will be no stopping or rectifying it.

A large hand sneaks under the table, covering hers and dousing the Light. She blinks, breathes. Zavala holds her, eyes still on Hideo, and Ikora does not resist him.

Jalaal and Lakshmi spare a glance in their direction. New Monarchy, conveniently, doesn’t notice a thing that is going on. “Her name will join the conversation when she decides she wants to come back and stay here. We need to make a decision now.”

“What about this Marcus Ren?” says another representative of New Monarchy, a young man. “Cayde has mentioned him to the Consensus numerous times—”

Eyes steely, Ikora settles back in her chair, and her hand slips free from Zavala's. Her voice rings out, even and strong. “Cayde and Hunters in the past have also made it clear how we are to proceed with this. They cannot be chosen by appraisal as we would a Warlock or Titan.”

“Yes,” Hideo drawls, “the legendary Vanguard Dare. Quite frankly, I believe it to be obsolete.” He levels a look at Ikora. “The implications of that Dare are what’s kept the Hunters from coming forward,” he insists. “There are many of them who would excel in a role of leadership.”

Jalaal frowns. “That’s not—"

“This has nothing to do with the Dare, Executor,” Ikora throws back flippantly. “The Hunters won’t lead because they don’t want to lead. They’re independent. Freelancers, lone wolves. They’ll find a pack here and there, but won’t willingly submit themselves to a life of conformity.”

Lakshmi motions. “Do you believe Zola would?”

No, is her immediate thought, as well as Ophiuchus’. “If we asked her, I’m sure she would consider it. But as of now, her talents are of best use in the field.”

Zavala agrees. “It would be strategically irresponsible of us to remove her from active duty. Especially at this time.”

A low chuckle sounds, humorless. Everyone looks to Hideo. “Zola may as well be considered inactive. She goes wherever she pleases, without notice. Before Oryx, she was constantly fooling around in the Reef. Then Ghaul shows up, and she’s nowhere to be found until it’s too late.”

“Executor,” Lakshmi intones, harsher than her usual inflection. Her icy blue optics study him calmly. “You seem to forget it was Zola’s hand that brought Ghaul low.”

“The point, Lakshmi, is that she’s never around,” the Executor stresses, “unless there is a world-ending threat of some sort.” Then, he mutters, “either that or a Faction Rally.”

Ah. There it is.

Zavala’s eyes flash. “Hideo—”

Jalaal cuts him off, and even he seems very nearly angry. “Executor. I know you understand better than that. We all want the same thing, but invoking this grudge to get what you want is petty and juvenile.” Hideo doesn’t respond; only glares, but he at least appears remorseful. Jalaal looks to the Vanguard. “I’m sure we can come back to this… when we’re all in a… better state of mind?”

Most everyone nods. Hideo folds his hands loosely across his lap, a show of tolerance, but the hard line of his mouth tells of a stubbornness.

The Commander takes a moment to breathe—furious, overwhelmed, or both—steadying himself before closing the meeting. “Thank you all for your input. I know it seems as though we’re wasting time, but there is a reason for the Dare. The Hunters have their ways, and we require their perspective to move forward.”

New Monarchy sighs, forlornly. “First you refuse to appoint a new Speaker, and now the same for the Hunter Vanguard.” The Executor looks to Zavala, all but begging him with his eyes. “There are holes in this government, Zavala, and you cannot avoid filling them forever.”

“Thank you, Executor Hideo.” His words are level and firm. “If there are no more complaints, I will see you all when we reconvene.”

The Consensus begin filing out of the room, with New Monarchy being the first to leave. Zavala does not move to stand. Neither does Ikora.

They sit unmoving for two minutes. Ikora lifts both hands to steeple her nose, elbows resting on the arms of her chair. They all know Hideo holds some resentment over Zola’s continuous refusal to represent New Monarchy. And this was not the first time either Faction leader had snapped since their relocation.

Even so, “Zola is not a leader.”

That was not meant as offense, and Zavala knows. “No, she isn’t. Heading a fireteam is one thing, and she does so admirably, but ultimately she is a free spirit.” In a rare display of weariness, the Commander sinks into his seat. “And as Vanguard…”

Ikora completes it for him. “She would be just as miserable as Cayde was.”

The air grows heavier with sorrow and unspoken words. Zavala sighs through his nose, shoulders bowed under the weight of this truth. Cayde was never fond of rules. Was never meant to be bogged down with regulations and protocols.

But still, he stayed.

There is a tentative quiet. Not unpleasant, but something strange lingers. Then Ikora stands. “I have a few appointments to keep.”

She waits a millisecond, gives him enough time to respond, but he does not. Zavala stares at the papers in front of him, just barely inclining his head. Ikora leaves him be, and walks out the door.

Ophiuchus phases, floating beside her, just in time to see the Commander turn his head to the cold, empty seat beside him. It was not hers.

xXx

The next morning, New Monarchy issues an apology to the Consensus, acknowledging its inessential behavior and animosity toward Zola. Neither Ikora nor Zavala requested one from him, and they never did from Faction leaders in the past. Nevertheless, like his counterparts, the Executor expresses deep regret, and a guarantee that it will not happen again.

Life goes on, as it should, but in a manner that it shouldn’t.

In the ensuing weeks, Ikora and Zavala barely speak to each other, unless it is by absolute necessity.

“Necessity” means strike missions and Consensus meetings.

“Absolute” means if there are no alternative methods of communication available.

If neither of those things are a factor, they will talk via scout logs and mission reports.

This is not Zavala’s doing. Ophiuchus recognizes this particular brand of ostracism, and knows it well. He endured it for nearly a century, after all. There’s no mistaking the frustration and hurt behind Ikora’s silence, her outright refusal to talk. The Ghost suspects Zavala senses it too, and that is why he does not push.

The Commander is playing the game far better than he did sixty years ago. He does not speak to her unless he is spoken to first, and takes care to keep a wide berth whenever their paths cross. He holds his distance, a bit too respectfully Ophiuchus thinks, and when he thinks she’s not looking, he’ll cast his soft blue eyes over to her. A cloudy and hardened blue. It is impossible to tell what he is thinking. He expresses neither annoyance nor displeasure with her. Zavala plays the game. He simply carries on.

The Tower, however, has most certainly been alerted to an issue, though no rumors come within even a hairline's width to the truth. Ikora’s conduct from early on had been questionable at best and concerning at worst; but now with Cayde’s death confirmed, worry has turned into plain and simple fear.

Her students avoid her, and this is not in the least bit surprising. Ikora has never been the most warm or sociable person, but where her Warlocks were concerned, so was she. Always, she devotes herself to them, guides them however she can, and keeps her door open. Now, she places distance, replies are detached, and the Void whispers in annoyance whenever they approach. Many of the Hunters and Titans caught the message quickly, and make certain to disturb her only if the matter is absolutely worth the trip. Even her newer Warlocks—who she would initially withhold the dry sarcasm for—are not exempt from her wrath.

Wrath. Ophiuchus doesn’t think the word sounds quite right. But then, in a way, that is exactly how she is behaving. Angry. At Zavala. The Guardians have nothing to do with this.

He tries to tell her as much one day, remind her where the problem lies, but she dismisses him with a thought. If he were any other Ghost at any other time, Ophiuchus would be both offended and outraged, but he isn’t. He’s infinitely more alarmed than anything else.

He has always been her anchor, pulling her back after she’d strayed too far into the depths of her own treacherous mind; which has worked for centuries until now, all of a sudden, at this one point where she absolutely needs to be aware of herself and realize her actions are causing harm to those around her.

But she is. He knows because she dismissed him, tossed him out of her mind as though he were a fly in her face. Ikora wants to be left alone in her anger. This is unsettling.

Ophiuchus tries to bring this up once more after allowing it to rest for some days, but the fates seem rather obliged to assist in upholding his Warlock’s irascibility.

Either that or he just has abysmal timing; she’s meeting with Zavala, and for the third time this month. Her focus is entirely on this encounter, deliberately, and Ophiuchus knows this because Ikora doesn’t need to use a tenth of her intelligence in order to field the conversation about to take place

'Conversation.' Because whenever the two of them do manage to find themselves trapped within a whisper’s reach of each other, their discussions are about the City. Always.

Zavala is adamant about staying put. Reinforcing the Wall, keeping the Fallen at bay, protecting the borders, ensuring the future of what he has declared to be the new Golden Age. One by one he calls Guardians to return to the City, citing the importance of a united front.

Ikora wants to expand. To pursue new roads, test the boundaries of the universe we know in search of the Traveler’s promise: silver trees, roses, crowns, and bonfires. She believes reducing their presence throughout the solar system to be counterproductive, and that retreat will only serve to render Earth even more susceptible to future attacks.

Neither of them can agree on a single course of action.

xXx

The one thing they do seem to find common ground on is the fact that this Drifter character is not at all suspicious, full of goodwill and just deserving of his hole in the wall.

Ophiuchus does not like him.

“Stop that,” Ikora snaps idly, having felt his flurry of thoughts, and rubs a temple. “You’ve been doing that for ten minutes now, Ophiuchus. I know you don’t like him.”

He phases. “Do you honestly not find him to be strange? ‘Banking motes of Light?’ Taken, Scorn, and Fallen assembling at his whim? And what in Traveler’s name is a ‘Primeval?’”

“Ophiuchus.” The highlighter she was holding meets the table with a clack. Her are eyes closed, words measured. “I’m not saying I trust him. But he’s an ally of the City, and we are not turning him away just because a few people think he’s outlandish.”

Her tone leaves room for no further argument, and he floats. Ikora then stands, moving to replace a small book on the shelf. A small notebook full of her notes that belongs on her desk. She’s distracted, suddenly, in need of something to do with her hands, and he does not need to guess why.

Well. Since it’s on her mind. Opportunity knocks. “You could just talk to him.”

His voice is harder than he’d intended, impatient, and the consequence of that is the immediate souring of her attitude. “He won’t see me.”

“I wonder why that is.”

“Hm. Very funny, Ghost.”

He buzzes unhappily at the use of the noun in such a flippant manner. She knows he doesn’t like it when she calls him that by name.

Ophiuchus watches her return to the desk. If she wants difficult, he can do difficult. “Then I’ll tell you what he won’t. Your behavior as of late has been atrocious.” The Void swells in a subtle warning for him to be quiet, but he has no intention of letting this go unsaid. “You’ve been goading him for weeks. Deliberately saying things to try and make him mad. How long are you going to keep this up, Ikora? What are you trying to accomplish by driving him away?"

She leans back to regard him with those eyes he adores but no longer knows. Ikora sits almost in a regal manner, and the butt of the pen touches her lips. “You say I pride myself on my ability to manipulate speech,” she says curiously, but it’s not genuine. “Zavala prides himself on his Wall, and his immovable conviction that he can shoulder the world’s problems on his own. But he won’t see that unless he’s forced to.”

Ophiuchus blinks. Does she not realize that pushing him away will only reinforce the latter belief? Does she not understand that Zavala has tried on quite a few occasions to resolve the issue between them? That splitting the chasm wider in this time when they need to stand together is the exact opposite of good?

Or does she think this is all Zavala’s doing?

“Ikora,” he starts, confused and worried and forlorn all at once, “all you’re doing is—"

“The job, Ophiuchus. And everything that entails.” Stubborn. Final. She’s not going to see this any other way.

Ophiuchus blinks, and he floats, and he lets Ikora return to her work. He realizes now this is the only time in the span of their entire partnership that he has ever felt disappointed in her.

Because some of the things she’s said to Zavala have made him very embarrassed.

xXx

Just last night…

It’s late, and she meets with him by the Vault terminals. “Ophiuchus was able to establish contact with Phasma.”

Interest pushes through blue steel. “What did she say?”

“Zola and the Reef’s Regent-Commander are in pursuit of ‘the last’ of these Barons. She wouldn’t say where they were, or how many they’ve killed so far.”

“So it could be months before she comes home,” he sighs.

Ikora huffs. “Yes. Then there’s the matter of Uldren, who is constantly slipping out of their grasp.”

Zavala is silent for a while. “She can handle him.”

“That’s not my concern.”

“Then why are you here?”

Ikora’s smile is almost genuine. Almost. “Sensitive information. I figured I should tell you in person.”

Zavala nods, but his eyes harbor a wariness, a silent interrogation into her mind. “There’s something else.”

Her smirk widens, now saccharine. “New reports in the rumor mill say Hideo is prepared to offer a solution for leadership.” He gives her an odd look, to which she returns with slightly surprised countenance. “I honestly expected you to have heard something.”

