Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Rytlock fought down the growl stuck in his throat for what felt like the hundredth time, cleaving through the army of the Flame with a man by his side he couldn’t stop wishing was not there. It wasn’t his fight, and he was even less wanted as a partner. You needed to be able to trust partners after all, and Logan had proven himself wholly unreliable. A coward. A liar. Rytlock would show him, show him how a real warrior fought and won without help from weaklings like him. Prove to him that he, as a charr and as Tribune Brimstone, was better off without a mouse in tow. Prove that he’d never needed Logan in the first place.

It fueled his anger and his sharpened hatred, the fact that he’d once been a fool to trust this man. Come to be civil with him, befriend him... even show him the utmost respect and loyalty. The man had been presented with his Blood Legion crest, a symbol of so much more than they could both speak with words. And Logan had taken this gesture of faith and blind trust and defiled it, thrown it to the dogs in a show of arrogance and cowardice that only a human could muster.

The charr hated it. Hated being lied to, and made to look like an idiot for ever trusting someone else to have his back. In his darkest moments, the dreams filled with rage and betrayal, Logan laughed at his stupidity and ran like a coward back to his safe haven while the others fought the battle of their lives. Left them to die, because he was too weak to stand with them when it mattered the most. And Rytlock had believed in him, in his strength and his undeniable bond with this unlikely friend, and he’d gotten burned. It wouldn’t happen again.

The citadel was dark despite the firelight, and Logan’s eyes were strained by the time the first brazier was demolished. The heavy, thick smoke from the open flames, both magical and otherwise, made his nose clogged and the air stung his lungs as he breathed in. How the Flame Legion could live like this, he’d never understand. He wondered if his charr companion had the same issues, but he kept himself from asking. It would be met with mockery, for sure.

He had tried so hard. So very, very hard. Tried to reach out at first, tried to explain things he barely understood himself to someone who didn’t want to understand at all. He had then tried to give it some time, all the time that the charr would need to calm down and be rational. That hadn’t worked as he thought, and Rytlock had grown even angrier in the time Logan tried to stay away and keep his head down. At this point, his own frustration at the situation had grown stronger and it mingled with the sadness of loss and confusion. He just wanted to explain. Wanted to grieve for the friend that they’d lost with the one’s he considered family, wanted to express his doubts in his Queen and the strange bond anchored in his mind. That was all he wanted, needed. But he was shot down, time and time again and his own irritation and anger started festering in the deeper parts of the fresh wounds.

The last thing he could think of, was to prove himself in the way charr seemed to think was best. By being stronger, fighting harder and being even more stubborn.

Back to the heat, the thick black smoke and the choking tension. To the beads of sweat rolling uncomfortably close to his already blurry eyes, stinging scrapes and making his grip slippery. By the Six, they just kept coming. Fanatic, burned beyond recognition and bloodthirsty charr snarled around every corner, and the Commander and her companion were starting to look a little out of breath. Logan had to agree in his stubborn silence.

“Wait. My pet, and I for that matter, need water. Rest for a few moments.” The amber sylvari that looked almost like a little wildfire herself spoke up, a slender hand stroking her Fern hound, those unnerving piles of leaf that looked a lot like wolves. Logan was alright with sylvari in general, but... sometimes their odd magic and mysterious appearance in Tyria plucked on strings of doubt in his own gods. Melandru should have been closer to these beings than an old centaur druid, if the human gods really were so almighty. He came to a halt, grateful for the chance to wipe his damp hair from his face. “I agree, let’s-“

“I don’t need a break, coward.” Rytlock’s snarl cut Logan off, and the dark-furred charr shoved past them all until the sylvari woman stood in front of him and didn’t budge. For a second they stared at each other and Logan stood on edge, expecting Sohothin to flare to life or golden arrows pierce the smokey air.

The sentient foliage-turned-wolf whined, and the sylvari paid no mind to the aggression in the air. She gently pet its ears, pulling out a waterskin as her dark eyes regarded the charr. “Rytlock. Calm down. We can’t rush in like this, and all of us need a breather.” She sounded so sure, so authoritative that Logan had to take a second look at the woman. She had come to sound more like a leader each day. He saw from the corner of his eye how the charr tensed for a moment.

Rytlock made a grunt of dislike, but to Logan’s surprise he stood down. It seemed to be the end of it, but Logan could tell the charr was itching to get going again. He felt the weight in his chest sink in deeper, hollowing him out with both grief and anger. Once upon a time, they would’ve bantered and kept each other company to pass time. Once upon a time, this bitter resentment wasn’t even something they thought could happen. They’d been too close for that sort of thing.

And Logan, according to Rytlock, had gone and ruined it all.

He felt the sting, like slow burning acid being poured over paper-thin skin, at the thought. It bubbled under the surface of his composure, trying to break him whenever the arguments turned harsher than need be. Whenever Rytlock looked at him with those eyes, full of hatred and distaste as if Logan was something disgusting and should be run through with Sohothins magical blade. Funny, since it was a human sword. One would think Rytlock would disown the weapon as well now that he had decided to turn his back to his human friend, but no. No, he held it close still, wielding it as if it was his right by conquest. Logan couldn’t deny that he found it oddly disheartening.

As their quick, hushed little break came to an end they made short work of the patrolling troup on their way to the second brazier. The water Logan had managed to gulp down felt like nothing by the time they were halfway there, but he was eternally grateful that he’d been able to rub the clean liquid over his eyes and rid himself of what felt like a thick layer of soot and grime that made his vision dangerously bad. At the brazier the Flame shamans put up a valiant resistance, managing to scorch Rytlock’s fur if the smell was anything to go by, and Logan saw as the fire licked across his hastily summoned protection magic almost as if the tongues of flame were alive.

One of the shamans, disfigured and melted together with metal and fire in ways the Six would shun, turned it’s snout towards the shimmering blue aura. “A human! A pink-skin in our Citadel! I’ll sear your eyes out and rip you limb from limb, you disgusting mouse!” The voice was an amalgamation of growls; the hiss of fire and crackling embers forced to become words, inhuman and distorted, yet the message came out clear and Logan couldn’t choose between gritting his teeth and rolling his eyes.

“If I had a silver for every time I’ve heard that…” He mumbled, swinging his weapon to land a blow to the jowls of a Flame Legion warrior charging at him. Landing it with a thud and a wet, slobbering crack against the jawbone, Logan opted to move away from the frothing charr and survey the battlefield more properly.

The Flame Legion’s cult following were rabid, throwing themselves with the pointy ends first against the invaders. However, Rytlock’s rifle and the sylvari’s longbow took them down one by one from afar, while the pale blue magic of Logan met them head on, solid in his defense against the oncoming horde. Around him, the Fern hound snarled with fangs and claws ready to shred the flesh and hide of the charr. All in all, Logan concluded it went decently well. Granted, Rytlock’s fur did sizzle a little but the human knew his protection magic wasn’t welcome to aid his friend even though the smell of burnt fur twisted something deep in him.

With a little effort, some blood and sweat and a few risky situations, it paid off. The second brazier crumbled, and they felt a surge and shift in the air as the foreign magic reshaped itself before vanishing completely.

As the brazier flickered out and turned to burnt rubble, Rytlock for once didn’t feel victorious. He felt conflicted. The Flame shaman had spit out curses and slurs at his former friend, and for the shortest second of Rytlock’s life, he’d wanted to snarl back. Tell the foul creature to watch his tongue before he ripped it out himself, because the human was not to be trifled with and was more of a charr than the Flame scum would ever be.

Then he’d remembered everything, and the volatile anger had come surging up his throat like bile as he fought to not shout his agreeance with the shaman. Logan, the traitor and betrayer, deserved every barb and remark Rytlock could think of if he ever felt that he could spare the man the time and breath to waste. But as to not compromise their precarious mission, he’d kept silent. He was a soldier after all, and charr soldiers didn’t fail.

But the small, instinctual habit of defending Logan had come back unbidden and it bothered him. He’d make sure it never did that again when this was over.

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With the foul, twisted magic of the braziers dispelled, the Citadel was open for their advance. Or, as open as they could make it. They fought patrols, singed their skin on the blazes and fireballs hurled their way and grit their teeth against the firesmoke threatening their eyesight and their oxygen supply. By this point, Logan had all but forgotten that they'd even rested in the first place. The caverns were warm to the point of boiling, and it made the precariousness of traversing the rock bridges even more nerve-wracking as the floor far beneath was slowly moving, a gurgling lava river. Steam sometimes spewed out of big bubbles bursting in the flow beneath, sending jets of sulfur-smelling and agonizingly hot air up towards them with a dull pop and low rumble, making their progress far from quick. One misstep, one error of judgement and their end would be painfully quick.

