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Beloved Striker,
How have you been during these months apart? My busy schedule didn’t allow me any time to ask, but I have read recent Vanguard reports and I would not believe you to not be keeping an eye out for another threat. I am glad things are solved by now—though I know it can be only for a little while, as it has always been.
Yet I want to know about you and your heart, dear. How are you feeling?
If you ask about me, I have been doing fine; nothing out of the ordinary from my operations within the Traveler. Well, tired, yes, but I don’t remember feeling this better since… since I was born in the Light, I think.
Ah! It would be better if we spoke personally. The Dread’s plague in the Pale Heart has decreased and I feel we can breathe a little, so why don’t you visit me? I will warn the Vanguard of your departure and you can stay for as long as you want to. (And I know this place unsettles you, so please, don’t force yourself if you would rather not be here. I will be fine if you prefer a call, just tell me when.)
I miss you. I really do. Right now, there is nothing I want more than to hear your voice again.
Entirely and faithfully yours,
Lars
The white circumference of the Traveler is still flawed. A mesmerizing pink aurora bleeds from the triangle-shaped wound, painting the sky for the eye staring at the bottom of a planet. From the exterior angle it is limited, yet on the inside, anyone can see the narrow and diversified landscape which breathes and grows endlessly.
To this day, Striker can barely believe in the vastness of the Traveler.
Personally, the familiarly surreal places feel too alien to conceive as one's own. It wants to resemble home and it briefly succeeds, but soon distorts into the failed will of the Witness. Darkened multifingered hands sprout out of greenery. Some architectures mimic that of the Pyramids or from a memory to never be spoken aloud. Its Dread army continues, and wanders only a few kilometers away from the safe spot of the Pale Heart.
“You know you didn’t come here for work, right?” Millicent nudges against Striker’s head. “Riiiiiiiiiight?”
“Yeah.” Milly teases him again with more prodding. “Yeah, yeah—I know, Milly. It’s just… hard to not look everywhere.”
His Ghost stays silent for a moment. Her Guardian stares at her as if trying to prove a point, and she turns to the other side of Striker’s head. “I’m just thinking about your date and how you shouldn’t let your head run elsewhere far from your neck.”
“I’m not doing this.”
“You are. I can see from here.”
“Of course you can, Milly. Even from a thousand miles afar you can.” He reaches out a hand for his Ghost, who makes herself comfortable on his palm. “But you may be right… this time.” Striker fondles her shell. “Only this time.”
“I’ll take it to my heart.” And she winks her single eye at him.
He scoffs and diverts his attention to the Lost City. Mithrax is away to the Eliksni Quarter, but Caiatl stays to survey the remaining Legionnaires lurking on the Pale Heart. Queen Mara is untrackable as always, yet if she was here he’d nod and they would exchange words. The Vanguard themselves pay no mind to visitors coming and going for their own personal reasoning with the Light. Allies who have been here for a while may or may not need it too, and Striker himself, ah, well…
A pair of lightning flashes at the edge of the Old Tower, and their faces materialize. In iridescent silver armory, more radiant than ever seen, Juno-3 and Lars walk away for their own moment of respite. Striker watches them with a tug of expectation in his heart. He stands to greet but doesn’t trust his words to not stutter, so he stays quiet and doesn’t even dare to wave and tell them “I’m here” .
But Millicent does.
She is a bright orb flying under the sunlight, approaching the duo with admiration. Striker can’t listen to her wooings, but sees the way Juno’s mouth slightly quirks up in a sympathetic grin whilst Lars opens a wide, breathtaking smile of which Striker struggles to look away from.
It’s towards his lovely smile that the Warlock paces forth, and the only reason he stops is the embarrassment of looking foolish before the Titan—who is very and proudly his boyfriend.
And how much of a beautiful boyfriend Striker has before him.
Lars notices him within meters of distance. Before he speaks anything, he wraps an arm over Striker’s shoulders, pulls him close, and kisses his temple. The Titan is warmer and somehow taller and stronger than Striker remembers. His hold is tight and sweet, unspeakably so sweet. Through this proximity Lars inhales Striker’s scent, and renders the Warlock speechless.
“I’m glad you came to see me,” he whispers.