He snarls, frustrated. “He can offer every candidate within our ranks. It won’t happen—”

“This isn’t about the Hunter Vanguard, Zavala.”

He knows this. That’s why he’s now glaring at her as though she’d kicked his dog and it’s also why his eyes are burning hot. “He wouldn’t.”

As anticipated, denial. She sighs. “I’d beg to differ. At this time, it would make sense.”

“The risk of starting another Faction War—"

“Did not stop him from making the offer before.” Ikora makes certain to curve her voice so that it absolutely drips with honey, grating on him in that way she knows he can’t stand. “I know you wouldn’t take it, but Hideo is clearly desperate. And it would be… remiss of him to pass on this opportunity to lick your boots.”

He cuts her off with a surge of Void. The Light doesn’t hurt her—in fact, its lukewarm against her skin—but the pressure steals her voice. Zavala stomps away, heading straight into command. In her ear Ophiuchus vents, and Ikora watches him go.

xXx

“I have one more proposal,” Hideo announces to the Consensus that evening, after a long and monotonous meeting on budgets and shares.

Jalaal stares him down. “If this is going to be anything like your last tirade—”

“Trust me, my friend,” Hideo laughs, “it isn’t.” Soft, dark brown eyes settle on Commander Zavala for a moment, and the utterance of a single word brings the Awoken to frown deeply. “Leadership.”

“I’ll hear no more of the Hunter position,” Zavala warns lowly.

“And you won’t,” the man assures, hands folded calmly, imploring, “but hear me on this.” The Titan seems obliged to listen, so Hideo continues, “Since the Speaker’s death, you’ve all but assumed his position as chieftain. You’re now responsible for three times the military burden and even more governmental obligations. Everyone looks to you; for guidance, direction, advice.”

Zavala nearly growls. “What are you playing at?”

“I’ve made the offer before, and I’m doing so again now.” The simple implication here is powerful. Lakshmi and Jalaal share an outraged glance, Zavala’s eyes harden, and Ikora reclines and smirks lightly, chin resting in her hand. The softness of Hideo’s eyes suddenly shifts into a seriousness, one that conveys an intention to keep the promise and see it through. And perhaps it was because of what Ikora had said just yesterday, but Ophiuchus swears he sees… hope? Longing? It can’t be. “By rights you’re already a king in everything but title. You need only say the word, Commander.”

Briskly, Zavala stands, features forever chiseled into a scowl. His words are punctuated and final. “The word is no, Executor. The threat of a Faction War is the last thing this City needs, and I will neither play favorites nor assume a position of absolute power.” He exhales, unevenly. “This is the last time I ever want to hear about it.”

“Commander—”

“I think our business here is finished,” Zavala interrupts curtly, and gathers his papers. “We will meet again at the end of the month.”

The others move to stand as he makes his exit. Ikora does not.

xXx

When Ikora comes to her study that night it’s to find Zavala waiting by the door. The Awoken markings on his face swim furiously, in agitated jerks. “You put him up to this, didn’t you?”

Her flat expression doesn’t change, save for a mordant raise of brow. “If I did, you wouldn’t have had to ask.” Without breaking her stride, Ikora brushes past the Titan and into the room, leaving the door open. An obvious invitation for a fight, Ophiuchus thinks dejectedly.

The Commander takes it, shuts the door behind him. His breaths come heavy and loud through his nose. “That wasn’t a coincidence,” he insists.

“Of course, it wasn’t. I told you—”

“Will you stop lying?!”

“I had nothing to do with it!”

Her voice is sharp and raw and his sounds almost pained, and they both pause briefly, quietly berating themselves for allowing such a slip.

“Ikora,” the Awoken says between grit teeth, “I’ve tried talking to you, and I’ve tried giving you space. Nothing has changed. I don’t know what else you want me to do.” He speaks lowly, but help me is what Ophiuchus hears. “Whatever I say on my own doesn’t seem to be working.”

Ikora’s eyes flash and harden. “Perhaps because there’s nothing to work on,” she holds up a tablet, “except this report. Red Legion scavengers are hunting dead Ghost shells in the EDZ.” She passes it across the desk in a quick, jerky motion. “Should be close enough to home for you to send a few fireteams.”

Ikora and Zavala stare each other down. Internally, Ophiuchus sighs.

Then the Commander turns to leave, but not without a staggering parting shot. “You’re not the only one who misses him.”

xXx

That was the first time either of them acknowledged Cayde’s death, and here is where Zavala begins to meet her. Blow for blow, punch for punch, tit for tat. He is more reserved in his fury, constantly loading Ikora’s queue up with complaints from the factions, as well as pushing most of the morning strikes onto her. Verbally, Zavala’s insults mostly consist of cutting comments about her relationship with her students; whereas Ikora is unrelenting in her speech, targeting the areas where she knows he is most vulnerable. Around others, their words are crafted almost to code, but their private sessions are nothing short of warfare, building up and up until one day, it boils over in the most unfavorable, but predictable, way possible. They stop meeting together in public after that.

xXx

Records of the Vanguard, GL-I3 51

CY6: THE WARLOCKS, TOO?!

ZAV: This is unprecedented.

CY6: Make way for Captain of the SS Undeniable!

IR: Hm.

ZAV: Ikora?

IR: Three of my students came to me last month saying their Light wasn’t responding.

ZAV: Not responding?

IR: In the conventional way. They felt like they were going to explode. I sent them to Io to meditate, but.

CY6: Ooh. How’s our buddy Asher doin'?

IR: Cantankerous, as usual. And not at all happy that there are now 'soulless sacks of walking trinitrotoluene' parading his corner in the system.

CY6: [low whistle]

ZAV: It can’t possibly be that dangerous.

IR: It’s not. But it functions similarly. They’re calling it Chaos Reach.

ZAV: I only hope we’ll have no further incidents within the Tower.

IR: Well. One of your Strikers just punched a hole right through the bar. No hope for that.

CY6: My poor HUNTERS.

xXx

Delta reaches out.

They’ve never quite been in close contact, he and her, even when Sundance was around to annoy them both. According to her, he and Delta were always the “stiffs” of the trio, with Ophiuchus being the most level-headed. It was unlikely that they would ever ping each other for reasons other than business, so Delta’s silence thus far has not surprised him.

But tonight, she pings him, and that alone is cause for worry.

“Ophiuchus.”

He is immediately roused from sleep. “Yes?” he replies, softly so as not to wake his charge.

A rough sigh comes through their link. “Look, I know we’re not supposed to police each other, but something’s got to give with Ikora.”

She sounds very, very irritated. He groans. “I’ve tried talking to her—”

“Well try again!” Delta snaps. “Zavala’s been absolutely horrible. This needs to stop.”

“How bad is he?”

“Like, post-Cayde-memorial-Ikora horrible. Except in Titan form.” The Ghost grumbles, and Ophiuchus chuckles at the comparison. Delta’s voice grows close to worry. “It’s really not funny, O. The Titans are scared of him. And I mean, really scared.”

Ophiuchus takes pause. Everybody is scared of Zavala, they just never dare to say or show it. The Commander isn’t inherently menacing, he just is, but…

This isn’t good.

“And he’s no better by himself,” she continues. “He’s not sleeping. I have to remind him to eat, and even then he barely does that. He’s been beating himself up since Cayde died. And Ikora constantly making his death seem like his fault isn’t helping!”

“I know, I know,” he eases, feeling strangely conflicted for a machine designed to run on intellect. “I know. I’m... I’m sorry for the way she’s been acting, Delta.” Because he really doesn’t know what else to say.

His companion sighs long. “No, I’m sorry. It’s not… it’s not your fault, O.”

The line goes quiet.

“Do you…” Delta starts, timid, “do you ever…”

“Hear her voice?” She doesn’t respond. A beat passes. “Yes. His, too.”

It’s unclear how or why this is. Perhaps there was a fault within the nexus. Perhaps there the link cut too abruptly, leaving a residual stain on the network. Perhaps it was a part of their subconscious mind that longed to fill in the blank… that gaping, stagnant blank. Perhaps they are not entirely contrived of metal, after all.

Perhaps. Perhaps.

He doesn’t know.

“I miss her,” Delta whispers then. She sounds so very lost. He doesn’t like it. “I miss them.”

Ophiuchus takes a moment. “I do, too,” he offers. “As do Ikora and Zavala. We have to remember this.”

“Looks like we’ll have to remind them, too.” She sighs, then chuckles dryly. “Traveler saw fit to bless us with the most bullheaded Guardians…”

He actually laughs at that. “I like to think they were the ones who were blessed. We’ll work with it.”

“We’ll do our best, anyway,” and he can picture the roll of her eye. “I’m sorry for calling you like that.”

“Don’t apologize. This talk was necessary.” For many reasons. “Get some rest, Delta.”

“You, too. Goodnight, Ophiuchus.”

The connection ends, but Ophiuchus doesn’t go to sleep right away.

Looks like we’ll have to remind them, too.

Remind them. It was Zavala himself who used such a reminder just a few weeks ago as a tool of aspersion.

Ophiuchus thought it was clear, but…

He picks up off the nightstand and watches over his charge. Ikora’s face is blank but pulled slightly taught. She’s been having fitful nights, going to bed at a decent hour but waking up several times before the sunrise. He can never tell if it’s dreams or something else. Ophiuchus watches her, light dimmed, and he comes to realize something.

Ikora has not really sat down to process Cayde’s passing. She never stilled herself. Never meditated on it. Immediately after he was brought home, she dove right back in to work, jumped at the chance to resent Uldren Sov and effectively spurn Zavala. As he floats, Ophiuchus also understands that he himself neither paused to consider his haunting thoughts nor lament until just moments ago, and it’s clear too that Delta hasn’t either. It felt, as humans say, like a splash of cold water to the face. It was jarring and unsettling, and he understands now Ikora’s behavior. It doesn’t make it right, but that night, Ophiuchus wonders, and he determines.

Anger was never the problem.

Chapter Text

"Ikora—"

"Whatever it is you're going to say, don't."

"I was just—"

"Ophiuchus."

"Ikora!"

She falters, flips a page. "What is it?"

"You need to talk to him."

The nauseating pressure of Void energy surrounds them for the briefest of seconds—too fast to be noticed by any other than a Lightbearer—then retreats back into her body just as quickly as it came. She didn't mean to do that. Her face is like the Void in its placid unreadability, eyes glazed as they pretend to read a book describing the benefits of horticulture; but Ophiuchus has known her for far too long to be deceived by masks and illusions. "I do not."

"Yes, you do," he counters kindly. "You can’t avoid each other forev—"

"Have you seen the way he looks at me?"

"Yes, in part because it is the same way you look at him." He glares through his little eyeball. "You're angry with each other. And the Tower knows it. I would even go so far as to say the City knows it, as well."

An airy hum. A page turn. "Ikora."

He does not flinch when the book closes as he speaks the last syllable, bits of dust exploding from the unnecessary force. She turns her cool gaze on him. "He made a decision. For the good of the City, I was bound to honor it.”

Yes. She still is, among other things, frustrated. “You’re doing a stellar job leading together in the most segregated way possible.”

“He has his methods. I have mine.”

“You also have your affinities.” The book's hard and worn cover suddenly becomes an artifact of great fascination. “Boldness, stubbornness, a strategic mind. But not least among them is grief.”

In the ancient past, she would have denied feeling anything at all and stalked off in a raging storm of purple robes, on her way to bury herself alive in books and work. She still does, to a degree, but Ikora has grown so much since the Red War.

She leans on the table. Air involuntarily leaves her lungs, shoulders sagging in an aching weariness that Ophiuchus wishes he could feel, if only to better comfort her. “I can’t understand why I’m feeling this way.”

Ophiuchus pauses just before blurting out because Cayde is dead and Zavala is intransigent, because it was Ikora who instigated the whole thing, because she knows this. “Grief is a difficult response to process,” he offers instead, studiously. “It conflates with anger and depression, which is exactly what you’ve been experiencing for the last—”

“No,” she interrupts softly, face scrunching, “it’s not… it’s not that.” Pushing off the table, Ikora begins to pace. “I have fought countless battles, borne witness to extensive carnage, and lived through a war without Light.”

…

Oh.

Oh.

So it’s like this. “Ikora…” the Ghost exhales. “Mourning is a natural response to—”

“Loss, yes, I know.” She halts, releasing a shaky breath and pinches the bridge of her nose. “But I’ve experienced that, too. It has never affected me like this.”

She must mean Osiris. And the Traveler.

She doesn’t wait for him to respond, and goes right back to burning a hole through the hard wood floor of her study.

