#destiny season of the chosen

[bedabug]

Season Pass art from Destiny 2: Lightfall

#destiny #destiny 2 #ive been collecting these since chosen but it honestly just occurred to me i should share em #destiny season pass art #destiny 2 lightfall

[gibsby]

redraw of a screenshot from season of the chosen... i love my boy so much

#destiny 2 #destiny the game #my art #digital art #crow #season of the chosen #literally drew this two years ago

[sundayswiththeilluminati]

FINALLY somebody addressing why I am sad about Rasputin’s characterization this season. Let grandpa get ANGRY let him get PISSED. Let him drop warsats on people again

The three pillars of the Warmind Rasputin in the Destiny narrative are mystery, tragedy, and power. Those are the story roles he fulfills and the themes and settings he provides. The Warmind DLC emphasized mystery and power. Season of the Worthy emphasized power and tragedy. Season of the Seraph so far has leaned hard on the tragedy with a side of mystery. That’s fine. It’s better than fine; I’m living for a Rasputin season that finally hammers home to the general player population how emotional his entire story is (and not just the parts with the Iron Lords) if only because I’m no longer the crazy person sitting in the corner yelling this computer is extremely sad actually here’s a 12-page lore essay based on deep analysis and textual inference. We’ve never encountered Rasputin in such a weak state before and that makes it the best time for a vulnerable narrative. So this season has gone for tragedy with backup mystery. That’s fine.

But let us not neglect his third role.

Why is it so important for Rasputin to demonstrate his power? Or, put another way, why is it so satisfying when he does? When Red shot down the Almighty, regardless of whether you liked the season or even the event leading up to it, when the Almighty shattered and that shockwave cracked across the Tower I bet you felt something. We’ve seen display after display of might from a range of characters, yet nothing - maybe this is a function of who I hang out with, but - nothing evokes as visceral a response from players as when the Warmind acts. Why?

First off I think a lot of people enjoy the narrative of the sleeping giant, the dormant volcano rumbling to life. Remember when the ents go to war in The Two Towers? It’s a real thrill to watch something vast stir itself to war on our behalf, and I am one thousand percent here for that exact trope. Second, Rasputin has a clear and easy-to-sympathize-with motive for some righteous revenge. Third, he has every right to and absolutely should get very, very angry and boy is it cathartic to watch someone vent that kind of fury against the status quo. Fourth, sometimes it’s just fun to watch big space explosions. But after giving it a lot of thought I think there’s another key aspect: because Rasputin is our home team.

Rasputin represents humanity, far more than Guardians do. In the Destiny universe Rasputin embodies the apex of human technology, engineering, creativity, power - human, not Guardian. So we all have a little bit of an affinity for the Warmind, not us as Guardians but us, the players, as human beings, because he is humanity’s representative at the table of Destiny powers. The weapons Rasputin wields are weapons we recognize as our own. The technology he builds evokes real concrete tech we use. He quotes books we’ve read, he plays music we listen to, he cites our history. He’s the home team, and we are all, whether we know it or not, way down deep we are all cheering for him just a little bit, because he represents the real world we live in pitting itself against the greatest threats fantasy and scifi can conjure up. Nobody gave him Light or picked him out as the special Chosen One. All his strength is our strength. When he exercises that power, we see our own civilization sticking up for itself against the unknown. He is, in all goddamn seriousness, Flag Admiral Stabby.

So I guess I’m wrong about what I said at the beginning. There are four aspects, not three, to Rasputin’s role in Destiny: mystery, tragedy, power, and humanity. He is the representative of what the human race can build and do. So let him wake up and demonstrate that maybe humans came late to the table but we sure didn’t waste any time. Let him wake up and remind everyone that humanity’s fate won’t just decided by the immortal god-children who terrorized them for centuries in concert with alien factions with superior technology and much longer histories. Humans can do incredible things when they put their minds to it and they don’t need a paracausal permission slip to try. Let Rasputin show the solar system the creativity, tenacity, and stubborn defiance we like to imagine as our species’ defining traits. Let him bring a gun to a wizard fight. And let him win.

#Destiny 2 #the Warmind Rasputin #Season of the Seraph #I mean and also it is fun to watch things explode #but yeah I thought for a while to work all this out #and I think there's something here that's key to Rasputin's popularity #he is us #he is our technology and our weaponry but he is also our culture and history #no magic no blessings no special chosen fate #just steel and fire and determination #there's a colonial narrative in here about how humanity is barely hanging on in its own solar system #while far greater powers turn it into their playground and battlefield #but that's a whole other essay on its own. #output generated #overthinking is my superpower #this is the wager of existence

[archivists-trove]

The Gilded Knife - Witnessed from the parley between Empress Caiatl and Commander Zavala, escorted by Savathûn under the guise of Osiris.

#d2 #destiny 2 #season of the chosen #empress caiatl #psion #commander zavala #osiris #savathûn #the cabal #my screenshots

[phantomwarrior12]

Meet Again

A/N: The Cabal character in this fic comes from the Helphas Electus Proving Grounds mission. I tried to project what I could surmise of his personality from his wiki page into his character with a “HE LIVES AU”. Enjoy! <3

TW: Description of death, image of death

---------------------

Ignovun still isn't sure how the Guardian got so close.

He's gone over that Helphas Electus Rite a thousand times. He should have died at the end of it. She should have killed him.

He remembers hitting his knees, struggling to draw breath. His massive form swayed, his helmet cracked from the impact of her blade barrage. His entire body alight with Solar energy and as he sunk back on his knees, his head lifted.

The Guardian was approaching him, a sword grasped firmly in her hands. He would not die cowering.

Ignovun had tried to lunge upward but only succeeded in stumbling toward her half a step before his hands planted on the steel paneling and he heaved a violent cough.

Her boots came into view and he dragged his head up. He could barely breathe then.

He could see himself in her visor. Battered,  broken and bleeding. But not defeated. He would never admit defeat.

The Vanguard had to die.

But she didn't move. The tip of her blade clanged as it met the floor. It wasn't poised for a strike.

"Finish it!" He bit out, another cough rattling his frame.

Her head tilted, angling back for a moment before nodding and the sword vanished between her fingers.

"What–"

"You get to live." She said simply and then she turned, leaving him in the arena.

He didn't see her again after that. Not while he is taken to the medical bay to be mended. Not in the months that followed where they battled the Lucent Hive. Not until Lord Saladin was brought in to repay a debt. Then-then he wonders if he remembers her correctly.

The Guardian stands beside Forge, listening to him explain something. What, it doesn't matter.

Ignovun doesn't think as he approaches. All those months ago - the tank, the Rite, his failure - it all comes rushing back. His strides grow rapid, his hands clench and he drags his weapon from his shoulders.

The Guardian turns as he lunges, narrowly blocking the blow but it does send her skidding across the room before she can catch herself.

It's the same blade.

She brandishes it and is in a defensive stance at once.

Ignovun nearly starts toward her once more until two guards place themselves between them. Until Valus Forge has come to her aid and insists Ignovun lowers his weapon and backs down.

“No! No, she–”

The Guardian drops out of her stance, stepping up beside Forge.

“You recognize him?” Forge asks softly though Ignovun can hear it all the same.

She nods solemnly, sliding her blade back along her shoulders. Her Ghost materializes beside her, “That’s the Centurion we faced in the Rite of Proving on the Helphas Electus…Caiatl asked us to spare him.”

His brow furrows in confusion as Saladin looks from the Ghost to the Centurion.

“The Empress asked you to…what?” Ignovun manages after a moment.

“She said you’d never admit defeat on your own but she wanted her fleet commander intact.”

“Sounds uncharacteristic of Caiatl,” Saladin remarks.

“Maybe he’s just that good?” Ghost’s shell shifts.

They talk but the Guardian doesn’t. Her gaze is fixed on him. Absent. Cold. Detached. She remembers him. She remembers that fight but she does not react.

A shell. A weapon. Nothing more.

The bridge doors open an instant later and the Empress enters with Commander Zavala at her side. She pauses, no doubt taking in the scene before her focus zeroes in on Ignovun. “What is going on?”

No one answers. For a moment, he considers stepping forward until the Guardian does so.

“Your Fleet Commander was kind enough to remind me of our previous meeting.” She says calmly, tilting her head, “I hardly recognized him out of ceremonial armor.” She looks over her shoulder at him and he narrows his eyes.

“Yes…the Rite of Proving that forged our alliance. A shame we were not victorious but I suppose it has reaped its own benefits.” She looks to Ignovun for an instant, his gaze drops shamefully before her focus shifts back to the Guardian.

“Acting as your allies has had better results than acting as your subservients, Empress,” Zavala interjects pointedly.

“...I’ll concede we’ve had successes.” She returns flatly, “Enough on the past. We have Nightmares to tend to. Resume your posts.”

He gives a partial bow as the guards return to their place by the door. His gaze locks with the Guardian’s for an instant before he returns to the console on the other side of the room.

The Empress leads Zavala to the war table and begins going over plans. Forge assists but the Guardian? She props herself against a pillar and doesn’t appear engaged at all. The disrespect is outrageous but he remains where he is. The last thing he wants is to anger his Empress.

Time ticks by, the two leaders find themselves in a tense debate and the Guardian looks increasingly uncomfortable. She pushes off the pillar, beginning to meander between stations as if searching for a distraction. By the time she’s anywhere near him, the debate has grown exponentially in volume and she looks ready to dart.

He eyes her carefully, noting the tension in her posture, the way she evades looking toward the discussion behind her. She must not realize how close she is to him because by the time her head lifts, she’s within a few feet of his arm. She jolts back abruptly, evading his gaze as she takes a wide berth around him and heads toward the bridge doors.

Only when they close does her Commander and Forge take note of her absence.

“Where did she–” Zavala stops himself, gaze fixating on Ignovun, “Where’s the Guardian?”

“Left the bridge, sir.” He returns tightly.

Caiatl squares her shoulders, “Why?”

“Unknown, Empress.”

“Well, retrieve her. She’ll be leading this operation and I want her included in the planning.” She gestures harshly toward the door.

“Of course.”

Ignovun heads toward the door, beginning his search of the ship. He ends up finding her in the hanger, seated on the wing of her ship as she stares out at the cosmos beyond the shield. Her arms are folded, resting atop her knees and she doesn’t look over until he’s within ten feet of her.

“The Empress requests your return.”

Her head tilts toward him but doesn’t look away from the stars. She nods and, unsurprisingly, doesn’t start moving.

“Now.”

She waves him off, irritation creeping into her posture. He waits, silently willing her to change her mind.

She doesn't. She sits there and they're both trapped in an uncomfortable silence. It makes him want to attack her again but it's clear he won't get the opportunity.

She nearly killed him once, there would be no one to stop her a second time.

This entire situation is preposterous. He won't beg but he will instill the urgency of the situation - Caiatl is more forgiving than her father but even she has her limits.

"If I return without you, the Empress would be very displeased."

Her shoulders sag a fraction, he's sure he's earned a glare before she straightens her legs out and slides off the ship. Her boots clump against the metal flooring before she adjusts her hood and starts past him.

“You shouldn’t run from conflict.” He warns and she stills, her helmet angling up as if she were looking at him.

He has her full attention.

He’s not sure what to do with it.

His shoulders square in a show of indignance, "And you don't have to lie on my behalf."

Her head tilts, her shoulders rise in a shrug. She lingers a moment longer before walking away. Her stride doesn’t hold it’s usual bravado, it’s more measured, deliberate - almost reluctant.

Perhaps there might be more to the Vanguard's weapon than he previously believed.

—---------------

The next time he sees her, she's speaking for Forge. He's heard fragments in passing about the Throne World, about what they're all doing there.

They're reclaiming their Light, one enemy at a time.

It would admirable if he didn't loathe her as much as he does.