“How couldn’t I?” It takes the Warlock some effort to leave his embrace to stare upwards. Lars looks different… so different that Striker can’t really begin explaining how. “I wanted to see you everyday since you had to leave. Missed you a lot.”
“I know. I missed you too.”
Suddenly an electronic throat clears itself, and Striker is cut to the Exo standing beside them, straightening her posture as soon as his attention lands to her. There’s an odd moth flying above her head in circles and two Ghosts hovering beside.
“It’s nice to see you again, Striker,” she says. “I suppose your fireteam has been alright in your absence?”
“Yes, I…” Striker clears his throat as well. “Yes, they are, but couldn’t get away from personal duties. They told me to send their regards.”
Juno smiles through her eyes, and nods. “One day I’ll visit them, be certain of that. As for now… enjoy your stay, Striker. I will be nearby if either of you need anything.”
“Thank you.” He returns another nod as she walks away, leaving them alone. Once again Striker fiddles with his fingers, something he hasn’t done in so long. He gathers courage to speak something decent here, gazing out to the man before him and the landscape beyond, and does not know how to move this conversation forward.
Yet Lars’ palm brushes softly over Striker’s forearm, tethering the Warlock with his touch as the Titan asks: “Do you want to stay here or you want to look out?”
“Define ‘look out’.”
“Look… out.” Lars gestures across the lengthy extension of familiar shapes, the same which effortlessly shrinks Striker and makes him question his entire self in one second alone. “I know a beautiful place out there, but I want to be sure you’re comfortable with it.”
Striker rolls his shoulders, feels afraid—but he’d feel unspeakably guilty if he denied Lars this chance at a proper date instead of sitting on chairs and staring out into concrete walls. Perhaps he would see a different thing or two, hear a thing or two, but he can see in Lars’ eyes: warm browns are bright and wonderful and more alive than ever. Who knows what wonders Striker has avoided because of his stupid and unexplainable fear? He had been so compressed into constant threats and his doomed relationship with the Gensym Scribe that relief appeared in preventing, turning around, little daring; and now with this opportunity… there is a time for a change.
“Show me then,” Striker says, “please.”
As predicted, their ride through the Pale Heart leaves Striker with the impression of being a little speck of sugar flying across a countryside field of highlands and varying roads.
Lars doesn’t mind how tight the Warlock holds him or how he leans entirely over him.
“Over there.” The Titan stops on his tracks. Striker watches the place as it is: a forest with a descent pathway of stones where vehicles cannot trespass. Further inside the forest is embraced by a pair of hands from mountains Striker hasn’t noticed before, those which encroach until skies cannot be seen and trees grow upside down and become teeths in a mouth agape. Rocks with unkindled Hive carvings scatter across the way. It seems to be where Lucent Brood used to gather, but with remnants of Dread carcasses rooting as part of this fertile soil, this place has been of none’s belonging for a while.
That is, save for Lars. Deep in silence as he walks past a Knight’s skeleton, blossoms red in their broken ribcage.
“Was it like this when you first found it?” Striker asks.
“No,” he answers. They turn around an Attendant’s splintered dust. “I remember Luzaku trying to dialog them out of this place; something about deeper caverns where they could establish a proper headquarters and the path to it. They couldn’t manage it in time, however.”
The end is a wall—the mountain’s palm parted by the unmeasured time since this is as it is: a rift of blue amethysts where an adult Psion can pass through.
“And after everything, this is…”
“Let’s go inside first.”
Striker accepts the gentle tug to the rift’s within. The ghost of an answer lies here: the amethysts at its entrance encrust walls and rips the ground in specific spots. Sources of light come from holes on the ceiling and descend over translucent surfaces, reflecting their colors upon dark and cracked stones. Rumbles of water echo in the distance, and become closer and clearer as grass gives place to gravel and a sea begins.
Their path tunnels into a narrow and obscure way until the source of water is found.
Striker’s breath catches up in his throat as a luminescent turquoise lake reveals itself in the gloom, ceiling gaining refractive shapes which dance and dance endlessly in the rhythm of the sea’s crashing waves. Light slithers from outside as far as he can see, but unsure of how far and from where exactly. Here is comfortably wide for a fireteam gathering, yet only one seems to know this treasure.