Yet again Logan had to wonder how any being could live comfortably like this. He supposed he could’ve asked Rytlock about the details of Flame Legions exile and hatred but as it was now, he wasn’t certain what irritated him the most; the hellscape they travelled or the Tribune who kept snarling at him. On every turn, with every little thing, Rytlock took offense to something or other. The constant ridicule and harassment was beginning to grate on his nerves, just a little. He thanked the Six he only took the bait and jabbed back some of the time. He tried to the best of his short patience abilities, tried to see it as progress instead of failure and to remind himself that Rytlock had always been an asshole and that was how he showed you that he cared. Or how he showed you that he hated you. It was terribly unclear sometimes.

As they reached a somewhat stable patch of the cave system, they could scout ahead for a few meters, spotting another larger group of Flame Legion soldiers. They didn’t move particularly much, just a few sentries taking strolls around their perimeter, but it was clear that they were stationed there with purpose.

“No doubt part of the welcoming committee.” Logan muttered under his breath, wrinkling his nose at the sight. There were quite a few soldiers, and what looked like those large effigies that the shamans sometimes brought along as heavy hitters. Two of them stood dormant, their odd body made of metal and coal, cold and still. Logan eyes them with suspicion. “At least the gates to the central chamber are open.”

“They’re not going to let us stroll through the door.” Rytlock hisses out, ever the epitome of optimism.

The little group slunk back out of sight, barely for a minute, to breathe and ready themselves. Logan cast a glance to his side, eyes seeking the dark-furred charr and finding only a turned back and tense shoulders ready to attack. In his chest, he felt the acid work its way through his veins and eat ever so slowly inwards to somewhere behind his lungs. It constricted them, made him flustered with anger and petty ill-will and the world around him seemed to blur and center in on that raw, tangled bunch of emotions. It became harder to breathe, coils of exhaustion and frustration wrapped around his lungs. His grip on his weapon slacked for the faintest of seconds as the drive to fight left him. This stupid and reckless dive into the heart of Flame seemed more and more pointless, only serving as a miserable reminder that they were no longer brothers in arms. It had been foolishly optimistic to think that years of this festering conflict could be somehow resolved by working together again.

His muscles twitched, and the world came into focus again as the sylvari moved up to position with her longbow, her aim steady and incredible even on these long distances. The fingers that’d lost strength caught his weapon and Logan shrugged the dull, hampering feelings off with a stretch of his neck. It wouldn’t do to let the others down, or to give Rytlock more to pick at. He was here to show him, at least once and for all, that Logan the Human could keep up just as well as Runtlock the Charr. And that would have to be what either drove them fully apart, shoving an unmendable splinter into Destiny’s Edge and into Logan’s core, or what finally, finally set them on the path to some form of tentative reconciliation. This was his last attempt he hoped, but deep down he knew he had a terrible track record of running back to the charr even when he knew there’d be no kindness to be had. This was the pinnacle, the edge of the proverbial knife, and time would tell if they would survive or fall.

The assault started on their terms, swift and deadly as the sylvari lets her arrow find a home in a charr soldiers eye socket.

It was better to lose all thoughts of Logan and his meddling with a proper battle, so he threw himself headfirst into the fray. The central gate was the last hurdle before the inner sanctum, and Rytlock would be damned if he let that opportunity slip through his paws. He abandoned his rifle to instead draw Sohothin, relishing for a moment as it sated his need for more physical altercation. There was something satisfactory with feeling metal cleave through meat and muscle, to throw his weight against another opponent, and it served as an adequate distraction from unwanted thoughts. He mowed through the Flame Legion forces, snarling bloodlust and rage in the face of his equally battle-crazed opponents, taking point in their attack.

A shaman holds his staff up high, summoning energy to lay waste to the battlefield with a hoarse cry. “Hold the bridge! Burn them to ash!” And Rytlock takes that as a personal challenge, and rushes him.

To his left flank something crunched and a disfigured charr fell to the ground in a heap, a wispy trickle of light blue magic seeping from the indent in his caved in skull. Among the carnage, there was something disturbingly precise and sophisticated with the razor-sharp icy blue magic cutting through fire and smoke. Deadly and savage like any of Rytlocks band-brothers yet precise and controlled in a way that could creep under his fur, reminding him of why he had found the human worthy to fight by his side back in the day with painful clarity.

Rytlock was loath to admit it, but Logan hadn’t lost his edge.

The only thing that gives the trio pause is the effigy, and by the time it keels over with a horrid screech of metal they’re all breathing heavily, on edge and trying to take inventory of their scrapes and bruises. All in all, not too bad Rytlock thinks, spitting out a glob of blood and mucus on the ground. It sizzles as it makes contact with the heated rock, and he snarls low in his throat. The sooner he can snap the neck of Baelfire and get out of this mess the better. He grits his teeth and waits only for the few moments that it takes for the sylvari to yank a last arrow out of a felled enemy, pointedly turning away before he can slip up and look over to see how Logan is doing, before he lumbers forward to the gates leading out to the bridge. He notes the forces gathering, amassing on the end of the bridge like ants protecting their queen. Some of them venture out on the narrow rock bridge, spanning a chasm of lava, and they all but foam at the mouth to get a chance to prove their worth and loyalty to the crazed fanatic. On the other side, Baelfire looms over them at the top of his massive rock spire and Rytlock feels something pull at his gut at the sight. The Flame Legion had always been demented in their ways but the way Gaheron had corrupted himself, in the vain attempt to ascend to a false godhood that no charr in their right mind believed in, was almost nauseating to even him. Disgraceful was just the beginning for what that was.

Rytlock surges forward towards the bridge, presses himself to go a little faster to get ahead of Logan as he hears him run up behind him. Anger pushes his legs onward, and he refuses to entertain the useless feelings that tell him that he’s literally running away from something he should face, needs to face. Instead he locks eyes with the nearest Flame Legion soldier and bares his fangs in a clear show of defiance and aggression. Killing it will do instead.

Above them, Baelfire roars as the cavern noticeably heats up, something unclean and twisted surging towards the top of the tower before them. The voice of the self-proclaimed leader of the Flame Legion booms through the chamber. “Puny mortals. You’ll never ascend to face me!” Around his raised fists crackles embers and fire, the surge of energy gathering there and molding the heat into a massive fireball.

Rytlock barely has time to notice, is just in time to wrench his eyes away from his opponent to look up, before the mass of molten rock and fire is hurled down on them. There’s nowhere to go, the bridge is narrow and beneath it is only more heat and lava, and there is no time to backpedal before it crashes into the space just in front of him.

The heat barely has time to register before the ground disappears beneath him in a deafening rumble of exploding rock, the screams and yips from the enemy troop drowning out his huff of surprise as he feels himself going weightless for a brief moment. Then he’s falling among the rubble, no matter how much his claws scrabble for purchase among the wreckage it only falls away, and above him the cave ceiling quickly grows ever more distant.

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He sees it happening and understands the consequences with disturbing clarity, but somehow he’s still so woefully unprepared when the ground cracks under his feet. The blazing light of the fire blinds him for a second, makes him blink furiously against both thick smoke and spots dancing across his vision, but he presses on, uncaring of the risk of blindly stumbling off the sudden drop of the bridge. After a moment he can make out, even further ahead of him on the now crumbling bridge, Rylock twisting in the air to grapple with the debris and search for anything to stop his inevitable plummet into the scorching heat below and the sight makes Logan’s breath catch in his throat. He doesn’t have enough air in his lungs to yell out to his companion, just a soft, almost petulantly surprised gasp of: “No.” tumbles out.

The rumble of the explosion echoes in the cave, creating a klaxon of terrifying alarm, but Rytlock’s roar of disbelief cuts through it all and Logan knows he’ll never forget the sound or the image of his closest friend falling to his death.