Ophiuchus floats. Ikora is genuinely and fervently trying to scientifically explain away her grief, and he cannot understand why. “Ikora,” he begins carefully, “I would be more concerned if this wave of loss did not surmount the War.” She does not stop pacing, and he sighs internally. So be it. “War is different. It demands alternate methods of approach and constant vigilance, so there can be no good time to process correctly. We mourned afterwards because we lost so much. Too much. And losing the Light…” he stops to consider. “The Light is part of you, but Cayde was your friend.”

It was something of an unwritten rule between them, not to speak his name, but Ophiuchus regrets his earlier decision to dust around the issue. Clearly, blunt truth was not only absolutely necessary, but long overdue. The mention of her deceased comrade does its job; she stiffens and sucks in a sharp breath. But she's not angry. She is now aware.

Ikora is not exactly facing him; she’s turned away at a slight angle and Ophiuchus can see every muscle in her jaw that twitches. Her mouth works, producing no sound. It takes a moment for his Warlock to find her voice. It tremors. “I have lost many friends.”

This is true, “but none of them were Cayde.”

The last of her resolve slips and shatters in the form of a leaden, solitary tear.

xXx

Zola returns; but she is changed, Ophiuchus thinks, as she talks with Ikora. She appears older, and almost battle-weary. Her mission for revenge is complete, but there is neither smile nor twinkle in her violet eyes. There is only tiredness, and Ophiuchus feels something akin to sorrow for the girl. He does not doubt Phasma consistently advised her against that road; it does not absolve one of grief, but the Kingslayer is nothing if not persistent. She wanted to see this to the end, and she has. Now she must mourn.

The Hunter speaks with his Warlock for a very short while, claiming previous engagements despite her clear desire to, 'conk out,’ as they say. Telling, and unsurprising. She’s only been back a few hours, but already has the sense that something is off kilter.

But Ikora lets her go without hindrance, grateful to return to isolation. His Warlock’s behavior has also taken a substantial turn around, when you consider the small timespan of thirteen hours. From the moment Ophiuchus made her aware of her grief, she became less brazen in fury and more austere within herself. Internally, she’s still confused as to why her grief is still holding so much power over her, and seeks a way to rectify it. She does not appreciate feeling this way. She wants the emotion to be gone.

Ophiuchus knows the answer to that problem. He doesn’t much like watching her suffer through this, but he won’t comment on it. For now, he’ll simply continue being a pillar. He’s done his part. Best she come to terms on her own time.

Zola keeps to herself, mostly; soloing whatever missions they give her and flying back and forth to who knows where. She’s rarely seen in the dining hall, with or without her friends, and she doesn’t report in person to the Vanguard.

Ophiuchus supposes the latter is for the best, right now.

xXx

The air bites at the flesh as they enter into the month of winter. Ophiuchus likes to think its been in season for months, now, what with the bitter hostility Ikora and Zavala have been exhibiting. Granted, it is simply negative energy—internalized, weaponized then directed at each other—but it has become more and more tangible with time.

And it has finally begun affecting those around them.

The Vanguard have never advised strictly within their own classes; their insight is open to all who ask it of them. As of late, Ophiuchus wishes they would just stop. Talking. To the Guardians.

Her Warlocks will visit Zavala for their strike rewards and other Vanguard assignments, and his Titans will come to her for their weekly meditations. For now, the Hunters are split between the two of them. In passing, either Warlock or Titan will comment on their Vanguard’s instructions and teachings, undoubtedly confused as to their friends’ orders and the direction the Tower should be moving in as a whole. When their leaders respond, it is with veiled, icy disdain toward their counterpart’s ideology. Ophiuchus doesn’t believe they mean for their words to be taken as a command, but they are.

It is creating dissonance.

Five teams of Titans were running skiffs instead of securing the borders. A handful of Warlocks were seen on guard outside the City Wall. Instead of reporting on Fallen activity, the Sunbreakers would bring back sacks of Dusklight shards and other tokens, while the Stormcallers came back with intelligence on Cabal scavengers in the EDZ. The Hunters were just following along, and making things worse.

No one knows what they’re supposed to be doing.

This lapse in communication will go on for two and a half days before Zavala finally makes it clear that everyone should simply listen to their respective Vanguard, with the exception that no critical operation will be authorized prior to his approval. That of course leaves a few bored Hunters with nothing to do but listen to his orders—which is apparently unacceptable—so the chaos continues, but on a much smaller scale. Meanwhile Ikora, being the cunning mastermind she is, takes that order to heart.

Now intentional in her decision-making, where Zavala places an order to secure their borders, she instructs her Warlocks to probe and hunt. Where he seeks to shore up, Ikora insists upon a need to explore. She wants news. Discoveries. Epiphanies, both occupational and personal—and especially on the Light. Her “guidance,” such as it may be, does not go unnoticed. The Guardians answer to Zavala, but the Warlock class is under her jurisdiction, emphasized by his order. She is subtly and deliberately trying to contradict him in ways that are not explicitly insubordination.

In these few months, the door to her library has always remained open, but suddenly closes shut one late afternoon, bathing the room in shadow and a mockery of sunlight that just barely peeks through the blinds.

Ikora does not look up from her spot in an armchair, eyes fixed on the report in her hand. “I assume the bite of winter has finally gotten to your head.”

The remark was intended and mocking. Still, as the Commander marches closer, Ophiuchus can see a light dusting on his person. He does not seem privy to it, or perhaps he just doesn’t care, as he tracks powder with each step.

His expression comes very close to severe, but the anger burning in his eyes fully meets that description, glaring hotly in the dark. “What the hell are you doing?” he demands, voice a harsh whisper.

Ikora responds coolly. “Reading Zola's latest mission statement,” the statement she had reopened just seconds before he entered. “She’ll be heading out to meet with Petra Venj, tomorrow.”

He doesn’t quite loom over her, but stands close enough that the subtle itch of his power is felt. The Titan’s left hand balls up tightly. He clearly has no patience for her wisenheimer comments, and there are traces of a tremor in his words when he speaks next. “Put the tablet down.”

She takes her precious time doing so; pausing to consider, then scrolls to the beginning of the document, powers the device down and sets it on her knee. “Is there a problem?”

The tone of her voice suggests she knows full well there is a problem of some sort. Zavala keeps his volume level, but fury seeps through his teeth. “Jaxson and another Warlock I didn’t recognize just left the Tower.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

“Did you not think to ask them?” His glare hardens, and Ikora sighs, labored, as though explaining something trivial to a child. “They’ve probably gone to retrieve more Ghost shells from the EDZ.”

“Probably?”

“What do you want, Zavala?”

“I want to know what you think you’re doing!” he nearly bellows. “Sending Warlocks out to hunt down Cabal—”

“Those Cabal had made camp near the Farm. Hawthorne requested—”

“Did she also ask you to raid a Fallen cache?”

“Faithe and her fireteam went out in their off hours. I hardly think that a notable offense—"

“But you’re having them stay out there for days at a time.” She does not offer rebuttal. The Commander takes a moment to breathe. “You may wish it, Ikora, but I’m neither blind nor deaf. I see everything you’re trying to do.”

That includes, Ophiuchus thinks, the fact that she’s been telling Warlocks off-world to retain as much ground as they can, to uphold the Guardian presence on these planets they worked so hard to secure. She doesn’t want to abandon them.

Ophiuchus doesn’t think Zavala wants that, either. But here they are.

Ikora’s cool and collected gaze meets Zavala’s contrasting fire. Her voice is level. “You may wish it, Commander—and I’ve expressed this repeatedly—but I think it unwise to withdraw our eyes and ears. I’m doing nothing more than making sure the Tower is well-informed.”

Hm. That is not what she said the last time they had a similar conversation. It was something about keeping vigilance, about Zavala wanting to prevent a second war but not wanting to prepare because you’re hoping that by calling them home, they’ll think they’re safe. You’re too afraid even think about another war.

Ophiuchus can almost see the memory playing on Zavala’s head. He also knows that Zavala knows that Ikora never contradicts herself without purpose. He could bring this up. He could call her on this blatant lie, but instead the Titan shakes his head, frustrated. The fire leaves him. “There’s selfless duty, and then there’s selfish motivation behind that duty. I’d thought you of all people would know the difference between the two.”

And that’s about as good as saying I know you just lied.

He marches to the door. Rigid. Before he leaves, Ikora stiffly retorts that Zavala could do well with a trip to the mirror, only it wasn’t that nicely said, and Ophiuchus sends jolting trickles of Light through her comm.

xXx

“Happy Dawning, Kory.”

“It would be in your best interest never to call me that ever again.”

“C’mon,” Cayde lightly jabs fingers in her side, then comes around the small table to sit opposite her. “It’s a cute nickname.”

“I believe ‘Scary Warlock Lady' is nickname enough.”

“Okay, first of all, that’s not a nickname. Nicknames are supposed to be short ‘n sweet, and that is not. Second, I didn’t pick it, so it doesn’t count.”

Ikora raises a brow. “Didn’t you?”

“Nooope,” he drawls, exaggerating his head movements and pops the 'p.’ “That was another Guardian—a Warlock, in fact, one of your newer tyrants—who may have said that in reference to you while you were out talkin' to Eris. It just caught on.”

“Caught on, you say?”

“Yep. I won’t deny it: I’ve used it a couple times. Maybe a few. Many. A lot. But so has everyone else, we can’t help it. You are a scary person.”

Ikora brings her mug to her lips then pauses, putting it down, and sighs. “What do you want, Cayde?”

Immediately, Cayde sobers; the humorous light in his eyes fizzles out and he is no longer smiling. In years past he would deny wanting anything at all and continue to ramble nonsense while subtly sprinkling hints about his ask. She has always been able to call him on it.

This year, though, there’s no round about, no cheeky comment, and that worries her; makes her think that something is wrong.

That is, until he says, “come down with me.”

She blinks. “What?”

“Come down with me,” he says again, and his voice is surprisingly firm. “Tonight. To the City.”

It does not sound like a request, and that signals something under her skin to prickle. Brown eyes shimmer gold for half a second. “I have work, Cayde,” she deflects easily, and not for the first time. “I’m sure Tess or Amanda would like to accompany you.”

“Technically you don’t, ‘cause Zav's letting us go early.” He rolls his eyes. “And this isn’t a date, I’m asking my nocturnal, sequestered-yet-somehow-omnipresent friend to come with me and see the City.”

Omnipresent. Omniscient. Ikora allows her eyes to flutter close, if only to avoid rolling them herself. Clearly, he’d been to see a thesaurus of some sort before coming here. “I’ve seen the City. I know what’s down there.”

“So, what? You think one trip every two years is enough?” he asks, dumbfounded. “You do know things can change in, like, hours, right? Even Zavala visits more than that.”

The Warlock keeps her gaze calm, voice level. “We’ve been over this. My time is better spent here, directing our resources and defenses.”

Cayde looks at her, bewildered, then a hand scrapes down his face in that way she’s come to know is frustration. It’s obvious he tries to keep from snapping. Annoyance doesn’t look good on him, and feels even more out of place in that it’s because of her. Ikora feels something in her chest spasm. “That’s—that’s nice and all, really, but answer me this. Do you know what you’re defending?”

…

What?

The question is so ridiculous that she almost, almost thinks to wave him off and say as much. But then she catches the hot blue of his optics, the way they glow but don’t sparkle, and the fact that Cayde’s overall expression is one of serious intent.

She has to work to free her thoughts, but they’re still illegible. “What I’m…? Cayde—"

“This is one of those yes or no kinda deals, Rey.”

Ikora blinks, rapidly, because this sudden severity in behavior is throwing her for three different kinds of loops. She should, of course, be able to answer with a swiftness. She wants to say she understands the question, but at the same time there’s something underneath that makes her think whatever answer she gives will not suffice.

She yields reign to her mind even as something in her heart strangely protests, and says, “yes. The City, Earth, humanity.”

She subdues the drawl, tries keeping the fact that she thinks this should be evident from slipping into her tone, but he sees through it. At her answer, the Exo’s features go still, blank, but the questioning intensity in his eyes does not lessen. Then a rough noise that sounds like a breath leaves his mouth. Disappointment. “Welp. If there was an award for dishonest honesty, you’d win it.”

Thoroughly exasperated, Ikora puts a hand to her temple. “Enough of this,” she replies curtly. “I’ve accommodated your incessant requests for the last three years. I don’t know what bet you’re playing, but—”

“If you actually think that’s why I’ve been doing this, you really need to come down this year.”

