Work Text:
It takes Saladin a while to become accustomed to the Cabal way of doing things.
The military aspects, he can handle. Even in their current state of disarray, Caiatl’s troops are better disciplined than most Guardians he’s worked with, and the War Council provides a more robust discussion of strategy and tactics than he’s experienced for centuries. The food is an acquired taste, to say the least, but after spending months here as an ambassador, the meals are less daunting than they used to be. (He still gives the black cubes a wide berth though.)
The ship-wide messaging system is another matter.
While the rest of the troops seem unfazed by it, having thoughts beamed into his brain by administrative psions still makes Saladin’s skin crawl. The images are benign — a red blur for danger, a gold curve for the empress’ summons, a white sphere for Vanguard messages — but the sensation of alien thoughts slithering inside his skull leaves him unsettled for hours.
This afternoon’s image is an unsteady orange rectangle — a visitor — and Saladin is grateful for the breath of fresh air he gets as he makes his way from the Eligos Lex to the visiting quarters down by the guard outpost.
(Even with the allance, Caiatl is careful about how many Guardians she allows on board her warship. It’s a caution Saladin respects.)
He expects Zavala or Shiro, maybe Ikora if events on Mars have calmed enough for her to spare the time, but he comes to a halt in the doorway when he sees the familiar black-and-white armor of his visitor.
“Crow.”
Crow starts at the sound of his name. There’s a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, hefty enough that he almost overbalances when he spins around, and Saladin sighs. While he’s at peace with his decision to save Crow’s life, he has no desire to spend time assuaging Crow’s guilt over his mistakes.
“Saladin.” It’s accompanied by a respectful little nod but Saladin doesn’t miss the way Crow’s eyes dart over him, a hunter surveying the terrain.
He wonders idly if Crow is assessing him as a threat.
“I take it Zavala knows you’re here?”
Crow’s gaze drops to the floor and Saladin sighs again. So much for lessons learned.
“I didn’t come to cause trouble,” Crow promises, as though he’s ever done anything but. “I know you and Caiatl have made your decisions; I’m not trying to overturn that.”
The anymore is left unspoken. He’s seen the half-dozen messages Crow sent to Caiatl in the aftermath, offering contrition and pleading with her to reconsider her choice of sacrifice.
They all went unanswered.
“I know it isn’t much,” Crow says, lowering his voice as he nods to the bag on his shoulder. “I didn’t know what Caiatl would accept, or what your ghost could smuggle in, but I can bring more. Anything else you need. I— I’m so sorry, Saladin.”
Saladin frowns. There’s no tell-tale thunk of guns or clink of blades as Crow sets the bag on the small gray table, and he moves closer out of curiosity. “What is this?”
“Just supplies.”
Crow’s expression is solemn as he unzips the bag but the rolled blanket stuffed inside does nothing to lessen Saladin’s confusion.
“I know it doesn’t look like much but it’s soft,” Crow says, pushing the blanket aside to reveal a small cushion beneath. “Glint has a better pillow in storage but I didn’t know if Caiatl would be checking your ghost.”
Saladin almost snorts at the idea of Isirah letting her inventory be inspected by anyone except him, but Crow’s concern and sincerity pull him up short.
“My quarters are well-appointed,” he says carefully. “They’re mostly practical but a Valus is afforded more space than a City ambassador.”
“Valus?”
Saladin pushes away the memory of blood soaking into sand. “Or’ohk overestimated his abilities.”
From the look on Crow’s face, Saladin wasn’t the only one who had run-ins with Or’ohk while staying with the Cabal. “Congratulations on the promotion, I guess.” He glances back at the bag. “If you’re sure you don’t need them?”
Mildly offended at the thought he would ever lose a duel, Saladin shrugs. “I’m sure I can find a use for them.” He steps in closer, tugging the blanket aside and delving through the carefully packed bag. “Is this food?”
Crow nods. “I figured dried meats should keep for a while and provide decent energy if you need to fight. I can bring anything else you want from the Tower though.”