Rytlock can’t die. Logan can’t let him die. Won’t accept it, won’t let the world be robbed of that infuriating, moronic, terrifyingly loyal, wonderful and atrocious charr. So his muscle memory and instinct takes over, tosses his logical reasoning, his bitterness, hurt and conflicted emotions aside and hurriedly drives his body forward towards the chasm. It takes less than a second for him to throw himself into a dive, reaching out to flail and grab at an outstretched paw, anchoring his hand firmly around Rytlock’s wrist. Logan hits the ground awfully hard and fast, the rock digging into soft skin wherever it can find it, and it knocks the wind from his lungs while the abrupt yank and heaviness of the charr makes his shoulder scream in protest. The sharp tug coupled with the weight downwards stretches his muscles and he’s pretty certain he hears something moist crunch around the socket. It can wait, he reasons. It doesn’t matter, it barely registers as a nuisance, as long as he holds on to Rytlock. Holding on to the thick forearm of his friend suddenly becomes the only important thing in the world, in Logan's entire life.

Adrenaline rushes through him, his mind is reacting instinctively to the life and death scenario currently unfolding, and he grits his teeth as he feels Rytlock close his big mitt around his own far smaller arm. Logan doesn’t know if he does it on purpose, but Rytlock’s claws sink deep into both skin and meat, and he hisses out what little air he still has as warm rivulets of blood quickly makes his grip slippery. He knows that there is no time to waste, if he can’t pull his partner up now then he’ll lose his hold, and against all his straining muscles and the fatigue from battling their way through the Citadel he heaves himself upwards and back away from the destruction. Something else pops in his shoulder, a bolt of sharp pain zings down to his elbow and makes his arm spasm but he keeps the hold strong. He has to, this is what he does. He protects and he saves, and he won’t allow Rytlock the luxury of escaping him before they’ve… before they… before they’ve done something, whatever that is it’s important that they get to see it through. Logan won’t let Rytlock go that easily because he still has things to say, and the Six can curse him for his stubbornness to the Mists and back but he won’t let it end before he’s made the charr understand. How sorry he is, how angry he is… how bitterly lonely he’s become without Rytlock. How much better they are together than apart.

“You-” Rytlock manages to bite out, before he decides to save it for when he’s got all four paws on solid ground and urgently does what he can to climb up with Logan’s help.

It hurts, it makes cold sweat break out on his back and brow, but Logan feels it only distantly. “Not letting you go that easy.” He mumbles out, bracing his knees on hard rock to pull one last time and feels a burst of elation as it works. He falls backwards when Rytlock lets go of his arm, the charr instead using his hands to heave himself up the last bit of the way, tumbling forward to safer ground.

It worked, Logan thinks where he lays in a daze of adrenaline high and sudden exhaustion. Rytlock survived.

Thank the Six. Thank whatever made him strong enough to pull that off.

Huh… the ground is starting to become uncomfortable on his back.

He can’t quite feel his right arm, which is worrying.

… oh, yeah no there it was. Ow.

“Fuck.” Is the first thing he spits out when his wits have returned, and he wobbles to stand upright while trying to catch his breath. He refuses to look behind to where he knows the bridge has a newly formed dead stop, steels himself against the notion that he had a far too close and personal call with his own end. He’d been nosing at the Mists before but this was something else entirely. Uhg, that’s bothersome. What's even worse is-

“Rytlock? Logan, can you hear me?” A female voice calls out to them from the start of the rock bridge, the sylvari ranger carefully toeing around the destruction to edge closer. Her bow is drawn and the green dog she keeps around is growling, raising its hackles at the unanticipated mayhem.

A groan from the ground makes Rytlock look down to where the human is wriggling about. He looks more or less alive and Rytlock doesn’t know how to feel about that anymore. “Yeah, I- uh, we hear you. Comin’ back.” He grunts back to her, finding it in him to form a complete sentence even though he was distracted with other thoughts. Was he supposed to help Logan up? Was that why the damned human was still on the ground? That wasn’t something he was prepared to handle, Rytlock never agreed to-

Logan sits up and just… looks at him. And for all that they spit hatred at each other, there’s something about the way his eyes center on him that make the charr feel a wash of nostalgia. He might not understand what Logan is trying to say, with those blue eyes of his that are so disturbingly deep and hold so much, but the way he looks here in the low fireligh brings Rytlock back. There are old, old memories of nights at the campfire after a day's trekking, or of the early hours of morning after a long crawl through the taverns of Lion’s Arch. Logan always looked a certain way when his overly complicated mind was up to something, and Rytlock had learned to tell when to let him finish thinking or when to distract him. Depending on the outcome, Rytlock either had to admit that Logan actually was pretty clever or he had to spend hours arguing over useless differences of opinion. He however finds himself at a loss for what to do with this new development, and it bothers him. Where was the coward, the betrayer and liar that Logan was supposed to be now?

Fortunately for him, Logan solves Rytlock’s dilemma for him and breaks eye contact to instead rise up to his feet. The human looks a little worse for wear, there are gashes running down his right arm where blood bubbles lazily around the edges of long wounds and he seems… preoccupied with something.

When he takes a look around, Rytlock sees what Logan is distracted by. Baelfire hadn’t only hit them with his fire, as becomes evident by the fallen bodies strewn among the rubble. “Kalla gouge his eyes!” Rytlock growls as he steps over the charred remains of a Flame Legion soldier, the mindless carnage making something in the pit of his stomach twist. “He slaughters his own troops to get to us!”

Logan glances over to him, a familiar hint of steel and determination in his tone. “That means he's still vulnerable. He's afraid of us.”

By the Legions, at least Logan still knew just what to say to rile him up and Rytlock bares his fangs back at him. “Because he knows he's about to die.” He snarls, and momentarily forgets to hate the human standing among the wreckage and burnt corpses as he feels the thrill of the battle come back to him. “And he's right. Pick a limb and start chopping.”

Logan starts walking back to the sylvari waiting for them with a last indecipherable glance at him, and Rytlock just wants him to spit it out already. Whatever the idiot thought about, he should say out loud instead of being dramatic about it. But Logan doesn’t say a word, just wipes his bloodied hand on his tabard and moves along. Rytlock hisses out a breath, taking a quick moment to pat himself over; finding solace in the fact that he didn’t lose anything important in the fall. His rifle was still hung across his back, and Sohothin secured by his side. But when he pulls his hand back, he falters in his step.

His claws were coated in something that smelled suspiciously like human blood.

He looks up again to where Logan has joined their third comrade, and to where red is drying on his skin. Rytlock doesn’t have to be an asuran genius to piece two and two together.

Fuck.

He tries to not move his right arm too much as he picks himself up and moves back to the gate, but through the thumping of his pulse in his ears he can feel it throb in pain. He’d have to take a look at that whenever they had time. And from what Logan can tell of this unfortunate venture, they might not have much time to spare.

“Logan! Are you alright?” The honey colored sylvari asks, carefully letting the string of her bow go lax as she relaxes her attention momentarily to look him over.

He makes a noise of affirmation, tries for a laugh initially but it becomes more of a huff than anything else, and shrugs. By the Six it smarts. “We need to find another way over.” He says to hide the way his body stiffens at the reminder of his fresh injury.

As the dark eyes of the sylvari narrows at his vague answer, Rytlock stalks up behind him. “If we stand here he'll just pelt us with fireballs.” It’s an odd way of saying he agrees, but Logan will happily take it as a distraction now. “Let's see where this bridge takes us.” The charr waves over to another stretch of rock that spans the lava flowing underneath. It looks less travelled, more rugged and uneven, but it’s their best option. They need to move before they get overrun where they stand, and they don’t have to speak to know that they’re all in agreeance.

The ranger takes point leading them over, sometimes stopping just a short second to let an arrow quickly fly from the bow she carries with reverence. She fells three enemies that spots them crossing, silently letting her aim prove its deadly accuracy. Logan is grateful for it, he needs the moment to gather himself and sort out the mess of thought and emotions that now come crashing in uninvited as the deadly emergency is over. Everything he pushed aside has waited for the moment he lets his guard down and it’s… a lot. Confusion and relief mixing with the dredges of his remaining frustration, and he’s finding it hard to hold on to his animosity from before. Saving Rytlock took the edge off that, and in hindsight it feels stupid and childish. As long as they’re both alive when they leave this mess of a cave system, Logan can call it a success. It helps to focus on the mission at hand, knowing that Gaheron needs to be taken down is a constant and hard-set goal that he can use as a crutch for his frayed mind at the moment. He’s so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t hear the heavy footfall that comes up to walk next to him.