At his laugh, Ikora falls silent—but it wasn’t the laugh itself. She caught something subtle toward the end there, a depreciation in his tonality. Something that sounded like hurt.

It is with great effort that Ikora responds.

“An hour,” she concedes, “and no longer.”

“Ninety minutes.”

“Thirty.”

“An hour sounds great. Great.” He slaps his thighs and stands, apparently pleased.

“I’m not playing beer pong.”

“Fine, fine. Darn it, but fine. Whatever floats your boat.” He waltzes back over to her side, grabbing an uneaten pastry from her plate and stuffs it between his metal lips. “If I ever have to say ‘sequestered’ again, I’m gonna blow a fuse.”

“Would that be so bad?” she quips, then discreetly flicks her fingers. Unbeknownst to the Hunter, a tiny Nova Bomb works its way around him, then comes up to hit him square in the horn.

Cayde yelps and jumps a good five feet away from the explosion, then glares when Ikora laughs. He dusts his horn off while he chews the rest of her desert, checking for potential damage. “Warlock’s got jokes. Alright. Tell ya what. Play a round, and I promise not to give Invective a paint job.”

She narrows her eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

“Absolutely not.”

In the end, she wins two rounds, and stays for ninety minutes.

xXx

Ikora has always had a “it’s here, so I suppose I will” kind of attitude about the Dawning. She holds no great love for it, but harbors no feelings that lean to the negative. She has allowed herself to be involved in the planning only because Zavala approves it, and, in the past, engaged in festivities because Cayde forced her to. She doesn’t see the value in traditions. After years of (involuntary) participation, one would think the Warlock would have drawn some sort of conclusion about the event.

But now, as Ophiuchus floats, he thinks she may have finally formed an opinion.

And he knows the reason why, all of a sudden, it has shifted into the negative.

“You say this every year,” he argues, also for the umpteenth consecutive year. And right then is when he feels another presence enter the library, Lightless yet unmistakable, and she takes care to stay quiet while they talk.

Ikora flips the page of the old tome rather furiously. “Dawning decorations!” she mutters to herself. “I’ve got no time for frivolous—”

“It is not ‘frivolous.’” And he surprises himself with how angry and disappointed he sounds. He had hoped she’d have been able to rise above her hurt. “People need this. I understand it’s hard for you because it’s the first Dawning without Cay—"

“Stop talking, Ophiuchus. Right now.” The ferocity of the words scares him into silence. The fact that she commanded his silence only frustrates him more. He buzzes low. “I have other concerns. What about the latest reports out of The Tangled Shore? I don’t know what to make of them. And my Hidden have reported trouble brewing closer to home…” she trails off, eyes drifting to somewhere distant, ears tuned in to the place where he knows Eva is hiding.

As always, throwing herself into work. He sighs. “Yes, Ikora, but—”

“And there’s never any word from Osiris. Not that I expected it, but…” she chuckles dryly, shaking her head.

It was an obvious stick in the road, but he allows himself to stray off course. “With respect, why not just message him?”

“Perhaps. I just don’t have the time to—” she pauses. “Eva Levante!”

Now Eva bumbles into the room and makes a great show of jostling her armfuls of crystals. She is not the best actress. Ikora folds her arms, unimpressed.

Eva’s smile brightens even more at her scowl. “Happy Dawning, Ikora Rey!”

“Hello, Eva,” Ikora replies evenly, with not a hint of joy.

But Eva pays her no mind. She strides past the Warlock, quietly humming some City folksong. “Do you mind if I put these here?” she inquires, even though she already knows Ikora will just sigh and shake her head no.

She lays the crystals down with care, and from her robes she procures a roll of paper—

Rolls of paper. She has rolls this time, and there are about twenty-five of them. In the past she would bring one giant map with a multitude of designs, but Ophiuchus reasons it must have been lost during the evacuation.

So now Eva has some two dozen sheets, each with its own crystal graphic, covering the whole of Ikora’s table.

“Now!” the seamstress exclaims, hands clasping together. “Pick your poison, dear.”

Ikora’s perfectly structured face contorts ever so slightly. She’s never been fond of the moniker, and Eva knows this. Her glowing eyes survey the field of crystals, taking in each design with a quick but thorough calculation.

Then, she exhales softly. “Eva…”

She does this every year, so Eva is not discouraged. Just as she had last year and the years before, she helps her along and makes a few suggestions. “Hm… these are more or less traditional; this one is inspired by the pine trees we bring in every year. But I know there isn’t a… green subclass you Guardians use, and I figured you would want to incorporate that somehow.”

She points to a golden-yellow one. “Not quite Solar, but I shaped it as close to a wild flame as I could. I’m sure you can alter the colors.” Then Eva pulls two sky blue thunderbolt designs out from under overlapping sheets. “These were the closest to Arc I could mock up. I’m not too familiar with that one, unfortunately. Now the Void,” she begins, and slides forward a single paper, “was rather excruciating. I didn’t want to leave it so plain, but as far as I know, Void itself has no given shape.”

The design was anything but plain, and Ophiuchus can see why it was excruciating. The crystal was a simple and perfect cylinder, but the colors were incredible. Rich, deep shades of violet melding with lavender swirls made up a nebula that spiraled toward a glowing center. Specs of red, white, and blue were scattered throughout, made to look like stars; and the whole sphere coalesced into a literal fraction of space.

Ophiuchus himself has never experienced the Void; Ghosts utilize a type of neutral Light that does not give way to either element. They can feel the full effects of their Guardian’s Light, but are otherwise unable to encounter the elemental itself. Even so, he knows the way Ikora describes it, and has seen the way she’s used it. And the fact that this illustration came from the mind of Eva Levante, a non-Lightbearer, is incredible. It is the most accurate depiction of the Void Ophiuchus has ever seen. Flawless.

The Guardian outfitter waves on, continuing her explanation of the designs. “The rest of them are made to reflect the winter season. Don’t mind those three on the end; I just grabbed what I could. Positively horrible, I’ve no idea who made those.”

The stony set of her jaw says otherwise, but Ophiuchus knows Ikora has already taken a liking to the Void crystal. Even as she prepares to say no, she is aware of the exact moment her own pupils dilate, and shakes her head. “The Vanguard has other concerns at present. I have no time for—”

“Quite,” Eva interrupts knowingly, causing Ikora’s eyes to spark. “But I am not asking the Vanguard, dear. I’m asking a friend to help us uphold our traditions.”

Ikora’s frown deepens as Eva’s dubiously hopeful expression lifts.

And now is usually the point where negotiations begin.

First, there is the offer of payment, to which Ikora blandly says, “no.”

Then there is the false guarantee of a one and done, and Ikora shoots that down even before Eva can finish lying, “absolutely not.”

And finally, the seamstress invokes the will of the people; and in that way she knows rankles Ikora’s brain, recalls the tale of the first Dawning, and how that celebration in a small camp sparked an age old tradition that would be carried on for centuries through travelers, and eventually in the City.

Eva doesn’t talk about the meaning of family this year, but the aftermath of the War; how broken the City is, and she doesn’t mean the City itself. Lives were lost, families were severed, people were scarred. “They need to remember joy,” she says, “even if it’s just for a break.” Ikora, of course, has no idea the full extent of the emotional carnage—she has been to the City only twice since they reclaimed it, on business—and so remains stone-faced for the duration of Eva’s lament.

But she cuts her off at the same point she does every year, just before the woman gets too deep into the intricacies of the children and their winter games, “fine, Eva, fine,” and Ikora’s voice is anything but sharp.

“Splendid!” Eva claps, delighted. “So have you picked a crystal? I noticed you staring a bit at the Void—”

“I don’t need them,” she cuts in, a bit too abruptly, and Ophiuchus nudges her cheek in admonishment. Ikora takes a breath and starts over softer, “I don’t need the designs.”

There’s more to that, and Eva looks at her good and long. Ikora will not be broken so easily, but she avoids the elder woman’s gaze, instead reading every detail of her chosen illustration.

“Your conception of the Void is interesting,” she intones after a while, and the Ghost thinks interesting must be a strange new synonym for perfect.

“You want to improve it?” Eva inquires, more earnest than offended.

“I want to expound,” she clarifies, “but I won’t need it.”

Either she has a very good photographic memory, or Ikora had mapped out exactly what she wants to do with this crystal long ago.

Eva does not press her. She smiles, content. “Very well, then. Would you mind helping me with these?”

As they work on clearing the table, Ophiuchus floats and chitters, studying the Guardian designs that Eva made herself one last time. He is impressed with and appreciative of her attention to detail, even if the Arc bolts were not quite as refined. He supposes a profession of outfitting Guardians for as long as she has will ingrain this kind of information into a person.

Eva thanks Ikora four times before she leaves with a purposeful spring to her step. They will meet again once the crystal is finished.

Ikora returns to staring blankly at her book.

Ophiuchus drifts in front of his Warlock, as he seems to do every year. He remains confused. “You could have just said yes, you know.” Ikora shakes her head numbly, which only loses him further. “You fight her on this every year, only to give in.”

A defeated breath escapes her. “Can you bring me the box on that shelf?”

He blinks, taken aback, then goes to retrieve the only box in the alcove. It’s small and filled with trinkets and things he doesn’t recognize. “What’s all this?”

She takes the wooden crate and picks through it until she reaches the bottom, then pulls out a worn, folded paper.

Ophiuchus stares. “Is that…?”

Ikora doesn’t respond, only opens the paper and—

It is.

Ikora has never seen the value in traditions. But this one she keeps, Ophiuchus thinks, because it’s familiar.

xXx

He relays messages from Guardians on the Moon for two minutes before he finally realizes she’s not listening. “An Iron Walker was destroyed as well, and—oh.”

She’s supposed to be overseeing a skiff for Osiris, but Ophiuchus took over at some point somewhere. She can’t remember. Her body is completely still, face serene and devoid of emotion, but her mind is concentrated deeply on things that are not of this world. She is jettisoned through space and time, Voidlight flaring in her face and biting into skin that is not present. If she weren’t sitting up in her chair, she knows her physical body would be the perfect picture of death.

After ninety years, he’s no longer surprised. They both can feel the gradual swell and recession of the Void as it fills its host. Ophiuchus doesn’t need to probe her mind to know that it is speaking to her. “What does it say?”

Ikora is silent for a long while. Not that she didn’t hear him, of course, but the answer to his question is not such a simple one. Deciphering the messages is still rather difficult. Even as her eyes are closed, the intensity of light unformed threatens to blind her.

Then, she opens a corner of her mouth and whispers, “persimmons.”

In the waning dusk of her study, there is an audible pause. She imagines his eye blinking slowly. “Persimmons?” he drawls doubtfully.

Yes, Ikora thinks, but she chuckles once instead speaking. The sensory overload is increasing, and she can feel her heart rate beginning to pick up speed. The illusion will have to end soon.

She stays there, allows herself to be torn apart and built back together with fire even though it hurts now, but she stays, trying to see the point of the message. It doesn’t come with the quickness she desires, and so Ikora pulls herself out.

Her eyes fly open and she gasps, head swimming, feeling as though she was just thrown back into her body.

Ophiuchus shell flips nervously, and he begins to examine her. “Is anything wrong?”

“No,” she immediately assures him, and he stills, “no, nothing’s wrong.” Ikora breathes, consolidates her mind, tries to calm her sizzling nerves. “The vision wasn’t auditory, this time. The Void showed me color.”

Ophiuchus buzzes. “That’s new.”

“Indeed.”

“And from this color you saw persimmons?”

She smiles a bit weakly at his ignorance. “Yes… and no.”

And she begins telling him all that she experienced.

xXx

She works for the next three nights, and she does not sleep. Ophiuchus gets whatever rest he can but it isn’t much, what with the spontaneous flashes of Light, coupled with the airy tinkling of crystals and soft, frustrated strings of curses.

Ikora hides her work in the hours before he wakes. He does not understand her need for secrecy, but Ophiuchus doesn’t mind. He knows this will be the most beautiful crystal the Dawning has ever seen.

xXx

She reports to work far earlier than what is morally necessary, well before the sun has even laid a feather kiss upon the sky, and sees fit to wake him, too. There’s paperwork she’s been neglecting in favor of finishing the crystal, and apparently, his assistance is required. Ikora works in her study for three hours, reading and filing and signing, and Ophiuchus struggles to stay afloat.

She laughs as he bobs uncontrollably. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“It is not dramatics,” he shoots back, a tad grumpily, but only after his bulb had stopped flickering. “We need rest, too.”