Forge has noticed his gaze, his focus shifting entirely to Ignovun.

The Guardian straightens slightly, tilting her head before following his gaze. Her helmet is still in place but he swears he can see the curiosity in that visor.

He huffs a snort of disgust and turns back to his console.

Forge's voice carries across the bridge behind him, "Is there something you needed, Commander?"

"No," he bites back.

The Valus starts to argue but falls silent an instant later.

Ignovun chances a look toward him; the Young Wolf has laid her hand on his shoulder and is nodding back to the console before them.

Redirecting. Again.

Why does she keep doing that?

Stop fighting my battles for me!

It tears through his mind and yet all he can do is stand there and glare. Even that does not fully convey his contempt and rage for the Guardian.

He knows she can feel his gaze. Her weight has shifted, her shoulders have squared and there is nothing about her that gives the impression of vulnerability in that moment.

It's a clear message: My mercy is not to be confused with weakness.

He grumbles and turns back to the console. He can't even begin to focus on the reports before him until the doors slide open and the Guardian is departing.

He looks over, watches her bid her farewells to Forge before her head turns toward him a fraction.

Her expression had better not be pity or he'll–

"Commander," Forge speaks and his focus is forced to the Valus as the Guardian takes her leave.

Forge approaches, his brow furrowed in a stern expression as he meets Ignovun's gaze. "I understand you resent the Guardian for what happened aboard the Helphas Electus. But I expect you to show her respect when she's on this bridge."

"She is unworthy–"

"She has the Empress's respect. Are you claiming it's misplaced?"

Ignovun straightens, his anger resurfacing, "Of course not!"

"Then show her respect, Commander, before I bring this to Caiatl's attention." Forge returns to his post and Ignovun is fuming.

He'll never understand the nonchalance humans display when addressing the Empress. They don't hold her in the regard she deserves but, surprisingly, she doesn't mind.

If anything, she seems to enjoy when Zavala addresses her by name and not title.

Ignovun shakes his head. He's getting sidetracked. Letting his mind wander to arbitrary things and…topics he has no place deliberating. He forces his gaze to the console in front of him.

Still, curiosity gets the better of him.

He searches up the footage from Mars staging area - the cannons the Guardian had used to get aboard Savathún's ship. He watches her fight her way to the barrel and noted only a moment's hesitation before she jumped inside to be launched heavenward toward who knows what.

Does she know fear? Is that something she can feel?

"You're enamored." Forge remarks from beside him.

Ignovun jolts, taking a step back in surprise.

When did Forge - never mind that.

He glares at the Iron Lord, his hands clenching at his sides.

But Forge? He's calm. Smiling at the stilled image of the Guardian.

Ignovun settles on simple denial. "I am not."

"She's a remarkable warrior. I'm sure that's caught your attention, at least at first." Forge shifts sharp brown eyes to Ignovun. “You’ve been beaten before. But you’ve never obsessed, have you?”

“That isn’t what this is,” he grits out.

“Then what is it?” Forge looks almost amused and it infuriates Ignovun.

“None of your concern,” he turns back to the console, switching off the footage and pulls up the report. “I’m forwarding an update on the Lucent brood to your station. I suggest you return to it.”

“Of course,” Forge uncrosses his arms though his voice is smug as he disappears from Ignovun’s peripheral.

His hands still over the console for a moment before he glances toward the door. He’s not enamored or obsessing. He wants to understand his opponent - decipher why and how he lost all those months ago.

Of course, he’s heard the stories. He knows how she’s felled Hive gods, even Savathún, Rhulk the First Disciple of the Witness, Ghaul and an Ahamkara. Could he have been successful? Is there a chance he could have gotten the upper hand at some point?

Yes. Of course! He is Cabal! They eat the mountains and drink the seas!

The Guardian is a formidable foe and one day, he will beat her and regain his honor.

But for now, he will remain vigil and serve his Empress.

As he always has.

-----------------

One month later…

He's overrun.

The Empress sent him on this mission expecting success. But their intel, it was all wrong. His squad was wiped out in an instant and his cover is quickly crumbling beneath fire.

Ignovun tightens his hold on his weapon, preparing to face the brood head-on. If he is to die here, he will make it a battle worthy of a legend.

He charges from the pillar, launching solar into the air as the machine gun spins up and begins to shed thrall, acolyte and knights alike.

A shot clips his bicep from the left and he spins, cursing under his breath when he spots the arrival of reinforcements. He falls back, still shredding the Hive encroaching on the line he's forged.

He'll be overrun in moments.

Suddenly, the Hive around him ignite, blades scorching Earth and worn flesh alike. He knows those blades, he's felt those blades–

The Guardian tucks and rolls her landing before hurling her knife into an acolyte closing on him and he rises.

"I don't need your help!" He barks out.

She doesn't answer. She never answers. She just goes on killing things as if she were born to it.

At some point, a Hive Knight lands a blow while Ignovun watches.

She hits the ground, skidding and rolling until her back meets stone and her form goes limp.

She can't be–

He moves then. Torn from his stupor and charges. Solar energy ignites and shoots out, incinerating the brood before he cleaves his axe through the Knight. He places himself between them all and the Hunter sprawled on the ground.

Her Ghost has cautiously come out - she is dead.

He realizes it and then deploys a bubble shield, "Revive her quickly!" He snaps, eyeing the Lucent Hive just beginning to break the barrier.

He readies himself but just as he begins to charge, a grenade flies past him and the Guardian is pushing herself up to her feet. She still looks worse for wear but she snatches up her rifle and is at his side.

"You're–"

"In one piece," she interrupts, firing off a few shots.

"Fully healed?"

"Not by a long shot," her Ghost supplies over the comms. "But there isn't time enough to mend everything."

"So, you didn't die?"

She shakes her head, hurling her knife into a Knight.

That's a relief but he worries now she might slow them both down. It's a concern she swiftly puts to rest. The Guardian moves quicker than he can, clearing a path out of the halls. It's only when she stops to check on him that they're ambushed by an Ogre.

Its claws pierces her chest and the Guardian goes still.

It jerks its massive hand back and she crumples to the floor.

N-now she's dead.

He can't bring himself to get near her, instead forcing his focus to the Ogre. He charges, his axe drawn and the Solar orbs scorching from his spinal cannon. It's a brief battle. He overran the opposition almost instantly.

Then. Then he can return to her side.

"Area's clear," he says just before the Ghost materializes, immediately shifting back away from him.

Ignovun gently rolls the Guardian onto her side so he can lift her into his arms. Her body is limp, the warmth beginning to ebb and it's an odd sensation. His eyes drift over her helmet for a moment, "I could see her face at last," he remarks.

The face of his enemy. A face to the nightmare - perhaps it'll be enough to make his rest peaceful again.

"Remove her helmet!" He barks sharply and her Ghost darts back a little further.

"That's not–"

"You'll do as your told or the next time you appear, you'll be ground to dust in my hand."

He could swear the Ghost looks indignant but it's clear that his Guardian will not be safe to revive until Ignovun's demands are met.

So, the Little Light relents, transmatting the helmet away. The Fleet Commander is pleased as his gaze drops to the Hunter in his arms.

Her features are soft, softer than he imagined for a woman who lives like a weapon. He can't see her eyes but he memorizes the color of her hair, the curve of her jaw, her every feature before he gently touches her skin.

Even that is soft.

"She looks to be in pain."

"Being impaled isn't the worst way she's died." Ghost admits.

"What was the worst?"

The Ghost mulls it over, transmatting the helmet back into place. "Oryx. He incinerated her at one point. She said it felt like every cell in her body was torn apart individually and then exploded inside of her. Worst pain she's ever been in…she still uses it as a point of reference to measure her pain."

"She remembers every death?"

"Most. It's really just the pain that stands out. She said it kind of lingers in her muscles post-rez."

His head tilts but he nods,"Bring her back…and Ghost?"

The Little Light angles up to look at him.

"Not a word of this to your Guardian."

Her Ghost gives no response; obviously he'll tell her but Ignovun had to try. Still, as the Light ignites along Ghost's shell before it separates, Ignovun holds her steady against him.

A moment of silence before she bolts upright, gasping for air and coughing. She presses a hand to her chest, no doubt catching up in an instant before her head tilts up to him.

She's out of his arms and on her feet in an instant. He watches her adjust her hood before stooping to pick up her hand canon, checking the barrel immediately before sliding it back in her holster.

The Guardian gives him an appreciative nod before she looks toward their objective.

A short-lived moment, but he's come to understand her a little better. Her compassion compromises her, leaves her open to an attack. He can't help but wonder about her, yet he knows better than to get swept up.

He's learning how to best her. That's all.

When his eyes lift to her, he notes she's taken a step closer and is offering a hand up.

There is no world in which she'd be able to help him to his feet but he finds the gesture…amusing?

He rises on his own, lifting his machine gun and squares his shoulder. "If you're going to accompany me, stick close. The orbs seek out enemies and I wouldn't call you an ally."

Her head tilts and he can hear a soft snort before she nods. He detects no animosity from her as she starts toward the objective, drawing her auto rifle from her back.

She clearly trusts him not to kill her. It's well placed…for the time being.

The ensuing battle through the corridors is quick. She plays off his attacks, cleaning up stragglers until they reach the massive Knight. That's when the Hunter’s fighting style shifts again.

She does all she can to draw its attention away from Ignovun and the instant he's out of the line of fire, Light ignites along her form. Not a barrage this time, but a gun so bright the Fleet Commander must divert his eyes as the shots split the air.

The Hive Knight drops, the Guardian's Light fades and she looks pleased. Her focus shifts to him and she holds up a thumbs up…Forge had explained its significance at some point when she'd done it in front of him.

Ignovun huffs, shaking his head and starts back toward the staging area. The mission is complete. Their target is down. He can return to the ship, put this all behind him and go over what he’s learned of the Guardian - she’s at his side. Matching his stride with two of her own as they walk as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

It makes his trigger finger itchy.

Her head is on a swivel, her own fingers braced along the side of her trigger. His hold on the machine gun doubles down, pushing back the instinct to strike while she’s unaware.

Now is not the time. But it will come; a time when his Empress asks him to finish what he started aboard the Helphas Electus.

He has to bide his time.

When they make it back to the dropship, the Guardian lets her Ghost transmat the weapon away before she drops down onto the floor in the corner. Her frame sags against the cold steel before her head angles back against the wall.

It occurs to him that the floor cannot be comfortable after a mission but he has little interest in aiding her. Instead, Ignovun moves toward the cockpit to speak with the pilot and retrieve a data pad.

He needs to be up to date by the time he returns to the ship.

The flight back is silent. The Young Wolf has clearly fallen asleep, propped against the wall and at some point, a War Beast lumbered over to her and laid down beside her. Its head settled in her lap and he had watched her absently stroke the scales until she drifted off again.

The Beast proceeded to snuggle in and keep her upright for the remainder of the flight.

It only left her side when its handler whistled for it.

That's when the Guardian woke, jostled by the Beast escaping her embrace.

Ignovun watches her over the edge of his datapad. She stretches a little before shifting. The sway of the docking keeps her on the floor for the moment, her head lifting and no doubt scanning the hold until she finds him.

She does seem nervous all of a sudden, but he can't place exactly why or what may have caused it. Regardless, when the ship settles, they both rise and make their way to the bridge.

But she isn't beside him this time.

She hangs back a few feet, feigning interest in a few panels they pass to keep the space between them.

It's him. He makes her nervous now that they're back on the ship.

But why?

She was bizarrely comfortable in the field? What could–

"Ah, Commander." Caiatl's voice drags him from his musing. "I'm pleased to see the Guardian made it to you in time."

He nods respectfully, eyes diverting to the Young Wolf as she steps past him and takes her place at Forge's side. "Thank you, Empress."

