Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You are a dead thing made by a dead power in the shape of the dead. All you will ever do is kill.  -Legend: The Black Garden (Legends and Mysteries)

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Jolder and Saladin lie at the crest of a hill, observing a group of soldiers pick their way through a lightly-wooded area below them. Jolder studies the group through a high-magnification scope.

“How many?”

“About a dozen.” Jolder passes her scope to Saladin. “Perun’s sources said there’d be a Lightbearer among them. Any ideas which one it is?”

Saladin studies each of the fighters in turn. They’re lightly armed, a mix of auto-rifles and pistols, nothing too heavy-hitting. Not that they need it. Their target is a small farming settlement, they mean to raid their winter stores. The presence of a Lightbearer would be more than enough to cow their victims into submission.

“Hard to tell from this distance,” he replies. “I don’t see a Ghost anywhere. Might be the one taking point?”

“Maybe.”  Jolder chuckles softly. “Kinda stupid, just strolling along the low ground for all to see, like that.”

“Or arrogant. They think they’re untouchable.” He turns to her, smirking. “I mean, who would dare take on a Warlord’s forces?”

Jolder points to Saladin and then herself. “We would.” She grins widely. “You’re talking about us, right?”

“How do you want to play this?” He  already knows what her answer will be. Charge. Rush in without a care in the world. Scare Saladin to death.

“We’ve got the element of surprise. I’ll rush them-”

Saladin sighs and doesn’t quite manage to suppress a roll of his eyes.

“Oh don’t be like that,” Jolder chides. “Don’t fuss, you’re like an old hen. I’ll be fine.” She packs away the scope into her utility belt. “As I was saying, I’ll rush them, let them think I’m lone-wolfing it. I’ll draw out the Lightbearer, then you flank him or her. Shut ‘em down. Sound like a plan?”

“It sounds like, ‘you stand back while I hurl myself headlong into danger.’ As usual.”

“Yes.” She shrugs. “What’s your point? I’m faster, you’re a heavy-hitter, it makes sense to do it this way.” She pushes herself up into a kneeling position and puts on her helmet. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll mop up the rabble, you just concentrate on that Lightbearer.”

Saladin follows suit and dons his helm. “Stay in contact, keep your Ghost linked with mine.”

“Yes, Mom.” With that, she readies her gun and sets off at speed.

He watches her run, no, gambol down the hill. She allows herself to slide on the snow, seemingly for the fun of it. There’s so much joy in her gait. If Saladin didn’t know she was hurrying to intercept a raiding party, he could be forgiven for thinking she was rushing to challenge them to a snowball fight. She makes for the footsoldier at the back of the group and she shoulder-charges into him, knocking him into another before they even realise what’s happening. The others take a moment to rally, in which time Jolder has raised her machine gun and begun firing into the group. As much as she worries him, as much as he thinks her reckless, Saladin can’t help but marvel at her. She uses the trees for cover, moving between them with a fluid grace that would give any Hunter pause. The shots she manages to get off while she’s out of cover are precise and never wasted. She keeps the group too off-balance to formulate a decent defensive formation. Not for the first time, Saladin thanks the Traveler that they’re on the same side. If he ever faced her in battle, he’d probably be too transfixed to fight her.

The rumored Lightbearer in the group finally makes his presence known, yelling at his men to rally to him. He raises a Void shield and the soldiers that haven’t been felled by Jolder scurry towards it. Saladin picks his way along the hill, moving into a flanking position. He stays low, but he needn’t worry, they’re all far too focused on Jolder. Her plan is working. Why does she always have to be right?

Jolder unloads the bulk of her current clip on the shield and the caster stumbles backwards. He’s having trouble maintaining the shield. Saladin feels a stab of pity. This one’s Light isn’t strong; he’s inexperienced, that or his Lord has been remiss with his training. Saladin suspects it’s the latter and deliberately so. Why let your lackeys reach their full potential when you can keep them weak and use them as cannon fodder?

Saladin charges down the hill towards the shield, readying his battle-axe as he goes. He leaps from the base of the hill to within striking distance, smashing the axe on the ground, sending a gout of flame towards the shield. The Ward shatters and many of its denizens scatter to find more reliable cover. Saladin draws himself up to his full height, but doesn’t attack straight away.

“Yield,” Saladin calls out. “No one else needs to die.”

The Light-Bearer draws a gun and snarls. “You’re outnumbered.”

“And you’re outmatched. Don’t be stupid.” His opponent raises his weapon and Saladin leaps out of harm’s way. Stupid it is then , he muses to himself as he lands, making another ground attack with his axe.