For a moment, Saladin thinks about asking for some of those custard-filled tarts that he’s so fond of, but his pride outweighs his weakness for pastries. “I’m not so coddled that I can’t make do with Cabal food.”
Crow’s eyes widen. “I didn’t mean—“ He swallows. “I just- I didn’t know how well they would be feeding you.”
The concern is foolish, particularly after what they’ve seen of Caiatl as a leader, and Saladin doesn’t bother to keep the disdain out of his voice. “Only a poor commander fails to ensure her troops are in fighting condition.”
Crow’s jaw tightens but he doesn’t meet Saladin’s eyes. “Understood.”
“Although I’m sure the warbeasts will be grateful for more food,” Saladin says, relenting. “I’ve seen starving wolves with better discipline.”
“I might have something that could help with that,” Crow says, digging into the pack to extract a small metal item. “It’s a whistle; the noise it makes is the right pitch to ward off warbeasts. The craftsmanship isn’t the best but it should work.”
Raising his eyebrows in surprise, Saladin takes the whistle from his hand. He doubts he’ll ever need it — the old warbeasts he inherited on promotion are more likely to drool on his bedding than to pose a threat to his life — but the tool is intriguing. “Did you make this?”
Crow nods. “Eliksni technique. Came in useful on the Shore sometimes.”
Saladin frowns. He knows Crow was without training for a long time but even the newest of lights shouldn’t have trouble with standard warbeasts; a simple melee puts them down without the need for a clever whistle. He’s missing something but he can’t identify what.
Doubt is still gnawing at him when Crow speaks again, “Talking of Eliksni, I didn’t know the human names for some of these.” He tugs a bundle of small vials out of the bag, each labeled with unintelligible symbols and equally unintelligible handwriting. “I added notes on what the poison tastes like so that you can find the right one to take.”
Saladin’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re suggesting I poison Caiatl?”
“What? No! No, of course not.”
He seems genuinely shocked by the notion but Saladin just gestures to the vials as he awaits an explanation.
“They’re antidotes,” Crow says. “Not poisons. I know your ghost can just revive you but some toxins are slow to take effect; the death can be… unpleasant.”
Doubt closes its jaws tighter even as Saladin scoffs, “The Cabal are hardly known for their subtlety. If they wish me gone, they’ll challenge me in combat, not with poison.”
Crow toys with one of the labels, awkward. “I know. I just thought that after what happened with Zavala and the psions, Caiatl might still be in danger.”
Saladin exhales through gritted teeth. He’s no warlock; he’s always hated dancing around topics instead of being forthright. “So these antidotes are a gift for Caiatl?”
“No, I—“ Crow looks up at him, bewildered. “You don’t taste her food?”
After so many operations together, Saladin thought he was at his limit for being surprised by Crow’s comments, and so he’s dismayed to find himself speechless.
“Her food?” he echoes eventually. “Why in the Light’s name would I eat her food?”
It’s a measure of his lingering guilt that Crow just ducks his head instead of rising to an argument. “You’re a lightbearer,” he mumbles. “You’ll come back if anything happens. I just thought Caiatl would— I mean, Spider used to...”
He trails off, cheeks darkening with embarrassment, and Saladin’s irritation fades as the picture finally becomes clear. It isn’t a concept he’s encountered before — lightbearers are typically the ones in power, not acting as servants — but using a guardian as a durable guinea pig does make a horrible kind of sense.
“I’m a member of Caiatl’s War Council,” he says flatly. “If she wants my opinion on her safety, I’ll offer it, but her security arrangements are her own concern. I am not her bodyguard and I’m certainly not her food taster.”
Crow looks like he wants to disappear into the floor. “My apologies.”
The edges of the vials shimmer, ready to be spirited away by Crow’s ghost, but Saladin takes pity and closes his hand around them.
They’re in good condition, good enough that Crow likely bought them specifically for him, and Saladin skims over some of the notes on the poisons: Sharp, fresh like citrus. Tasteless, induces nausea fast. Burns when you swallow.