“That was close back there. Just so you know, thanks for the save.” It’s a low rumble, quiet enough to not alert the woman in front of them, but enough for Logan to pick up clearly. It sounds… uncertain and awkward. Disgruntled. Of course, Logan thinks, Rytlock is the only one able to make saving his life sound like something inconvenient.

He rolls his eyes to cover up his own inner struggle, but can’t stop a little smile that turns up the corner of his mouth. “I didn't have time to think about it.” He says honestly, because he doesn’t have it in him to lie but can’t quite voice the entire truth. “And I'm sure you would do the same for me.” He adds in a low tone, wanting to make it sound like a statement but it comes out more as a question. But… of course Rytlock would. They weren’t so estranged that they’d simply be content to watch the oher die. They couldn’t be, at least not after this.

It gets quiet for a moment, long enough to be concerning, and Logan has to look over to check so Rytlock hasn’t fallen off this bridge as well.

“Hm. Don't get too ahead of yourself.” The dark-furred charr mutters out, looking anywhere but at Logan. It stings and Logan doesn’t fully comprehend why. “Let's just focus on finding Gaheron for now.” Rytlock quickens his step, pushing past the human as the bridge lands at the lip of another cave and doesn’t wait for the other two before he charges the Flame Legion sentry stationed further in.

Logan doesn’t know what that means, doesn’t know if he’s in the right state of mind to figure it out, and by the looks of it neither does their sylvari friend. She glances over at him with questioning eyes after she nocks a golden arrow, readying another shot in case the enemy charr currently being hacked to pieces has backup. And as the heat beats down on them and his entire right arm feels like it’s on fire, he can’t help but blurt out: “I swear, Rytlock would get himself killed if I weren't around.”

The sylvari looks ahead again, advances slowly while her dog prowls the perimeter of the cave. “You know him well?” She asks without taking her attention away from their surroundings, tone light yet curious.

He lets out a startled chuckle as he watches Rytlock deal the killing blow to the unfortunate opposing soldier. “Know him? Once we were like brothers.”

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“He saved your life back there.” The melodious voice is hushed, as if it’s a secret wrapped in a statement and Rytlock curses his misfortune to have a sylvari for a traveling companion. Would it be an asura or a norn, this skulduggery and softness wound never come to pass. But the youngest race seemed to be the most fond of these things, the golden one silently walking up behind him was no exception, and it was getting under Rytlock’s fur.

“He didn’t mean to.” He snarls out around a clot of blood and saliva balling in his mouth, hacking both the words and the wad of mucus out to be discarded on the ground. He doesn’t want to be reminded of it. It’s easier to hate than feel gratitude. “He was acting on impulse.”

She is quiet, but the lack of sound leaves a void which is heavy with something unspoken. Her eyes have no visible pupils, only bottomless black depth, and he finds it difficult to meet her stare for long. He’s unnerved by the lack of tells, it’s difficult to calculate where she’s aiming her gaze. She’s too knowing, and yes, their kind was perhaps new to Tyria but Rytlock was certain there was ancient wisdom buried deep beneath their fondness of chivalry and talking in riddles. It’s only for a moment, but she seems to know more than she lets on.

“He’s got good impulses.” She says as if that explains anything at all, and he wants to pretend he doesn’t hear the gentle, coaxing tone in her otherwise even voice. He feels accused in a way that he can’t put a claw to, and he wants to tell her that he's already said his thanks, already given Logan the bare minimum of civility that Rytlock can scrounge up at the moment. It had been a grand gesture, really.

The brief gratification he’d gotten from carving through another Flame Legion soldier is quickly starting to wane, just like the dead body by his paws is rapidly cooling. It’s so much easier to revert back to the default, to not tread out on too thin ice frozen over too deep waters that would swallow him whole if he went through. So he goes to what he feels is a safe response, like trudging in old and worn wheel tracks for the fear of deviating from the beaten path. “I still don't trust Logan. You can't rely on him.” A solid answer, yet it feels wrong.

The hate he leans on is starting to taste like iron, like the ash and Logan’s blood under his claws, and the lie is ill-fitting even in his own four ears. They’d felt almost like they used to be there for a while, back on the bridge, and he’d momentarily let go of his distrust against his better judgement. Forgotten his mantra of ‘once a coward, always a coward’ and going back to it now felt… uhg. He doesn’t deal with feelings, and this tangled mess is the reason because it was a hassle to even start picking it apart. At the back of his mind, something tells him that his unwillingness to deal with it has consequences but how was that his problem? The sylvari doesn’t call him out on it, just hums as if she is both fascinated and a little perplexed, and treads on with her hound on her heels without another try at prying.

She doesn’t look back to him, but whispers out a last statement as she disappears into the smoke and flickering darkness ahead. “I’m glad Logan came along with us.”

It takes everything in him to resist the urge to agree, like swallowing a fistful of caltrops, but he refuses. Can’t do it just yet. But… it’s true that he doesn’t feel the same amount of loathing towards the human as he did when they started this mad mission. Rytlock supposes that’s what happens when you owe someone your life. Logan, who was apparently taking up the rear, is slow in joining them but Rytlock doesn’t feel like pointing it out. Just this once, he thinks, he can let it slide. He huffs out a breath and stalks in after the sylvari, deeper into the cave system.

And in the din of the cramped tunnels he mulls over the words, over what Logan had said while looking as if he never doubted the answer. He had looked so certain, as if another scenario was unimaginable to his human mind.

“I'm sure you would do the same for me.”

Rytlock twists and turns the brief interaction, pulls it apart and tries to make it into something less than it was intended because he’s unsure if that’s a burden he wants to carry with him. Unsure if he can even receive it at all.

Because he hadn’t known what to answer that stupidly hopeful trust, and it gnaws at his very core.

Logan is relieved that neither of his companions question his sudden desire to take the rear guard, as his movements are a touch stiff and he fails to straighten out his shoulders properly. At this point he’s almost certain that something is broken around his shoulder, thinks he can feel bone scrape against bone in a way that is definitely not comfortable nor natural, and hopes he’ll be able to set it with what little supplies he has left at hand. If the Six blesses him with even a sliver of luck, he’ll be able to wrap it up without Rytlock taking notice. The last thing they need is for another fight to break out, for Rytlock to once again try to move forward alone on the assumption that he was stronger alone, without Logan dragging them down. Logan feared that it’d lead to not only the end for the charr Tribune if they split up, but for the sylvari and him as well. Luckily, he doesn’t really need to wave his arm around too much for his protection magic, he makes do with his other hand and sheer force of will when they encounter resistance. At least the blood has congealed over the gashes on his arm, no longer bleeding freely down to make his fingers slick. He knows the wounds should probably hurt more, but the white hot mess of pain that is his right shoulder joint effectively drowns it out.

What force they meet is suspiciously thin, and Logan expects there to be something more further ahead. Strategically speaking, the tunnels were difficult to maneuver and the three of them had an easier time utilizing guerilla tactics than the horde of armed soldiers. In the tight spaces, they have the upper hand. That meant that whatever is sent to meet them now is just to tire them out before they hit the real opposition. It’s a simple yet effective strategy, and their already tired group is starting to grow sloppier as exhaustion slithers like oil around their bones to make them heavy. Logan presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, trying to not groan as he sees the end of the cave open up to a larger space behind a new troop of fanatic soldiers. It’s through them they have to go to advance, but Logan would honestly rather not at this point. They all needed rest. Rytlock’s roar and charge seems just a fraction slower, and even if it was hard to tell when someone with bark for skin emoted anything at all, Logan thought the sylvari looked a bit peeved.

But battle unfolds again, merciless and unavoidable. He is weary and his right arm is nigh unmovable at times but he makes due with what he has. Tries to ignore the grueling sound of something crunchy moving in his shoulder socket, something he suspects might be cartilage because if it’d been sinew he’d be in worse pain. Momentum, a bit of fast thinking and desperation goes a long way and the world narrows down to the single focus of survival. The pain washes over him in pulsing intervals, keeps him both acutely aware and sluggishly dizzy as he can almost count the drips of cold sweat that runs down his temple.

“Stop them before they get any further!” The Flame shaman rasps out, futile in his attempt to rouse more strength in his dwindling number of foot soldiers but so eager to show his devotion to his master. He howls as the three interlopers ends the last charr standing between them, a sound so unhinged and animalistic that it makes Logan fight a shudder of horrified recognition. He knows the feeling of being too loyal, knows the duality of feeling free and shackled all at once, and he has paid the price for when he put his blind faith fully and helplessly into another person's hands. For a second he feels a sick sense of kinship.

