Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Zavala finds her standing in the same place she’d landed, hours ago. Kira. Their newest Guardian. The first in a very, very long time. One of his own. His mark flutters in the wind. She does not have one, not yet. Her Ghost wobbles precariously in the air beside her, too-ing and fro-ing as if he would like to scan her, but can’t seem to figure out how to ask.

Hers was one of the flighty, nervous ones. Really, every Ghost was, in that adjustment period after they found their Guardian.

There is a small dash of white in his periphery when his own drifts forward with purpose, tipping the fins of her shell to indicate she would like a word. The new Titan’s Ghost stutters and bobs in surprise, quick to acquiesce to a superior’s request.

“I’ll be right back,” He tells his Guardian, aloud. His Guardian straightens, shifting her weight from one leg to the other.

“You can tell her through your link, you know,” His own Ghost reminds the other, who takes the slight admonishment in stride.

“I’ll remember that for next time,” He says, chancing a glance backward at his Guardian. Now, Zavala is certain, they have an exchange that is not spoken aloud.

His first step in her direction is loud. Purposely so. This one seemed proud, but skittish. She sniffs pointedly, and swipes with the back of her hands at her eyes. Plants herself with a steadier stance. The Commander shakes his head and allows himself the slightest smile before returning to his usual stoicism.

He lingers a moment before speaking to her. “Would you care to talk about it?”

She sighs, sniffles again. “I’m fine, Sir.”

“I see.” She is not, but he will not force her to share.

Silence stretches between them. She hiccoughs and swipes at her eyes once more. Her freckled cheeks are flushed and a little blotchy. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know why it is ‘m crying.” Her lower lip wobbles.

“Do you remember anything?” He asks, voice taking on a softer tone. He keeps his eyes ahead on the Traveler, instead of focusing on his newest charge. “From before?”

Her reply is meek. “My name. That’s all.”

He hums. “The way you are feeling now is not unusual. It happened to most of us, when we were newly raised.”

She turns her head, making eye contact despite her teary eyes. The new ones always latch on to any similarity. So desperate to fit in, to understand and be understood in turn. He is grateful she is not afraid of her own shadow. “Did - did you feel that way, Sir?”

“I… did not have the same luxury.” She frowns, recognizing the care with which he’s chosen his words. “It was long ago.”

She looks up. “I feel as though there are things I should remember. I knew how to fire a gun. I knew how to fight those… Fallen, I think it was?” He nods. “Fallen. And for some reason, I feel like I’ve lost something, and I don’t know how to get it back.”

The Commander turns to her. She meets his gaze, watery eyes and all. Proud, but not too proud, he revises. “It is an imprint. It will fade, in time.”

“An imprint?”

“You were someone else, before you were reborn as a Guardian. You may have remembered her name, you may look like her, but you are someone different. That is okay.”

“You mean to say I’m… mourning myself? My past self, I mean?”

Zavala dips his head, pleased. “That is one way to look at it. Many Guardians obsess over whom they were before. I would warn you that that is a road of heartbreak, Guardian. And it is not why you were reborn. We-”

“Live to protect humanity, and fight off the armies of the darkness with the Light of the Traveler.” She wins a quick smile from him for it. “That, I think, is the easy part in all this. Whatever happened before, I...” She shakes her head. “I think it would be best to let it die.”

He pats her on the back, both reassuring and proud. She is too unfamiliar with him to recognize the extreme rarity of his reaction. “It is no wonder you are one of mine,” He comments mildly.

She tilts her head, studies him. “Is it?”

“Ikora, the Warlock Vanguard, seeks knowledge. She would not tell you to forego your duties, but she would not discourage exploration. Cayde, the Hunter-”

“Yes, I’ve met him,” She grouses. “He’s… interesting.”

Zavala nods. “Cayde’s Hunters have a looser set of principles, ideologies. You’ll see that, when you team up with them on your own. They are invaluable, the Warlocks and the Hunters. But they do not have the same kind of discipline, the same gumption that a Titan embraces in the heat of battle.” He looks over his shoulder at his Ghost and hers hovering nearby. “Your Ghost will be your closest friend. Allow him to guide you. He’ll not lead you astray.”

“I will, Sir.”

“Good,” He replies, voice almost so soft she has to strain to hear him. “When our Ghosts are finished, I will show you around the Tower. The Speaker is looking forward to meeting you.”

“Okay,” She agrees, but looks back over at him, left fist tucked into his right palm, braced behind his back. “Who is the Speaker?”

Zavala smiles then, she can tell by the difference in the glow of his eyes. “Of course,” He remarks, more to himself than to her. “There is so much you need to know. The Speaker…”

Chapter Text

It’s a beautiful, warm spring day. The birds are cheery as they swoop around the Tower, cheeky trill of ever-searching Ghosts faint and familiar. A gentle breeze makes her short auburn hair dance against her shoulder. She looks up and around.

