Chapter Text
Laughter. There was a sudden burst of laughter that bounced from wall to wall. Felwinter rises from the cold ground as he looks around confused, conflicted and a multitude of other things that create hesitation. He does not move from where he stood as the sound continues. Something is off and wrong, very wrong. Itchy, everything was itchy and- he looks to his hands. His grieves are gone, all is left his is bare hands and they were CO-
This place felt unfinished and fleeting. He knows not why but it does. The happy sound continues and changes, it gets louder when he moves closer- closer to what? Like a pan of aquarelle to water the world bleeds with every step. Slowly he passes a hallway and it is far too familiar, he has been here before. Browns and blue, warm lights and tile and wood floors. Soon there are more halls that he walks past. He stops as he nearly passes a vase, there are white flowers with purple ones he has never seen, the little flowers are bunched so tightly that some of the stems have snap…snap…snapped…He disregards them for the door, the only full door that he has seen and it is encompassing his entire view. Reaching for the door that holds something that he cannot distinguish quite yet- the laughter stops.
Red flares up from his finger tips and the itching continues until it is needles stabbing him a thousand times over. Felwinter tries to back away but when he looks down his body he can't see his legs under the ocean of red. No, why is it-
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Then it all disperses again.
Again?
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Now he is here, again and on the floor waiting to decide to stand. Where is here? Why is there still that same laugh? He passes the same things as before, multiple hallways and doors and-wait no, the flowers are different. Buttercups and yellow carnations but why would the flowers change…Where is Felspring?
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Again like clockwork he stands and goes forth through the halls and sees new flowers again but he pays no mind to the change. The laughter is always consistent. A grounding sound to locate something, anything. How else will he be able to get home? That single thought makes him pause and stop outside the door again. When was the last time that was home…when was the last time he stepped on that mountain again? How long has it been?
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How many times has he done this? Felwinter for one try realizes what is happening. Every attempt is a failure not because he returns back to this very spot. No that would have been better, the return is the in between of his failure to live. This is a simple trick of mind and here is something intangible. How much of this is his own head and how much is of SIVA? He can hear them being changed and he can hear his own body snap. Glimpses of himself throwing Light and escaping only to be caught again, and again and-
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A wasted attempt. Both for here and there.
Once he had opened the door only to go back to all this red and pain. He could hear the sounds of his friends bodies being used like tools for a goal that SIVA didn't even know what it was preparing for. What it wanted with him was different, he was never a target. Felwinter came after and there is more to it but he is in no position to find out. He will find out, he just needs to figure out how.
Felwinter will get back.
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SIVA is acting strange and its creations seem so anatomical. It is supposed to follow a directive until told otherwise or destroyed. Just as Wilhelmina Bray made it to be- why does he know that? Why does he know more about her now than before?
The exo besides him shivers as though the cold could penetrate his clothes for the metal skin beneath, it cannot. He complains loudly to him about being outside. His own voice rEsp0ndS- ReSpONds-resPonDs-responds with a remark that earns him a tap to his head. His own hold tightens on the screen playing a live feed, Wilhelmina Bray is speaking.
"Rasputin wouldn't like your interest with the Brays, I don't either."
He could ignore him, he does for a moment before deciding to quell his concerns. "I care not for their name but the perspective their family offers. Without their inventions and their attention to further humanity- even if it is for a selfish reason, I would have not existed. Many of humanities greatest achievements and dreams would have not gotten the chance to flourish past an simple idea. Legacy is a foreign concept to me."
When he looks up he sees a new expression. It is not bad but it doesn't mean anything good either, it creates a nearly painful experience that he knows is not real. "I don't understand why someone would burden their future with expectations when that future is no longer theirs to decide. Is that scary to you, that in 'passing the torch' you are forgoing the power you spent your entire existence harnessing and utilizing? Even if it means that if you don't let go, the cycle continues?"