In a way, when he sees the shaman fighting an obviously losing battle for someone else with such conviction, he sees himself. What he perhaps would’ve become one day, if he’d let himself surrender fully.

The still raw memory of his mind being fettered to his Queen rises unbidden and quickly, as if he’s taken a blow to the side of his head, and he has to silence it quickly before it overcomes him. He is his own, his mind is his and his alone, yet he remembers so vividly-

Suddenly he can’t breathe, the air catches high up in his mouth instead of traveling down to his lungs. His weapon moves and his magic surges, almost violently rushing to the tip of his fingers and the shaman has nowhere to escape as the guardian unleashes the blue energy in a booming shockwave. It crashes into the screeching charr, and it’s a quick end for the shaman as his bones break inwards by sheer force of the magic.

Black spots dance in his field of vision, and Logan feels strangely light. He hadn’t quite been in control of that, but it makes the ugly shame of remembering how he was controlled simmer down. It had taken more out of him than he would have liked, however. He’s forcing himself not to gasp for breath, taking deep and shaking gulps of air to stop the world from pulsing in and out of focus and to keep the contents of his stomach from coming up.

“You haven't lost your edge, Logan. I'll give you that much.” Rytlock rumbles out beside him, surprise tinting his words. But he sounds pleased, something so different from the spite and acrid hatred from before.

It manages to tear Logan out of his stupor, and he looks up so fast that it makes his head spin. Had he… gotten recognition? From Rytlock? He swallows down the bile. “Thanks.” He blurts out, a short and airy laugh bubbling up his throat in the aftermath of his surprise. Grabs on to the distraction with the desperation of a drowning man, and pushes forward.

They fight further, reaching acolytes who’d doom themselves to further Gaheron’s cause. Rytlock bares his fangs at them, ripping into them to not have to listen to their mindless blabber for a second longer than necessary. The acolytes awaken and subsequently lend their power to an effigy, and it sets his neck fur to stand on edge to see them exhaust themselves to the point of giving their life for the cause of a delusional maniac. They don’t even seem fully aware of what they’re doing, not completely in control of their actions as they chant and channel their tainted magic into the construct until they drop cold to the ground. Rytlock despises it, it sends a chill through him at the idea that his mind could be taken over and used like that, and he gladly invites his anger to override the unease.

“Seeing as they're ready to die, let's not keep them waiting.” He growls out, lunging for the nearest opponent. Logan doesn’t answer, hasn’t been very chatty since the bridge actually, and Rytlock notices in passing that he looks a little nauseated. Paler than usual, even in the dark, warm glow of the magma pits below them.

Huh.

Well, that’s none of his business. As long as Logan can keep the blue shields up around them and his weapon striking enemies, then they’ll be fine. Just fine.

He remembers the words: “I'm sure you would do the same for me.”

Maybe.

They manage to get the effigy down on its metal knees, their sylvari companion sending a hail of arrows to pin it to the ground and extinguish the flame in its body. She looks disturbed at the sight of the fallen acolytes, gently pulling her fern hound away from the destruction. She seems saddened by this battle, more so than for the previous, and she looks to them with a question written plainly in her eyes.

Rytlock rolls his shoulders, cracking them out as he answers what hasn’t been asked. “Gaheron would turn the legions into his mindless worshippers.” They’d do anything for Gaheron at this point, go to any length to-

“Then he's got to go.” Logan says, strangely stilted yet with something sharp behind his words. It sounds like he’s talking to himself almost, not to the rest of them.

Something suddenly comes to him, an idea and a suspicion all in one, and he glances over to Logan who’s leaning awkwardly to the side. Still pale, his blue eyes are fixed to the acolytes. Burn him, Rytlock might not be the smartest of charr, but Rytlock recognizes that haunted look from many of his fellow soldiers. The distant, almost vacant stare, telling him that Logan wasn’t all there at the moment. Damn it. Damn it all to the sands and back, Rytlock could put two and two together but he couldn't decide what to do with the suspected result. Was Logan really that… affected? Was that flimsy excuse of being mentally bound to a duty actually true? Was his supposed connection to the blasted human Queen something similar to what Gaheron influenced the acolytes to do? Why else would he act like this, subdued and obviously distracted, just for taking down a few acolytes?

Rytlock takes barely a moment to let it sink in, let it marinate in both doubt and hesitant pity, before he decides that they don’t have time to handle that at the moment. No with the unbearable heat pressing down into their hides, with the smoke clogging the air and making it thick with soot. Maybe later, he thinks, he’ll ask if Logan too could have been manipulated into willingly dying for a bogus cause. For now, he needs Logan with them to end Gaheron’s misguided venture to become a god, so he speaks up a little louder than he needs to.

“Smartest thing you've said all day.” A part of him hoped Logan would rise to the taunt, but no such luck. At least it seems to drag the human back to the present, and Rytlock allows himself to take a bit of pride in that he managed to wipe that miserable look off his face. It didn’t look right on Logan, and it felt good to see it melt away.

The human nods at him, still oddly quiet and pale but Rytlock would take what he could get. He’s reminded of what the sylvari had said to him, that soft whisper that had him biting back things too sore to name.

“I’m glad Logan came along with us.”

He walks past them and takes the lead as they prepare to head further upwards. If his tail swishes a little too far to one side, gently swatting at Logan's thigh for the briefest of seconds, then he thinks nothing of it.

Chapter Text

They say very little as they continue on, fatigue making it necessary to effectivize their movements and actions in the sweltering heat, and idle palaver is not highly prioritized. Logan is grateful for the easy cover, because his field of vision is blurring, darkening at the edges and his steps feel crooked. As if the solid rock beneath his feet was liquid, undulating slowly and tipping him to and fro as he tries to keep his eyes on the sylvari’s back. Under his clammy skin his blood thumps sharply against soft and raw tissue, feeling hotter than even the lava flow under them. His body feels too tight, too small to contain the acute discomfort yet it feels like there are miles upon miles of space between his head and his feet, as if he’s floating inside a soup of pain and fatigue.

The sounds of armoured bodies and yells for reinforcement, the alarm of an entire army rising to defend their leader bounce and distort against the cave walls. It makes their advance slower, but it also provides them enough noise to hide in as they inch past guards without notice. It’s evident that Logan isn’t the only one to feel like avoiding another fight is imperative at this point. Even Rytlock stays on track, slinking in the shadowed corners that the torches don’t reach instead of feeding Sohothin more blood of the Flame Legion rabble. His eyes, bright like glass beads, glint in the low light when he turns his head to check on their little entourage and Logan meets his gaze through the smoke. It’s short-lived, and Logan can’t find his anger or bitterness anywhere now, lost as it is behind the more pressing matter of survival.

“A rest, if you please?” Their sylvari friend speaks up, silent and ever so careful, but noticeably strained.  

They only murmur their agreement, slowing down to huddle into a roughly hewn alcove in the bedrock that hides them well in its shadows. Around them, the cave system rallies and bolsters defences, but it’s a problem that they’ll deal with in a moment. For now, they silently pass a waterskin around to get rid of the soot and grime clogging their mouths and noses, only taking a few sips to keep them all standing. Too much would make them sluggish and their bellies heavy, but just this much was enough to revitalize them some.

Logan, as he presses himself against the rock wall for support, almost sobs in relief as he lets a light, almost invisible shade of blue wash over his mangled shoulder.

Some sing ballads of fair maidens whose touch can heal the gravest of woulds, their magic feeling like silk and cool water and downy feathers.

Some romanticize the action of curing wounds with the lightest of pure energy, like a balm that soothes away pain and mends injuries effortlessly.

Some, like Logan, know that it’s absolute horseshit.

Anything broken must be remade and refitted, flesh needs to regrow and knot together, ligaments and sinew needs to reattach and stretch. It’s not always a pleasant affair. Sure, if the healer focused, tried their best to provide a painless experience then yes, it could be done. But here, only conscious by sheer faith and willpower, Logan couldn’t give it much thought. He only needed his arm to stop feeling bloated and boiling hot, for the scraping and grinding in his shoulder to stop. He was a soldier, and he needed that arm to proceed. So he bites his tongue as Rytlock keeps guard and the sylvari cares for her pet, and steels himself.