Another chuckle filters through her nose. It’s warm. With one hand, she brings him down. “Sleep. I’ll wake you when it’s time.”

Grateful, he falls to her lap without comment or complaint, and shuts off his eye. He drifts off to the light scribble of her pen, and wakes to the soft yet insistent brush of her fingers upon his shell.

They go out to the Bazaar, where she advises any who are brave enough to seek her out, until Eva comes at midday.

Ikora feels the woman approaching well before she’s even crossed over from the corridor, and sets to work unveiling the source of his lack of sleep. She shakes her head as Eva comes along with a young girl, undoubtedly feeling as though the entire project was a fruitless endeavor. A complete and utter waste of her time.

Or, she’s trying to convince herself of this. She would not have spent the better half of her time turning the air blue and keeping him up if she truly felt this way. Ophiuchus touches her mind, a stern but ancillary presence. Raise it.

Ikora’s soft brown eyes flit to him before flashing that brilliant amber, and she lifts her hands.

The crystal emerges in a resplendent sparkle of transmat, and it is monstrous.

Roughly shaped like a spearhead, it is at least the size of a rocket launcher and twice as heavy. As it rises Ophiuchus can see the shadow of the Void beating against its deep violet cage, blinking occasionally in its mad scramble for freedom. Even now it’s putting on a rather dazzling Lightshow, but that’s not all. Ikora does some kind of gesture with her hands and the crowd around them gasps as the jewel suddenly crests and erupts, breaking off into a hundred little pieces that remain in orbit, an image not unlike the Traveler. The Light has now been set free, but the main crystal is unharmed; in fact, it appears to be tethering the Void, allowing the Light to snap and stretch to each of its fragments and—oh, wow.

As the Light touches the fragments, Ophiuchus observes the signature of a Nightstalker, and the evidence of Zola’s help. They wink and glow in the colors of Void, Arc and Solar; but also forest green, snow white, royal blue, and rose red. Stars. The colors of winter.

He remembers clearly the first time Eva asked her to craft the crystal; it was originally a diamond shaped stone encrusted in thousands of little gems that would wink when the light touched them. Eva left this design behind by accident one day, and Ikora had kept it ever since. Though his charge followed the design to the letter, the crystal was never intended to house the Light, tether it, or break off. She had taken every liberty imaginable with this one.

Somebody gasps and something soft scatters on the floor before Ophiuchus can say anything about it.

It was the girl Eva was with; she had spilled the wrapped bundles she was carrying. She immediately drops to her knees to gather them, and to his utter shock, Ikora kneels to help her. The girl is clearly flustered, hands shaking, eyes tearing and scarred face reddening, and she stills completely when she realizes Ikora is on her knees with her. When the Warlock Vanguard stops to look at her, she wipes her face, but the tears still fall.

The nature of Ikora’s gaze borders on astonishment, but is carefully concealed behind a mask of serenity. She studies every emotion in this girl’s face as she places a shaky hand on her forearm and mouths, “thank you,” and Ophiuchus hopes beyond hope that that affected his Warlock somehow.

Eva bends down too, then, and takes all the bundles Ikora had gathered, except for one. The seamstress holds her palm over the package within Ikora’s, and nods, smiling a knowing smile.

The crystal shines above them. When she stands, Ophiuchus dares to boast. “I told you so.”

It’s small, but Ikora allows herself to smile. “So you did.”

xXx

For the duration of the Dawning, Ikora remains standoffish and unwilling to socialize. But Ophiuchus notices a most profound shift in her demeanor, from agitation to melancholy. It’s been coming to this point, since the frames began decorating the Tower, and escalated when Eva asked her to build the crystal. The significance of the holiday is not lost on her, and he suspects the hole she feels has only gotten bigger with its arrival. She keeps entirely to herself, and makes certain it stays that way.

A few well-meaning Guardians have come by the Bazaar offering warm greetings and cheerful song (with the occasional donut hole), and she regards them all with a small, caustic grin and cold eyes. An improvement from the answering burn of Light just weeks ago, but only just. Most of her company consists of him, the lanterns above her head, and Hawthorne; who as of late has been keeping more to the Ramen shop. Ophiuchus swears he heard the stewardess complaining about the texture of the noodles not too long ago, but it doesn’t surprise him. Ikora doesn’t want to participate, and this is obvious.

In other news, Zavala never contacts her unless it’s for a business inquiry; but from what Delta has told him, the Commander seems to have dulled his temper, as well. Unusually introspective, is what she says. But that’s about all that’s improved. Ikora never goes near the Courtyard. They never cross paths. Ophiuchus doesn’t quite know what this means. It’s not… unlike them to neglect giving each other a gift, but they at least exchange a festive greeting. Until now.

When the Dawning ends, it ends swiftly, and so too does Eva’s stay. Many of her regulars give protest, but she assures them all she will return sooner than later. The seamstress makes her rounds, offering everyone her farewell, then she leaves. The crystal comes down, the frames clean up. The Tower returns to its murky gloom.

It almost feels as though she took the light with her.

xXx

On the wind, a voice carries.

Strong. Loud but not obnoxious. Female. It’s coming from the Courtyard.

Ophiuchus catches a few words, “Awoken,” “Oryx,” “aid,” and “Dreaming City.” Which is exactly where Zola had gone to meet with Petra weeks ago.

Not a moment after the words simmer down, another voice, this one unmistakable, booms in answer and decree, “the Vanguard stands with the Reef.”

Nothing ever misses her ears, and Ikora looks up from her table with a slight frown on her lips, but her eyes are alight with life. Two of her newer students are by her side, come to turn in their discovered trinkets, and they also pause to look at each other; confused but hoping beyond hope that they’ll finally be able to go someplace other than the Sludge.

Immediately, Ikora turns. “Go with them,” she orders simply, and the young Warlocks nod eagerly, scampering off to the Hangar.

She never prods nor questions Zavala on his sudden change of heart.

xXx

Records of the Vanguard, GL-I3 60

ZAV: Amanda is very angry.

IR: I would imagine.

ZAV: Have we not replaced her workbench?

IR: I did. Two days ago.

CY6: You guys are not gonna believe this.

ZAV: … What is that?

CY6: A GLOWING knife! Ooh, wait…

IR: Impressive.

CY6: Eh? Eh? Glowing KNIVES.

IR: Very nice, Cayde. Put them away, now. We’re in command.

ZAV: You realize who will have to pay for the damage done to Holliday’s station?

CY6: Do YOU realize we’ve got fifteen combustion dudes? INCLUDING Zola? We are so gonna kick some Striker—

IR: Stop.

CY6: I'm just sayin'. They’ve been moppin’ the floor with us. It’s time for some payback.

ZAV: You’re overseeing repairs.

CY6: Hey, no worries, big guy. Responsibility. I got it. Now excuse me while I go bother Shaxx.

ZAV: …

IR: 500 says something else explodes before the weekend.

ZAV: Are you… placing a wager? You?

IR: No. Wagers are his thing. What I just made was a prediction with stake.

ZAV: I suppose it was. 1000 that it happens tomorrow.

IR: You give him too much credit.

ZAV: The problem is I don’t give him nearly enough.

[records close]

xXx

He has come to understand that they’re deliberately not speaking.

Regular communications—and the little things they would call each other for—are all but nonexistent. Mandates are passed on through he and Delta. They go to meetings, which is more or less okay, even if they do leave and arrive separately. The image of leadership, false pretenses, and all that. Neither Ikora nor Zavala are strangers to the mask; they both manipulate it very, very well. The perfect construct. A projection. A mirrored image to the untrained eye.

But if you’re someone like Ophiuchus, you can tell when the slightest hint of pressure begins to weigh on the wearer, and at which point donning it becomes a conscious act. If you were even a tiny bit as perceptive as Ophiuchus, you would be able to differentiate ivy from the oak; the bite of venom from the splash of water. You would feel the flames of animosity burning out, and the slow but steadily rising cloud of yearning take its place. And by then, you would understand that an underground operation has been launched. Unbeknownst to the rest of the Tower, a strike has long been in effect, and its only two operatives are on a mission to not see one another.

Ikora and Zavala are deliberately not speaking.

Good.

xXx

This act will continue for a time, and he and Delta keep a stouthearted watch. Weariness is something their Guardians are accustomed to working through, but this was fatigue of a different kind. It would require care; a gentle nudge this way and that, a whisper of reassurance every now and again. They drop subtle breadcrumbs along the way, hinting at but never quite touching upon that agitated pond. So far, neither Vanguard have moved to still it.

Delta and Ophiuchus keep watch. Their Guardians will bend. They must. But they will not let them break.

xXx

There’s some funny business going on in their basement, and their names are Drifter and Ada-1. Ophiuchus doesn’t know too much about this “Black Armory,” and he’s no idea why they decided to move the wayfarer underground, out of sight, and it would seem that the Guardians—the curious, if-it-doesn’t-shoot-me-it-must-be-alright Guardians—are ecstatic over this chance to obtain and flaunt new gear.

It’s all very strange to him, but business continues as usual. Strikes are commissioned, adventures are had. Explosions go off in the distance. There’s really nothing inappropriate about anything going on, so Ophiuchus lowers his guard, unaware that he had taken it up in the first place. Instinct, he thinks, ensuring no more warmongers come looking to blow them all half to hell again.

And then, the day after he truly begins to enjoy himself for the first time in months, Aunor Mahal drops a notice and decides to open an investigation into the Drifter, his Gambit and his motives, and Ophiuchus goes back on alert.

Ada-1 never comes to the surface, therefore Ophiuchus never sees her, so he knows it would be irrational and against his very nature and the principles of his being to consider her a better person than this Drifter.

But he does. And he does so shamelessly. No need to tell anyone, though.

xXx

“Aren’t you cold? It’s, like, ten degrees out.”

He matches the voice without having to look, ponders the question before it even registers that Hawthorne had come to Ikora’s study.

Hawthorne had come to Ikora’s study.

Immediately, Ophiuchus jumps into physical existence, earning a confused glance from Ikora. The Clan Stewardess stands in the doorframe, arms wrapped around her despite the thick, fluffy poncho she had drawn tight around her neck. The door is almost always open, but very few have taken the invitation in recent months. Even those who generally have good standing with Ikora dare not set foot within her boundaries. That makes this visit all the stranger.

His Warlock watches, warily, undoubtedly wondering the same things he is. To her credit, Hawthorne never makes a single move to come in until Ikora beckons her, and she closes the door, shivering and grumbling as she sits at the small corner table and finds inside it is no better. They’re on the tail end of winter, now, but it’s rather reluctant to leave them. And Ikora never bothers to check the heat, has no need to.

The Voidwalker studies the other woman, rather amused. “Immunity to extreme weather comes with second birth. And it’s thirty-five degrees. Perfectly livable conditions.”

“Bull. It feels like a freezer.”

“Be grateful for it now. The worst is coming.”

Suraya mumbles something unintelligible into the collar of her poncho, and from its folds produces a thermal. Ikora flashes a dry smirk. With but a thought, the air around them swells with warmth and electricity, an invisible pressure filling the space entirely until the mortal's cheeks begin to tint.

“Oh wow,” she breathes, and it’s no longer visible. “Um. Thanks.”

“Not at all,” Ikora replies amiably, returning to her task, but her eyes are not smiling. They haven’t been, and her next words speak to that fact. “We haven’t seen you for a few weeks, now.”

‘We’ means the Consensus, as not one but two chairs are vacant. Hawthorne is an official member, though she isn’t required to attend every meeting. She’d kept a periodic check-in up until that-fateful-day-that-shall-not-be-named. Ophiuchus doesn’t need to guess why that is, and he knows full well Ikora doesn’t either. However. What she’d just said was not a 'how have you been' in any sense at all. Suraya knows this, or, at least she feels something concealed within the words. Not quite accusing, but not inquiring, either. A blank observation.

He sees the muscles in her jaw twitch. She frowns. “I was there last month.”

Ikora scribbles.

“Okay, yeah, I haven’t been going. But there’s no need for me to. Not really. Clans are doing fine. Folks have heat. Everybody’s happy. For now.”

The only sound in the room is the scrape of pen. “You mean Zavala’s been handling your points.” She stops her work, head raising to look at the younger woman, and Suraya stares right back. “If you’re here to give the morning report, I’ll have to direct you to the Courtyard.”

Dark eyebrows draw into a soft V. “I just left from there.” And the bluntness comes full force now; frustration and irritation in all their glory. “Zavala’s a jerk. And I’m being nice when I say that.”

This isn’t news to anyone, but Ophiuchus wonders, because if he couldn’t get Ikora to see her errors… “So you came here, because…?”