Nothing could possibly go wrong today, she thinks.

That’s Kira’s first mistake.

Like the Titan she is - like her Ghost called her, on the spot, before she’d uttered a word, and just barely as she’d started to breathe - she picks the biggest, boldest, most noble of patrols that the Commander offers her. She skirts around enemy after enemy on Venus, runs through the Ishtar Sink with fire in her lungs and lightning in her veins.

She charges a Minotaur at least ten times her size. It cuts her down.

When its attention is on her hodge-podge fireteam, and Ghost gets her up, she tries again.

And again.

And again.

She does not notice when the rest of her team backs down, only realizes, with panic that she’s played so long with her food - it didn’t best her, no enemy can truly do that, she thinks fiercely - that she gave it time to summon a really, REALLY big Hydra.

Oops.

The thing nearly kills them all, but then her Hunter shows off his Shadowshot and the Warlock summons their fire, and it’s easy for her to call electricity to her fists and punch it into oblivion.

Of course, Hydras explode when they die, and the ricochet sends her hurtling off a conveniently placed cliff into a ravine. The impact damages her helm and renders her comm useless. She tries shouting up to her comrades to head back to base because Ghost adamantly refuses to transmat her up the cliff for doing something she’s been told not to do at least seventy times before.

“Do not punch the Hydra, I tell tell you every single time,” Ghost is chattering, shell all but buzzing with agitation. She holds up a finger to gently interrupt, but her partner rounds on her in a snappy motion, barking, “Do not punch the Hydra! But noooo, why would you listen to Ghost? I don’t have archives I can cross-reference, or record any of your fights, or generally try to guide you in the right direction!”

“I’m sorry I punched the Hydra,” Kira says, in her best approximation of remorse. She blinks her cinnamon eyes at her partner, shoulders hunched, playing the part of the chastised child. “Would you please transmat me up the cliff?”

Her second mistake is that she underestimates her Ghost, who wilts, as if he’s giving in. She relaxes just a touch, and it’s enough to make that cyan optic of his narrow and then suddenly, She’s being transmatted to the foot of the thing, looking up at a wall of orangish-red. A rogue wind has her blinking sand out of her eyes.

“Get climbing,” Ghost tells her.

“This face is at least a kilometer high and there’s hardly any footholds!”

“Then make some,” Ghost leers at her. “That’s what you did the last time I told you you shouldn’t try to climb something and you did it anyway.”

Kira blinks in surprise. She did definitely do that. On the Moon, if she remembers properly. It stirred up a bunch of Fallen, who were loud enough to draw the attention of the Hive. That was a mess, she recalls, with a shake of her head. Ghost expands one side of his fins to point toward the wall. “Better get moving.”

-/

It’s well past dark when she finally returns to the Tower for the evening, armor covered in red dust, gloves peeling from trying to find footholds. Zavala is waiting for her at her usual landing zone. She winces at the sight of his back, left fist tucked into his right hand in his usual pose.

“Good evening, Sir,” She ventures, ducking her head when he does not turn to regard her.

“You're late,” He comments, still looking up at the Traveler.

Kira sighs. “Sorry, Sir.”

“I hear you punched a Hydra-”

A glimmering sound interrupts him, her Ghost phasing into the space between the Titans with a vengeance, growling, “Please do not commend her, Commander, I am trying to teach her not to charge blindly into every situation just because she has lightning fists and is capable of being resurrected-”

Kira scoops the angry entity out of the air with dexterous hands. “I'm sure he'll be more likely to reprimand me,” She grouses quietly.

“You would be correct,” Zavala intones, in that low, serious tone that has her looking down and away, ashamed. Ghost relents ever so slightly, no longer fighting to escape her grasp even as she drops her hands. “What you did was reckless, and without thought.”

She does not argue with her Vanguard and she does not dare look up into his disappointed visage.

“Ghost,” Zavala calls, tilting his head to the side to  look to the subdued bot hanging over her shoulder, “Leave us for a moment, if you would.”

Kira shifts her weight from one foot to the other anxiously. “Serves you right,” He says softly, and she winces again. He turns his pale blue optic on the stoic face of the Commander. “Don't be too hard on her, please.”

Ghost purposely brushes her cheek with the edge of his shell as he passes by her. It's a practiced action. A soothing one.

It's his way of saying it's going to be okay.

When it's just the two of them, Commander Zavala turns back to her. “You are strong, Kira,” Zavala says. “Impressively so.” She holds herself tense, like a bow-string, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “But strength is not what wins battles.” The tips of blue fingers nudge her chin upward to look into his eyes. “Don’t cry,” He tells her, when the first large drop leaks, followed by a blink and then several more. He looks more disappointed in her than she expected, she thinks. “Your Ghost seems to think he's chastised you enough.”

“He made me climb up the cliff I fell down,” She murmurs. “That’s why I was so late coming back.”