A deep breath. Only the faintest hint of pale blue shimmers around his shoulder and sinks in, past his armour and his gambeson. Under skin and into muscle, and he prays to whoever of the Six feels merciful enough to give him a moment of respite.

It works, after a second of blinding pain, and he feels pieces of bone and cartilage swim through the meat of his shoulder to meld back into a healthier shape. It’ll be better now, he tells himself. It has to be. He can’t spare much more, knowing that he might need to save one of his companions. He can’t bear the thought of not having enough when they need him the most, so this rudimentary and temporary solution would have to do.

“What are you grunting about?” Rytlock's voice carries, even though it sounds like he makes a conscious effort to be a little more quiet.

Logan steadies himself, hides his hand behind his back as he tests gripping at air to see if his fingers can move. To his relief they can, and with remarkably little pain. “Nothing.” A little high from his success in lessening his discomfort, a rush of endorphins blanketing his senses, he twists his lips into a crooked, small smirk and meets Rytlock’s eyes. “It’s not like you to be so skittish, Tribune. Worried about me?” He shouldn’t push it, he really shouldn't, but he can’t stop himself. He blames his lack of restraint on the momentary lightheadedness.

The charr flashes his teeth, upper lip pulled back in a silent snarl. “Tch. If you bite the dust here, I won’t get the chance to put you in the ground myself.” For some reason, the quip didn’t feel at all as hostile as before. It almost sounds vaguely… mild.

“Mm… wouldn’t that be a shame.” Logan huffs out through his grin, lowering his eyes to instead inspect his arm and carefully bending it in different angles. It feels worlds better, although obviously not quite well and a fair bit weaker than he’d like, and he thinks he can make it through this misadventure without keeling over. 

A low growl makes him snap his eyes up again, seeing Rytlock still glaring at him. He hadn’t realized that the charr was still focused on him, and it seems like he didn’t appreciate being brushed off. “Since you have the energy to be chipper, I say it’s time to move out.” He draws his rifle, letting it rest easily in sure and well-practiced paws. “We’re wasting time.” And before either Logan or the sylvari has time to protest, he’s turning to leave their temporary safe little nook and head out into the maze of tunnels and caves again.

As Logan straightens, quickly making himself ready to follow the hulking figure in the final push, the golden sylvari pierces him with a look as she draws her bow in preparation to sneak out. “You two really need to talk things through.” She whispers and her voice is fond albeit a little exasperated, something knowing and amused dancing along the syllables.

Logan doesn’t want to know what she thinks of them, for some reason it felt like she was leagues ahead of him in that regard, having figured out something he was still stuck on. He shrugs and, bless the Six, it didn't hurt bad enough to make him want to vomit anymore. “I doubt he’d listen to me.” He says, a little out of habit to protect himself, but also in surprising honesty. He didn’t deny that he might want to, once and for all, clear the air but he was also hesitant to think that Rytlock would put up with him for long enough for it to be possible. 

He swears she looks like she rolls her eyes before slinking past him and he isn’t even offended. He sort of agrees.

Rytlock hates that it doesn’t feel as good to spit insults at Logan anymore. It doesn’t feel at all as vindictive and soothing to see him slumped over against the cave wall; there’s an ugly reminder that Logan saved his life and that Logan currently looks like he isn’t doing so well. And when he had insinuated that Rytlock worried for his sake?

Bah.

If he had, he quickly stopped. If the little shit was well enough to tease, then the little shit was well enough to kill Gaheron. At least that odd, disquieting look was gone from Logan’s eyes, and that was well and truly sufficient for Rytlock. If he went any softer than this, he’d have to resign from his position as Tribune.

They manage to brute force their way up the last stretch of winding path towards the tower, Rytlock more than once heaving the enemy soldiers off over the side, down into the pools of gurgling and spitting pools of lava. They’re too close to fail now, he can taste victory and retribution in the scorching air, and the exhaustion that previously hung from his limbs starts to fade away as the adrenaline and determination takes hold. They’ve abandoned all notion of stealth and subterfuge by this point, and as they brawl and butcher their way into an antechamber, they come across another of Gaheron’s abominations. A godforged rises before them with its disciples, dripping with molten fire and ruined hide, and raises its weapon with a thunderous roar.

“They’ve come for Lord Baelfire! Protect the altar!”

To his side he hears a scoff and when he quickly looks over, Logan sends him the most vainglorious smirk anyone has ever had the guts to shove in his face and suddenly charges ahead of the group. The bastard . Rytlock answers the unspoken challenge with a roar of his own, and rushes to bury Sohothin in a soft Flame Legion neck to boil its blood, catching up to Logan in the time it takes for him to form a protective shield against the weaponized heatwaves. The charr snarls, pulling his rifle from its holster on his back to fire point blank into the chest of an incoming enemy, revelling in the gurgling yowl of pain he gets. Sending Logan a triumphant glance, he’s met with a short chuckle and a quick roll of the human’s eyes. Rytlock snorts, maw pulling back to show his fangs in a dark grin. Logan is fine now, he decides. It feels better now, not as unstable. It almost feels like before… everything… and it makes something unbidden but strong rush through his tired muscles, giving him a momentary pause. Hm.

But sands take him if he lets the human take the lead.

The godforged is livid, crazed with bloodlust and fanatical devotion, calling down flames to burn away the blue protective magic and the golden arrows that pierce the air. It’s nigh untouchable, hiding behind its defences to cast corrupted magic from a distance. The cave room is not suited for them to battle in; stalactites and stalagmites create natural barriers that are hard for the sylvari to get her arrows past and the floor is uneven with rocky formations that reach Rytlock’s knees, possibly used as furniture if the Flame Legion decided to be civilized once in a while. The godforged puts up a challenge, and wastes time they don’t have to spare. 

As Rytlock dives under a jagged mace aimed for his horns, he growls: “We have to end this!”

“I know! ” Comes an answering shout from somewhere on his left flank. Logan looks like he’s struggling just a bit with the barrage of fire and waves of magma, but his eyes are fixed on their enemy with a determination that Rytlock begrudgingly has to respect. “I have an idea!”

Logan has an idea? The charr feels inclined to say that nobody asked him to come up with silly ideas in the middle of battle, but anything is better than nothing at this point. They have only so much to give until fighting Gaheron would be a fool’s errand. And Rytlock was no fool. “Get to it then!” He roars, kicking at one of the last Legion soldiers to get the extra space he needs to reload and fire again, this time turning its ugly snout to pulp. 

In the clamour of battle, Rytlock sinks into the familiar motions of moving, keeping track of his opponents, the instinctual swing of Sohothin to rend both flesh and bone, and the knowledge that his group is capable of holding its own. He thus takes his focus from Logan and whatever little plan he had, and puts it to a single-minded goal of gutting as many of these pathetic excuses for charr as he can. He’s up to his elbows in blood and guts, and the battlefield is chanting his name. What more could he ask for? 

“Surrender if you want the human to take another breath!” The spitting, crackling voice of the godforged booms out over the sounds of fighting.

What?

“Oh no, I’m captured.” Comes Logan's deadpan voice, as if describing the weather instead of his current predicament. “Woe is me.” He says, a little louder, as if it's an afterthought.

What?

Rytlock whirls around, and the growl he has building in his throat dies as he sees Logan held by the godforged, a meaty and disfigured forearm across his humanly fragile neck. How had he even managed to cock up that badly? Behind him, the sylvari calls Logan’s name in surprise and readies another arrow with a furious hiss. She doesn’t let it fly, can’t without risking Logan’s life, but holds it ready with gritted teeth. Rytlock can understand how she feels, because his frustration rises with the quickness of an erupting volcano.

“What are you doing ?! You useless sack of-” He bellows, feels disappointment mingle with rage in an unpleasant but powerful combination. He thought better of Logan, thought that he-

“I am very weak, I’m just a human. No match for a charr, certainly not for the Flame Legion.” Logan continues his ramble with as little enthusiasm as he can evidently muster, and makes a show of half-heartedly wiggling from side to side. Rytlock might be a second from snapping, but even he could tell that the Seraph captain was doing a piss poor job of acting like a hostage.

Oh, the bastard was doing this on purpose. Burn him, and his six goddamned gods. The sudden wave of shock and fury peters out into confusion and sharp attention, and he locks eyes with Logan who looks like he’s trying to convey something and Rytlock is suddenly struck by a memory. Once upon a time, what feels like decades ago, Logan had come up with a plan for killing destroyers, and it had gone something like... 