He sets the vials down in silence.
When he offered himself in Crow’s place, he was prepared to be killed. Once he was spared that fate, he had no frame of reference for what his indentured servitude would entail but now, seeing Crow’s expectations packed neatly in front of him, he’s both grateful for Caiatl’s leniency and wise enough not to take it for granted.
Tugging the bag across the table, he looks briefly through the rest of it — lockpicks, salves, soap, tourniquets, a sturdy and lockable ghost shell. The contents make more sense when filtered through the prism of past experience rather than knowledge of Caiatl as a commander, but that doesn’t make him feel any better about the picture that materialises as a result.
The edges of it match up with old memories — desperate villagers trapped under a warlord’s yoke; starving and exhausted refugees trying to outrun bandits; bloodied captives looking up at their rescuers with empty eyes — and Saladin wonders how different it would have been if it had been him rather than Savathûn who first plucked Crow from the Tangled Shore.
He wonders what he could have done to avoid this outcome.
Crow shifts, clearly braced for a rebuke, and Saladin tries to focus his attention back on the matter at hand. Setting the bag aside, he holds the last item — a tiny yellow capsule — up to the light and asks, curious, “What is this?”
“Poison,” Crow says. Then, before Saladin can ask, “Not for Caiatl. I— Your ghost should be able to give it to you if anything happens. If you can’t finish it any other way.”
It’s been decades since Saladin was in that position, too wounded to do anything other than listen to Isirah’s chiding as his lungs filled with fluid. He has no intention to experience it again, especially not at the hands of the Cabal, but he still remembers every agonizing second.
“Noted,” he says, pocketing the capsule. “I appreciate the thought.”
It’s the truth. He knows Crow’s altruism is motivated by guilt, the clear line drawn between his failure and Saladin’s fate, but the care package, horrifying as it may be, is a kinder gesture than Saladin anticipated, and a far more useful action than simply wallowing in self-pity or trying to undo his decision.
“If there’s anything else I can bring instead, I will,” Crow offers. “I didn’t know what it was like here.”
If Caiatl let you have a bed goes unsaid. If you were being poisoned regularly as her food taster. If you were restrained often enough to need a lockpick.
Scooping the bag up onto his shoulder, Saladin makes his decision.
“Isirah, transmat us to my quarters. You can use my authorization for a visitor.”
He feels the ghost equivalent of an eyeroll over their connection. He chooses not to examine whether that’s directed at his micromanagement of the authorization protocols or at Crow’s presence in general.
“Wait, I shouldn’t—“ Crow starts but the transmat fires before he can finish.
Saladin hears the curious whine of the warbeasts as soon as they land, and he smiles to himself as he sets the bag on the edge of the war table.
As expected, Kuzu bounds over first with Rumlo ambling along behind, and Saladin hears the fear in Crow’s voice as he backs up, “Uh, there are some—“
They come to heel at Saladin’s whistle, and he glances at Crow as he scritches behind their ears. “They’re no threat. The bigger one is Kuzu and the greedy one is Rumlo.”
Living up to his descriptor, Rumlo shoves his whole face into the duffel bag in search of the dried meat, and Saladin firmly extracts him as Crow approaches, still nervous. “They’re yours?”
“You earn the rank of Valus, you also earn the previous Valus’ warbeasts.”
Kuzu trots over to give Crow’s boots a thorough sniff, and Saladin watches the way Crow instinctively reaches to pet her then thinks better of it. Retrieving a pack of jerky from the bag, Saladin heads for the small seating area towards the front of his quarters, with Crow and the dogs following in a pack behind him.
There’s awe in Crow’s voice when he says, “This whole place is yours too?”
Saladin sinks into an oversized chair. “Were you expecting Caiatl to assign me to the warbeast pens?”
“Spider would have,” Crow says absently, still looking around the room.
The purpose of the warbeast whistle comes into focus and Saladin very much wishes it had stayed blurry. He’s glad for the distraction of Kuzu pushing her wet nose against Crow’s palm and trying to gnaw on his gauntlet, and he clicks his fingers, raising the jerky in the other hand. “Sit.”