The Commander blinks at her, his eyes taking on a different sort of tone, though his lips stay in that thin, serious line. Apparently, she thinks grimly, he approves. “Did you learn a lesson?” He asks her

She nods.

Zavala straightens. “Tell me.”

“Think before I punch,” She admits, softly.

Zavala coughs, his way of covering an errant chuckle that threatened to rumble from his throat. “I would have said tactical awareness,” He corrects, gently. “What else?”

“Trust Ghost.”

“Ah,” Zavala says, turning back around and patting the railing beside him. She swings her legs over and sits on the top rung while he leans against it. “The most important lesson.”

“He’s very… mothering,” She admits. “I know he means well, but-”

“He has spent centuries looking for you, Kira. It is his duty to protect you, even from yourself.” She looks over at Zavala carefully. “Especially from yourself, in this case.”

“I did think I was protecting them, not putting them in danger.”

Zavala lifts his chin, and narrows his eyes. “Was that before or after the Minotaur called the Hydra to assist him?”

“It was when I punched the Hydra,” She admits. “The Minotaur… that was an oversight. I was testing my shoulder charge.”

He nods. “The day will come when you will shoulder charge a Minotaur and it will go down without question. But when that day comes, I should hope that you are focused on what the real threat is, and not on your abilities. If your Ghost gives you advisement, it isn’t because he is trying to boss you around.”

“I know,” She agrees softly. “I just wanted-”

“Grandiose heroics are not always a sign of bravery, Titan.” The Commander’s voice is firm. Not quite a yell, but she feels chastised all the same. “Standing up to your competition is not always brave. That battle could have been won at long range. You have a pulse rifle and a rocket launcher. You were well-equipped and yet you chose not to do so.” Blue eyes flicker over to her carefully. “Foolishness and bravery may sometimes look like the same thing, Kira. I assure you, they are not.”

“Fools get blasted off the side of a cliff when they defeat their enemies.” She says sullenly.

“Fools do not listen to their Ghosts when they say - through the Fireteam comms, nonetheless - to stand on the other side of the Hydra if they’re going to punch it into oblivion.” Zavala tilts his head, like a question.

Kira flushes, her freckled cheeks red. “I wasn’t listening,” She admits. “I was channeling my Light and it was just so-” She clenches her fists, small plumes of red dust drifting away in the evening breeze.

“Arc is like that,” Zavala confirms. “Do not lose yourself to it, Kira. Keep your wits about you unless there is no other choice - and that should only be when there is no conceivable way out.” He clears his throat. “We all make mistakes, Kira. Learn from them.”

“And stop upsetting your Ghost,” Comes a demure, not unkind voice, “He only wishes to see you succeed, even if he’s a flighty, nervous thing.”

“He’s not that bad,” Kira replies, as the Commander’s Ghost does a circle around her. “I-” She sighs. “I’m just unruly.”

“A bit,” She agrees with the new Titan, before her optic shifts to her own, fondly. “You all are when you’re young.” Kira follows the motion of the white-shelled Ghost, her lips breaking into a small smile at the insinuation. “But you’ll grow.”

Chapter Text

This cannot be happening.

It’s as if everything she’s ever known is collapsing around her.

(Because it is.)

The Hall of Guardians has been razed by what could only be an aerial assault, judging by the countless Cabal ships in the sky. The hallways and corridors she’s always traversed - this is her home - are half collapsed. There are casualties, but those assisting the dead and injured urge her to keep moving.

Everything is a blur. The Legionaries and Psions fall easily. The occasional Centurion? No match for her fist. Her Ghost chatters nervously. There’s a lot of smoke.

She relaxes when she sees the Commander in the Plaza, a beacon of hope for them all. He is ushering Guardians through. When she shields her eyes against the blinding flash of a missile barrage, she hears him bellow for anyone not in cover to step into his shield.

His is a steady, relaxing presence, even in the midst of all this chaos. She picks off more enemies that land on her way to his side, to receive his orders.

Zavala is breathing heavy. He tells her to go to Ikora, find the Speaker. She breaks into a run.

Another barrage of missiles rain down around them. It’s so loud, so blinding, she barely hears the grunt.

Instead she hears screaming.

Two Hunters, three Warlocks. A look over her shoulder shows her five faces in carrying degrees of horror.

“Guardian down,” comes the feminine Ghost call, over sputtering, crackling comms.

Kira is closest. Cabal are advancing on the Commander’s body. His dead body.

Her vision bleeds white. Lightning sings from her fists. With a furious, animalistic cry, she annihilates them.

“Ghost,” She urges, voice trembling, “Help her. W-we have to get him up. Hurry.”

The rest of the Guardians rally, drawing the enemies’ attention while she awaits for the Commander’s fatal wounds to heal, for him to come to. She rips off her helmet as his glowing eyes open once again, locking instantly on her worried amber ones.