“Forge!” Jolder’s voice comes through via his Ghost. “Stop being a bleeding heart, put him down! He won’t hesitate to do the same to you.”

As if to prove Jolder’s point, the Lightbearer hurls a grenade in Saladin’s direction, who raises a Ward in response. The Light grenade batters uselessly off the shield and the Lightbearer stares in dismay. Saladin takes this unguarded moment as an opportunity to rush him, swinging his axe in a figure eight pattern, not letting his oppontent regain his compsure. The Lightbearer stumbles backwards, until he falls over a tree root and in the next moment, Saladin’s axe falls, caving in his chest.

Saladin steps backwards and steels himself for what he has to do next. This was too easy, he would have felt better if had been more of a fight. Saladin wonders how long this, poor, soon-to-be-permanently-dead lad has been a Lightbearer. Not long, probably. He was woefully unprepared. His Warlord had obviously never given him the chance to hone his Light. He was good enough to intimidate a bunch of farmers but to take on an Iron Lord? There was never any contest. He paces back and forth, warring with himself. It’s a waste. He didn’t stand a chance. But he chose this. He was being used. He’d do the same to you, Jolder’s right.

But it’s such a waste.  

He hears the tell-tale whirr of an emerging Ghost and swings his axe. The blade drives the little robot up against the tree its master fell over, before slicing through its shell. Its light fades and it drops to the ground with a sad little clinking sound.

“I’m sorry,” Saladin whispers to the dead shell at his feet. “I wish you’d chosen better.” He yanks his axe free of the tree, shoulders it and begins walking towards where he last saw Jolder. He draws his sidearm when he hears a rustling off to the side. A footsoldier stumbles out from behind the tree, cowering on his knees. He’s young, his skin is chalk-white and his trousers are wet. That could be from falling in the snow, it could be from something else.

“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot, please don’t shoot,” he babbles with one of his hands up. “I’m not armed, I threw my gun away, I didn’t even get off a shot, please…” He scrabbles away from Saladin on his backside.

Saladin stomps towards him catching up easily. He growls wolfishly, deep in his throat. “How old are you?”

The boy just whimpers.

“Speak!”

“Nineteen.”

“Traveler’s Light…” Saladin shakes his head in disbelief. “Nineteen. This your first raiding party?”

The terrified boy nods.

“Is it going to be your last?”

He nods again, vigorously.

“You still have family nearby?”

“My parents.”

“Go home to them. Now, before I change my mind. Don’t let me see you out here again. Run!” The boy scrambles to his feet, and tears off just as soon as he can find purchase on the snow. Saladin waits until he is out of sight before turning to search for Jolder again. He thought she would have caught up with him by now. He expects to see her standing behind him, calling him a bleeing heart again, with a smile and a shake of her head. She’s nowhere to be seen.

“Jolder?” There’s no response. He casts around, listening for any sign of her. He calls after her again, his voice and the soft crunch of his feet in the snow the only sounds breaking the silence. He begins to quarter the ground, half expecting her to leap out from behind a tree any moment, she’ll find his concern amusing, no doubt. She’ll laugh, punch him on the shoulder then go through a routine of gentle admonishments; ‘ You worry too much’ and ‘ I told you so,’ until she’ll manage to coax a smile from him. His frown deepens. He tells himself she won’t stir him from his mood, not this time.

“Jolder! Jolder, this isn’t funny!” He lengthens his stride, anxious to find her. He glances to his left and right as he goes, checking the bodies scattered around, making sure she isn’t among them. He eventually spots a flash of silver and gold, and discerns a figure lying crumpled on the ground in the distance. He breaks into a run, nearly falling on his face as he loses his footing on the wet snow.

Panicked thoughts run through Saladin’s head as he closes the distance, She’s not moving. Why isn’t her Ghost reviving her? Where’s her Ghost? He slides to a halt next to her prone form and falls to his knees. He pulls off his helmet and tosses it unceremoniously to the side before gently turning Jolder to face him.

“Jolder? Talk to me.” He feels carefully for the seals around her neck and eases her helmet from her head. Her eyes flicker open and she regards him with a glassy stare for a moment, before looking down her right arm. Saladin follows her gaze to see her hand clamped over a gaping wound in her abdomen.

“Y’should see th’other guy.” She draws her bloodstained lips back. It could be a smile, it could be a grimace but if anyone could smile through such an agonising injury, it’s Jolder. Saladin glances over at the nearby corpse of a footsoldier. The knife that probably caused Jolder’s wound is now embedded in the unfortunate attacker’s throat. He should never have been allowed to get that close to her. Saladin should have been with her. 