"We'll be more diligent in the future to avoid another ambush. It seems these Hive are far more…competent than those we've faced before."

"I did mention that," Forge grumbles, turning back to the console with the Young Wolf peering over his shoulder awkwardly.

"So you did," Caiatl returns flatly before her gaze darts back to Ignovun. "You were the sole survivor?"

"Unfortunately, yes. We were overrun in an instant. And what few I could shield fell soon after."

Caiatl looks to be disappointed - whether it's in Ignovun or the state of things, he isn't sure.

"Very well. Get some rest, Commander. We can manage while you recover."

"Empress, if I may–"

Her hand settles heavily on his shoulder, "Rest, Ignovun. There will be time enough for battle tomorrow."

He relents, conceding a nod. "Of course."

Her hand lifts and he watches her stride over to Forge and the Guardian. The Hunter keeps her focus on the console but her head does angle a fraction upward as if that were acknowledgement enough for the Empress.

Again with their nonsensical nonchalance.

He should be outraged but when Caiatl doesn't admonish them for it, his frustration fizzles out.

The Guardian gets away with it all and that should enrage him.

Why doesn't it?

He lingers a moment longer before shaking his head, clearing away that particular wormhole of thought.

Rest. Yes, that sounds ideal.

But before he turns, he catches sight of the Guardian eyeing him. Not in a hostile, scrutinizing manner. But an innocent sort of curiosity.

For a moment, her features flash at the forefront of his thoughts. He's reminded she's not just a weapon beneath that armor but for now, that's all he can afford to think of her as.

A weapon on loan from the Vanguard.

Here and gone within a day. Her presence is a rare thing but when she is there? When he turns and she hovers beside Forge or studies him, Ignovun experiences this…odd sensation in his chest.

At first it caused him concern - he attributed it to anger or the memories from the Rite of Proving.

But now? After seeing her face, it's…there's no chance it's resentment or anger.

It's an emotion he can't place but its not a pleasant one. He hates her too much for it to be anything other than hostile in nature.

He's held her gaze for far longer than he likes.

He glares, squaring his shoulders before he wheels and storms from the bridge.

She will not get too close this time. He'll be ready for her.

This time, he will not fail.

-----------------

A few days later…

"...you want us to do what?" The Guardian’s Ghost sputters, flickering forward.

"Are you not up to the challenge?" Caiatl chuckles.

"You want us to fight him?" Ghost looks from Ignovun to Caiatl.

Forge steps in, laying a hand on the Guardian's shoulder, "Caiatl–"

"I believe it would be a good challenge. My Commander doesn't see eye to eye with your Guardian. Let them resolve it here."

The Young Wolf’s head tilts as she crosses her arms over her chest. Her response is clear: I've beat him already. What more do you want?

"This time, fight without your Light." Caiatl returns flatly, "You'll be evenly matched and we won't have to humor anymore…tension."

Ignovun straightens a fraction, noting the Guardian's annoyed head tilt before her arms fall back to her sides and she nods.

Forge squeezes her shoulder, muttering to her, "Don't kill him."

She pats his hand before stepping away and heading down to the arena without sparing Ignovun a glance.

He looks to Caiatl who gives a firm nod. She must have noticed the hostility the last few months but it confuses him. Isn't she expecting him to kill the Guardian when the Vanguard is past the point of usefulness?

"Go on," she gestures and he has no choice but to move. His gaze locks with Forge's for an instant before he makes his way down to the arena.

When he arrives, he realizes her gauntlets and leg armor have changed. The bladed gauntlets are replaced with something…less ornate but there is still a blade braced along her forearm. Just, longer and more functional. But the leg armor is entirely different. Metal plating along her thighs, and he doesn't understand the small tubing attached at different points on the armor.

"What is this?" He gestures.

"Just swapping equipment," her Ghost supplies. "These are Stomp-EE5."

He snorts, "Why not the bladed gauntlets?"

"Those amplify her Light when she supers. Since that's not an option here, doesn't make sense to use them, does it?"

Ignovun grumbles and turns, hoisting his cleaver from the rack beside him. "Choose a weapon, Guardian. This will be quick."

She nods, stepping up to the rack near her. Some of the weapons would look comical in her hands given their sheer size. She doesn't seem to like any of them and instead, steps back and draws her own blade from her back.

Quick Fang he'd heard Forge call it. The same blade she nearly killed him with the first time. She brandishes the blade for a moment before falling back into a defensive stance.

His gaze darts up to the box Forge and Caiatl are watching from. The Iron Lord seems anxious, but the Empress? Her arms are crossed and there's a thrill he can make out from here.

Ignovun squares his shoulders, readjusting his grip on the cleaver before he charges. He remembers her mobility, but she's even quicker now. Dodging and sidestepping his swings but she doesn't attack. Perhaps she's trying to find a pattern?

He won't give her one. He won't allow her to beat him a second time!

He changes his attack, throwing the brunt of his weight into a swing before shifting abruptly and landing a kick to her side.

She goes flying, hitting the ground and tumbling a few feet before she's able to get her feet under her and she skids to a crouched stance. She touches her side gingerly, no doubt registering the cracked ribs before her grip tightens.

He can see the exact moment she realized he isn't just sparring. She's in a fight for her life and he knows she won't hold back any longer.

He rushes again, but this time, this time she's ready. He tries another combination, intent on shattering a leg to take away her mobility but the Guardian dodges. She pivots and the next instant, there is a slash along his shoulder, forcing spasming muscle to involuntarily drop his cleaver.

He tries to swing but she slides between his legs, twirling and her boot collides with the back of his knee, forcing him to the ground.

No! Not again!

He roars, snatching up his cleaver and swings blindly behind him. He can feel the impact of his blade against…he doesn't know what, but another slash and it topples from his hand.

She slams him forward, a boot planted between his shoulders and then her blades are at his throat from behind. His arms tremble with pain, his head straining to remain upright and avoid certain death if there's so much as a slip.

"Yield," the Guardian bites out lowly. He can hear the pain in her voice but he can't find the words. He will not accept defeat, not again–

The metal grates against the skin of his throat, she's trying to force him to yield.

"You'll have to kill me, Guardian." He growls back and she presses the blades a little closer.

"This isn't worth your life, Commander." She pleads.

He's never heard that from her. Never heard a whisper of desperation but whether that stems from her own injuries or a deep-seated need to play savior, he isn't sure.

Ignovun only knows he will not grant her that satisfaction.

"You stripped me of my honor aboard the Helphas Electus. I will not endure further dishonor to the likes of you–"

She's drawn blood. Pain sings along nerves and he clenches his hands into fists to stay the cry lodged in his throat.

"Commander! Either you yield and put this nonsense aside or the Guardian kills you. The choice is yours." Caiatl calls and her voice echoes through the arena.

Ignovun feels the Young Wolf stiffen - she wants no part of this. Her blades start to ease away as she leans back.

He moves then, pushing himself upright and knocking the Guardian back. She hits the ground with an umph and scrambles back as he pushes himself up to his feet.

Ignovun snatches up his cleaver, ignores the burning along his arms as he lumbers toward her.

She gets to her feet, twirling her knife in one hand and brandishes her sword in the other. He can see the blood staining her side - that's where his cleaver found its mark.

He has to–

There is apprehension in her stance. But not fear. She doesn't want to have to kill him - pitiful.

He heaves a roar and charges. The Guardian bolts to the side, pivoting and swinging around to his back. She could slash, she could take him out then he realizes, but she doesn't. She just retreats, keeping distance between them.

When he wheels, her head is jerked up toward the box, no doubt looking to Forge for an answer as she clutches at her side.

The Valus is voicing his protests as they fight and when Ignovun charges again, the Young Wolf evades a second time. This time launching herself up onto one of the barricades - a precarious place to balance.

Again she looks to Forge. He's fallen silent and gives her a nod.

Permission. She has it.

Her focus shifts back to Ignovun.

"There's nowhere left to run, Guardian."

She hesitates, looking back up to the box before her weapons lower. "Killing me will allow you to reclaim your honor?"

"You're not just going to surrender!" He bites out, "It'd be pointless."

Her head tilts, her knife slipping back into its sheath as she drops off the barricade. It's less graceful than she would have been, her hand immediately bracing against her side.

What is she doing now?

The Guardian attacks then, forcing him back a few steps but her blows are measured. She doesn't go for anything lethal, but blows he can counter in his battered condition. She's not letting him win but…this isn't her full strength.

He swings then, knocking her back a few feet.

"Enough! I'm not a child you can placate! Clearly, you can best me! Why don't you?!" He fumes, "End this!"

She looks to Forge and he nods again.

"You have your mentor's blessing! Do it!"

She shakes her head, tossing her sword to the side and lets her hands fall to his sides.

"You insult me!"

"Get over it." She retorts evenly. "This is about your pride, Commander. You will not let me yield nor will you do so yourself. We're at an impasse and I refuse to kill you." She kneels down, sitting back on her heels as she holds his gaze.

That's all.

She's placed herself at his mercy, just like that.

"You're a fool if you think I won't kill you."

Her head tilts and she nods as if encouraging him to do it.

He looks down at the cleaver in his hand; it feels…heavier with this choice before him. He has imagined a thousand moments like this - her, on her knees before him. Awaiting a death at his hands. But not like this.

There is no honor in killing an opponent who willingly surrendered.

His gaze shifts back to the Hunter and the next instant, his cleaver lodges into the metal panel beside her.

She doesn't even flinch.

"There is no honor in killing you now. No victory. Keep your life, Guardian. But know this: There will come a time the Empress calls upon my blade for your head. And that time, I will beat you."

Her head tilts as she rises, but she just regards him for an instant before retrieving her sword. She moves past him then, cleaning his blood from her weapon before it slides back along her shoulders and she disappears out of the arena.

He looks to the box above, to his Empress and she shakes her head.

"This alliance will endure, Commander. The time you speak of will never come to pass. Accept this role or step down." She turns and Forge follows her from the room.

He's left on his own, reeling with the reality set before him.

The Guardian–

No. He cannot blame this on her this time. He has made a fool of himself of his own accord.

But can he let this go? Can he put aside this burning resentment for her?

Only time will tell.

------------------

It's another few weeks before the Guardian returns to the flagship. And it's only because the Leviathan has resurfaced and docked itself above their moon.

She evades him at every opportunity. Deliberately refusing to meet his gaze and instead, keeps her focus on Forge or Caiatl herself. Making a point to steer clear of his station.

She isn't afraid of him, clearly. But she is…cautious.

Why should it matter to him? He wanted her dead before, but now? Grasping at straws of what he thought was his purpose? How does she play into it?

Caiatl is also going out of her way to keep them separated. He never gave her an answer but, he supposes, for the time being…he can tolerate the Guardian if it means doing his duty.

The weeks tick by, they work to sever the Leviathan from the Lunar Pyramid.

The Nightmare of Ghaul is permanently bound to Caiatl's side. It's daunting but Ignovun does all he can to aid his Empress.

Until she's had enough. Until he accompanies her to the Leviathan alongside two Bracus and an Optis. Until they are clearing a hall of Loyalists and Scorn–

He knows that sound better than any of them. It haunts his dreams, torments his soul.

An instant later, a barrage of flaming blades soars between the four of them, exploding along the closest of the adversaries.

He has but a moment to look over before the Guardian comes charging through.

Ignovun activates his comm, "The Guardian has arrived."

"What?" Caiatl's anger is palpable over the link and as the Young Wolf clears the room, he can hear the Empress's warnings over the Guardian's commlink.

It doesn't slow her. Not when she incinerates a Centurion. Not when she deactivates the lockdown. And certainly not when she charges past the turbine toward the Empress and her Nightmare.

She's faced Ghaul once before, after all. Ignovun doesn't doubt she can best him again but Caiatl? Her victory will be what matters.