“Go,” He urges her with a short bark, pushing her away as he returns to his feet. “Find the Speaker! There’s no time!”

No time for him to address the tremble in her hands, the way his eyes dart back and forth for just a split second and he knows her heart’s lodged in her throat. No time to tell her it’s going to be okay.

Because it is not okay, she realizes, as one of the towers above them collapses and the fires blaze.

This cannot be happening.

Chapter Text

The woman says her name is Hawthorne as she throws Kira a shotgun.

But Kira feels like she's underwater. Everything is murky.

If she closes her eyes and tries to focus, starbursts erupt behind her eyes and her heart rate skyrockets and everything is falling screaming killing dying yelling burning.

Things are different, at the Farm. There is a subdued camaraderie, a fragile hope in the togetherness of it all.

She's grateful to her Ghost. Even now, in his weakened state, he does not hesitate to speak for her where she cannot form the words. He hums words of encouragement, soothing things, just keeps talking to her - through their link - filling the silence in her brain where monstrous thoughts(memories) reside.

At night, she sits atop the barn and stares out at the Shard. They converse - always through their link, never aloud - about her vision, the one she had before coming to in the conquered City. She shares what she saw. He’s had the same one, too

It convinces Ghost even more: They need to go to the Shard.

-/

She tells Hawthorne… well, Ghost does, for her. She can barely grunt and nod. Eye contact is hard, as if she'll look up into unseeing, dead eyes or be speaking to shadows of people that aren't there.

Ghost does not repeat that part.

I'm with you, Kira, He repeats silently through their link, over and over. I'm with you.

He wishes it brought more comfort, she can tell through the shivering shake of his shell. But it's hard, when his ceremonial shell - that's right, she thinks dazedly, they were going to the Tower for a celebration (it seems so far away, now) - is clinking because it's broken and she can't fix it. The impact of the fall - she shudders, remembering - cannot be undone.

Hawthorne isn't happy, exactly, but she gifts them a ship and tells them to trust their gut. It's as close as they'll get to her blessing. Transmat is jarring - she gags at the sudden vertigo and swallows bile at the unbidden thoughts that bubble up - but wraps her fingers around the thrusters. Ghost rests in the crook where her neck meets her shoulder. Her armor is wrecked there, and the metal of his ruined shell is rough against her skin.

“I'm here,” He warbles aloud, in his electric tone. “You're not alone.”

Kira tips her head against the top, collapsed fin of his shell as the engines roar to life.

“Th-thank you,” She clears her throat, tears coming to her eyes, her voice rough from disuse. She can feel the hurt emanating from her partner on her behalf.

“There's nothing for you to thank me for.”

“You didn't give up on me,” The rest of the words tumble from her lips in a hoarse whisper. “I was…” Her eyes are unfocused. A clicking whirr of sound, the orange glow of the control panel indicates that Ghost has taken over the controls. How she'd piloted the ship when Hawthorne found her in the first place is a mystery. She is too frayed, too broken to cry. “I was so afraid we'd both die alone.”

-/

The Shard nearly kills her. Not it, exactly, just getting to it. When the enemies are done in, and she carries Ghost the rest of the way, she’s not expecting much. The way she sees it, it’s all a matter of time before everything is over. She’ll go down fighting, but she’ll go down all the same.

So when the Light - How? She wonders at the same time as Why not before? Why her? - wells up and charges everything - the air around her, through her, inside of her - it asks a question. One without words.

What are her intentions, it wonders, this discarded piece of the Traveler. How will she proceed?

“I-” Her voice fails her, brittle and broken from strangled screams. She thinks of the Plaza and of her Vanguard and of how she’d been helpless to save anyone, anything.

I want to protect them, She thinks. I have to protect them.

The next thing she knows, her feet are on the ground and there are Fallen all around her. Ghost is zipping through the air, happier by leaps and bounds. “Eyes up, Guardian,” He rallies.

She reaches for her lightning.

There is no crackling spark. The whiplash of further failure leaves her confused.

She looks at her gloves, at the palms of her hands. Tries to remember the feeling of summoning a grenade, the crackle and pop of lighting the fuse. Kira squeezes her eyes shut as she focuses. Feels a slippery cold. This is the Void, she realizes with a start, watching it streak through the misty, eerie air as she throws. Purple, menacing Light has replaced vivid electric-blue.

“Kira,” Ghost hollers, over the sound of gunfire directed her way. “Use your Light! We can do this!”

Arms thrown out in the perfect impression of Zavala calling forth his Ward of Dawn, she attempts to cast. Instead, it coalesces along her arm in an intricate, glowing swirl.

A shield, she realizes. The Traveler has gifted me a shield. I am a Defender: the last, lonely sentinel.

Chapter Text

For the first time in weeks, she dozes. Her hand rests on her rifle, and Ghost has no doubt that the slightest threatening sound would have her on her feet, aiming. He hovers silently beside her. She's propped against a wall, knees drawn up to her chest. Her heart rate is steadily rising. He feels guilty that he'll probably have to wake her soon.