“We need to be more careful.” Every trace of anger has gone from his voice, only the worry remains. “From now on, we stick together.”

“Oh, don’make those sad puppy eyes at me, I’ll be fine. I just need to…” She reaches awkwardly across her body with her free hand, which is on the opposite side from her sidearm holster. She doesn’t dare take away the hand on the wound to reach for the gun, Saladin suspects it’s the only thing keeping her innards from sliding out. He swallows hard, willing his gorge not to rise. This is the sort of injury that’s certainly fatal but she’d endure hours of pain before expiring, hours of agony before her Ghost could bring her back as fresh as the day the Traveller chose her.

Jolder stifles a sob. She’s twisting herself awkwardly as she tries to reach her gun. Saladin doubts she’d have the dexterity to open the holster even if she could reach it. Her fingers are curling up, her body is shutting down the blood supply to the extremities in a last-ditch survival attempt. Human nervous systems haven’t adapted to the idea of healing through Ghost-via-suicide.

Saladin catches her hand in his and lays it down. “It’s all right. I’ve got it.”

“‘m okay,” she protests in a faint voice. “I can…”

“Jolder. I can do it.” He unclips the holster, takes out the sidearm, checks the ammo and cocks it. He turns his attention back to her, brushing his thumb lightly across her lower lip to catch a drop of blood that threatens to spill onto her chin. She locks her eyes with his. He’s caressing her cheek now, softly running his knuckles back and forth over her skin. He speaks to her, comforting “shh,” sounds, barely audible whispers. The words are less important than the tone, it’s like he’s trying to lull her to sleep.

“Do you trust me?” He says this clearly, this is important. He’s asking her to allow him to oversee her resurrection, to trust him with her Ghost. He could understand if she didn’t, trust is a hard commodity to come by in Warlord territory. The sickening crunch of the Ghost he destroyed earlier is still ringing in his ears. She doesn’t say anything, she just reaches for his wrist and pulls weakly upwards until the gun is level with her head. Saladin takes a deep breath, readies one finger at the trigger and cups the stock with his other hand. He exhales slowly and presses the barrel to her forehead.

“I’ll see you soon,” he tells her earnestly. Jolder finds a smile for him but this time, it isn’t forced. There’s no bravado now, just warmth and faith. She nods once and screws her eyes shut. He pulls the trigger.

Saladin slumps backward as the sound of the shot dies away. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He replays the carnage they unleashed today in his mind and thinks on what it means to be a living weapon, on why the Traveller saw fit to bring back the dead to slaughter the living. When he opens his eyes, that soft smile is still playing on Jolder’s lifeless lips, while the snow is slowly turning into a scarlet pillow beneath her head. As he waits for her Ghost to bring her back to him, he contemplates what it means to live in a world where killing has become an act of love.

Chapter Text

The farmers have lit a bonfire in the centre of the village, and set up tables around it laden with food. Those with the talent for it play instruments and sing, while the remainder eat, drink and dance. The settlement isn’t completely safe, not yet but the local Warlord will think twice before attempting another attack and that is cause for celebration.

Jolder makes her way through the crowd, fielding heartfelt thank-yous, offers of food and drink, and the occasional marriage proposal from villagers who have over-indulged on alcohol. She smiles indulgently and says that were she not an Iron Lord, she’d definitely consider it. She scans the gathering and picks out her brothers and sisters from among the villagers. Skorri has joined the musicians, improvising along with their songs as best she can. Silimar is attempting to learn one of the villager’s dances, under the tutelage of Gheleon, who’s having limited success. Silimar is ungainly, he has no sense of timing but he won’t give up. Radegast is speaking with the village elders, always serious, always strategising. Felwinter walks circuits of the courtyard, observing the gathered people with a detached curiosity, as though they were subjects of a scientific experiment.

She finds the only one she was really looking for seated on a log that’s being used as a makeshift bench, on the periphery of the festivities. Saladin sits alone, his elbows resting on his knees, his shoulders hunched. He glances around periodically but refuses to make eye-contact with anyone. It’s as if he’s checking to make sure that his closed-off demeanour is doing its job. It is. No one approaches him, there’s none of the easy camaraderie Jolder experienced when she arrived at the gathering. Saladin may as well be screaming, ‘leave me alone,’ at the top of his lungs.