Her eyes flick over to him. She’s still not entirely used to the omnipresence of the Ghost, it seems, even though she has her own flying companion. She looks between them both before sighing a raspberry. “Look. I don’t know what the hell is going on, and I don’t care to know—"

“A wise decision on your part, Hawthorne.”

Lifting the hot thermal to her lips, the City liaison squints. “I’m choosing to take that as a compliment. But, seriously. I don’t think I’ve ever heard either of you raise your voices. Ever. You gonna pretend like that’s normal?”

Ah, that infamous Courtyard Battle of the Wills. The fight went down ages ago, but not everybody has forgotten. Not even the distraction of Eva and the Dawning could erase that memory.

“Disagreements are commonplace,” the Warlock insists evenly.

“Mm, for you guys? Not to that extent. You’re actually scaring more people than you usually do.”

He can agree with that. But he will also note that Ikora is exercising a most unusual patience with this woman, as she hasn’t kicked her out yet. She heaves, quietly, irritated. “Right. And I suppose you think we’ve been acting like children.”

Hawthorne’s eyes bulge, and the drink she just guzzled down almost comes back up through her nose. Ikora watches as she recovers from a coughing fit. "Children?" she gasps, and peers at her. "You behaving like children? No. You're literally insulting the kids, now.” The Clan Stewardess clears her space to place her arms atop the table, and looks the Warlock Vanguard dead in the eye. “Children behave better than you when they’re fighting over toys. And don’t get me started on no dessert before dinner. Slightest misfortune supreme. You wouldn’t believe the tantrums. You two are simply acting like adults who've been hurt and don't know how to deal with that.”

Ikora’s brows crease as her eyes narrow, undoubtedly trying to find the link between outright brawls and cold disdain.

The younger rolls her eyes. “Right. You wanna know how biting hair and ugly crying is more mature than whatever the hell you guys are doing. Well, I’ll say this,” and she leans back into her chair, creaking the padded wood. “Kids don’t know any better. That’s why they do what they do, and they’ll keep doing it until someone who does know comes along to teach them. That someone is usually an adult. Like you. And the blue guy.”

Ikora says absolutely nothing, but immediately her eyes darken, shooting daggers at the other woman. Interrogating, demanding, silently prying for an answer of some sort.

Ophiuchus almost steps in, but the younger woman meets her fully for ten seconds, then takes a casual, submissive sip from her cup.

That’s not enough for Ikora. “Hawthorne.”

“Okay, you had to know I wouldn’t have come here by myself.”

“Suraya.”

“I lost a bet.” That is not what he expected to come out of her mouth, but they’re apparently the words Ikora wanted to hear. She leans back, inviting her to continue. “I’m not even gonna ask how you knew. It was me, Amanda and Louis. Winner got to pick who everybody talked to. But she definitely cheated. And took my bird.”

This… does make some sense. Suraya Hawthorne and Ikora Rey is an odd combination, to say the least. And both of them are women of their word. Ophiuchus just wishes he knew why she took the wager in the first place.

If Ikora holds any such inquiries, she doesn’t make them. She allows a sympathetic half smile. “I honestly can’t decide whether you’re brave or foolish. You can tell Amanda the deal is done.”

“Hey. Walking outta here unscathed is a win for me. Literally had to hype myself up to get over the ‘turning people into frogs’ thing.”

“I do not—”

“I didn’t say it!” At Ikora’s denial, Suraya cants her body the other way, almost falling over the side of the chair. She then lets out a nervous laugh once she realizes her reaction. “Please don’t shoot the messenger.”

Ikora regards her for a second. Pops a brow. “Has the message been delivered?”

“Stamped and signed for.”

“Then you’re free to go.” With a small grin and salute, Hawthorne hops up and closes the door behind her.

Interesting. That they felt the need to conspire like this is a confirmation that things are not good. Ophiuchus eyes his charge. “How did you know she didn’t come by herself?”

A shadow of a grin crosses her face. “’Blue Guy’ was a dead giveaway. Amanda is the only one who ever calls him that.”

xXx

“Really?”

“Really.”

“But… all your armor is purple…”

“I’m a Voidwalker, Cayde.”

“So?”

“…”

“Mmm… I don’t buy it. Everyone’s got a favorite color.”

“Well, I don’t. And I honestly don’t see the point in holding favor over any particular shade.”

“Yeah, that’s Ikora-speak for ‘it’s something embarrassing.’”

“Incorrigible. This conversation is over.”

“You should know by now saying that is only gonna make me more curious.”

Yes, Ikora laughs, resigned. I know.

xXx

She strides through the corridor, leaving the Consensus. Another day, another tentative meeting come to a close, another dead end with their stalemate. Just your regularly scheduled programming.

Stop that, Ophiuchus, Ikora hisses, but he knows the bite was not meant for him. If you have something to say, come out with it.

It’s nothing I haven’t already said, he touches back coolly. I’ve given my two cents. Forty-seven times. You’ve just elected to ignore each and every one of them.

She bristles against him, affronted. I—

Someone’s in there.

He didn’t exactly mean to interrupt, but he does sense another presence within the library. He doesn’t recognize it, however Ikora does; she never breaks stride nor ponders. She marches right into the room, and closes the door behind her.

“I was beginning to feel a little concerned.” Standing at the far bookshelf was Aunor Mahal; tall, deliberate, concentrated. She turns to regard Ikora, a newer tome resting in her hand. “Not one protest. That’s very unlike you, Ikora Rey.”

Walking up to her, Ikora shakes her head, a minor show of exasperation. “You made your intentions quite clear.” She holds her hand out, and Aunor returns the book wordlessly. “And we have no reason to believe this probe was baseless.”

“I haven’t launched the probe yet.” Ikora looks, and the Praxic Warlock sighs. “As I said, I was concerned. I wanted to be sure you knew I wouldn’t just bulldoze my way around.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” she returns, rounding the corner to her alcove. Her Hidden follows. “The Vanguard trusts you, Aunor.”

Ikora browses through her nook and Aunor watches her, seeming uncomfortable for a few moments. Then, she asks, “is everything alright?”

That she inquires this is profound. Yet another indicator to the negative. The answer, of course, is no, but Ikora won’t say that. “If you have to ask—”

“Yes, I know. I just thought I’d offer you a courtesy.” Her sharp gaze follows Ikora’s every movement, but Ophiuchus thinks he hears just a touch of warmth when she speaks next. “None of us like seeing you this way. Either of you.”

She’s not the first of Ikora’s agents to express this sentiment. Both Jaxson and Chalco came out months ago, frustrated with her conduct, but she’d scared them off, and here they are. Still. Ophiuchus doubts a third opinion from her branch will do anything different.

And he’s right. Ikora glances to the Praxic Warlock, inflexible. “Investigate him if you must,” she waves. “You know the Vanguard’s position on his tenancy.”

“The Vanguard’s position is exactly the reason this is necessary.” Hands behind her back, Aunor paces the edge of a shelf, studying the various spines. “Would you mind too terribly if I borrowed this one?”

A breath leaves Ikora’s nose, and the Praxic snatches the book off the shelf. “You’ll hear from me by next week.”

“Feel free to drop by the Consensus anytime,” Ikora replies dryly.

“Well. I wouldn’t want to disappoint.”

xXx

“Mine’s red.”

Ikora’s eyes cut across the table. “What’s red?”

“My favorite color,” Cayde supplies casually. “Or, one of ‘em. I’ve got a few, but, y’know, that debonair color of fire. Passion. Cake. All the best things.”

“We’re really back on this.”

“Until you gimmie a straight answer, yeah.”

“I already told you—”

“Uh-huh, I heard you. I’m not deaf. Or stupid.”

She squints. “Red?”

“What about it?”

“It just doesn’t seem like you,” she grins. “For obvious reasons.”

“Well, it’s not good to be too predictable,” he smiles back, tossing a sack of glimmer between his hands. “Gotta shake things up every now and then. Keep ya on ya toes, Rey.”

“Mhm.”

xXx

“Delta says you’re horrible at feeling,” he lofts one afternoon while she sits, one leg crossed over the other on the sofa in her room.

The comment strikes home, he thinks, because while her mind is set to work on the five maps spread across her coffee table, she takes eight tenths of a second longer to respond than she would have had she been in a better mood. “Delta needs to keep her mouth shut.”

Ophiuchus almost chuckles, imagining the ensuing banter had the Ghost been present. Ahem. At any other time, of course. He watches her make another entry in her log. “You’re not giving her much to the contrary. And Zavala isn’t making this easy for her, either. She’s upset.”

Eyes closed, she leans her head back, pinching her eyes. “Ghosts need therapy, now?”

“I would say a majority of us do, yes.”

Her shoulders jump in a small laugh, and he allows himself to do the same, because this is the first time in months that he’s heard her laugh—her real laugh.

“Oh, and by the way, Ikora sucks at feeling.”

He’d taken the comment with a grain of salt. Delta is upset, rightfully so, and he has been her outlet. But it isn’t at all true. The problem is Ikora feels entirely too much. She and Zavala both, actually; and it’s a little funny that Delta would haul off and say something like this knowing her Guardian has not had downtime in forty years. It’s always tooth and nail, getting either of them to take a break.

This was something Sundance always made fun of them for.

He feels himself lose half an inch in altitude. Sundance. A Ghost who most certainly lived up to her name and much more. She wasn’t exactly his favorite person, but… he had grown used to her presence and constant pestering. And he found that, on some days, he even enjoyed it. Because she was his friend.

Ikora calls him three times before the fact registers. He focuses his lens on her marginally concerned expression. “Something’s bothering you.”

To lie would be to contradict everything he’s been telling her not to do. “Thinking too hard, it seems. About Sundance.”

And he watches in real time as it dawns on her that in her affliction, she’d never paused to consider his grief. He doesn’t hold it against her, though. His frustration lies more with Ikora’s inability to put aside her differences with Zavala. He understands her loss had been far more personal and all-consuming, and besides, he’s no Exo. What sense does it make that he should feel these things? Who thinks to ask the machine its pain?

Ikora’s gaze sharpens. You’re not just a machine.

He huffs a self-depreciating chuckle. I’m no more human than that tablet in your hands.

That’s not… you don’t need to be human to— she cuts herself and said tablet off, turmoil bubbling hot inside her. “Is it happening again?”

“Is what happening again?” She gives him a look, and he blinks. “No. No. What…? Ikora—”

“I continue to disregard you.”

“Ikora,” he commands. She stops to listen, but heavens know how long that’ll last. “You’ve been grieving, and you still are—”

“That sounds an awful lot like the beginning of an excuse.”

He pauses briefly. Surprised at her adamancy. It's not why didn’t you tell me you were hurting as much as it is I should have known. “You’re grieving,” he reiterates. “This is nowhere close to that.” It still doesn’t seem to sit right with her. She opens her mouth, most likely to argue more and then offer reparation, but he talks over it. “Ikora. You don’t need to apologize.”

The glare she throws his way tells him exactly what she thinks of that.

He huffs. “You want me to agree that everything is your fault?”

Amber eyes suddenly glow warmly, rolling over his form. A smile pulls at the corners of her mouth. “This is what it’s like, then? Arguing with me?”

Again, he blinks. “More or less,” he quips. “All I need is some Void with which to cut you off every now and then. Spitting image.”

And a smile is there, now. Sad. Genuine. Beautiful. “I’ve room for no more mistakes,” she says softly, and Ophiuchus floats, held captive by the silent promise in her eyes. He bobs in affirmative, secretly hoping it will eventually extend to those outside these walls. Ikora appears sated by the act, moving her tablet to the table. She draws a breath. “Can I hold you?”

Hold him. “The answer to that question is always 'yes.’”

He nestles between her hands and the thick material of her robes. She reclines against the arm of the couch. Neither of them moves until nightfall.

xXx

“We need to do something!”

“Why do anything at all? They’re weak from the effort, and getting weaker. They’ll come to on their own—"

“Oh, you forget who our Guardians are. It will literally take Zavala a month to figure out he has a paper cut if I don’t tell him.”

“I… that’s…”

“Mhm!”

“… Okay. Um.”

“Wow. Ophiuchus stunned to silence. I can feel the chill from up here.”

“Well, I don’t know how else to explain it to her without coming right out and—"

“Then just come right out!”

“She doesn’t like it when I do that. I might make it worse.”

Delta sighs long. “Ophiuchus. We need to do something.”