Across the room, Sloane sits at a metal table with a rusted chair, silently keeping watch on the two exits with somber, alert eyes. Her gun rests in front of her. The Commander is perched on a makeshift cot near where Kira rests - it's expired ration crates lined up with a thermal sleeping bag atop it - Amanda's head on his thigh, a large, dirty palm running through her hair. He looks resigned and wary.

“She’s... quieter than I remember,” The Deputy Commander's voice breaks the silence. She does not look to Zavala. Her eyes slide over the woman sleeping nearest the exit at her ten o’clock, then to the exit at her eight, back along the same wall, and back to the far exit at her twelve. Her weapon is trained on it, she has near perfect sight-lines almost to the outside from here.

“Yes,” Zavala replies morosely. “She was always so jubilant and spirited. This is… concerning.”

Amanda shifts in her sleep and the Commander braces, wincing with only his eyes. Sloane knows him well enough to see it. He was injured at Towerfall. She's concerned that he's still hurting, clearly, but he refuses to accept anyone's care. She’d been careful to mention it to their junior when he was occupied earlier, after they’d established themselves here on the sinking rig.

Kira had only stared at her at the time, but her Ghost had adamantly promised they would keep him safe and out of harm's way. She might have her Light back, Sloan thinks, but this Guardian is hardly the same person.

She has been silent since the moment she’d received them on the landing platform outside. The skin around her eyes is a violet black, evident of her lack of sleep. That sweet vibrance she always bolstered with her seems like a thing of the past.

Sloane had given orders, and she rose to the task. Up front, it’s what they needed. No nonsense, no extra chatter. But now, with time to think about it, it’s not right. In fact, the Deputy Commander thinks, looking the younger Titan’s way, it’s clear that there’s something wrong with her.

Kira comes to with a shaking gasp, bolting to her feet. It's enough to make Sloane raise her gun and point it at the wall where Kira's wild-eyed terrified gaze is focused, darting back and forth. There's nothing there. The Guardian rises swiftly and makes a ninety-degree right turn, intending to find the nearest exit when Zavala's unoccupied palm wraps itself around her wrist. Her body jerks, recoiling.

“Kira,” He calls, voice low and almost drowned out by her ragged breaths. She’s shaking fiercely.

“She’d like you to let her go, Commander,” Ghost answers for her hastily. “Please.”

Zavala tries again, voice as gentle as it what when she was a new Guardian, freshly raised. “Kira.”

When his grip loosens but does not fall away, she pulls her arm back to her side and all but sprints out of their makeshift command center. Her steps are loud on the metallic deckplates outside. Her retching is far quieter.

That does not make it any less notable to veteran ears.

Sloane rises when Zavala does, gently moving himself out from under Amanda. The Shipwright blinks sleepily, but the Commander's hand on her cheek has her pillowing her head under her hands, and Sloane's presence, now lingering protectively beside her, is an acceptable substitute.

His Deputy's eyes are serious and dark. The two Titans nod to each other in silent understanding. Zavala steps over Kira's rifle as he follows their other charge.

It is darker than the City, these cold nights on Titan. Even so, his eyes adjust to the minuscule light quickly as he descends the metal stairs to where she’s huddled on the ground. She’s braced on hands and knees, taking deep breaths of heavy air. He can hear her Ghost speaking to her, hovering at her left ear.

“Don’t think like that,” He’s saying in a stage whisper. “You were chosen for a reason. You’re the bravest Guardian I know. You can do this. I believe in you. I’m with you.” The words, spoken so tenderly, root him to the spot. They are not for him to hear. He cannot unhear them, but he will pretend to give her some modicum of privacy.

She wretches and gags more, spitting over the edge into the methane sea a couple hundreds meters. Her Ghost carries on, encouraging and consoling her in equal measure. He takes another few steps toward her, intent on getting her to talk to him. Not her Ghost. She needs to let it out, these feelings, whatever they may be. Guardians far more seasoned than her have lost themselves to their uncertainties, to their self-doubt, the things they've seen. Light or not, he is there to guide her. That does not change because of cages or Cabal or anything.

“Kira,” The Commander calls. She tenses, flinching again. His heart sinks. She was never this way, not even as a new Guardian.

She rises, shakily. “Talk to me, Kira,” He continues. Ghost shimmers out of sight. The younger Titan turns.

Behind him, a Stealth Vandal lets out a harrowing scream.

Kira moves, fast.

There is no evidence of the shivering woman-child he’d tried to console seconds before, only a stone-faced warrior. Nothing about the way she moves has her usual flair, the tell-tale dazzle of a Striker. She breaks the Vandal’s neck before it manages to hit her with its blades and tosses it over the railing without preamble.