He is forced to watch as his Empress wrestles with her demon, struggling to push past the barbs and digs of her mentor.

When Ghaul's manifestation falls and the Guardian returns to Caiatl's side, he can read the telltale signs of exhaustion, of worry, even, in her frame. Her hand settles against Caiatl's arm and the Empress bristles, forcing the Guardian back a few steps. She withdraws a moment later, moving past Ignovun and the others.

Not upset but merely recognizing the mission is over and she can be of no more help.

"Guardian!" He calls and she stops, pivoting to face him.

He casts his gaze toward Caiatl, gestures for the others to tend to her before he approaches the Young Wolf.

Her back straightens, shoulders drawn back as he stops short of her.

"...thank you. I fear today would have gone differently had you not arrived when you did."

Her head tilts before she nods, her frame relaxing a fraction.

"I suppose…you're not as," he hesitates a moment, "horrendous as I once thought."

Her shoulders shake in a silent laugh before she offers him a hand.

He looks from the outstretched appendage to her helmet before his large hand closes around hers.

"I cannot guarantee we'll come to be friends, but you have my respect, Guardian…and my appreciation."

She nods again and this time, this time it seems relieved. As if she too has been uncomfortable with the tension between them these last few weeks. As if the occasional glances toward him were filled with regret rather than apprehension and paranoia.

As if she could care about him.

"You should return to the H.E.L.M. We will tend to the Empress and contact your Vanguard when a course of action is decided."

The Guardian nods, withdrawing her hand from his.

Odd. He never thought he'd grow to like that sort of contact - least of all from her.

Still, he wills his focus to the Young Wolf and away from his own confusions.

She gives a wave and backs toward the door nonchalantly. He simply nods and turns away to head toward the breach pod.

He feels as though he should say something more, but it wouldn't matter now.

So, they part ways.

-----------------

That was the last binding.

Ghaul is gone. The link between the Lunar Pyramid and the Leviathan should be severed.

Ignovun had barely managed a few words to the Guardian before he was recalled to the flagship.

But even then, aboard the Leviathan, she'd stood closer to him than she ever had before. She held his gaze and although she seemed tired, she indulged his debriefing before she was called away.

In the end, her hand had settled along his forearm and the skin felt as though it tingled in response.

It could have been her Light. He's heard of Guardians projecting their power in manners that reflect their mood. He could certainly feel the warmth of her Solar Light but could that trigger nerves and stutter his heartbeat? And if so, what did it mean for her own emotions?

That can't be his focus right now.

A week passed and Caiatl called upon the Guardian for one last plunge into the depths of the Leviathan to wrench Calus from his cocoon and end this hell before it can truly unfurl.

As for him, he were ordered to remain on the flagship. To be ready for anything but when the Empress returned, she bore not the face of victory, but one of defeat.

The announcement came soon after: Calus was dead in any real sense. He had given himself over to the Witness and they will work with the Vanguard to coordinate a next move.

The Guardian didn't return to the flagship, nor did she venture near it in the coming

weeks. He found himself…longing for her company? Is that something he could do, feasibly?

He'd hated her for so long. And even here, she hadn't spoken to him but there was…an unspoken something that was forged in the glances and subtle looks.

Hostility warped into something else. Something so uncharacteristically like him to feel.

Their fleeting interaction aboard the Leviathan has awoken this feeling and he almost hates it.

But it binds him to her so he tolerates it.

Two weeks turn to three and he's had enough.

He speaks with Caiatl, requests a brief leave to go to the H.E.L.M. as that's where Forge told him she spent most of her time now.

Caiatl, of course, had been suspicious. She pressed him for answers, he had none to give but he assured her that he would conduct himself accordingly and she relented.

It's where he finds himself now; standing in the docking bay, scanning the space. He notes her ship before venturing toward the command center.

He's pleasantly surprised to find the Guardian there, hovering by the Crow while he works.

Does she only ever hover because she has no patience for the order of things?

His footsteps draw both their attention and the Bracus near the door straightens up a fraction.

He gestures for him to be at ease before he approaches the two Hunters.

"Commander Ignovun, I didn't…well, ever expect to see you here." Crow remarks, trying to will a smile into place.

"Yes, well…I came to speak with your Guardian if she has a moment." His gaze shifts to the Young Wolf and her head lifts a fraction.

She pushes off the station and nods, gesturing for him to follow.

Crow reaches for her for an instant before she gestures, no doubt assuring him it'll be fine before moving toward the back hallway.

Once out of earshot of Crow, the Guardian turns to face him with an expectant tilt of her head.

What brought you here?

It passes between them silently and he realizes he will have to be the one that breaks that silence.

"You…haven't been to the flagship in some time." He squares his shoulders as he speaks, trying to rally some semblance of dignity. He is well aware of how all this sounds.

Petty. Whiny. Unbefitting someone of his status.

But looking at her now?

He cares a little less about that. He's just relieved to see her again.

Her Ghost transmats beside her, "The Leviathan is all but handled and until we have a next move, we're…not needed there."

"Untrue. The Leviathan is not completely free of Nightmares. Surely our forces could benefit from–"

The Young Wolf steps closer, her palm settling along the side of his hand - she knows.

She can see through his excuses and complaints. His ill-attempted efforts to make it seem as though there is a genuine need for her abilities aboard the flagship.

"Missed me already, Commander?" She asks softly yet her voice holds a teasing lilt.

"Of course not," he grumbles, absently taking her hand even as his shoulders square. "I just…you're not one to leave a job unfinished."

"Technically speaking, she left you unfinished," her Ghost remarks smugly.

The Guardian laughs and Ignovun can't find the heart to be angry.

"That's beside the point." He kneels down to meet her gaze, "Can the Vanguwrd spare you or not?"

"I think they can," her Ghost returns.

He angles his head a fraction as the Guardian steps up to him. She holds there for a weighted instant before she nods encouragingly for him to speak.

"I want to hear you say you'll come back and aid us." He leans in a fraction.

"I'll help you clean out the Leviathan, Commander…on one condition."

"Name it." He answered too quickly. He knows that. But the way her head tilts? She didn't mind.

"No more hiding behind excuses. It doesn't suit you," she grazes the edge of his mask with her free hand. "Do we have a deal?"

Clever woman.

"You have my word."

She withdraws with an enthusiastic nod.

"We'll get our gear!" Ghost calls as she starts back up toward the command center.

He can only stare after her, his chest alight with an emotion he never thought possible when it came to her. He has to force himself to walk, to move from that secluded hall and back toward the hanger.

She'll meet him there.

He begins to wonder if she, too, has felt this confusion. If her agreeing to return stems from her own affections?

No.

Affection seems too far to take this, too much of stretch, too much of an assumption. She's never–

He stills at the foot of the ramp, gaze darting over the paneling in front of him.

Has she ever shown an indication of something like affection?

No, surely he hasn't been privy to that–

Her hand is against his forearm and his head snaps downward, focus fixating on her helmet.

"Are you alright?" Her voice is impossibly quiet, cautious even.

He stares for a weighted moment and her hand withdraws slowly, falling to her side as she steps back. Her demeanor shifting, as if she's overstepped and suddenly regrets it.

No.

He reaches for her, pressing his palm against her shoulder and her head tilts down to the contact.

"I'm fine, Hunter. We should get back."

She nods but doesn't move as her gaze shifts back up to his. She leans a little into his hand like an affectionate bump before placing her hand over his.

Her touch is…gentle. Warm. Tender.

Nothing he'd call her but just this once? He thinks of her as something he wouldn't mind letting touch him if it meant she were this close all the time.

She pulls away a moment later and he can only stand and watch as she ascends the ramp. She pivots at the top, tilting her head like a question.

Are you coming?

He had thought she'd take her ship but this? This somehow seems better.

He treads up the ramp, "Your ship–"

"Flying remotely," her Ghost transmats beside her and flickers upward.

Ignovun nods slowly, "Very well. Make yourself comfortable, Guardian." He steps past her, trying and failing to ignore the slight disappointment evident in the sag of her shoulders.

It is disappointment, isn't it?

He moves up to the cockpit, orders the pilot to return to the flagship and when he turns back, the Guardian has taken a seat near the back corner of the cargo hold.

There is something like dejection in her posture; shoulders slumped, her head bowed against her chest, an arm slung over a bent knee in a position he can't believe is comfortable.

It all shifts when she notices his gaze. She sits more upright, her shoulders drawn back and her chin up.

She didn't want him to notice her mood.

If it were before the Leviathan, he wouldn't care. He'd presume it's her own problem to settle but now? Now he wants to know what has snuffed that spark.

He moves across the cargo hold, aware that her gaze is fixed squarely on him until he takes a seat opposite her.

"What troubles you?"

She shakes her head, gesturing dismissively until he takes her hand in his and her whole form goes rigid.

Not in a defensive sort...but in surprise. In complete and utter shock.

"Tell me. We'll fix it."

Her head tilts and her hand shifts in his, gently tracing her thumb along his.

I'm fine.

It passes between them silently and he nods at last. He rises, moving to sit beside her much to both their surprise before she squeezes his hand.

They stay there for a time. Nothing uttered but a comfortable sort of silence settles over them as the ship lifts off. It's not a long flight back but evidently, it's long enough for the Young Wolf to drift off, leaning into him.

He was surprised to feel her head against his tricep. When he looked down, it was clear she was fast asleep and he didn't have the will to jostle her awake.

But when she starts to lurch forward, his arm snaps out, bracing along her torso and guides her back. He readjusts, shifting to a more relaxed position against the wall behind him before he maneuvers her along his side.

She is less cooperative.

She ends up laying her head on his thigh in the end. Some half conscious shuffling along the bench before she's curled up and has a hand splayed against a patch of fabric between his knee guard and the fabric of his sash.

And then she's asleep again, cuddled against his leg and this is all very…foreign. But he doesn't hate it and that's what matters, right?

He lays a hand on her shoulder, keeping her securely on the bench as the flight continues and he can enjoy the comfortable silence.

By the time they reach the flagship, Ignovun is reluctant to wake her. But the subtle jostle of the ship touching down stirs her.

Her head shifts and he has to stay the instinct to tell her to go back to sleep. Instead, he rubs her shoulder gently and she snuggles in for a moment.

"We've arrived," he manages at last, annoyed almost when her head lifts and she sets about sitting up. Still, his hand remains against her shoulder until she's swung her feet onto the floor.

He can hear the sound of a transmat, her hands lifting toward her face but he can't see around her hood so he simply diverts his gaze toward the cockpit until the ramp begins to descend.

It's then that his touch withdraws and he rises to his feet. The transmat sounds a second time and when she looks up, her helmet is back in place. He's almost disappointed but its not his place to press. Instead, he nods toward the ramp, "We should head to the bridge. I imagine the Empress will want a word before we begin to coordinate our efforts."

The Guardian nods, trailing after him as he descends the ramp. Then she's at his side, head on a swivel as usual as they make their way through the ship.

He prefers her at his side, he thinks.

Her confident stride. Her attentive flit over the corridors. And he dares to suggest he might have caught her stealing a look toward him periodically.

Yes. Beside him is better.

It's comfortable. Natural, almost, for her to be at his side after all this time. Stolen glances, subtle indications that they no longer hate one another as much as he once thought they did.

She was his enemy in every definition of the word. But somehow, some way, she found her way into ally, friend, even…maybe, something more someday.

So, yes. Beside him is best.

When they step foot on the bridge, Empress Caiatl looks halfway surprised, borderline amused.

"What's this, Commander?"

He…should have had an explanation prepared. He can't think of anything that would justify bringing the Young Wolf here - nothing Caiatl would believe anyway. The Hunter is looking to him, no doubt wondering why he didn't tell Caiatl but–

He's aware how this all looks.