It has all become disorienting, still if he cannot try then and only then has he truly failed. His body shows lines and lines of red, the same shade that Rasputin's light seems to paint with. It litters his body the longer he tries and fails. Frustration was soon going to best him but if he allows it to burst then he might not be able to-
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An apartment. Felwinter can't turn around to look behind himself. Frozen to seeing the same wall as if it is something to be noticed or admired. He feels misplaced and there is a voice, not the same as the laughter. That's not what's important, that thing is wrong. Its not supposed to work, he hasn't fixed it yet. The ticking clock on the wall stopped long before he-
He had seen many clocks: small ones that have become decorations, simple ones for a job, large ones that tower over but they too become decorations- humans do not look up often if at all. They have always been aware of time, how much they have left and what they can be fulfilled. Before they could fly they have kept their eye on time, carving stone to shadow a clock. Sand falling through glass until none is left.
Do they know how long they spend trying to cheat the thing that connects everything?
He stayed reading their books about the many structures they made about clocks and time. They for a long time didn't see time as its own object but rather tethered it to the moon and sun. Must be why they worshiped them both a long long time ago. He gets a call and he closes his book to go outside.
"Checking in, having fun over there?" A smile is heard from her voice.
He is quiet and moves from where he thought he could stay idle. Someone waved at him, recognized him. Now he is in a routine of someone else's life. Soon he will have to leave, he refuses to make that mistake again. "The cities here are interesting, historical."
There is a laugh. "That's not an answer."
He does not grumble, machines don't do that. "Yes. I am having fun."
They talked more. Some which was needed and other topics to fill time. Till she brought something up. It felt cold all of the sudden.
"Why did you ever fix that clock, I never asked." She doesn't seem angry about it, she was pleased before but she never once asked.
"Because I could."
"That's it? Just because you could?" She seemed astonished but it doesn't feel like an insult.
"Is that surprising?"
"Yes." She admits. "You tend to do that. Before it was so easy to remember what you are, now I get surprised every time I remember and its getting less and less often."
That leaves him stunned at the door. The same door he has opened many times, he lives here -as temporary as it is. He has gotten good at learning how to seem human, which isn't what he intended to do. Hiding what he is important but it is easy to hide what people do not know exists, it give a bit of leeway. "I will take that as a compliment."
The line goes quiet and he places his book on the table with the others.
"I mean- haven't you questioned it? That you can be impulsive, angry, happy and all theses very human things? I've seen you act with kindness and mean it. Don't you want to li-" He thought he had more time before this conversation. With the way she is speaking to him as if she is leading him gently to a perspective that had already shattered him.
"It is getting late. Goodnight." He doesn't wait for a response.
The Traveler extended their time, gave them more of it. It fulfilled the hole in which hope was needed. Is it a God? Or a visitor with a reason to stay or will it go. Some say that there a select few who could hear it, it is but whispers and unverifiable. Most is when it comes to that strange orb that terraforms and changes life as they knew it. I do not know how humans can forget its there, as if this is such a normal thing. To have your entire species changed by alien life and it asks for nothing in return. As far that is known at least. If only he had more time until he-
-was found again…
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Where was this again? Shouting for answers did not work with Rasputin and so it wouldn't work now, though he has tried. His mind is tired and it brings him to simply sit in the sound of laughter for a while. Why does he still try? Felwinter knocks over the vase until petunias and pine halo around him as he shouts at nothing, his scream is a chorus with all the others.
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There must be something he hasn't tried yet. A weakness somewhere and he just can't figure it out. He wants go home, he needs to make sure that the Iron Lords are alright. That the City is still standing. Maybe he can talk to Rasputin again and make him understand. At least for a single moment he wants to see how far and how high Osiris can fly.
Maybe he just wanted to see how far they could go until he lost sight of them.
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Eventually in what Felwinter now knows has been centuries worth of attempts he opens the door, the vase he passed was empty for the first time. The laughter is clear and is done as if it were a child laughing; free of any doubt and unweighed by life. He knows the voice and with steps forward he passes plants and shelves and this seemingly small place becomes larger. Felwinter knows this, and that and the things over there but he also knows that he has not seen it so pristine. Soon he is turning in circles lost as he tries to follow the sound and it all stops when he see a table.
A wooden and large table with only one single seat occupied. There were no others and the silhouette is as daunting as it is familiar. Slowly he goes around this being to sit in the opposite seat. It offer it's hand to hold. It is strange to see the wear and tear of their fingers, so similar and so different all the same. The sharp and dull edges, he turns over his own hands and accept being alone in this. Another choice taken from him, he never wished to know who Siddhartha was.