He drops to a fighting stance, but she turns and looks pointedly at his side and back to his eyes. She does not speak but he knows what she is saying. Sloane might think she's discreet, but he knows all her plays. Of course she told them. Kira reaches into the darkness in front of them both and gets her hands on another Vandal. The hand on his mask crushes its face and disables its stealth shield. It crumples at her feet. His ears burn with embarrassment. This is what he’s reduced to, he thinks. He had not heard them. Light or not, he should have been able to hear them.

(He does not want to think that without his Light, there is no way he ever could have.)

Helpless but to watch, he notices something disturbing. She does not speak, does not grunt, does not cry out when their enemies hit her. There is no breathy grunt as she braces and swings them wide of him, no uproarious cry as they break against her fists and inevitably fall to her.

It isn’t right, he thinks, distracted from his own personal failure.

When the fight is over, her Ghost appears at her side.

“We’re clear,” He says to the Commander, flitting about his Guardian to heal the handful of cuts and an errant bruise, forming in a splotch across her cheek. He flashes away and back, transmatting her rifle from the other room to her waiting hands. “We’ll stay out here and keep watch until morning, in case their Captain decides he’d like to come after his crew.”

Zavala moves into the only nearby cover, evaluating his sight-lines. They’ll do. “I’ll join you.”

Kira dips her head. Words still seem to fail her.

“She says she’d feel better if you got some rest,” Ghost translates.

He swallows back his bitterness at the feeling of being unable to do anything, it seemed. “Would you rather I leave you alone?” He asks her instead, holding her gaze until she looks down and away.

A long moment later, she shakes her head: a tiny motion that makes her messy, falling half-ponytail sway. “Even so,” Ghost says on her behalf again, “She says this isn’t about her.”

Zavala’s lower lip curls inward. “No,” He confirms sadly, “It is not. But even so, I am your Vanguard, Kira. I am here for you.”

She reaches across the space between them and squeezes his hand. She looks like she wishes to speak, and he blinks hopefully, praying she does. The moment passes. That emotionless, stoic look returns and she disengages the hold, stepping back from him.

Emotional damage aside, she knows her duty.

“We’re going to find a better vantage point,” Ghost says, when his Guardian begins to walk away. “She is concerned that the the Fallen activity might draw the Hive back here as well.”

“Ghost,” The Commander breathes, barely loud enough to constitute a whisper. Imploring. “What is wrong? Tell me happened to her.”

His subordinate's partner spins and twists his shell. “Well,” He murmurs in reply, reasoning, “We were separated for a while,” He shivers. “I don’t really know.”

That last part is a lie, the Ghost thinks to himself later. He’s sure Zavala knows it, too. That it's why he didn't pry further.

She’s told her Ghost what she saw, during her almost two days separated from him. He had seen much of the same himself. Snatches and flashes of life being snuffed out, violence against innocent, unarmed men, women, and children, Lightless Guardians dragged behind harvesters, decapitated and fed to Warhounds, dead and dying Ghosts strung like necklaces around the necks of Cabal warriors as trophies of conquest.

It would break Zavala’s heart to know, she had told him. No one loves the City more than the Commander who teaches the Guardians - especially his Titans - to love and protect it, too. It’s their home. It belongs to all of them.

But more than that, Ghost knows what she's thinking: how can she possibly consider unburdening herself upon him? She has her Light back. There is no reason for her to complain. She has what every one of them wants. She must not waste this gift.

She wants his advice, though. He knows it. She has not mastered the Shard’s - the Traveler’s new gift. She does not understand the Void like Zavala does. Ghost looks at her, a tip of his shell indicating that she should talk to him. Light or not, he wants to help. She bites her lip, shakes her head.

A slap in the face, She communicates through her neural link. It would be a slap in the face to show off the power that’s left him and manifested itself in her.

“It isn’t like that,” Ghost says out loud. “Don’t think like that.”

How can she not, she wonders. There are so many more deserving than she.

And yet, she’ll soldier on, do her best. That’s why she was chosen. She has to protect them all.

She has to.

Chapter Text

They know now.

About the Almighty.

What it does. What it's going to do if they...

If she…

… Can't stop it.

It's a terrifying thought.

Zavala rises to the occasion. He wants the fleet mobilized, he wants to fight - finally, Kira thinks, he finally sounds like himself again - and he wants to take back what belongs to humanity.

It's just… easier said and done. Zavala’s morale bolstering speech aside, it doesn't change that what Guardians and ships they have are heavily battered. It has no bearing on how harrowing this place is, that it cannot properly accommodate so many refugee civilians.

Sloane is pensive. She's been stationed all over the system. If anyone is poised to provide insight in this situation, it’s her. “We have to get these people safely back to Earth. They'll die here,” She reasons. “The Hive and Fallen are an undeniable threat. Not to mention that we're running out of food.”

“We have nowhere on Earth to go. We’ll have to get boots on the ground, map out a suitable location and hope the Legion does not notice...”