Jolder just watches him for a while, suddenly reminded of how he was when Radegast had first found him. He’d been so wary, so slow to trust, a wolf unsure if he’d truly found his new pack. She had made it her personal mission to break down his walls. It was a game at first, trying out different strategies to get a reaction out of him. Later, it became a serious challenge to herself, she genuinely wanted to know him, so she sought out every possible chink in his emotional armour. Today, he had finally let down the last of his defences and she found she didn’t know what to do about it. A simple “thank you,” would have been unforgivably trite and she wouldn’t dream of trying to laugh off what they had shared; how that would hurt his easily-bruised heart. She eventually sat up and pulled him into a wordless embrace that she suspected neither of them wanted to end. They knelt together in the blood-stained snow, until Jolder’s comm had crackled into life, with Radegast calling for an update. They hardly spoke on the journey back to the village, their only significant communication being Saladin offering her his arm for support when phantom pain flared up in her.

Jolder’s attention is diverted by the sound of approaching footsteps. She smiles as Perun draws level with her.

“Good work out there today,” Perun nods respectfully. “The Lightbearer give you any trouble?”

“No,” Jolder shakes her head. “No match for the Iron Grump over there. Poor guy didn’t know what hit him.”

“And he’s looking particularly grumpy just now,” Perun observes with a soft chuckle. She then regards Jolder with a searching look. “Everything alright with you and him?”

“Yes,” Jolder answers a little too quickly. “Why?”

“You’re normally joined at the hip but you’ve barely said two words to each other tonight. Something happen between you two?”

Jolder isn’t sure how to answer. It was certainly Something. Something violent, yet tender. Something sublime, yet intimate. How does she explain those contradictions? How does she put into words the way his voice soothed and took away her pain? How does she make Perun understand that if Jolder were to die her final death, and Saladin were the last thing she saw, it probably wouldn’t be a bad way to go?

She opts for a shrug and some misdirection. “The violence gets to him. He’s emotional. You know how he is.”

“You should speak to him. You can usually talk him out his moods.”

Jolder nods and looks back over to Saladin. While she was distracted by Perun, Saladin had been approached by two villagers, a man and a woman, both middle aged. Jolder can’t hear what they’re saying but they’re speaking earnestly to him, they obviously didn’t get the message that his body language was sending out. That, or they chose to ignore it because what they have to say is too important. The woman is clutching Saladin’s hand and looks ready to burst into tears. The man proffers a bottle of something or other to Saladin, who extricates his hand from the woman’s and steps backwards. He shakes his head, holding his hands up. He’s trying to refuse whatever gift they’re giving him but they’re insistent. Saladin eventually accepts the bottle and says an awkward thank you. The couple retreat backwards, scraping and bowing as they go, while Saladin nods his acknowledgement. He remains standing for a moment, clutching the bottle in front of him like a shield. He glances back and forth furtively, then sits back down. He resumes his hunched posture, rolling the bottle between his palms.

“What was that all about?” asks Perun..

“I have no idea,” responds Jolder.

“Go talk to him.” Perun says this as request from a mutual friend but it could almost be an order from their field commander. “He looks like he needs it.”

“Yeah,” Jolder sighs. “I will.” She ambles over towards Saladin with as much nonchalance as she can muster. She doesn’t wait for an invitation to sit, she just plants herself beside him before he can object. She’s gratified when she sees a slight relaxation in Saladin’s posture.

“How are you doing?” he asks. “Does it still hurt?”

Jolder gives a lopsided shrug. “It’s getting better. Twinges a little now and then. I think my brain is finally starting to accept that I don’t have a hole in my side anymore. I’m okay.” She tips her head towards the retreating couple who had accosted him. “What did they want?”

“While you were…” He pauses to search for the right word, “... down , I came across this raider. He swore it was his first raid, he swore he hadn’t fired a shot. I believed him.” His features cloud with what could be anger, sadness or both. “He was just a kid. I let him go.”

“Were they his family?”

Saladin nods. “His parents.”

“The Warlord sent that boy to raid his home village?”

Saladin sighs, “Some sick loyalty test maybe? I don’t know.”

“And the bottle?” A note of amusement creeps into Jolder’s tone.

“The local brew. I don’t think have much of value to offer by way of thanks. They insisted.” He takes a breath and continues before she can interrupt, “I know what you’re going to say, I’m a bleeding heart , it was a risk but I believed him and I was right, he made it home this morning.”

“That’s not what I was going to say.” She keeps her voice as gentle as she can, so that nothing she says can sound like admonishment. “I was going to say that you’re a good man.”

He snorts softly and lets his gaze drop to the ground.

“What’s wrong?” She lays her hand on his arm, “And please don’t say ‘nothing.’ I know you’re upset.”

“Fine.” Saladin places the bottle at his feet and speaks in a monotone. “We killed eleven people today. And we’re having a party.”