“I draw them in.” He’d said. “Then Rytlock attacks. And then Caithe delivers the kill.”

This time, there was no Caithe to come finish off their enemy but… Rytlock's eyes narrow, and Logan gives him a crooked little grin from where he’s grappled. He’s standing on the tips of his toes, the charr behind him towering over him with its massive bulk, but it doesn’t seem to become him. Logan had drawn the enemy in, it seemed. Rytlock knows he shouldn't indulge in whatever fanciful spectacle Logan had planned, but against his better judgement he’s morbidly curious about where it was going to lead. 

“You will be sacrificed before our new god!” The godforged goes on, seemingly oblivious to the fact that his captive is plainly faking his plight, and takes a step closer to the remaining two. 

And Rytlock sees the moment Logan decides to act out his clever trick, as the man looks up to him for a split second and then grabs the forearm that almost chokes him and swings his legs up towards a rocky outcropping in the cave wall. For a man in full plate armour he’s quick as a weasel, and with both feet planted firmly on the stone, he grunts as he pushes backwards with his entire weight. The godforged yells as it topples; unbalanced and taken by surprise it stumbles and starts to fall.

“Now, Rytlock!”

He’s already moving, even before he hears Logan's triumphant cry. Rytlock thunders across the cave floor and crashes into the Flame Legion scum with a full-body tackle, sending it careening to the floor. He doesn’t waste any time, swings Sohothin in an arc and brings it down just as Logan ducks out of the loose grasp, and severs the head of the godforged clean off its shoulders. Logan rolls to the side, out of the way of the spray of viscera and almost black blood, and huffs as he falls off the rapidly cooling corpse and down on the ground.

“I told you, I was sure you would do the same for me.” He says breathlessly, as if it explains everything, and Rytlock just stares at him from up above.

He shouldn’t, he knows he shouldn’t, but he had enjoyed that and again against his otherwise sound judgement, Rytlock cracks a grin at the human gingerly getting up from the ground.

“Sure you did.” He sheaths Sohothin to grab Logan’s arm to roughly pull him upright. “You’ve always fought dirty. A shame the kill goes to me.”

He gets a laugh in return, and the sylvari runs up to them in bewilderment and relief. She looks at Logan with reproach just for a moment, but ultimately doesn’t say anything and gives them both one of her little smiles instead. Rytlock doesn’t think about it too much, only of what lies ahead.

And ahead lies Gaheron.

Finally.

Chapter Text

The gates fall before their combined might, and Rytlock takes the lead in the charge across the rocky ground with a roar. The element of surprise has gone out the proverbial window now; the Flame Legion scum have seen and heard their advance through their blasted citadel, and Rytlock hopes that their delusional lord is terrified.

He should be, because Gaheron Baelfire is a dead charr walking. 

The vastness of the cavern is awe-striking as they rush in; the clamour of battle echoing and bouncing far above them against the craggly ceiling, beneath them an endless sea of magma burning in dull yellow and orange, casting the space in an odd and otherworldly glow. It’s a massive, yawning chasm, fit to be the pseudo-gods tomb. Gaheron is there, at the edge of the cliff stretching out over his domain, a presence hard to overlook as it seems to grow, undulate and gradually form something unfinished and fractured. His focus is on them as they advance, but he seems unconcerned by their appearance in his domain.

The charr, because that’s still what he is despite how utterly misshapen he looks, rises to his full height as they approach and Rytlock snarls with his fangs bared in challenge. This kind of rage, this kind of monstrous determination and power, is ancient and buried deep in every charr’s bones and he welcomes his primal instincts alongside the surge of adrenaline as he seizes up his opponent. Whatever misguided rituals and botched ceremonies the Flame Legion had performed has left their master twisted almost beyond recognition, dripping with melted metal and cinders, and the scent of charred flesh and rotting decay reaches them as they draw closer.

”Gaheron!” He hears the sylvari shout from behind him, her voice carrying over the alarm, and a golden arrow whizzes past his left set of ears only to narrowly miss its intended target. He’s certain it was a deliberate warning shot. She hadn’t missed a single enemy until this point. ”This ends now!”

The Flame Legion lord belts out a guttural laugh, and the air around them shifts suddenly to pull towards his figure. It carries with it something foul, tainted and volatile, but the charr pays no heed to its wrongness. ”You cannot stop me from becoming a god!” The energy whorls, creating eddies in the air around Baelfire, slowly at first but rapidly increasing in speed until it’s a vortex of scorching hot fire magic centering around him.

The very statement sends a fresh wave of fury down Rytlock’s spine, like a red hot poker searing into his very core. ”The charr have no gods!” He howls back in defiance, barely hearing himself over the sound of agitated magic.

”I will burn you to ash!” Balefire’s voice is scarcely understandable, lost in the rumble and havoc as the magic converges and tears into its host, making its way into his body to change and rebuild. It rips him apart, Rytlock realizes, as the trio stops dead in its tracks at the sight; rips him apart only to sew him back together with magic that shouldn’t be his. A power that shouldn’t exist, brought to fruition by fanatics and zealots, untamed and not meant to be channelled. 

”Burn me.” He chokes out against the scorching heatwaves booming out from the towering figure, watching the transformation in disgust. This was what the Flame Legion considered to be godhood? To create an abomination to rule like a divine being? Nothing but a cheap fraud, just like every other failed coup and try at power they had staged in the past.

Rytlock hears Logan suck in a sharp breath beside him. ”By the Six…” 

"Fuck the Six"  , Rytlock thinks absentmindedly, but doesn’t say anything. Damaging morale at the start of a battle wasn’t very tactical, and Logan was perhaps dealing with some form of religious crisis by this point. He felt that it was only fair to handle that after securing their victory in the upcoming battle. It was only one of many things he had a gnawing suspicion that they’d have to at least touch on-

”Behind me, now! ” Logan yells, shoving himself in front of Rytlock, and the charr snaps his teeth in retaliation for the sudden action before he spots what Logan has already managed to react to. Burning chunks of rock come raining down from further ahead and in the split second that it takes for Rytlock to calculate their trajectory, Logan throws up his hands and screams for his own magic to obey. The fireballs explode against a shield of shimmering blue, the deafening crash making Rytlock’s bones rattle as the impact is obviously a heavy one, spewing out glowing hot and half-melted rubble around them. Logan barks out a curse, knees momentarily buckling under the onslaught but his eyes never leave their enemy, and the shield doesn’t as much as flicker. A second later and the human is righting himself again, sweat pearling along his hairline from withstanding the pressure.

Rytlock isn’t too keen on it, but he can’t deny that he is… impressed. Unfortunately, he feels very impressed. Looking at the human now, going toe to toe with the strength of their opponent, alone and winning ? 

Something tightens around his ribs, something hot flashes through his belly, but it’s not uncomfortable.

For the first time since they entered the cave, he’s glad it feels right .

The impact booms into his arms and shoulders, sending a dizzying ache through him that leaves his ears ringing, but it holds.

It holds.

He draws a shuddering breath, the hot air blistering his nostrils and throat on the way down to his screaming lungs, and steadies himself. His pulse thunders through his veins, his entire body trembling at the strain, but the shield stays up. As his nerves feel like they’re crackling with electricity, he can’t help the grin stretching his lips when Gaheron belts out his outrage.

“You can’t touch them. Not while I still stand.”

Something wild rises up through him, and he quickly looks to his companions as an idea takes shape. “Go! Take him down, I’ll cover you.” 

His shield can provide a safe haven, but that means he has to stay where he is. The other two will have to fight their way across the cliff to reach Gaheron, and dole out the damage they need to put an end to him. It’s not a perfect plan, but it’s a better one than all three of them rushing into a hail of death, and the sylvari seems to recognize this as she assesses what lies ahead. The rock under their feet roils with Gaheron’s anger, rises in vicious spikes to hinder their advance, and the first storm of fireballs was surely only a taste of what was to come. They’d need somewhere to retreat if they were too slow, or got hit by the burning debris, and Logan was the only one who could provide it.

She nods, and without another word she and her fern hound dashes forward, quick as a viper snatching up the small core of the boulder that’d broken against his shield. It looks molten yet firm, swirling with tainted magic, and Logan follows her fast progress forward with concern and bewilderment.