Ghost spins the back half of his shell with a synthetic sort of drone. “The Farm,” He replies to them both. “You can take the refugees and the fleet to the Farm.”

Zavala and Sloane share a glance. “What and where is that?”

“Near the Shard, in the European Dead Zone. The survivors are mounting a resistance there!” Ghost sounds incredibly chipper.

Not for the first time, Zavala murmurs, “Impossible.”

“We helped them set up the comm network before we left.” He continues, rambling, “They've been rounding up all the survivors, anyone who was left in the City. I'm sure they'd be happy to accommodate the evacuees.”

The Deputy Commander looks at Kira, who stands at attention silently, back not quite resting against the wall, eyes on the data-pad on with their intelligence on the Almighty. She looks up and meets Sloane's gaze head-on, chocolate brown to flecked amber.

“There's no way a civilian resistance could possibly accommodate the sheer number refugees,” Sloane finally admits. “The amount of resources we need is staggering. A couple well-hid caches can help a small group, sure, but not the entire population.”

“But Hawthorne-”

“We'll need you,” Zavala nods to Kira, “To go back to Earth and find a place that's well hidden and can accommodate a large camp. We won't send them all. Some will have to stay here, with the remaining food supply.” Sloane steps to attention, as if she's just received her orders. In a way, she has. There is no doubt who is better suited to stay here.

Kira squeezes her eyes shut. They keep talking about what to do, how to go about it, making a list of all the things they'll need in a refuge and a base of operations. They aren't listening. Ghost nudges her palm; She hears him scoot up in front of her face.

She meets that glowing, familiar gaze. He tilts his whole body, evaluating her, as if asking her how they should proceed.

Hawthorne thinks they're abandoning her. If they follow orders, she'll be right. She doesn't want to disobey Zavala, but it's clear he doesn't understand yet. It's not just a small movement. The survivors are serious. And Kira, she… identifies with them.

They know what the ruined City looked like. They were down there, when the Cabal hunted them for sport. They are out there, living and fighting and still breathing.

They, like her, are different now.

She steps between her superiors. They are still discussing things, but fall silent, eyeing her warily as she comes forward. She moves as if she's in a dream, slow like she's sleepwalking.

Neither of them understand, she thinks, through the white noise in her head. They all have to work together. It doesn't matter who's a Guardian and who's a civilian. None of that matters anymore.

The Traveler led them to the falcon - to Louis - and he took them to Hawthorne. She knows they're important to this. She knows they have to do this together. Her fists ball tightly at her side If they don’t do this together - all of them, together - they’ll surely die.

She looks down at the clunky radio on the table with the dent from Zavala's fist on the the far side. Ghost approaches, looking up at her face and she nods. He spins and clicks, the beam of light from his core wide and warm as he interfaces with the thing.

“Ghost,” Zavala asks, shy of a bark(though it elicits a flinch from the Guardian), “What are you doing?”

She waits for her doting partner's approval before turning back to the Commander. With sharp, heavy gaze, she offers Zavala the Golden Age styled receiver. It’s not the first time she’s looked him in the eye since landing here on Titan, but this time is different. This is the closest she’s come to open honesty.

“Talk to them,” Kira begs aloud, voice hoarse and crackling over the nearly silent static of the tuned radio. If he were not a man of impeccable discipline and control, he might have recoiled visibly. Her voice was not quite melodic, but it was certainly joyful and sweet. Now, like the rest of her, it is strained and cracked. “Just hear them out,” She rasps. “Please.”

They stare each other down a while longer. Her breathing is harsh and uneasy. She’s anxious and desperate. Behind her back, Sloane tips her head to the side, before nudging her chin forward, implying something to her superior.

“It’s not as if we stand to lose anything by getting more information,” Sloane considers.

Zavala takes the device from Kira gently. “Okay,” He relents. She sags, as if some of the weight on her shoulders has been stripped away.

“You’ll see,” Her Ghost says, looking first at his Guardian before back at Zavala, then Sloane eventually. “It’s our best chance.”

An awkward silence settles over them. Kira wrings her hands.

“That’s not what she thinks,” Zavala murmurs, gesturing to her. The Guardian blinks, looking up at him. She looks even more exhausted than she had the night before, and it appears she's finished speaking to them.

“No,” Ghost confirms, speaking for her. Somberly, he reveals, “She believes it’s the only one we have.”

-/

When the Commander presses his boots into the soil, it’s early morning. Everything is fogged and damp, the air is cold and misty. There is little light, it appears like there is nothing there. Holliday had confirmed their coordinates at least a dozen times. He does not like the constant hesitation he feels. This is not like him. He is their leader, he reminds himself yet again.

But, they trust her, this leader of the Farm.

So, for now, would he.

There is a pale light in the distance, like a lantern, a flashlight, something.