They do, actually. It’s come to a head, now. He’s been staving off of interference in hope that they would understand on their own, but…

“Okay.”

xXx

Nine months after Ghaul's defeat…

Zavala looks at her, eyes glowing in the dark of his office, features soft but immobile as he tries to understand. Fascination is fighting the stoicism. Cayde often calls it his ‘thinking face.’ “Like a battery?” he asks.

She hums around her drink. “More like an unborn child. The Light is not depleting. It seems to have… fused itself with the moon.” Ikora sighs. “Asher believes the charge may be sufficient enough for Io to produce Light. His attempts at extracting it have so far shown no results, so that should tell you everything.”

Now that stoicism finally breaks, morphing into some odd combination of wonder and concern. “A planet full of Light, and still it would not yield to you?”

No. And it was excruciating. “It wasn’t meant to yield to me,” and Ikora smiles despite herself. How strange that this is what he chooses to focus on? “Did you hear what I said about the charge?”

The light in his eyes snaps and focuses harder, and Ikora leans her chin in her hand to stifle her chuckle. Zavala grins wryly, knowing he’s been caught. “There is only one Traveler,” he says, as if that alone answers all the great mysteries of the universe. He lifts a glass to his lips. “And in any event, I asked you here on personal business. If we can, let’s try and stay away from talks of mad scientists.”

Ikora grins wide. “Here I was thinking you wanted a briefing on the planet’s structure.”

“Mm. I’ve been meaning to finish our conversation. And I did take a peek at your schedule, just so you know.” The soft blue of his eyes finds hers, turning from humorous to solemn. “You said you were looking for answers.”

She sighs. That was as far as she’d gotten before the assault took place. “Well the answer found me, and came in the form of a Hunter. Before that, I was wandering in the dark.” Ironic, given that the very essence of the planet was Light she couldn’t reach. “I still don’t know what I expected.”

“You had cause. The Shard wouldn’t respond.”

“Cause,” she echoes, and smiles sadly. Zavala waits. Ikora shakes her head, chagrined at her own truth. “I didn’t go to reclaim my Light. Not initially.” Zavala’s expression shifts in that miniscule way only he can execute, realization dawning even with those simple words. It’s out, now, finally. The veracity of her cowardice. Ikora lowers her eyes, willing her voice not to waver. “Once I got there… I didn’t want to leave. I couldn’t. Io was the one thing Ghaul hadn’t destroyed, and he was very well on his way.”

She feels something inside her melt when Zavala’s eyes grow even softer. He releases a heavy breath. “We were all afraid, Ikora. And you’re no less of a Guardian for… choosing to hide.” He sits back, lids fluttering, the lines in his forehead reassuming their customary rigidity. “Thirty-five Guardians were with me on Titan. Thirty-five. And I couldn’t… I let them—”

Ikora angles her gaze so it meets the Titan’s nose, but even that doesn’t stop her heart from hurting. Zavala’s eyes are so very broken. It’s not often he allows that to slip through, unveiling that small, small chink—which for him is the equivalent of baring his entire soul—and the fact that he has done so now makes her throat burn.

“Zavala,” she breaks in, because she knows where he places blame, knows he’s about to say I let them die and her voice is thick and it tremors and she cannot stand it. “You didn’t force anyone to go down there. They knew the risk. They always know the risk.”

Helpless is the look he gives her. Zavala is a man who takes responsibility over all, and so any loss is personal. Ikora checks him on this every so often, because he will sit there and allow a guilt that isn’t his to eat him alive if she doesn’t.

He’s a good man. Too good.

A sigh wracks his armor, and he seems to deflate inside of it, appearing so much smaller. Yet another burden he chooses to carry. “I can’t…” he whispers, forehead digging into his palm. “Ikora…”

She lurches forward to take his free hand, some invisible force moving on a forgotten instinct, driven by the pain in his voice. “Yes, you can.”

“Ikora.”

“You will run yourself into the ground, Zavala.”

He says nothing more. He just… sits. Breathes. And she holds him until his body stops trembling, until he squeezes her hand in thanks and sits back, tired, to release another deep sigh. “I thought we had moved past this.”

She settles into her chair as well, watching as he rubs his face. “That won’t be happening for a while.” Yes, even Ikora can admit this. Everyone has gained a scar in one way or another, and she knows that she is not without hers, even if most of them aren’t physical. “It’s only been nine months. I know you still have dreams.”

“Sparingly. I’m able to sleep through the night, at least.”

Ikora breathes in deep, calling a piece of the Void to her hand. “If they could see us now,” she laughs. “Bedeviled and haunted—"

“They still wouldn’t believe their eyes,” Zavala rumbles, eyes crinkling a touch. “We were exactly what they needed us to be the entire time. That image of leadership would be tough to break.”

“Image,” she echoes, watching the Void dance across her fingers. “We barely pulled that off, too.”

Light flashes across Zavala’s eyes, also transfixed on the energy in her hand. “Yes,” he agrees. “But smooth seas do not make skillful sailors.” Ikora almost laughs at his analogy. Ever the soldier. Ever the poet.

But she doesn’t respond to it, and she can feel his gaze boring into her. “What are you thinking?”

She closes her fist, dissolving the Light. “Small comforts, I suppose.” The look he gives her urges elaboration. “One can’t sail all the time,” she quips dryly, and he chuckles. “But the War. It was taxing—”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“Soul-crushing and devastating.” He nods dutifully, and Ikora rolls her eyes. “It was hard to eat, sleep or do anything that didn’t involve killing Cabal. And I was so unbelievably angry. But even with all their meddling… Io was peace. It was impossible feel anger anymore, but I became sensitive to everything else. Fear, sorrow, uncertainty. Whispers of an ancient voice.” A ghost of a smile plays on her lips at the memory. “The Light pulses through the earth like a heartbeat. Faint, but… steady. I would fall asleep feeling it push against me.”

That seems to release him from whatever somber thoughts filled his head. His eyes shift back into interest. “Whispers? What did they say?”

She shakes her head. “The voice was from a time long past. Whatever was said was intimate. Personal.”

“You don’t think it was speaking to you?”

“No.”

Zavala bows his head, something else moving behind his eyes. “Io.” It’s not a question, but she nods. “The Traveler’s voice runs deep,” he ponders. “It’s that strong that you can hear it, even in passing?”

“If one listens with the right ears,” she grins, “yes.”

xXx

Zavala is tired.

This was the first thing her mind understood as he sat next to her that morning and called the meeting to order. Her angle didn’t allow for a hard look at him, but from a glance she could tell his face was long and his eyes were essentially dead. As though he hasn’t had any rest for days.

The second thing was that he was quiet. Not speaking unless spoken to. Offering suggestion instead of making averment. Unusual and somewhat alarming, so Ikora assumed the responsibility of checking Hideo, and kept the rest of the Consensus focused on their task instead of their… mentally absent leader.

He was one of the first to leave when the meeting closed. Alarming and bizarre.

It’s now late afternoon. Ikora is at the Bazaar and she’s still thinking about it.

“It’s going to rain tonight,” Ophiuchus voices next to her. “I’ll move these inside later.” Rain. He’s talking about her books. It’s going to rain.

She looks at words plastered on a piece of paper but cannot see them.

“Ikora.”

“Yes, I heard you.”

He nudges her cheek in gentle rebuke. “Stop thinking so much.” It feels like the eighth time today that’s he’s told her this. Cynically, she wonders if he ever gets tired of constantly reminding her to—

“What did I just say?”

“I’m sorry, Ophiuchus,” she laughs lightly. “I just…”

“Need a break.”

Yes. “Maybe. Let me survive these missives first.”

She didn’t get much sleep last night, either. But she works the rest of daylight away. At the first sign of storm clouds, Ophiuchus sets to work moving her things, flying back and forth with such a quickness that she finds herself getting dizzy by the sight of him.

Eventually he moves everything, and by that time the City is met with a fine sheet of mist.

What little occupies the Bazaar these days soon departs. Ophiuchus is off somewhere, too. But it’s not yet heavy enough for Ikora to take cover. Not that she would ever admit to needing it, but rain is absolutely therapeutic. It’s one of the few things in this world she finds truly assuaging, and it’s doing wonders for her mind right now.

Ikora thinks of nothing. She closes her eyes against the drizzle and empties herself of all else except breath. Center. She does naught but stand and listen to the music of the earth, to the light pitter-patter-splash-and-tinkle of water striking various surfaces around her. Metal. Glass. Tile. Wood. Cloth. Feathers—

There’s a rustling noise sounding ominously close to that of a chicken coming from her right.

She ignores it once—twice—and finally accepts that the peace is ended when a shrill squawk threatens to rend her eardrums.

More than a little irritated, Ikora stalks over to Hawthorne’s usual lookout, following the frantic sounds of flapping and yapping to the high trellis. She doesn’t usually traverse this particular area, but she maneuvers well enough; she blinks up the wall and over the rail and to the top of—

“Colonel…”

Tied up in a miniature cloak and stuck to the surface of the trellis by a fake horn, Colonel the Chicken thrashes about.

Wonderful.

The bird doesn’t know she’s there, yet, so Ikora moves to untie the cloak, but the moment she feels her hands, Colonel cries even louder.

Ikora winces. “Calm down,” she hisses, utterly appalled at the fact that she’s speaking to a fowl. “Why in the world are you even up here…?” Her fingers work at the knots—why are there so many knots?—and Colonel jerks harder and yells and yells, and Ikora gives up trying to save the rope; her left hand glows purple, curving around a construct of a small knife, and the binds fall away in two strokes.

Wings now free, Colonel sees fit to thank Ikora by slapping her with a face full of wet feather, head still stuck by the horn. Calling on every ounce of grace she has left, the Warlock Vanguard carefully places her hands on either side of Colonel’s head, warding off her wayward limbs with her own arms, and picks her up.

Colonel clucks, head tilting this way and that, and she stares at Ikora like she wasn’t fighting her just two seconds ago. The Warlock sighs, putting the chicken down, and parks herself on the trellis.

I mean, she may as well.

It’s not like she’s anything better to do, now.

The rain falls, and Colonel clucks, pecks and stalks beside her, seemingly unbothered by the downpour. Ikora still doesn’t know how she got so tangled, but immediately concludes that she doesn’t necessarily feel like finding out. She listens again to the sounds of nature; and the errant patterns of drizzle, along with Colonel’s ambient mumbling, ease her back into serenity. And it’s when her mind leaves all other things that she realizes there’s something in her hand.

Colonel’s horn, she identifies, before she even looks down at the floaty trinket. She steers her imagination away from its origins, instead focusing on the item itself. It’s small, fit for the head of a chicken, and designed to flaunt. Two shiny gold plates hug the sides of the plastic base, its tip tinted a stark white that brings out the overall color.

Azure.

A color that never fails to command her focus no matter what she’s doing, and to the point where she catches herself seeking it out if it’s not already within sight. It’s a color that demands attention. Blue doesn’t quite capture the essence of the chroma. Blue has the tendency to translate to sad, and Ikora just… cannot equate the two. The color of trust, loyalty, wisdom. The color of the sky. The ocean. Gems.

Eyes.

A color she continuously finds herself surrounded by. Lesser, now.

The sky grows darker, and the City below responds. One by one, lights big and small wink back at Ikora, until the whole of the capital glows, as though it were a beacon. Above them the Traveler watches, silent, dormant; alive, but just in such a way that briefly makes Ikora wonder what exactly that’s supposed to mean. At her side, Colonel’s clucking takes up a higher pitch, finally becoming bogged down by the rain, and Ikora hears a flutter, scrape and baGAWK as she jumps through the window behind her.

She chuckles. Her own robes are beginning to weigh on her. Even the frames thought it wise to close up shop and stay indoors. Clutching the horn, she wonders what it means that she chooses to stay out here.

Rainfall is her only company.

She knows this because for the next half hour, the drizzle is nothing but light and steady, and so she knows the exact moment it stops being such. Rain does not sound like heavy footsteps. It does not feel like the Void. It doesn’t sigh.

“What are you doing up there?”

The question was low, just as confused as it is weary. Taking in a steady breath, Ikora opens her eyes, blinking them underneath the water. To her lower left she finds twin sapphire eyes peering up at her through the fog, dim and yet burning in the dark. The Commander stands, small and positively threadbare.

Ikora studies him; takes in the way his armor seems to cling onto him, engulfing him, and finds that she wants to rip it off. Her eyes run over the tired lines of his face with a certain type of sorrow, knowing she herself looks all the worse for wear, and has to fight the sudden knot in her throat. Shaking her head, she replies, truthfully, “I don’t know.”