The earth has not given silence yet, it rumbles and shakes, tears wide open and is crushed by rubble. Its stance of dying remains true. They are dying. Humanity is dying and Siddhartha is running through its new wounds and- and he's being a fool or an idiot or the many multiple ways to say stupid. All that has occurred didn't just happen today and in order not to cause panic it has been kept a secret. There are pyramid like ships invading without ever having to touch the earth and they are killing it.
Humanity is dying.
His body is dying with them too, but he must continue. The purpose of his existence still stands as something that must be done. The attention shift but if he is right then it could be a tipping point for humanities return. They will survive this, they have to.
There is so much dust in the air that it is difficult to see. Quickly he is forced to go bear foot as his shoes could not handle the shear amount of glass and debris that scatters the city he knew. It is horrific to see the streets he knew become unrecognizable. He is trying so hard to pick up the pieces but he can't do enough. Helping as many as he could while retaining his defiance to not go quickly or quietly is taking its toll. This city is falling and they have failed it.
The city had finally got the alarms working far too late. The bodies of people he had seen alive a day before now lay quiet and nothing is being done. Humanity is alone in their suffering. Try as he might he is not enough to offer promises or hope. What he gives must be something they have to find. That is the only thing he can offer, he's no Warmind, just a little machine with too little time.
Quick as he could he makes his way to the Library. Were he not an Exo he would have died sooner than he will. His hands are stained red from the people he tried to help along the way. It drips from the machinery he had grabbed from broken widow of a shop. Theoretically he knows how to make a radio, he had never done it before but he very much could. If he can't then everything will be harder.
His shirt is wet, it sticks to his back and it is covered in dust. Time is running out. Please, he just needs a little more time for them. He doesn't know who he must beg for it but he will. Siddhartha did not spend his entire short existence learning to love humanity only to watch them die. They just need a little help.
The doors were heavy to close and his body feels worse and worse. Its a mess, everything is practically on the floor and many windows are broken. Gilded bookcases are on the floor and the power is surprisingly still on. Slow and steady he moves to the side of the library where he knew where the desks were. If anyone was still here they were dead or too quiet for him to hear. Siddhartha did call out and there was no response.
Never once in his entire existence has he ever been so alone.
He felt it when Rasputin went away: MIDNIGHT EXIGENT has been executed. Once in a rare talk with Seraph Bykov he asked him if he knew Rasputin check in on his location every now and again. It was a question that would lead to an answer he did not want to deal with the consequences of. They mean well, but he would rather they not try and ruin their lives for someone, something that would only be around for a mere fraction of their lives.
The truth was given, he always knows when Rasputin looks at him. It is a heavy gaze that has him looking up to the sky and at times, he would reach out expecting to grasp starlight. Siddhartha did not think it was necessary to say that last part. It was enough to see the man give pause and rethink their plan. The end of the tunnel is only daunting because we can't always see the other side, he knows that they would be okay.
It is a bitter thought. He did not know Bykov well but he knew that behind that mans stoic face and attitude he cared deeply for his people and friends. That might be the reason he is putting so much effort in something he cares not for. What a strange person.
Why is he remembering so much of his life now?
It doesn't matter he got the radio working along with a barley working data pad. He can listen to both while he moves the desks to be a shield. There is a terminal near that kept ringing out while he set his own grave.
"All library patrons please report to the nearest emergency station. If you require assistance, an attendant can help you at the reception desk. Repeat. All libra-" It continued its loop over and over until he hid between the desks. He remembers that its motion activated which was once interesting and is now vexing.
Siddhartha looked up to the sky through the crack in the ceiling. The outline of those ships still hover; waiting for the end of which they sow.
Humans had already abandon their homes- their planet. They leave on ships only to be shot down. Chained to the planet that birthed them so that they may be buried in its dying soil, choking on the ash of dreams and life that may never be again. Siddhartha mourns for them. The Warmind made him so that it could witness the delicate lives it protected and that in understanding them it would do better. Now the Warmind is gone and there is only himself to witness their end.
Antarctica has been melted, in a instant an entire continent is gone. The water is rising rapidly, tsunamis and earthquakes are a result. Extreme and unnatural weather is occurring. Some are questioning if The Traveler is to blame. Was this its plan? Are the mysterious black shapes in the sky related to the seemingly quiet God? Where is the War-
Glass above him shatters and he is forced to jump away. His injury sings and he can do nothing but listen. He feels weak and his body is telling him that he is losing function of multiple organs. The glass ceiling was beautiful and now it is the last straw that would push him over the cliff to death.