“This is where I often find myself wandering after a rough day,” Lars explains, his voice echoing in stillness. “It’s nice for meditations. Praying. Considering my thoughts…” And he fondles Striker’s hand with his thumb. “And listen to what the Traveler has to tell me.”
Striker stares at him with a frown and Lars doesn’t explain it right away. “Tell you? What does it tell you? Since when?”
The Titan leaves the Warlock’s hand, removing helmet, armor and undershirt. Leaves garments folded elsewhere close and raises his pants, dipping feet on the brilliant lake. Barely gives Striker a moment to be breathless at his shape.
“It’s a little warm in here, don’t you feel it?”
Striker shakes his head. Yes, he’s feeling hot underneath his robes due to the unpredictable weather, but this isn’t the matter. Lars dives in the lake, swims, and he feels incited to shred himself out of this tension and into the Titan’s serenity.
Helmet is removed and robes unclasped, so feet eventually find distinctions between colorful and grayish gravels, and cool water embraces the machinery of his toes. The Titan emerges at the middle of the lake, capable of standing tall with all his height. He runs a hand over his hair and one silver curl falls over his forehead, and Striker is… is…
Truth is: he wants to ask about the implications of Lars’ permanence in the Pale Heart.
And truth is, as well: he can’t look away from how different Lars is. Now that they are alone and Striker doesn’t risk seeming too awkward for his own liking, he can admit what was noticed. Damp curls gained more strands of silvery. Beard has thickened but not because of a lack of vanity. Lars’ body is stronger and padded with fat—turquoise shines upon dark skin and contours muscles, revealing not a single more battle scar and contrasting beautifully with light brown irises aimed at the Warlock.
“Shoot your questions,” Lars says. “I know your tongue is itching.”
So Striker swallows deeply at last, heart drumming hard in chest, and shoots: “Special operations and Vanguard support isn’t the only reason why you are here, isn’t it?”
He chuckles. Approaches the Warlock and lays down on the gravel floor, head above folded clothes, and waits. Striker only realizes he’s supposed to join him through the explicit demand on Lars’ eyes. The Warlock complies to it, and the Titan rests a palm over his thigh, fondling him gently.
“No,” Lars finally answers. “It started with a dream of a radio, tuned in an odd and unintelligible frequency. I couldn’t turn it off nor walk away from it. Like my duty was to hear and try to understand what was behind those sounds. It was a constant dream.”
He blinks his eyes slowly, breathing deeply. “Eventually there was no radio before me. But I could hear it still in different places: sometimes it was in the Last City, other times on the HELM, and even on Europa—but that was only once. I always heard it. Clearer and clearer. As if it was a voice so quiet it barely fits between my thoughts without slipping away from me. And the last time I dreamed of it, I… suddenly found myself floating mid-space, facing the Traveler and reaching out to it with my hands burning with the Light.”
Lars leaves the Warlock to brace himself, one hand over his chest. “When I woke up, I was in my ship with coordinates set to the Pale Heart. This is how I understood it needed me here.”
Striker’s throat feels a little tight at the thoughts roaming on his head, fast and constant as a river. “The Traveler wanted you close. Even when…”
“Even after failing it many times, yes.”
“This is not what I was going to say.”
“But it is what I did.” The Titan shrugs, unbothered with himself. “I am not sure if my failure weighs on its judgment upon me.”
Striker watches him in silence; wonders if this is a wound which bleeds still.
Lars closes his eyes for an indefinite moment. Another doubt courses over Striker’s head, but he considers this ambient: the scent of water and its waves fills the silence, and its gloom is comfortable and safe enough for respite. Beneath, his boyfriend appears to be in a better and brighter state. And it is selfish, truly, but he wants to know how Lars dealt with the last day he visited the Leviathan and how he feels now as he complied with the Traveler’s wish. Has he acquainted with the past and learned to live the present? What are his thoughts for the future unknown?
Lars runs a thumb over the Warlock’s cheek and he turns the center of Striker’s attention. Without sunlight, irises present a faint shimmer of pink swirling between browns. But the Prismatic power he wields is not the only reason why they are so vivid and full of tenderness.
It is enough for Striker to dare. “Do you still hear him too?”
The Titan’s face flickers, tension apparent minutely. Even his thumb stops.