Thankfully, Forge seems to pick up on the atmosphere and he moves to the Guardian's side. "I appreciate your bringing her so quickly. There's a Vanguard–"

"I admire your loyalty, Valus, but I believe Commander Ignovun has an explanation as to why the Guardian is aboard my ship." Caiatl interjects and fixates on Ignovun.

His gaze darts to the Young Wolf, her worry evident in every inch of her frame before his focus shifts back to Caiatl.

"Forgive me, Empress. I thought it prudent to have the Guardian return and aid the last of the Nightmare clears."

Her head tilts, "Those are well underway, Commander. Her skills are better utilized by her Vanguard. Try again," she squares her shoulders, folding her arms over her chest as she faces him squarely. "The truth this time."

She is forcing him to admit this - whatever this is between the Guardian and himself.

He gathers himself, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin a fraction. "The bridge…or rather, I, felt lacking from the absence of her tenacious nature."

Caiatl looks skeptical until the Guardian snorts. Her gaze darts to the Hunter, "Something to add, Guardian?"

Forge elbows the Hunter but it isn't enough of a deterrent to stay her tongue.

"He means, he missed me."

Ignovun is stunned. She's…never been so brazen. So outright ignorant of–

Caiatl is laughing. His Empress is–

He looks between them in disbelief until Caiatl's laugh no longer resounds through the bridge.

"It seems he's taken a number of things to heart…starting with Saladin’s observations."

Ignovun bristles. He wasn't aware Forge had passed that along. He glares over at the Human Valus as he pats the Young Wolf’s shoulder and moves back to his station.

"Resume your post, Commander…and get the Guardian up to speed on the Leviathan." There's a laugh somewhere in her voice and Ignovun tries not to think too much about it.

He won't hear the end of this. Not for a long, long time.

Still, he obeys. He beckons the Guardian to follow and resumes his post.

She, in a nonchalant manner he will never understand, hoists herself up onto the console beside him and dangles her legs. He pauses, staring at her for a long moment until she shrugs.

"Your professionalism needs work." He remarks idly.

She snorts, tilting her head. "So do your explanation skills, Commander."

Smug little Hunter.

"Focus," he deflects, pulling up one of the more recent reports.

The Guardian rotates a fraction, peering at the foreign letters almost expectantly.

"Most of the ship is–"

"Guardian?" Forge's voice draws both their gazes across the bridge.

"Seems you're needed elsewhere." Ignovun tries not to sound disappointed and instead, projects an edge of amusement.

She holds up a finger in a wait gesture before sliding off the console and moving over to Forge. Their discussion is quiet but he watches her posture change.

No longer relaxed. No longer playful or even…human.

The Vanguard needs its weapon and she assumes the role effortlessly.

Their exchange lasts a few moments longer before she nods and starts toward the door, stilling a few steps shy to look to him.

Reluctant. Regret. A silent apology that draws Ignovun from his post and toward her.

His Empress ignores it almost pointedly.

They step out into the hall and when she turns to face him, there is no helmet veiling her expression. For the first time, their eyes lock and he gets lost. His mind drifts to something like admiration as he gently angles her head up toward his.

"...you're needed elsewhere, aren't you?"

She manages a subtle nod, curling her fingers along his wrist. There is something more in her eyes, something he's never seen in her before: Eagerness.

To lean into him. To hold his hand against her skin while sharp eyes take in every inch of his features. To see him without a HUD in the way.

"Do you require aid?" He manages at last, forcing a sense of composure he doesn't feel.

He can't breathe but for another reason entirely. Her gaze is intense yet it soothes him. It is curious and assured all at once. It's…so very like her and he finds himself loving it.

Or perhaps…it's her that he loves.

Still, this moment cannot last. She must get underway and he is delaying her against his better judgment.

She shakes her head, finally lowering his hand from her face as she smiles.

He decides he loves that expression, too.

"It shouldn't be anything serious. Some pirates intercepted a shipment. I'm to retrieve it." She sounds almost annoyed.

He chuckles, "They don't stand a chance."

"I'm not sure how long it'll take?"

"Not to worry," he touches her shoulder, a smile sparking in his eyes. "I'll be here when you return. Go deal with those…pirates."

She smiles. The Young Wolf touches his chest and then she's gone.

But she'll return.

After all, she never leaves anything unfinished.

-------------------

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#ignovun #the young wolf #empress caiatl #lord saladin #saladin forge #season of the chosen #season of the haunted #the crow #destiny 2 #destiny #destiny 2 fanfiction #destiny 2 fic #phantom writes

[thefirstknife]

Kind of really wish they'd separate out the vanguard ops Playlist into 2 different ones that both count equally for the pinnacle and earning rep. One for "regular" strikes and one for seasonal Battlegrounds activities. The Vanguard Ops Playlist is going to be completely unplayable for me once they mix Heist in. It's not that they're "bad" it's just the seasonal grind is so over the top that by the time the season ends even when I really enjoy a seasonal activity I'm sick to death of it if I actually try to get a fair chunk of the grinding done... I really wish they'd give you some options around that since I don't see them changing their gameplay model from "Grinding Content: The Game". (I'd probably hate the PsiOps ones way less if I were actually able to take a break from them instead of, even after the season, getting dumped into them 2/3 of the time when I do a Playlist run for bounties, rep, or weeklies...) it's just very tiring...

Yeah, I'm also not a huge fan of these activities being mixed up with strikes. I don't think it's really possible to separate them because nobody would run a battlegrounds-only playlist so there wouldn't be enough population for it, but they need more activities in strikes without making 3 new strikes per season so.

I would personally prefer strikes only and if they made some new strikes. I don't need 3 new ones every season tbh, I'd be fine with a few new ones per year and old ones getting some refreshes like they're now planing to do with Lake of Shadows and Arms Dealer, as well as later with some other ones.

I really love strikes and would love some stuff to be added to them that's specifically made to be strikes. I would love if they returned some cosmetic stuff for strikes as well. There used to be different strike-specific emblems you could collect and hope for while playing them, for example. Weapon ornaments would be cool as well, even armour. Also more alternating dialogues! I'd rather fewer strikes but with more reasons to play them, instead of 50 of them and nothing much to gain.

Personally, I like heists from this season, they're much more engaging to me than the battlegrounds from Chosen, but even then, they're not made as strikes.

With new changes coming to the strike playlist making it more challenging but without any benefits in rewards... It feels really weird. Add in battlegrounds that people don't really like and I bet there will be a lot of players not very entertained by the playlist.

I'm definitely looking forward to new Lightfall strikes tho! So there's that!

#destiny 2 #vanguard ops #ask #battlegrounds are an easy way to add content to the playlist without making stuff from scratch but it just doesn't play the same to me #4 battlegrounds from chosen and 3 from seraph... instead of 7 of those i'd rather 3-4 proper strikes #they're not too bad as activities to me but just. they're seasonal activities for a reason

[macgyvertape]

Replaying Presage, and it's got to still be one of my exotic weapons missions, in terms of just being short, sweet, and fun.

It was a blast to join in a fireteam finder group and have a fun time mostly carrying them through it 3 drink in, even though I haven't done it in so long and went mostly on muscle memory for things like the trapdoor.

Fun to replay this mission and compare it then to where various characters have been in the y6 season: Savathun as Osiris pre-reveal vs resurrected Lightbearer for real now, Calus attempting to communicate with the Witness vs dead Disciple to the Witness now, relations with the Cabal then vs now, eregore as a mysterious new thing vs now it's fuckin everywhere.

I do think it's interesting though that Savanthun as Osiris wanted the Crown of Sorrows brought back to the city, because surely she wanted it for some plot. Did the Glykon ritual transfer the power of the Crown from Savathun to the Witness? Eris used it in that ritual in season of the Haunted to oppose the Witness but then it spread Eregore everywhere.

#destiny 2 #savathun #season of the chosen #cw alcohol

[gheycowboyespressokell]

Nimbus rant time!

I just. I can't. This will be controversial, I know, but every single line of Nimbus's dialogue I couldn't stand. And finally, finally, during Rohan's induction at the Hall of Heroes, I was thinking we'd get a change. "Talk to Nimbus to see why they left the ceremony early." Possibly the greatest quest step summary in the history of the game.

Then we approach them.

"Oh, hey Guardian! Guess what! Plot and activities and bounties and let's go kick some ass and break some things! Hua ha ha! Man, did you know how cool Strand is? I bet you'd love to get some extra materials! Let's go kick some ass!"

Like. Come ON, Bungie. The dialogue and tone of Lightfall were already all over the place and the emotional beats just kept falling flat, so I was hoping, so so hard, that we'd get a genuine quiet, solemn, heartfelt moment. That could have at least redeemed Nimbus to "fine," in my eyes. Make them sad. Make them shocked. Make them not know what to say next. Hell, just add another quest step after that one that's "Check back in with Nimbus" where all you have to do is go to orbit and come back. Just add SOMETHING to imply the passage of time before they're boisterous and go-get-em again. Give them some development, a struggle they actually have to overcome and do something different with. Just something besides "Hey, Guardian! Man, blowing things up is cool, isn't it? I wish I had Strand powers! Ha ha!"

#destiny #lightfall #nimbus #lightfall spoilers #nimbus neg #i dunno i'm just frustrated #i wanted so much more from the new characters #(and from Lightfall overall tbh) #and after season of the haunted and chosen and seraph #and having genuine emotional moments of characters struggling with things #nimbus just being like wheee all the time was jarring and just #not enjoyable #plus the way they kinda massacred Osiris #now hes just old man with bad plans #he waffled between recklessness and surface-level caution so rapidly and severely #it was even framed as though he was being reckless and had bad ideas #the game just didnt offer any narrative alternatives besides follow his orders all the time #idk #its just frustrating

[texeoghea]

btw i have not posted art in a few days bc again we are in the process of moving i dont always have time to draw but i feel like my brain is going to explode with the amount of ideas i have that i cannot for some reason talk about. at all times i am thinking abt a hundred things and i post about one of them maybe sometimes. youll never know about the incredibly in depth persona 5 destiny au that has been forming in my brain for the last three weeks

#not art #albeit i have not caught up in destiny in like a fucking year. my knowledge of it spans from #red war to beyond light. anything before or after that i dont really know and i didnt really pay attention to some of the seasons #like arrivals and uhh the caiatl introduction one. sorry im just invested in the eliksni mostly. but like #a lot of the lore and concepts of the destiny world drive me insane i am so deeply in love with the idea #of guardians and light and darkness and what it means to be chosen by a god and the question of identity #when you cannot remember anything about your past and are expected to simply start over and let yourself #become something completely new. some kind of perfect living weapon of destruction for a wordless faceless god #that eternal question of who is that under the mask. who are you when you have nothing. when your light is destroyed #what makes a guardian. what does that mean. what happens when you take that away #what parts of you are ingrained so deeply that you have kept those traits through death and amnesia #and what parts of you are so different as to be unrecognizable because of the way you live now #what does free will mean when you exist at the whims of a higher power. when your life was picked at random #DESTINY IS SO AWESOME CONCEPTUALLY IT SUCKS THAT ITS PAY TO PLAY AND DOESNT REALLY WELCOME NEW PLAYERS #AND THAT SO SO SO MUCH CONTENT YEARS WORTH OF CONTENT AND LORE HAS BEEN SUNSET #AND IS NOW PRETTY MUCH IMPOSSIBLE TO ACCESS AND YOUD JUST HAVE TO READ ABOUT IT THROUGH OLD LORE ENTRIES AND POSTS #AND EXTRAPOLATE FROM CUTSCENES WHATS GOING ON. DESTINY IS GREAT. ID LOVE TO PLAY AND ENJOY IT #sorry i like somehow really deeply imprinted on this space shooter game back in 2020 somethings wrong with me

[lightdancer1]

Now that I think about it:

It really is striking given everything with that one episode that there's no plotline where Tara accidentally kills off her love interest with that blindness spell early in Season 5 and Glory steamrolls everyone because the big gun went missing. It's basically one of this 'so this is how we done fucked up, don't do that shit' storylines that's seemingly begging to be written and.....nobody actually has. It'd be a perfect knife twist and it's not like the Scoobies would let Tara just leave with her obviously evil family even after that because they'd not want to lose someone ELSE after it.