Crouching down on shaking legs he bends and reaches for the glass shard that is embedded to his back. He doesn't have the strength to pull it out and instead breaks it so it doesn't stick out as much. The piece is as long as his hand. Steady he crawls under one of the still standing desks to hide from the sky.
He will die alone in the house of humanities greatest accomplishments, failures and art.
He will be found. His body is too much of a liability to be left to rot here, his knowledge would aid any who finds him. The continuation of his life in death is bittersweet. It was always meant to end this way. There is a irony in his name- Siddhartha. Wether its a prince who gave up everything or a man who leaves his family behind for enlightenment, he would not be able to give it to Rasputin himself.
It was one of the things he was looking forward to. Siddhartha wanted to know what Rasputin would think of his life and what he would gain from it. Would he understand his own feelings instantly or would it take years. He wanted to quietly shatter the Warmind's perspective on what little he knew about life.
A little rebellion of his to continue his purpose but in his own way. Instead of getting on a ship and just seeing how far he can go before he touches the stars, he would instead do this. Be what Rasputin made him to be all while doing it because he wanted to. Doesn't the meaning of the action change based on the reasoning it was done? Is it not the intention that makes something worth looking at?
One day someone will find him. He hopes they know what to do with what little he has to offer.
He can't even lift his hands high enough to touch the top of the table. The lights that used to garner so many looks now dim. Never has he ever felt so tired before. Maybe it was the dears of humans that made it feel like death was going to be some grand event. Slowly he places his hands on his stomach and shifts to be more comfortable. There is music from the radio, someone must have aired it. Its not bad.
It's quiet, calm even as every part of him begins to cycle and shut down. The last to go is his soul- if he had one.
Felwinter crumbles further onto himself, resenting having now knowing who Siddhartha was beyond the name and of what Rasputin has told him. A choice taken from him, a chain brought upon his neck and not his ankle; because as he may walk among humanity, he will always be pulled back away. No mountain or person would ever make him have a place to stay.
The Siddhartha would not feel the same type of resentment. That he had not done enough in his life or that he was robbed of having been able to choose. That in the end his sudden death after a silly risk, even for the short time was cut, Siddhartha had lived, a machine lived and it was a marvelous thing. To have lived when you were never made to and to have lived enough to have died.
What a death it was. Siddhartha was desperate to continue humanity through knowledge. There was a chance he could have survived if he stayed with the group that made it to safety. Maybe he could have survived in the library, he was intelligent enough to find a way if that is what he wanted. If the glass didn't hit his spine.
Felwinter knows that in his death he would not be mourned like humans are to be. It would be expected that in the future he would be easily forgotten. He holds no regrets. Even if he were so foolish to expect the Iron Lords to trust one simple thing. That he, Dark Horse of the Iron Lords, once Warlord and Lord of Felwinter's Peak would have always put humanity first. That in all his monstrous and bleak nature, his awkwardness and all the inhuman nature he cannot hide and never chose to hide, he would have never let humanity be harmed so long as he still had his life.
Betrayal can be justified and unjust at the same time. Felwinter already knew he was losing that trust. It was known that they don't notice his absence anymore, his voice did not hold the weight that it once held. The situation allowed for a chance to leave, to go beyond this solar system. To not have to justify existence.
To die for a cause that wouldn't even falter for a hundredth of a second once your gone.
Memories are what define the experience and proof that one has lived. What is a person without other people having known, loved, hated, or remembered. Felwinter does not think his memory will last long, not he as a person or being, an it from the past. Unknown, undefined but existed once, yes. A rest to a life he foolishly wanted to live.
Why did he want to live so badly? To desire something he was borrowing from two beings above himself that Felwinter couldn't even hate. He can't cry and neither could Siddhartha. Oh, Siddhartha the fool who known that he would only be loved in death. What irony destiny has given them both? Poor thing knew that in choosing the same path as his fate, he would die, but it would be all his and no one else.
History is sovereign to the fullness of time.
So he must-
Get up!