He gives no response, only fidgets nervously, and she returns her gaze to the City lights and the mist below. Let him do with that what he will. She stops paying attention to this strange hesitation shortly after, catching the barest glint of the moon through a temporarily parted cloud.

The wood creaks.

Ikora doesn’t look. She senses Zavala making his way topside, and does not move away when he settles right next to her.

The rain continues to pour.

"Aunor leaked about a dozen documents today," Ikora says after a while.

She feels more than hears Zavala’s smile. "Did she?"

"I managed to redact a few, but. She embedded the rest in your manifests."

"She reminds me a lot of you."

Ikora nods, relieved that the conversation has not yet been stilted. She leans back, allowing the rain to fall freely on her face. "Yes. I agree."

The Awoken raises a hand to brush at his forehead. Water hits and drips off of his armor in uneven, calming patterns. "What would you have me do?"

"Nothing. She's mine to manage, and… She's not a child. None of them are, Zavala. We owe them all more than we're giving."

"Yes…" he agrees, and his voice grows softer. "But they owe us more than they're giving, too."

Ikora chuckles dryly. "Yes. Of course. The benefit of the doubt. And compassion. But." She squints against the rain. "Our feelings don't matter right now. We need to be people they want to follow, not people they mistrust and want to fight."

"Respect is mutual," Zavala rumbles, "but I agree." He takes a deep breath. "We will be better. This will pass."

Ikora closes her eyes, rolling the horn between her fingers. In their silence, the rain speaks.

"I wish Cayde were here," she whispers.

Zavala sets his hand on her knee, heavy and warm. Steady. Familiar. "Me, too."

She allows the hand to rest for a minute before placing her smaller one atop his, fingers curling around it. They fall back into reticence, peaceful for the first time in many moons, but Ikora is beset with the need to fill it. Her throat tightens as she considers her next words. And whether she should say them at all.

Eventually, she settles on, “it wasn’t your fault.”

At this, he turns to smirk, puzzled. “Which part?”

She huffs a short laugh, and it doesn’t feel as forced as it could have been. “All of it. Cayde. Me. It was never your fault.” It was a half of a quarter of an admission at best, but still the tightness in his face doesn’t release the way she wants it to, even as he nods in assent. It will tense even more. She takes a breath. “… But I was talking about Ghaul.”

There it is. If she weren’t looking for the inquiring, protective shift in his eyes, the lightest pressure of fingertips to the sides of her knee would have been a well enough indication. He’s grappling with the insinuation, not quite sure how to respond. His blue searches her deep sea of brown as best they can through a sheet of mist, jaw clenching and unclenching.

Even after all of that, she isn’t surprised when he tries to downplay it. “What do you mean?”

Her smile is almost sad. “I heard you.”

xXx

Just last night…

She wakes and chokes on air and sits upright immediately.

“What—” she pants.

“You’ve done it again.”

Eyes still adjusting to the dark of her room, Ikora blinks blearily at the dim light of her angry Ghost, and the first thing her mind does is vault her all the way back to a night just like this over sixty years ago. “Ophiuchus—”

“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t do this anymore. Ikora, you promised!”

She can feel tears in her eyes. She can’t tell whether it’s from the dream she just had or the fact that he sounds very betrayed. “I didn’t…”

He calms a bit at her hesitation, but his question is still prickly. “Didn’t what?”

“I…” she recalls vividly the feeling of inadequacy. Fault. Regret. Her forehead throbs and she hears words, did I fail you? and touches uncertainty and fear and a host of other things that should not apply to him. “I didn’t… I wasn’t trying to.” Her voice is thick with an emotion she doesn’t want.

His shell flips, curiously, skeptically, and a knot forms in her stomach. “You weren’t?”

“No.”

“So you… died by accident?”

It sounds utterly ridiculous, but it is the truth. “I had a dream,” she says, and her breath has finally evened out. Her eyes still burn. “I think it may have turned into a vision.”

“And the vision killed you?”

And now she wants to snap because her mind is still half asleep and she cannot fully explain the complexities of dreams turned thanatonautic exploits, but she holds her tongue. Allows Ophiuchus his displeasure. “I’m not entirely sure how it happened… or why… but I’m telling you the truth.”

She does not like how desperate she is for him to believe her. Ophiuchus says nothing, eye watching her, and Ikora wills herself to meet him halfway. She is committed to mending their bond, and so reveals herself to him by keeping his gaze.

After a while, he seems to find no lie. “Alright.”

Blessedly, he does not ask about the nature of the dream. She lays back down on her side, this time with Ophiuchus curled up underneath her chin. She cannot fall asleep. The words are still loud in her mind.

Did I fail you?

xXx

“No, you did not.”

He’d listened patiently as she explained, never once breaking in or cutting her off, but she can tell it took all of Zavala’s willpower not to protest. He’s far more concerned with how she managed to hear nearly everything he’d said, anyway.

“It…” he starts, still trying to grapple. “You had a vision? About me?”

Her lips purse. “I don’t believe it was. Visions provide foresight.” In her hand, Ikora feels the smooth edges of the gold plates. “It might have been the Void, the Traveler, but…” she turns to him. “Did you go there last night? After your shift?”

It’s not often that Zavala gets caught in the headlights. A silent breath leaves him. “I did.” And did not return home until it was time to get back to work. And he worked.

Zavala is so very tired, and Ikora can’t help but feel responsible.

The Warlock holds off on the desire to jump him with more questions, watching as Awoken markings swim gently, lethargically, reflecting his weariness and his unease. “I know that look,” he smirks, and his eyes burn a little brighter. “Curiosity is adorable on you.”

“Stop it,” she rolls her eyes, playfully nudging him with an elbow. The tender act does nothing to quell her contrition. “Did you go because of me?”

He’s quiet again for a moment. “Partially. I’d been… intending to visit for myself.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“It didn’t seem like a bad idea. Until I got back.”

He’s not telling her everything. Ikora brings his hand to rest between both of hers. “Zavala.”

Softly, larger fingers curl around the little horn in her palm, as if he were afraid he might break it. “Duty is a strange thing,” he whispers finally, and turns his gaze out over the City. “The Traveler’s awakening… we took it as a good omen, and it is, but I… I feel… heavier. Like one question was answered with another question.” Ikora has a good idea where this is going but refrains from speaking, waiting instead for Zavala to finish his thought. “I tried to figure it out by going to Io. I thought maybe I could hear the Traveler speak there, since...” he darts his eyes away from the sphere. “But I came away feeling heavier, as if my responsibility tripled.”

His fist closes a little tighter, and Ikora holds him. “I hear them talking, all the time. How Vanguard Commander Zavala ‘pulled us through.’” A strong jaw clenches. “The newly risen only hear whatever gilded stories they’re told, and they come up to me asking how I did it. They’re fascinated. But there was nothing wonderful about it. I had to.” Zavala turns to her, soft blue eyes pulsing low. “I didn’t have a choice, Ikora. I don’t. We don’t.”

He’s carrying the mental part of what is supposed to be a shared burden by himself, and this is entirely Ikora’s doing. She placed distance, effectively blocking Zavala out and leaving him with no indication as to the status of their agreement.

That’s a lie.

The distance was the advertised status, and he believed it.

She didn’t realize just how much she had hurt him. “I… Zavala… please don’t castigate yourself. You’re doing what you can, and that’s enough. It’s enough,” she insists when he begins to protest, the continues in a softer voice, “I know you want to, but you absolutely cannot do any more than that. And you don’t have to. You don’t… you’re not alone. And I’m sorry for making you feel that way.”

Rarely does she apologize. Zavala knows this. “I believe I owe you an apology as well,” he returns. “My conduct was… disgraceful. I wasn’t helping the situation at all.”

Ikora scoffs, and he quirks a thick brow. “I didn’t exactly let you, either.”

“Regardless.”

She huffs. “But—”

“I don’t have the energy for this. Why don’t we both agree,” he starts, “that it was both our faults, and leave it there?”

Ikora narrows her eyes at him, unable to fight the growing smirk. “I’ll accept these terms on one condition.”

“And that is?”

“Let me buy you a drink.”

“Insatiable.”

“Yes.”

His shoulders heave, but he isn’t to be deterred. “You buy the drinks. I’ll handle dinner.”

And now he’s backed her into a corner. Ikora blinks, because Zavala is suddenly offering to make them dinner after… how long has it been? A few years, at least. And it doesn’t escape her how this will be the first one without their third. In her hand, the horn feels a little heavier.

Sensing her affliction, or perhaps taking notice that she hadn’t answered yet, Zavala moves to wrap an arm around her, and this simple gesture gives her the strength to respond. “I would like that,” she says, and he smiles.

Both of them, stubborn. Meticulous. Unable to admit defeat but unwilling to let others take the blame. Selfless, but to the point where they neglect themselves and each other. They’re each concerned with the safety and goodwill of those under their charge, but when faced with questions of their own hearts, they run. Ikora makes a mental note to explore these discrepancies later. It’s fascinating. Utterly maddening.

They go back to watching the Traveler, the City, and she leans her head against his shoulder. The rain eases. Still, no one moves to leave.

“But do we?” Zavala asks after a while, in earnest, and she knows what he means. “Have a choice?”

Implications are powerful things. Ikora does what she can to keep this one from robbing her of breath. To dismantle the Vanguard. It’s a steep and ambivalent road that never crosses the realm of possibility in her mind. Ikora thinks of structure, direction, and how they would lose all of that. But then she remembers the Iron Lords. The Dark Age. The time before. And she remembers Hideo’s remark about Zola’s quasi-independence, and how the rest of the Guardians basically function the same.

It is absolutely possible.

And yet.

“Let’s sit on it for a while,” she offers. “Last time we were quick to judgment, we nearly ended a relationship.”

“You’re right,” he chuckles. “Thank you.”

Her head picks up. “For what?”

Zavala is a conscious man, so it strikes Ikora as very deliberate when he smiles unabashed, and she’s further taken aback when he lifts the back of her hand to his mouth. “For being my friend.”

She can’t help but return a grin. “Thank you for being mine. And for putting up with my… nonsense.” Her smile widens when he tries to laugh but then has to fight a yawn. “That’s bedtime for you, old man.”

“I dare you call me old,” he rumbles lightly, but allows Ikora to blink them to the floor. “I could honestly sleep for days.”

“Well, I would hope so,” she returns, incredulous. “Why did you come out here?”

Tiredly, he rubs his forehead. “Ah. Delta told me there was something important I needed to see. She never said what it was. But apparently it was imperative that I come to the Bazaar to deal with it.” He sighs, the smile never leaving face. “But I guess I know why, now.”

Oh, Ikora can guess what it was, too. Who it was. In the closing distance, she can make out two small, shadowy forms, not unlike those of their conniving, adoring Ghosts, spying just over a chair.

She couldn’t love them more.

xXx

“Is this thing on? Yeah. Ikora! Got so busy makin’ sure everybody else got their dues that I forgot the most important one. So here’s an extra one, just for you.

Don’t think I never noticed you checking out my horn. Yeah, it’s a thing of beauty. I get it. A lot. It’s not something you see every day. But, in your case, you do. Also. I know you liked to pretend I was a mud stain on your glove and not that funny—which, by the way, I AM, even in death—but I… how do I put this. Help me out, Ghost. Ah.

I got this weird feeling every time you looked at me. Like, eye to eye. Really weird. Get your mind outta the gutter, Rey. I’m talkin’ about that icky sixth sense you get when somebody’s not tellin’ the whole truth. I didn’t know what it was for the longest time. Actually thought you had a thing for me, too. But you didn’t, so like, let that piece of information fall away from your mind like hot Taken butter. If you don’t mind.

Was there a point? Yes, yes there was. Brace yourself, ‘cause here it comes.

Remember all those many moons ago, when the Tower was North and Strikers weren’t so annoying? You told me you didn’t have a favorite color. I knew you were lying, and you knew you were lying. And I’m here to call you out on it.

I dunno. Maybe it’s all the years we spent fighting side by side. All the times I tried getting you to laugh. Or something else. But you’re not as good at covering up stuff as you like to think. I mean, you’re good, but not that good. And comin’ from me, that should make you sweat. Hard.

But, anyway. I’ve got your favorite color all figured out.

It’s champagne pink.

SIKE! Haha, ah, no. I’m not that dumb.

But I’m not gonna say it, either. I know what it is, so I’ll let you keep your secret. Just in case, y’know, someone else hears this first. Don’t wanna kill the mystery and all that.

Tell Zavala to pay you a bit more attention, though. Big guy’s gonna have to fill in for me. But I heard his peepers are deeper than the sea. Deeper than mine, too.”