So what does happen if they have to go through the Glory arc but there's no Willow (especially twistedly funny given later seasons if the Powers That Be cough her up again at the start of the equivalent of Season 6)? Would the butterfly effect mean she'd even brain-suck Tara, which was a pretty clear bit of her power boost that made her as formidable? If that never happens and they just use the hammer sooner, does anyone actually have to die?

I can also see if the PTB did decide 'oh wait, no, this one DOES have a destiny and she needs to get on with it' that a resurrected Willow after all that would be in the usual situation most of the 'Tara comes back' fics go of having entirely valid trust issues and having the 'wait HOW much time happened oh holy God WHAT is Glory and wow' reactions to a normal year on the Hellmouth.

Canon-wise Willow's an unkillable, fanfic exists precisely to do what canon wouldn't. And ultimately Tara was, after all, meant to be the replacement goldfish for Willow's old niche, so one can very easily see the Scoobies acting at a meta-level like that and creating something of the same dysfunction from a different route because she is very much NOT Willow in any of the ways that define her. She has a rigidly defined sense of ethics, she gets a backbone that has a more consistent sense of 'happens to me bad, happens to you because I'm traumatized nobody ever remembers it for the rest of anything ever'.

It would also be a suitably ironic knife twist given the 'big gun' thing that the very expectations here that set up the ultimate Dark Lord Rosenberg thing never happening lead to the Gang winning because Buffy beats the shit out of Glory with a magic hammer when she never gets her mitts on Tara because there's no Willow for her to argue with that one day and the butterfly effects are big, she never dies....and then the PTB have Willow turn right back up in the Magic shop alive, well, and utterly ocnfused at the end of the equivalent of that season going "What the Hell was that."

I would admittedly have the Dark Willow thing happen anyway as a result of overcompensating for realizing she was killed as result of relying on someone else's wisdom with magic and it's more Dark Lord Rosenberg, as I mentioned, rather than its canon aspect and Tara gets to be the replacement Willow and it does not spark joy while Willow in turn quite reasonably has major trust and communication issues and doubles and triples down on increasingly powerful magic sans magic crack analogy until she's full-scale Dark Phoenix and people belatedly have the 'oh shit we probably should have tried talking before now' reaction.

This may well end up the one other Buffyverse fic I write, though I'd basically breeze through the rest of Season 5 in the first chapter from Tara's POV and then at the tail end Willow comes back and the hilarity ensues.

Then again it's also equally possible for Willow to simply go 'nah, fuck magic, magic killed me, y'all already got a witch, computers it is' and then the Hellmouth Hellmouths and her destiny won't be denied and the paranoia of living on the place makes her take the same path while actually struggling against it when she gets a Monkey's Paw version of her own desire to be the big damn hero, but to be able to do that she has to be able to reach the power to do so and since she is who she is, it's impossible to have the power to abruptly start being capable of making reality do what you want without it going to her head.

And given that she did at least seem to be easily replaceable (with Willow and Tara equally unreliable narrators and the truth not quite matching up with what either of them think here and the two narrative POVs here) Dark Lord Rosenberg gets to be as much a case of venting that she in a sense was the replaceable sidekick on a television show and not a main character.

Almost every other canon possibility here has done this and having 'the person I love cannot see the demon for who she is' and then 'wait, she died, I didn't mean that' because the magic misfires a little harder in a laser-guided fashion and having Tara meet her intended niche a little harder than otherwise is....surprisingly under-used.

#willow rosenberg #tara maclay #buffyverse fanfic #ideas to be written #basically 'Tara does an oopsie and has to fill someone else's shoes and realizes how unpleasant that actually is' #Willow comes back at the start of Season 6 because the PTB need her to resurrect magic and she's golden until she does #this sparks even less joy as there WAS an intended resurrection spell and it failed because she was already alive #and thus everything turns into an equally glorious trainwreck from a completely opposite angle #meanwhile Tara's basically haunted with guilt as she was never a demon but boy did she FUBAR that one spell #also leads to an inversion of usual dynamics because she *really* doesn't do damage control well #and Willow might either be very interested or very indifferent or deciding to ring up Oz and fuck off from Sunnydale entirely #if she was an actual human instead of a character it'd be the third I think #but since she's a character in a story and indifference is more wounding than malice indifference it is #I freely admit that season 9 leaves me considering the irony that Willow gets to be the chosen one once #and utterly hates it and everything about it and this is where her arc actually ends up #why does she hate it when it actually gets to be her for a change? #LBR ol' girl didn't do well with substituting for being the person driving events #she would handle being the one that actually has to do it by repeatedly trying to skip out on destiny #the irony would not be lost on her in the bigger picture but at the time Buffy would probably be 'so what's the big deal here'

[makingqueerhistory]

Spooky Queer Books

Since spooky season is starting, I thought I would share a list of my favourite queer books that are great for this time of year.

Some of these links are affiliate links.

It Came from the Closet: Queer Reflections on Horror

Joe Vallese

Horror movies hold a complicated space in the hearts of the queer community: historically misogynist, and often homo- and transphobic, the genre has also been inadvertently feminist and open to subversive readings. Common tropes--such as the circumspect and resilient "final girl," body possession, costumed villains, secret identities, and things that lurk in the closet--spark moments of eerie familiarity and affective connection. Still, viewers often remain tasked with reading themselves into beloved films, seeking out characters and set pieces that speak to, mirror, and parallel the unique ways queerness encounters the world.It Came from the Closet features twenty-five essays by writers speaking to this relationship, through connections both empowering and oppressive. From Carmen Maria Machado on Jennifer's Body, Jude Ellison S. Doyle on In My Skin, Addie Tsai on Dead Ringers, and many more, these conversations convey the rich reciprocity between queerness and horror.

Into the Drowning Deep

Mira Grant

The ocean is home to many myths, But some are deadly... Seven years ago the Atargatis set off on a voyage to the Mariana Trench to film a mockumentary bringing to life ancient sea creatures of legend. It was lost at sea with all hands. Some have called it a hoax; others have called it a tragedy. Now a new crew has been assembled. But this time they're not out to entertain. Some seek to validate their life's work. Some seek the greatest hunt of all. Some seek the truth. But for the ambitious young scientist Victoria Stewart this is a voyage to uncover the fate of the sister she lost. Whatever the truth may be, it will only be found below the waves. But the secrets of the deep come with a price.

The Devouring Gray

C. L. Herman

After her sister's death, seventeen-year-old Violet Saunders finds herself dragged to Four Paths, New York. Violet may be a newcomer, but she soon learns her mother isn't: They belong to one of the revered founding families of the town, where stone bells hang above every doorway and danger lurks in the depths of the woods. Justin Hawthorne's bloodline has protected Four Paths for generations from the Gray--a lifeless dimension that imprisons a brutal monster. After Justin fails to inherit his family's powers, his mother is determined to keep this humiliation a secret. But Justin can't let go of the future he was promised and the town he swore to protect. Ever since Harper Carlisle lost her hand to an accident that left her stranded in the Gray for days, she has vowed revenge on the person who abandoned her: Justin Hawthorne. There are ripples of dissent in Four Paths, and Harper seizes an opportunity to take down the Hawthornes and change her destiny--to what extent, even she doesn't yet know. The Gray is growing stronger every day, and its victims are piling up. When Violet accidentally unleashes the monster, all three must band together with the other Founders to unearth the dark truths behind their families' abilities...before the Gray devours them all.

Tell Me I'm Worthless

Alison Rumfitt

Three years ago, Alice spent one night in an abandoned house with her friends, Ila and Hannah. Since then, Alice's life has spiraled. She lives a haunted existence, selling videos of herself for money, going to parties she hates, drinking herself to sleep. Memories of that night torment Alice, but when Ila asks her to return to the House, to go past the KEEP OUT sign and over the sick earth where teenagers dare each other to venture, Alice knows she must go. Together, Alice and Ila must face the horrors that happened there, must pull themselves apart from the inside out, put their differences aside, and try to rescue Hannah, whom the House has chosen to make its own. Cutting, disruptive, and darkly funny, Tell Me I'm Worthless is a vital work of trans fiction that examines the devastating effects of trauma and how fascism makes us destroy ourselves and each other.

#queer #lgbt #transgender #queer books #lgbt books #book recommendations #queer history

[archivists-trove]

Oracle's Overlook - Taken from the grav lift at Artifact's Edge during the Cabal's occupation of Nessus.

#d2 #destiny 2 #cabal #vex #nessus #season of the chosen #artifacts edge #empress caiatl #my screenshots

[wonryllis]

𓍼⠀ YOU, MY FATE COME AND KISS ME.

𝒏o𝓉ℯs. park jongseong x fem!reader 𖥔 ݁ fluff-angst, soulmate au LIB? word count `425 for @okwonyo valentine event!

jay thinks he's stuck in a loop.

a never-ending turn of events that cage him beyond the lights of universe. for everyday it feels like he falls in love with you all over again. a trick of heaven, a path weaved so carefully by fate, a red string tying him to you to the ends of his breath.

in a world of destiny, you are his paradox.

since the age of ten, jay has known his soul is bound to another for life, for love, for everything in between and apart. he has spent all his birthdays waiting for the one where the chosen name will etch itself onto his skin, telling him the time has come. but twenty-two and the wheel of cupid is yet to stop. perhaps it's because of you. three seasons spent together, and the guy is smitten. wishing everyday for you to be his other half.

"does this look good on me?" your voice echoes into the silence in the room, an ever quiet jay hoping for things to stay the same every year. to be away from you would be like death to him.

"you look as gorgeous as always, tell me how i got this lucky," his hands wrap around the curve of you waist and he rests his head on your shoulder, eyes locking through the mirror. the scent of your lotion like an ardent addiction. to think maybe someday he could never smell it again would be like stab of grief.

"honestly i am the lucky one, now we only have to wait for this," the words are just above a whisper, a small smile dancing on the tips of your lips, as you stare at your wrist— the place where jay's name is supposed to show up.

"whatever happens i know i'll only love you," jay leaves a fleeting kiss on your lips, arms holding you tight as if you'd slip away.

"now let's go my pretty valentine," you laugh at the way he tries to wink provocatively, and jay feels the arrow struck through his heart hurt for the nth time. a churning in his stomach evoking a desperate yearn for you, for the spot on his wrist he thought to have reserved for you sits another name.

no matter what happens, he knows you're his forever and he'll fight against all odds for that. even if it means fighting his own self.

"this is gonna be the best date ever i promise," his world revolves around you and it always will.

taglist. ( open ) @kangseulgithegreat @s00buwu @luvyev @pockyyasii @nctislifue @ashtxrie @miniature-tragedy @jayujus @brachives @thoughtsmeander2tumblingblindly

#enhypen imagines #k-labels #⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ᡴꪫ 💌⭐ TiPT୨ৎE ᭡ #enhypen drabbles #enhypen fluff #enhypen soft hours #enhypen soft thoughts #enhypen reactions #enhypen headcanons #enhypen jay imagines #enhypen scenarios #enhypen heeseung imagines #enhypen jake imagines #enhypen sunghoon imagines #enhypen sunoo imagines #enhypen jungwon imagines #enhypen niki imagines

[hadesisqueer]

One of my wishes for volume 10 has always been seeing Winter and Emerald being friends, tbh.