Something falls next to him and he catches it out of instinct. Felwinter couldn't regain his own mind as he is met with pain. Echoes of thousands of deaths leaves him disoriented and his chest feels as though it has been punctured. He places the thing he catches down and tries to get up and stand. Everything was too bright and too loud. The floor is beyond cold and he doesn't remember falling.
His blood felt itchy and his head was reeling. Never had being revived felt like this. Felwinter can't seem to focus his eyes or stop swaying. Something is wrong and everything is too reflective. Trying to focus he brings his hand to grip whatever he was on and he just can't. Why does he feel so heavy?
A step was taken back. The sound of creaking leather was faint. Felwinter had the sound maker pinned in an instant. The movement caused many metal sounding things to fall and it makes everything feels worse.
Everything stops and hones onto the single sharp sound of a revolver's hammer clicking back. He knows the sound well. It is clarity in dying need to grasp onto something tangible. Felwinter blinks to re-adjust his eyes as he looks down at the exo below him. Barely does he catch a drip of color fall from his face to his and it rolls down. Slow he moves back and off the man. It is a frantic movement when he looks around trying to spot the color red, there is none.
He touches his own face and his greaves become stained with paint. Quickly he wipes away more of it and he just trying not to break. Looking away from his hands he sees Felspring alive with her single eye flickering wide, she's scared. She knows and he wishes he doesn't know why his body is heavier, his blood itching, and his fear holding his throat. His own helplessness tightens and tries to bend and break him but if he yields then what would be left to pick up.
All because he wanted to live. Was he a idealist to allow himself the temerity to think that he was able to own his own life. That the very essence of his being belonged solely to him even in the face of his creator he denied that there was ever another possibility. Now he knows that even then he thought the same and that at the end of it all, they might be wrong in thinking they could be free, that it was their right to be.
The man lets out a loud breath and spreads his arms out in a very dramatic display, it shocks Felwinter back to the present. It would be amusing if it wasn't for the amount of stress Felwinter was feeling currently. He turns to see Felspring looking between them but she is awfully quiet, he's just beyond happy that she is alright. Still crawling ever so slowly back he looks behind him to the window, everything became worse.
Standing up to get closer he sees the Last City in its entirety and it is ineffable. Never had he seen it so un-still and it is now large enough to the point he can not make out where it ends. He remembers when every single life could be fed by one man by a fire. Felwinter was there when they first built tents to sheds and then homes. It was in his lifetime did he lay witness to Lightbearers coming together to build walls from scrap. It was him and the Iron Lords and the multiple other that saw a dream and chased it high of hope and he has never felt more out of place. This old lightbearer can see lights, transportation, he sees buildings that kiss the sky underneath the Traveler.
The Traveler is awake…
There is a war inside himself as he is vulnerable to a dilemma. To cope with what has happened a part of him was frayed and holding onto the possibility that he is dreaming. That it all ended with SIVA. If he does that than doesn't that mean that all of this becomes false?
He stops seeing through the glass to look at his own reflection. It is an ugly sight, another proof to the reality that holds his spine straight. The smeared paint on his face; it is runny and wet, the path is not straight as it got caught on the uneven bent metal near his hollowed cheeks. An involuntary flinch happens when he thinks about how they came to be, Felwinter knows why Felspring kept them. Still, the paint might be the closest to crying he will ever feel.
Muddy greaves soak the rest of the paint with every swipe, until it is just Felwinter looking back at him.
"Think this means you don't what to kill me?" The exo's voice pitches higher as his eyes squint from behind him. He has an even more expressive face than Gryphon.
That was more amusing to him, he grasps onto the feeling and lets it distract him. Now that he's getting a better look at him he can pick apart from who this man could be. He was a Lightbearer but he can't sense any- the thought of Lord Timur's face as the red polluted doors closed passes quickly. Felwinter stops trying to read into things.
"Where am I?"
He is stared at before the exo leans as if to look around Felwinter to the window. "Don't think I need to tell you, do I?"
Felwinter knows that he is right. "My reaction was based on a deception of the mind. I am sorry for causing you any harm." He trying to show some amount of sincerity but he knows that it is a unavailing fight: he will always lose.