“Sometimes I do,” he whispers quietly, barely firm. “It has been waning since I stepped here… but I doubt this will go away so soon.”
And the Warlock regrets nudging this answer out from him, that even if horrible, it fills a few of his floating doubts.
It takes them a beat. A momentary silence.
Then Lars’ fingers gently roam upwards to Striker’s antenna, and Striker’s heart swells without effort.
“This is not only about me, you know.” A shy smile reappears on the Titan’s lips. “You can talk about yourself too. I really won’t mind.”
The Warlock sighs in shameful relief, efforting a smile. With the Titan's folded undershirt between, Striker rests his head above Lars’ chest and comments about the months they have been away from each other.
It’s nighttime, suitable for the great bonfire Lars kindles for the camping on the Lost City, and Striker tunes between different frequencies on the small radio. “What do you usually listen to?”
“And by that you mean…?”
“I mean the Traveler. What does it tell you?”
The Warlock doesn’t see it, but can tell Lars purses his lips as an orange blaze flickers between woods. “Ah, my dear, I cannot reveal this. It’s confidential.”
“And why would it be?”
The Titan ponders beside the bonfire, then turns around to sit by Striker’s side. He switches to the right frequency and the Warlock becomes surprised as a familiar Last City song starts playing out of it. Melodies may be slightly distorted, but everything is still the same. “Being a therapist requires confidentiality,” he says, “and although some believe this information should be public, the Traveler’s thoughts are up to me and a few selected people to study.”
Striker slowly blinks. “You are the Traveler’s therapist?”
“In a sense, yes.” Lars shrugs, eyeing him with amusement. “This is why I am here.”
“So this is your support for Juno and Micah,” Striker muses, wonders flowing around his head like a river again. “How does it work?”
“Quite the difficult questions, eh?” Yet in no way this bothers Lars. Instead he seeks for a nearby inoffensive rift that is a little behind them, sparkling faintly. The Warlock follows with eyes as he reaches to it and kneels. “Somewhere between recognizing patterns and being close to the Light lies the key for decryption. You may never hear the call or see the repetition, but once you’re the perfect combination of these two requirements—with a previous life that makes you qualified for the job—it’s all a matter of fiddling and empathy.”
“Scholars have struggled for many years to understand it…” Striker ponders, although his curiosity is bigger than what is verbalized. “I wonder what has changed after the Witness.”
Lars’ hands corners the limits of the glowing rift. Measures it. It’s a quiet answer that follows, but the Warlock can feel the sorrow-filled lilt of his voice. “Who would you trust once nothing is left for you?”
The Warlock sees all the eyes turn to the Titan, whose hand touches the rift and finds the core where its greater wound lies. A deep breath follows then, either from Striker’s lungs or Lars’, and something shifts on the wavering sky above.
At last he unspools the words stuck in his throat, suddenly finding himself vulnerable at the thought.
“Someone who I know better than myself.”
Shoulders become slouched and eyes, once browns with vivid wisps of Prismatic pink swirling at its interiors, open wide in luminescent and ethereal white. Through a half-opened mouth he breathes swirls of hot steam. Flutters of blue and orange and purple appear out of him like overflowing water, threatening to spill with the slightest move, whether right or wrong.
Striker can only wonder how great and terrifying this burden is.
“It means much to be trusted again.” Lars’ voice is not only his own. One more tone coats his usual lilt, bringing an echo of a softer emotion flourishing from depths Striker has barely scratched its surface. Whoever who leads this conversation forth with him shows it’s not an one-sided exchange of understandings. Whatever Lars is touching might always return the gesture. No one is ever truly alone here.
Striker still has much to say—but the sight is one he cannot intervene. It is short-timed. The questions dissipate as Lars leaves the rift, but not the spot. Striker catches air back to his lungs and looks around, watching the way everyone nearby has paused their chores to witness a ritual they hardly understand, but respects thoroughly. Lars is stirred afterwards, however softer and calmer after the contact, a face Striker knows only when Lars is safeguarding or assuring someone.
There were times, Striker remembers, where this ended the other way around; where this protection equals so tightly with a terrible sacrifice of which Lars would shake it off and pretend to not be broken by the end. Here, their differences are stark. Here, Striker is the one yet to speak of his true state after the failed end only he bears and remains unnamed.