“What’s she doing with that?” Rytlock grumbles beside him, and he almost startles. He hadn’t noticed that the charr was still there, assuming he’d be running off himself to drive Sohothin into Gaheron’s hide.

“I don’t kn-” He doesn’t have time to finish his answer, before the sylvari lobs the chunk of glowing matter straight at Gaheron and it… does something. Gaheron roars, the force around him bowing and spluttering where the molten core hit, the unstable magic seemingly destabilizing as it struggles with the sudden impact.

Rytlock snarls something out that might’ve been a surprised curse, before he too sets off towards Balefire with a molten core in his paw.

Logan keeps the shield up, arms stretched out to anchor it around him, and watches as the charr chucks the glowing rock into the vortex and it reacts just as violently as the first time. ”How… did she figure that out?” He mutters to no-one, before letting the momentary confusion roll off his back to re-focus on the battle they have on their hands. 

The pair ahead have broken through the magic barrier surrounding Gaheron, his powers seemingly diminishing, and they attack with a ferocity Logan has rarely seen outside his fights together with Destiny's Edge. Any previous finesse was discarded, they were going for the kill with any chance they had, cutting and carving into flesh and metal and fire with a single-minded focus. He wanted to be there with them, help them, but he held his ground as planned. And after a shockwave of energy erupts from Gaheron that knocks both of his companions backwards, he is glad he did. 

Baelfire howls in triumph as he rises again. “I am a god !”

”To me!” Logan yells, watching the magical storm around their foe pick up once more, a strain of hurry and desperation in his voice as the cave floor yet again rips apart and rises like the fangs of a deadly beast. 

The sylvari heeds his call without question, sprinting towards him and his shield immediately while firing her golden arrows to shatter the obstacles ahead of her, dodging and weaving through the battlefield as if she was born for it. Rytlock isn’t as quick to follow, for just a second he stays and roars out his anger and frustration into the scorching air. Refusing to back down, exuding a sense of primal, never-wavering strength, he rises against the blaze in a way that takes Logan’s breath away. The sound makes Logan's hair stand on end, momentarily taken by its power, before he shouts again. ”Rytlock! Return! ” 

The charr does as he’s told, to Logan’s immense surprise, and turns tail as flaming balls of burning rock chase him. He barrels down the slope, and Logan feels his pulse quicken as the rumble of the boulders echo louder and makes him all but deaf for anything else. He’s vaguely aware that the sylvari has made it in, his eyes never leaving Rytlock as the charr runs towards the dome of protection and in the heat of the moment he catches himself praying to the Six to protect him.

Rytlock flies past him, only a short second before the white-hot, burning rocks crash against the shield. Logan’s breath cuts off in a gasp at the collision, his not-quite healed shoulder spasming once, twice, before he locks his joints and gnashes his teeth hard enough to taste blood and stands tall. The magic doesn’t as much as waver around them, and Rytlock and the sylvari take a precious moment to catch their breaths and regroup during the barrage as Logan focuses on sustaining the shield. Somewhere, like an echo underwater, behind the adrenaline, he can tell his makeshift healing isn’t strong enough to withstand this and that the raw, tender flesh is slowly rupturing again. He can tell that this will hurt when it’s all over.

But that’s future Logan’s problem. Current Logan would rather lose both his legs than admit defeat-

“To let him down again.”

-and Six help him if a measly little bruise would take him down.

The next moments are a blur of fire and steel, they repeat the assault with molten cores and again bring Gaheron to heel, and Rytlock loses any sense of time and space as he tears into the mutated charr with everything he still has left. 

And this time, he doesn’t rise again. As the sylvari switches her bow for two daggers, driving them both into the meat of Gaheron’s back, Rytlock heaves Sohothin in a powerful downward arch and cleaves through the Flame Legion leader with a last, skull-splitting roar of defiance.

Baelfire staggers, gurgles on his own blood, as his magic flickers and fizzles out around him as his life is quickly snuffing out. “It cannot be!” He rasps, as if in blind, all-consuming disbelief. “I...was...a god!” 

Rytlock can’t listen to his prattle about godhood for another second, and rips his sword out from the other charr in disgust. As nothing holds Gaheron up anymore, Sohothin apparently being the last thing propping his dying body up, he crumples to the ground where he takes a last, wet and rattling breath before becoming still. No more abominable magic, no more false claims to divinity.

It’s over.

The magma still bubbles, rumbles and clucks as it flows by far beneath them, making the new silence feel even louder.

It’s finally over.

It feels… almost anticlimactic. Good, but less than he somehow imagined. Their goal has been reached, their enemy eliminated, but he still feels the last dregs of bloodlust scramble and yowl for more , confused at the abrupt end. He entertains the idea of kicking Baelfire’s body into the lava river below but decides that he can’t be bothered. Let him rot where he lies. A good reminder for the last Flame Legion scum that they were misled and should grovel for forgiveness at the feet of the other three legions. After another few seconds of catching his breath, he turns from the corpse and the sylvari, who’s checking over her hound, to look back towards Logan.

It’s almost surreal to see him still there. He didn’t run this time. 

The blue magic wavers, the shield fades around the human and he doesn’t think much of it until Logan lists to the side, as if unsteady on his feet, and he finds himself moving before he can stop himself. “Hey!” He barks out, watching as Logan stumbles a few steps before seemingly catching himself. When he gets closer, he can tell the human is breathing heavily.

Odd, considering he didn’t participate in the immediate assault.

Logan looks up, grinning although still a little wobbly. “Hey, yourself.” And now, when he looks decently fine and not like he’s about to kiss the floor anytime soon, Rytlock feels stupid for having hurried over. So he says nothing. Instead, it’s Logan who picks up the conversation again after a moment of awkward silence. “You fought well.”

“As did you.” Rytlock acknowledges, feeling gracious for saying it out loud. But Logan deserves to hear it after this.

The man in front of him sighs and drags a hand through his hair, pulling sweaty strands away from his face. He seems to mull something over, and Rytlock waits until Logan looks him in the eye and speaks up again with a subdued, strangely gentle kind of determination. “A long time ago I...I made a mistake. I left when I should have stayed. And I spent the past five years trying to justify it.” He huffs out a breath, eyes flitting over to Gaheron’s motionless form and their sylvari ally slowly making her way over, before looking back to Rytlock again and continuing. “I still feel like I did the right thing, but I'm sorry I left.” He holds eye contact, every word feeling weighted and honest, as he finishes.

And Rytlock makes up his mind, then and there. He’s tired of feeling conflicted, and he’s never been a charr to keep complicating things that didn’t need to be complicated. And besides… Logan had taken the first steps. He’ll honour that. “For all those years, I was so angry I wouldn't listen.” He growls out, a little smug when he sees Logan’s surprised expression. He apparently hadn’t expected a response that wasn’t a rejection, and Rytlock takes that as a victory. But even that doesn’t keep him from trudging on, forcing himself to dredge up what he has known for years but refused to come to terms with. “I understand why you did it. And I'm also sorry that you did.”

And he is. Truly. If anything, this ordeal has forced him to accept that he’s missed Logan. There was a reason he’d given him his Blood Legion pendant, and made him an honorary member of his warband. They had been, undeniably, a very large part of each other's lives and had at one point known each other better than even their own kin. But Rytlock also understands orders. He understands loyalty, however much it had poisoned their relationship when he found out the loyalty wasn’t only to him and their cause. He is sorry for it, and recognizes Logan’s reasoning all the same. But seeing reason is not the same thing as forgetting the moment of betrayal and how bone-deep it had cut.

Logan, clutching his arm now, looks as if Rytlock just grew a second set of horns. “Are we good then?” He asks, sounding unsure of it himself.

Rytlock snorts out a short laugh, shaking his head to stop feeling so stiff and formal. “No.” He takes a few steps closer, because he feels like it and because Logan’s face falls before he’s had the chance to go on. He holds up a paw to dissuade the pensive look on the human’s face. “But we're better. A couple of ales might help.” He grins himself, and finds that he looks forward to it. Logan had always been a fun drinking-buddy, and they deserve to celebrate their victory like the good old days. And if there was a newfound interest in Logan himself? He’d have plenty of time to investigate that while also finding the bottom of several barrels of Ironbrew.

To his relief (when had he even been worried?), Logan smiles even wider and nods. “You got a deal.”

And now, now the victory feels far more complete.