“We did. Twelve if you count me.”

“That was different,” Saladin shakes his head. “I did that to help you. You were suffering.”

“ Is it different? Yes, we killed eleven people but how many did we save ? How many would have died if they had made it here?  And you gave those people back their son. I’d say that justifies a party.”

“We’re dead people, brought back to kill. That's all we do. Can we honestly say we’re better than the people we fight?”

“You are nothing like them. Don’t ever think that. You're a protector, not a killer.” Jolder places her hand over Saladin’s and gives it a gentle squeeze. “And it won’t always be like this. We’re making a better world. The Risen who come after will be what they were meant to be; guardians, not conquerors. They’ll be like you.”

He threads his fingers through hers and leans in towards her, while Jolder cups his face with her free hand and pulls him closer until their foreheads touch.

“You’re a good man, Saladin Forge,” she whispers, tracing her thumb across his lower lip. They remain like this for a few moments, just leaning against each other, breathing the same air.

Saladin swallows hard and begins, “Jolder, I-”

“So are you two going to get a room, or what?” Saladin and Jolder pull apart, both glaring towards the interloper. Efrideet stands in front of them, hands on hips, with a mischievous smirk on her face. “Seriously. Do you have any idea how long the pool on you guys has been running now? So is this it? Is it happening? Can I cash out?”

“I don’t know, Efrideet,” Jolder says with mock-brightness, “See, someone just interrupted us.” Saladin just sets his lips in a thin line and growls deep in his chest.

Before Efrideet can respond, Radegast stalks up behind her and grabs her by the collar.

“Come along child,” he intones, steering her away, “Let the grown-ups talk.”

Saladin shakes his head, glowering as he watches Radegast manhandle Efrideet back to the main gathering despite her protests. Jolder tries to maintain her composure for a second or two before collapsing into laughter.

“It’s not funny,” Saladin grumbles. “That girl’s got no manners.”

“Come on, it’s a little bit funny.” She nudges him, jostling him. “They’re running a pool on us.”

“Hmm, and when I find out who’s in on that…” He sighs, picks up the bottle and pulls out the stopper. “I need a drink”.

 “What are we drinking to?”

“How about a better world?” He raises the bottle in a toast before taking a swig. He passes it to Jolder who takes a draught. The liquid is warm and the flavour is an odd mix of sweet, sour and smoke.

She looks at the bottle in confusion, “What is that?”

“Kefir,” he answers, taking back the bottle and helping himself to another swig. “It’s made from fermented mare’s milk.”

“You’re telling me I just drank horse milk vodka?”

“Essentially,” he replies with a smirk.

“You know all that stuff I said about you being a good man? I take it back.” She wrinkles her nose and makes a staged retching sound.

Saladin laughs; a low, rumbling sound that makes Jolder’s stomach feel like it’s flipping over. She rests her head against his shoulder and the sit in companionable silence for a while.

It’s Jolder who finally speaks first. “So should we?”

“Should we what?”

“Get a room.” She feels him tense up. She slips her hand back into his. “Do you want to? I thought you did. After what happened today and, well,” she lets out a short, quiet laugh, “I’ve seen the way you look at me sometimes.”

“Everyone looks at you that way.”

She places a gentle hand on his cheek and turns him to face her. “You’re the only one I ever look back at.” She feels his hand begin to tremble beneath hers. She holds his gaze with her own and strokes his face with a feather light touch.

“Do you want me?”

“Yes,” he breathes.

“Do you trust me?”

She sees something break within him when she asks that question. His brows knot together and he exhales sharply. He swiftly closes the gap between them presses his lips against hers. Jolder whimpers softly against his mouth and puts her arms around his neck while Saladin takes her by the waist and pulls her to him. She presses into him as much as she can, she wants to be closer but their armour keeps them separate. It’ll have to go. She breaks away, panting slightly. She takes her hand in his and pulls him to his feet without any resistance. They make their way out of the village, walking faster and faster until they reach the edge of village when they break into a run, and don’t stop until they reach their ship.

They sprint up the gang plank and tumble into Jolder’s quarters. Saladin tangles his fingers in Joldler’s hair and kisses her feverishly, working his way from her lips, to her jaw and down her throat. Jolder does battle with the many (far too many) buckles and clasps on his armour, collapsing into giggles when one proves too stubborn for her shaking hands to undo.

When they finally shed their armour and clothing, when they are finally naked and entwined on her bed, she thinks back to what he'd said in the village. When she feels him move inside her and his heart beating next to hers, she knows he's wrong. They are not dead things. They are not killing things. They are alive, they are so alive.