I've said it a good bunch of times, but it's just that Winter and Cinder have A LOT of parallelisms between each other: both of grew up in abusive homes and once they were out they ended up stuck with another new parental figure that turned out to be an asshole as well, both of them are Maidens and were 'chosen' for the job, both of them are named after the seasons they represent... The differences are that:

-Winter realized what Ironwood was really like and got out, while Cinder is still stuck with Salem.

-While Cinder had to steal the Maiden powers and got them in a way that makes her be more under Salem's control, Winter got them naturally and as a gift from a friend (Penny) and after she was out of Ironwood's control; in fact, those powers actually save her life against him and help her fully break free, making it clear that he didn't choose anything for her.

-Cinder's surname is Fall; it's heavily implied that she chose it herself, because as you guys know, she's obsessed with destiny, and she feels like being the Fall Maiden was her destiny-- you know the whole thing. Meanwhile, you have a Winter Maiden named Winter, and not because she chose her name like Cinder did to fit in the narrative: she was given the name at birth-- almost like she was destined to become the Winter Maiden one day.

And more. So yeah, they have a lot of parallelisms with each other: really, in a sense, they're the same and the complete opposite at the same time. I feel like Cinder sees Winter as a version of herself that actually got everything handed to her: name, destiny and all. So another parallelism what I would find entertaining is seeing that Emerald, who cared about Cinder and very clearly saw her as an older sister or role model or whatever, becoming close with Winter and starting to see her as what she thought Cinder was. Seeing Cinder's reaction to that would be funny at least lmao.

#rwby #rwby volume 10 #winter schnee #emerald sustrai #cinder fall

[mitschki]

various genshin men x sick!reader

incl: zhongli, itto, diluc

Zhongli

On a stormy evening— as the relentless rain thrummed against the panes of your quiet bedroom, you found yourself ensconced under layers and layers of warm blankets, grappling with the all-too-familiar discomfort of a seasonal cold. Your body radiated a gentle warmth, a contrast to the chill that the rain brought and you occasionally interrupted the room's silence with a sharp sneeze, followed by the soft sniffles.

The ambiance of the room was subdued, lit only by the flickering light of a single candle that cast dancing shadows upon the walls. Beside your bed, on a modest brown table stood an empty vase. The gold curtains that your boyfriend Zhongli had chosen—a gift that brought warmth to your heart as much as it did to your home were drawn closed, shielding you from the gray unforgiving skies.

You had mentioned to Zhongli a few days ago that you weren't feeling too good and without hesitation, he insisted on taking care of you at your home. True to his word, Zhongli had been nothing short of attentive, spoiling you with comforting meals and gracing your space with fresh flowers daily. He even shared that he had personally collected the herbs for the tea he brewed, ensuring its freshness and potency.

Although you were initially reluctant to impose upon him, his persistence knew no bounds. He firmly believed in prioritizing your well-being, refusing to accept any objections when it came to your health.

"zhonglii...! i need you!" you called out, the sound punctuated by another sneeze and followed by the sound of sniffles. You heard his footsteps approaching, a reassuring cadence growing closer. The door creaked open and there he stood, Zhongli’s tall and composed figure filling the doorway. In his hands, he carried the subtle floral scent of flowers and a steaming cup of jasmine tea, its soothing aroma wafting towards you.

He hummed a soft gentle tune as he took in your forlorn state. Moving with his usual grace, Zhongli approached your bedside, his presence a comforting balm to the dreariness of your illness as he set the tea down beside you on the table.

"apologies if I took long, I was making this tea for you," he said, his voice carrying a note of tenderness. Carefully he placed the flowers in the vase, their colors vivid against the dim light before pulling a chair up beside your bed. Sitting down as he held the cup of jasmine tea in his hands, offering it to you with a gentle gaze.

"what if i died and you weren't here to save me," a playful pout forming on your lips as zhongli raises his brow.

"Life and death follow the natural order, much like the daily journey of the sun," Zhongli frowns, "yet, the possibility of our separation even by death, is a heavy thought to bear."

"Should destiny ever divide our paths, have faith that I will seek you out once more. No obstacle, not even death, can prevent me from returning to your side." as zhongli leans in and plants a gentle peck on your forehead, observing a subtle blush spread across your face.

"ugh i can never joke around you.."

Itto

You were resting in Itto's quarters, wrapped in blankets. Itto had been vigilant ever since you told him you were sick, his usual bravado shifting to earnest worry. He'd insisted on keeping you close, with members of the Arataki Gang stationed outside just in case you needed anything while he was away. Now, you were sitting on his bed with Itto beside you, holding a bowl of soup. He carefully spooned the soup into your mouth, his eyes fixed on your face, eager to see your reaction.

"itto.. darling, did you perhaps.. make this soup?" you ask, noticing the unusual flavor.

He hesitated for a moment then pouted defensively, "I tried alright! It’d be too risky to feed you something from outside! What if it worsens your condition or something!" he exclaimed, his concern evident in his furrowed brow, “Besides... I tried to put as many healing herbs in there as possible, which explains the erm... the taste! But... it is made with love!"

You manage a weak smile, appreciating his efforts despite the questionable culinary result, "thank you.. itto."

Itto's frown deepens as he notices how frail you sound. He sets the bowl aside and gently brushes your hair back from your forehead, checking if you feel feverish, "alright, that's it! time to kick this sickness outta here," he declares with renewed vigor.

He stands up briskly, "stay right here, I'm gonna get you something that'll definitely help!" Itto rushes out of the room, leaving instructions with his gang members milling outside. Moments later, he returns with a small box of hand-picked herbs from a trusted herbalist.

"Okay, these are supposed to be super effective. We’re gonna brew a mighty potion that’ll have you up and running in no time!"

While the herbs are being prepared into a more potent remedy, Itto keeps you entertained with tales of his duels and misadventures, each story more boisterous than the last. His endless energy and heartfelt care do more than any soup could, providing warmth and reassurance. Itto remains by your side, proving that his dedication in times of need is as formidable as his strength in battle.

Diluc

You had informed Diluc that you were feeling unwell and he suggested that you stay at his winery for the time being. The maids frequently attended to your needs and Diluc was often by your side when his responsibilities allowed. Whenever he was occupied, he made sure to send you letters, ensuring you felt cared for. Additionally, he often spent the nights watching over you, offering comfort and security during your recovery.

You were currently in his room, engrossed in a newspaper that had captured your interest.

Diluc’s expression tightens slightly upon entering the room and seeing you amused by the newspaper article—a mix of disapproval and amusement barely peeking through his stern exterior. He’s not one for rumors or frivolity, especially when it concerns his personal life or business.

"Diluc, Mondstadt's winery owner or a secret head priest?" you stifle your laughter as you read aloud.

"You shouldn't be reading that," he admonishes gently, his voice low and somewhat weary, "you need to rest, not entertain gossip."

He sits down beside you, his movements precise and deliberate. Diluc reaches out to carefully tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his touch light but filled with concern. His hand then lingers at your forehead, checking for fever. He seems relieved to find your condition unchanged or perhaps slightly better.

"Oh but it is interesting," you challenge with a playful grin, trying to lighten his mood and draw him out of his shell.

Diluc can’t help but let a small, almost imperceptible smile cross his lips before he regains his composure, "I suppose if it amuses you, it can’t be all bad," he concedes, his voice softening, "But let's not take every word to heart."

"If you're feeling up to it, perhaps a short story instead?" he suggests.

"if its interesting than the one i am reading then sure," you chuckle, watching as he gently takes your hand and brings it close to his face, softly kissing your knuckles.

"you'll enjoy it," he responds with a subtle smile, "it's about us."

sort of tried experimenting on this onee (^_^*).. dk who to write lately

#genshin morax #genshin impact #genshin #fluff #genshin fluff #zhongli #genshin zhongli #arattaki itto #diluc x reader #diluc #zhongli x reader #itto x reader #genshin x reader

[netherfeildren]

The Cassandra Complex : Interlude : Tartarus

Series Masterlist

(Din Djarin x F!Reader)

Content Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence; Torture; Murder; Blood and gore; Self harm; Suicidal ideations; Depression; Unreliable narrator; Alcohol and drug use; Overall very dark themes

A/N: The chapter is what the tags warn. Please, heed them carefully.  Short because it's only an interlude, but the next chapter is almost done!

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word Count: 3.5K

Read on AO3

INTERLUDE : TARTARUS

Can you eat winter? […] Can you live six months inside a frozen pear? […] Can you punctuate yourself in silence?

Anne Carson, Plainwater: Essays and Poetry

You are captured at the start of the cold season. 

The first man you ever killed had been old. Weathered and beaten down by the galaxy and life, and forgotten or absconded to a decrepit and abandoned planet. Once thriving and rich, it had been bled dry and starved by the Empire, and now remained to stand only as a reminder to others as what not to be, a warning of how you’d end up if you did not submit. 

Your master had hunted him for months, a mania about the search that was mouth slicked ravenous and vicious. Something sick about the way he’d obsessed about the man, murmuring his name over and over again at all hours until you were sure you knew the vowels and consonants of it better than your own. You’d never discovered the root of the obsession, the reason for the killing, and when you’d finally found him, he was not at all what you’d expected; brittle boned, white of hair, skin soft and folded over so that it sagged and drooped around his frame, seeming to hang around him out of mere sheer habit. 

You’d swept into his mind, pilfered and pillaged and violated it; his past, his whole life, his family, cradled in the blink of your eye. You’d pulled his joints from their sockets, his fingernails from their beds, and his eyes from their cavities. You’d taken him apart piece by little piece, a slow going saturation of pain until little remained of the creature. Until the final piece you’d pulled from him was his breath, his very life, swallowed and settled heavy into your own soul. 

You had been very young when you’d killed him, a girl of only seven years old. 

You’d once heard that stars are made of a different matter than the four worldly elements – a quintessence – that also happens to be what the human psyche is made of. Which is why man’s spirit corresponds to the stars. You’d swallowed so many souls thinking they might be stars during that time. Perhaps, in an attempt to take some light within you, infuse yourself in the goodness of another’s quintessence. Young and naive and untried. You’d learned eventually how wrong you were. The damage you’d unknowingly wrought upon yourself. And when you remember it all now, the unending reaping, you think: I was young once, and you wish you could cling to that child, beg her to forgive you, beg her to run earlier. 

Perhaps, that had been the beginning of the end, and everything after that had been nothing more than one eternally futile battle towards inevitable failure.

-

For some idiotic reason, you return to Corellia after you part ways with him. Idiotic or desperate, who can really tell, but without a doubt, bitter and angry and devastated. Filled with a keen missing and a fury and an outrage that he’d left you, that you’d allowed yourself to be left. That you’d pushed him away. That really, the destruction of everything was your fault. The day it had suddenly hit you that you’d destroyed everything for nothing, that you’d destroyed the two of you for no real reason at all except for petty and inconsequential fear, had been a monumental sort of devastation. You’d not been able to make it out of your dingy rented bed for days afterwards. And so you’d chosen to believe that this was the end of destiny, rather than the beginning of what had always been fated to you. For choosing to believe that you’d destroyed it yourself was better than the truth, that he had never really been meant to be yours in the first place. And if it were anything else, you’d finish it, destroy it to completion. It if was something less, you’d smash it like a rock, tear it as if it were a piece of parchment, but it is not, for it is your heart, your very heart, your memory.

The only thing left. 

While you’d been with him you’d thought that you were healing, that you were healed. That you’d been made whole in his image. That after everything, after so much darkness, one single silver flame to illuminate the night would shine a light on your newfound completeness. But you’d realized, later, when it was too late, how wrong you’d been to think so. Love does not mend the torn seams back into rightness – it fractures the whole thing wide open, splits you down the middle.