Kuzu and Rumlo obey instantly. Crow eyes the Cabal-sized chair but lowers himself down to sit crosslegged on the rug instead.
The warbeasts are rewarded with a strip of meat each and Crow asks, curious, “Did you learn that from training your wolves?”
“Wolves are far more intelligent,” Saladin says, petting Rumlo’s belly when he flops happily onto his side, “but yes, the same principles apply.”
Finished with her food, Kuzu returns to her inspection of Crow. Saladin watches his lips curve in an unconscious smile when she sniffs along his jaw then tries to rub her face against the shaved part of his head.
“Hey, easy there,” Crow says, redirecting her attentions and getting a delighted lick to his cheek in response. “Easy!”
“Trying telling her to sit.”
Crow eyes the warbeast. “Sit?”
Kuzu prances around in a little circle, stumpy tail waggling.
Saladin chuckles. “Put some force behind it.”
“Sit!”
Saladin has met more forceful toddlers. However, Kuzu seems to take pity on Crow and arranges herself dramatically across his lap to receive the attention she clearly deserves. Crow provides it, stroking carefully over her flank and getting a pleased rumble for his efforts.
Silence descends for a moment, filled only by the happy panting of the warbeasts, but Crow’s voice is level when he breaks it, “I didn’t come here for you to make me feel better.”
“Good,” Saladin says. “Your guilt over your actions is your own burden to carry.”
“Then why did you bring me up here?” He gestures to Kuzu with one hand while scritching under her chin with the other. “Why do this?”
“My facilities are more comfortable than the visiting rooms,” Saladin says. From the look on Crow’s face, his attempt at evading the question wasn’t as smooth as he hoped, and he sighs. “I thought I should correct some assumptions,” he says instead. “Obviously I’d prefer not to be serving on a Cabal warship for the indefinite future but the situation is better than it could be.”
Kuzu closes her teeth around Crow’s hand in a rebuke when he tries to stop petting her, and he returns to his task with a small smile. “You get dogs.”
“Warbeasts,” Saladin corrects. “They’re useful companions.”
They’re as much of a crutch as his wolves once were, a comforting presence as he sat alone in the dark, trying to map out the shape of a new future.
“I get it,” Crow says quietly. “If I hadn’t had Glint…”
There’s common ground buried there, enough to build a decent foundation if either of them had tried, but Saladin can’t bring himself to commit to the hard work of construction just yet.
“Ghosts are cleaner,” he says instead, nodding to the patch of drool darkening Crow’s pants, “but warbeasts and wolves do have their place.”
“I should leave them to their owner,” Crow says, looking fondly down at Kuzu. “I’m sure they’re happy to have you.”
“I think they’re just happy to have the food you brought.” Rumlo’s ears perk up at the word and Saladin rolls his eyes as he tosses him another chunk of jerky. “They aren’t picky in their affections.”
Crow smiles, easing out from under Kuzu’s bulk to climb to his feet. “I’m just glad you have some use for it. I’ll pack more useful things next time. Incense maybe.”
“Next time?”
Crow’s expression falters. “I can stay away if you prefer. I know I’m probably the last person you wanted to see; I just figured…” He gestures in the direction of the bag. “I can always leave the supplies with one of the legionaries if you think they’ll get to you that way? I didn’t know if—”
Saladin holds up a hand to silence him. “You can return,” he allows. “I’ll send your ghost the authorization codes to transmat to my quarters but only my quarters. I doubt Caiatl would appreciate seeing you on her ship uninvited.”
“Understood.” From the tiny smile on Crow’s lips as he glances at the warbeasts, it’s clear he understands the implications of the permission, and he looks back up in gratitude. “Thank you, Saladin.”
His smile widens a little. Any concerns Saladin had about Crow’s spirit being fully broken by recent events are soon put to rest when he adds, innocent, “How many of those custard pastries do you want me to bring you next time? Ten? Twenty?”