And he chuckles at himself. They will always orbit around each other in cycles, won't they?
“Does this feel like home to you?” And Striker sees his eyes opening slowly to the question.
Lars has shown him the place where Micah, Juno and him tend to sleep during short-measured nighttimes; an old but cleansed room filled with belongings, futons and weapons on the corners of their personal spaces. Of course the Warlock has chosen to sleep beside his boyfriend, staring at his face whilst too many thoughts plagued his mind.
However, as the question is said, they exchange glances for a long time.
“Yes,” Lars ends up answering eventually. “Not like my apartment or yours, but yes.”
The Warlock curls in himself a little away from the Titan’s embrace. Can’t explain why. In such a gloomy chamber, their only measure of space is body heat and how close feet brush each other.
Lars notices these absences right away.
“It doesn’t mean I will not come back,” he warns, resting a palm over Striker’s arm. “It’ll only take some time to return. This won’t be forever.”
“I know.”
Lars approaches then, breaths touching faces. “I know you do.”
Striker stands useless at the bottom of his jumpship, thinking and incapable of stopping thinking.
Even the days of full blue sky with a softer wind and flowers blooming at full can’t be seen as beautiful days. It’s strange to consider such. Some would be amazed with the inner peace of the Traveler, but Striker cannot look without an underlying sensation slithering up at his fingers, keeping them agitated.
Lars approaches behind and places a hand on his lower back. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay for another day? You’re not bothering any of us.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Relay told me it’s fine to take some time off, but I don’t feel comfortable leaving my responsibilities on their backs. Feels unfair.”
Lars tenderly rubs his spine, and Striker is too tempted to not leave—to simply turn around and lay his cheek on Lars’ chest or shoulder and feel more of his warmth. Arms are always welcome to the Warlock, he knows, but worry is also something which will always tug at Striker’s mind. It’s pretty undebatable at this point of their relationship.
“They will be fine when you return. You just see it.” Lars places a soft kiss on his temple. “I will be fine too.”
Striker feels his throat tighten again, and is unable to refrain. He stares at Lars. Palms his face, strokes the grown beard with bits of white in it, and kisses his lips with much care. It’s not going to be their last kiss, but Striker makes sure it’s mesmerizing: hands on hair, on chest, his taste, this comfort, an impossibly close pull and nothing else should matter then.
Their lips are brushing each other when they part. Lars leans just a little on his cheek and dives towards his neck, pressing his mouth against fabric and wishing it is Striker’s machinery skin. “I will always think about you, my dear. Always.”
The Warlock hides his face against his embrace for a moment before his departure.
And then carries the unspoken feeling out and away from the Traveler’s understanding.
As he observes the ivory orb and the triangle wound inside, Millicent appears beside and rests on his shoulder. “You feel… different.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I can see in your face. It’s all written around it.” She shifts a little, nestling better on his cupped palm. “Do you regret it?”
“No,” he answers with a swirl in his belly. “I’m simply glad I was there.”
“And what is this?”
His tongue itches—Lars would tell him—and Striker can say it’s true. He caresses Milly’s round, shiny shape and thinks about the small nuisance at the back of his mind.
Then an idea crosses his head; he picks his datapad and begins a letter.
Beloved Lars,
You have asked me how I have been. I believe entering inside the Traveler once again has made me rethink this question, and my answer couldn’t come in time before I thought it was necessary to leave. Nothing of this is about anything you’ve done or shown me. You are not responsible for anything wrong with me, I assure you.
And as I write this, I believe I finally found it.
I love you, my dear. I know it’s still hard for both of us to say it, but it is true.
And through knowing how you are, after everything, made me realize I have never fully registered our ‘victory’, because there is always something more. We were proven right with the appearance of the Echoes and its extensive destruction. We may be proven right again sooner. I don’t know, I can’t really tell.
Yet one thing I am honest: I am tired. I have been tired since. And with you, I understand I can have a little hope. As you once told me that our first date changed your perspective, this one is no different for me. I’m glad I visited you, even fearing and feeling lost inside the Pale Heart, and I will want to do it however many times you invite me.
Right now, I look after many things, Lars. One of them is to see your eyes again and know they are bright and beautiful as you are.
All my heart and more,
Striker