"Don't worry about, been on the wrong side of a revive before and got to say, not fun. Plus I am all in one piece and don't got to explain why I shot someone who was dead 10 minutes ago. Uh, remind me again, how are you not dead?" Black hood with red details, blue exo with a white horn mod on his forehead. Mouth lights a complementary color to his blue eyes. Easy to remember if needed.
He looks around some more while he can. This room is sterile and very advanced. Time has passed but he doesn't know the exact amount. Be best not to think on that too deeply while he is currently stuck here. "You know me." A statement.
The exo looks at Felspring and it is difficult to decipher what that face means. "There aint nobody in City that doesn't know who you are. Cayde-6." He winks while holstering the gun that has been in a lax grip, he finishes with a low bow. "You have been gone for a long time but don't worry you ain't the first. Less vex this time," he mumbles to the side.
"How encouraging, but why is the Vanguard involved in this?"
A small flicker in his eyes. "Few reasons, easier to explain with a proper meeting. I mean I wasn't there and well it was Big Blue who was in charge of the whole debacle."
He moves his body to lean against a cabinet, blocking his view from Felspring taking a peak inside.
"Forgive me, I am unfamiliar with the current Vanguard."
Leaning back against the door, Cayde remains on the surface unbothered. "Lucky for you, now you are aquatinted with the most handsome Hunter Vanguard. Ikora is Warlock Vanguard, and tell me if I am right, you know Zavala."
His voice gets caught in his throat for a moment. What has become of Osiris and Saint-14? The last time he witnessed a change of leadership was due to the sudden death of Tallulah Fairwind. Instead he asks another question.
"What has become of my people?"
Silence is a familiar and burdening as it takes space. When it is broken it adheres to Felwinter's sickly amount of fear.
"Huh?"
Trying again as Felspring slips him two disk shaped items -a hand open and behind himself away from view closes tightly around them. "The people who had lived at the foot of the mountain I once resided in," he doesn't dare to call it his, "where the Iron Temple was built. Do you know what happened to them?"
Another murderous pause. "I don't." He has since been indirectly blocking his view of the door, it becomes more apparent now. "But, Zavala would know, we can go talk to him now!"
Felspring knocked something over and it causes everything to stop. The sound that followed was a consistent rapid countdown. The small metal device that screamed when Felwinter picked it up.
They know. They know, they-
The thing stops screaming when he crushes it.
Felspring is quick to give him his helm, their friend is safe too. Cayde throws his hands up immediately.
"Look I know that looks bad but-"
Felwinter drops it and walks back to the window slowly. "What do you want from me?" He wills himself not to shake or show weakness. Not now, certainly not here.
The Hunger straightens his spine before he speaks. "Look, we need your help. Rasputin is offline. Not not dead but we kinda stuck him in an engram."
Of course its about Rasputin, even now who is Felwinter without Rasputin. If he hated Rasputin then maybe a weight would have been lifted off his chest but he didn't, he couldn't because if he did he would be hating the only being in this entire existence who knew him as he was.
"You what?" He looks to see if Felspring knows anything about this and she shakes her head. His hands hurt from griping himself so tight, but if he doesn't he won't be able to speak.
"I was told its either that or he you know, goes to the robot afterlife? Thing is, you know him. Not only that but you know how to fix him!" His hands close as he does a silent cheer. "So why don't I get you to Zavala and talk about it and hash out a plan."
Felwinter stops moving to weigh his options. He has nothing now. "What do you know about me?"
He lets out a breath of steam. "Not much if I'm being honest. Just that you choose humanity over whatever Rasputin was offerin you. Also you called you his son. Is that an adoption thing or a he made you? Wait is he dad or mom?"
This is so much really strange information that might be the thing keeping him sane at the moment. Felspring has stopped being quiet and is now currently yelling at Cayde. Something about misplacing my body? He is still stuck on the 'son' title he was apparently given. Even now Rasputin is still causing him trouble from and engram.
Did Rasputin mourn him?
He wants answers. Soon he will get them, it is that ambition that impleads his reason to continue. May it also be anger that fuels the very chassis many try and stake claim to. There is a chance that they don't want to kill him but it is a high likelihood they will try to keep him subdued. Felwinter was infuriated by everything that has come to this moment. The lie, the broken trust, the chains and responsibility and of his inability to be free.
"We are leaving." Felwinter is already halfway out the window. Cayde is already trying to stop him. "You will find me when I let you."