And you’re so full of the most poisoned sort of regrets, a living, breathing, fire filled thing that seemed to exhume you from your own misery and would not let you exist peacefully in the deathlessness you’d have chosen for yourself. But it was impossible to go backwards now. Like any unloved thing, you’d not been sure if you really existed until he’d put his hands on you, and now, to have been forced to return to that half life, to be forced to exist in the purgatory of his aftermath – it was fury inducing, rage awakening. 

All my hurts hurt worse now, and there is no escape and no reprieve, and it always feels as if the sky seems to peer down on me in a strange and pitiful way. How did that feel? It asks. I’m sorry I caused harm, I reply. 

Time no longer exists, and so all you know is that it’s been an unknowable amount of nothing since you’d last seen him. 

You ache all the time, try and forget, can’t help but remember

You’d always known exactly how it would play out. Step by step the course your life would take – the Force guided you, and yet, you were still lost. You were still confused. You’d known that he would leave, you’d always known. Just as you’d known you would be the reason he left. You’d waited for it, and yet, when the moment arrived for him to go, you were shocked. And hurt. You were hurt that he would leave you even though you had pushed him away, even though you had always expected it to happen, even though you were the perpetrator of your own abandoning and had always known that you would be. 

And so, perhaps, you’d continued to return to Corellia despite knowing it was dangerous for you there, that there were whispers of a dark creature scurrying along the planet’s underbelly, that they’d seen your face all that time ago and rumors still abounded. But it had been the last place you’d found each other, and so some idealistic, stupidly desperate part of you thought that, perhaps, fate would look upon you kindly once again. That dark red thread of fate woven into action one more time, ringing taut with purpose and destiny. 

Perhaps, you return looking for a fight or a beating or some form of punishment, certain that you’d find it in that cesspool of vice and crime and corruption. In that place that knows what sort of creature you pretend not to be. 

Eventually, however, you get more than you’d bargained for. Or maybe, precisely what you’d wanted.

You’re betrayed by a slippery little Twi’lek. One who’d pretended at being interested in some easy, fun drinking and debauchery. One who you were not aware had awaited the return of a prize such as you for a long, long time. One who’d held the image of your face and your power in the cradle of her mind, ravenous for the moment when she’d finally be afforded a taste and a pay out.

 If you could not lose yourself in anything else, him, or even something worse – the dark called to you again so often now, it frightened you – then you’d lose yourself in a bottle, a game of Sabacc, even, on occasion, or when things were particularly dire, a little bit of Spice, just to take the edge off. To make you forget. The smell of the past is everywhere, the smell of too many illusions, too many truths, and you try and resist all the time, you feel yourself actively resisting. But you lie in the awareness of it so often, in the miserable hold of rented beds where no comfort and no warmth is ever to be found on so many nights, that at any moment something terrible could happen. It’s not gone, that coldness inside of you. It’s not gone, the dark side, and it calls to you louder now that he is absent. 

You consider yourself in new and strange lights now. A miasma of girl and power and tragedy and myth, always, always the myth of you. You are aware of yourself, of that myth, in so many lights. 

Violence has changed me; my body has grown cold. Now there is only mind, cautious and dim, with the sense it is being twisted. I have never loved being alive, and it is difficult to remember that I should. 

Din has changed me; my heart is half stone, half devoured. The sun has gone away, tucked inside of him, and I am always cold now, and even though I can't see it anymore, him, it’s comforting to know he’s still out there, somewhere. That the sun still exists. 

And so, in need of credits, the Twi’lek finds it easier to sell you off to the highest bidder when she first captures you – that being a league of fanatics who had, at the height of the Empire, venerated the Sith as lords – Gods even – who bent the knee to the dark side in hopes of a power greater than they even really knew the truth of. 

Drugged and cuffed after you’d been too stupid or uncaring to even try and defend yourself, you let them take you. You let them take you. You remember that first night in the hole in the ground you’d sentenced yourself to, before she’d left you to your fate with your captors, arm broken, bone jutting grotesquely from your skin, she’d looked down at you from her great height as you lay limp and ready for more breaking on the dirty ground of the cell deep in that Tartarean pit, brow split open and drooling crimson, glassy eyes wide and unseeing, filled only with the memories of gleaming metal, she’d called you a monster with the greatest of contempt and hatred in her eyes. And you’d laughed and laughed and laughed at the reality of you now, sanity gone away, only a little bit, only a little bit; after all, there had always been more madness than goodness anyways. 

And you’d wanted to cry: I am not a monster! I am not a monster! But you knew she would not believe you. 

This is only what you deserve, creature. Spit from her mouth like venom. You think of the Thalassian crone, all that time ago, or only yesterday: How does it feel to be nothing? She was kinder to you than you know this will be, and for a brief moment you pretend to miss her, fantasize with the idea of him coming to save you once again. 

You’d wanted to lie and say that you were not a monster any longer, that you’d changed, that you were better, different, but that would have been a lie, for at your core you knew there would always live within you something of a slightly monstrous countenance, no matter what you did or made of yourself. And what you wanted to say, even more than that, was that perhaps a monster was not such a terrible thing to be. Perhaps, if you’d ever been given the chance, you could have served as a shelter and a warning, all at once, for a family you’d never been allowed to have. Perhaps, if you’d ever been given the opportunity to have been that, nothing much else would have really mattered. 

You want to tell her his name. To let it serve as proof of the only goodness that has ever lived inside of you. But you do not. And you let them keep you for far too long, lying in that dark, damp hell, letting them hurt you. 

She returns often, the pretty, purple Twi’lek with the sharp teeth. She takes Din’s earrings from you, that first day, and if you’d still had tongue and teeth and voice to thank her for the chance to look upon them, you would have. 

They pull your skin from your bones and your bones from your skin, over and over again, and you try and lie that you don’t know what you did to deserve this, but you do. You do know. You remember the old man, the very first one, you think of all the countless others after him, the flash of shrieking beskar. You remember every single crime and sin and face and scream. Every scream, but loudest of all, your own. 

You exist only in thousands of agonies. 

And they’re creative in their torture and punishment, caring in the imagination of it. They burn the flesh from your bones only so that the Force can heal you back to strength. Slowly, excruciatingly, keeping you drugged and chained, diminishing your connection to yourself. Beaten and flogged and savaged over and over again. You think, or you tell yourself, that you feel little of it, or none at all. 

More than anything, you feel so acutely how little it all matters. 

Why have you done this to yourself? You’re sure you should ask. I don’t know. What is this all about? Be honest. Anger. Are you angry? Yes. You already knew this. 

Perhaps, your mind has finally broken and fragmented in a real and irrevocable way. Perhaps, this is finally destiny finding itself. 

You lie in the dark and let it hold you as it did when you were a child, alone and enslaved. You watch the water snake through the cracks of the stone walls, and you are so small, and suddenly, there’s a hole in your cheek and you heal and heal and tear apart again; taste the outside air with your newly grown tongue, and the blood that pools in your mouth reminds you that you’re still alive and made of nothing but regret. 

You hold one single comfort like a newly blooming flower in your mind, the only thing that remains: We were together once. I forget the rest, before, now, it no longer matters. We were together once. 

For an interminable age, you allow yourself to be poked and prodded, cut and flayed, experimented on – the silly notion these cultists hold that perhaps they could harness your power for themselves, bottle it.   Hurt, you allow yourself to be hurt for too long. They never break you beyond repair, but they get very close, many times, and sometimes, you hope it’ll be too much, it needs to be too much just once, and then it could, perhaps, all end. 

Your bones ache and wounds open where the too sharp edges of you abrade against the too hard stone, and you relish in the healing and reopening, relish in the suffering. You remind yourself that you chose this, that you continue to actively choose this, that all your choices are yours now, even the losses, and you caress that secret piece of you in the furthest, darkest recess of your mind, your lifeline, and it feels so good to finally be in control of the things that hurt you. Even if it is a false sense of control, even if it’s all only a reality of your mind's own making. 

And sometimes, when the delirium has sunk its fangs in you entirely, and you almost don’t know who you are, you think: surely he’ll come to get me. He doesn’t know you’re here. Surely I didn’t fall in love with him just for this. He doesn’t know you’re here. If he knew, he’d come, he would, he would.

Two years is a very long time to be away from a thing you need so much.

I no longer care what sound it makes when I am silenced. 

Two years is a very long time to forget.

If I die, it is not this life I will miss, it is him I will miss. 

But an even longer time to remember. 

How to forget? How to forget? How to forget?

Eventually, you lose yourself, and the brightness of torture becomes the brightness of night, and you’re gone within it.

You consider yourself: the myth, the archetype, the soul, me, me, the Cassandra, the Cassandra.

[Scream] [Scream] [Scream] [Scream] 

Din.

You cling to him through the night, through the brightness, through the nothing. You dream of his hands and his hair and the vividness of him. You dream of that pure, golden heart. You dream of beskar and space and being loved.

You dream of being loved. 

You do not choose the way you live. You do not live; you are not allowed to die. 

You don’t know how long you allow yourself to be held within this womb of punishment, but you know that it is a very long time. 

And then one day, unbidden and unexpected: one moment, you’re hungry, a strange and cold and gnawing hunger like something you’ve never felt before. A hunger of the soul. Your mind, so hazy that sometimes you don’t know if you remember your own name, that at certain instances the only image you can recall is the gleam of beskar – you smell vetiver and sweat and blaster smoke and the leather oil of his gloves. You hear his voice. The feeling of his hand in yours the second before you wake, and for a single moment before your eyes open, you’re somewhere else besides this damp Tartarus you’ve condemned yourself to, somewhere green and alive with him. 

The third time you meet: You blink, and it’s all darkness and steel bars, and then, a dim light far in the distance? No. A blade of silver beskar. 

He’s here. Near. 

She had said to you once, your now made sweet Twi’lek: You’re going to die here. Surely, not soon. But one day, we’ll pull your life from you. Once we’ve pulled everything else, taken all we can, we’ll take your life too. And then you’ll be nothing, erased from memory, erased from myth. Nothing at all forever.

You’d taken her words with consideration. You felt strongly that you could not die any longer in any way that truly mattered. If nothing more, than for the memory of him, the memory of that togetherness could never be taken from you, it would always exist and could never be killed, and so what more mattered after that? Nothing really. They could take your life, your power, but they could not take Din, they could not take the myth of what the two of you had created together. 

And always the myth, always the myth. You understand now, after an age in something worse than darkness, that you are yourself the creation of myth, and myth is indestructible. 

She is made sweet and venerating in the end, and she dies so beautifully, your Twi’lek, and in the singular instant before you pull her heart from her chest, you recall her words from before, how like the Thalassian she’d seemed, nothing at all forever, and you tell her the second truth you’ve now come to understand more surely than anything else: “Only a Sith deals in absolutes, and I am no longer a Sith.”

You free yourself from the cruel and unforgiving hands of the dark for the second time in your life. 

You’d thought once that you’d never again let yourself be captured, never again enslaved, and to have let yourself end up here like this of your own volition, your own wanton stupidity and miserable desire for punishment, this is the lowest a creature has fallen in a millenia, surely, and he’s on the same planet as you now, and you’re filled with the sudden blinding terror that he’d somehow know you’re here. That he’d find you. And that he should see you like this, brought so low and so broken, it would be worse than anything, any pain or suffering or torture you could have ever endured. 

And so you call to that dormant tether you’d held this entire time, to the Force, to yourself, and you kill your captors. All of them. In one fell swoop. Without much of even a single thought on your part. And you thank her, when you pull his stolen, blood splattered earrings from her ears, for teaching you so much, for reminding you that power without conscience is a terrible thing, and that you know this better than anyone. And you walk out into the cold and dark night, silent and obscure as a shadow can be, even more so, if possible, prepared to make your unnoticed escape from him.

But of course, he finds you anyway.

Chapter IX

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