Hawthorne - the leader, approaches them with a militiaman on her right and Shaxx on her left. Holliday cries out softly, jumping at the hulking Titan. Hawthorne watches, and for a moment, Zavala thinks he sees the tick of a smile. He extends a hand toward her. One leader to another.

She casts her gaze down and to the left and the man beside her offers his instead. “Devrim Kay, sir.”

“Ah yes,” Zavala says, redirected. Years of political hum-drum make his movements smooth though his mind is reeling that the other leader's behavior right out of the gate. “It has been quite some time,” He comments idly. “I’m happy you’re here.”

“And I you, Commander. Welcome to the Farm.”

Hawthorne stands beside them, and he tries again. She shakes her head, looking down at her fingers. “Not that I don’t want to shake your hand,” She says, her tone not necessarily kind, but not rude. “But I’ve just spent the last few hours in triage.” It’s then that he notes the residual blood and grime that cakes her arms and fingers. “We got a group of refugees in late last night. Most of them were injured.”

“Casualties?”

She smirks, proud. “None.”

“Mortality rates are high, you said.” He took extensive notes, both himself and Sloane, when they had made contact with the Earthen resistance.

“They’re high out there,” Shaxx booms from off to the side, keeping one arm around the Shipwright and using the other to gesture out toward the wilds. “We have FOTC, the Militia, and plenty of willing Guardians. Our people are safe here. Holliday and I will get the pilots in the hangar up in the air and we can start bringing down the refugees from orbit.”

“Y’all got a hangar,” The blonde queries. Surprise is evident. “Out here?”

“More aptly, it’s a barn,” Devrim volunteers. “But we make due.” He nods to Hawthorne. “I’ll round up everyone who will be handing out supplies. We have a lot of goods and people to move.”

“Devrim,” Hawthorne says, fondly. Grateful. “Thank you.”

He pats her arm, over her dirty poncho. “Nothing to it, my dear.”

When it’s just the two of them, Zavala gestures ambiguously. “If you’re still needed in triage, allow me to come with. I’m sure I can be of some assistance.”

“If I take you to triage, it’ll be to get seen,” She answers plainly, with a blatant sort of honesty. Then, lower, she comments, “I heard you were injured in the initial assault.”

“I assure you,” He says rigidly, uncomfortable. No one should know that, he thinks, it's horrific for morale. “I’m fine. A flesh wound that’s nearly healed.”

“If you say so.” She gestures with a dirty hand. “This way. I’ll show you where our base of operations is. You can get situated while I clean up.”

He falls into step beside her easily. She is strange and awkward, like she doesn’t particularly belong in a group of people. Still, he has to ask. It bothers him.

“Ah, Hawthorne,” He begins, examining her face when she turns to look at him, trying to detect a lie, “How did you happen to find out I was injured?”

She hums, and turns back toward the direction they’d been walking. Coming up a dirt path, through a gate, he gazes upon a field, and small collection of buildings. Hawthorne raises her hand in a wave.

He follows her line of sight to a battered barn. Atop it, above the slow creeping line of mist, he sees her, gun slung over her shoulder. Vigilant. A protector of the people. The Titan’s lips are set in a thin line, though she dips her head in a stoic nod.

“Kira,” He answers for himself. Of course, he thinks. She’d left them days ago to prepare things at their new home away from home.

Hawthorne nods. “She’s worried about you.”

His reply is indignant. “Truly, Hawthorne, I’m fine.”

“I heard you the first time,” Hawthorne bristles. She doesn’t really care so long as he doesn’t keel over. As far as fancy-pants Guardians go, short of Cayde-6, this guy’s the absolute pinnacle. Jerking her thumb up at the silent Guardian, she suggests, “Worry about convincing her.”

Chapter Text

Kira talks to Hawthorne.

Actually talks. Not through her Ghost - not always, at least. Certainly far more than the handful of words she’d spoke to him on Titan before continuing her silent penance.

The Commander isn’t jealous, exactly; He does not have time for that sort of emotion with the way things are going in the war effort. But he cannot deny that he feels a touch betrayed. He’s offered himself up to her on multiple occasions. He’s known her since she was hours reborn, has helped to coach her, shaped her into a Titan worthy of the title, of the mark at her hip.

Which, she wears one of scrapped cloth, nothing like the one he’d seen her with that day. He's surprised more of the Titans have not shed theirs for something new, following the catastrophe that's befallen them. But, then again, he refuses to dwell on the Plaza, on Towerfall, on anything related to the City except taking it - and the Traveler - back from the Cabal. He himself will not discard his own; To him, this is but another battle. And this battle is not over until there is nothing left of him to protect humanity from its enemies.

What does bother him is that Hawthorne is not beholden to the same code of honor that Titans - that Guardians - adhere to. She is good in that she is helping them - she’s saved countless lives - and he’s grateful. But she looks down on him just as much as he looks down on her. She’s wary of most of the Guardians, at best.

And yet, Kira’s pressed against her side, half curled into herself on a hay bale in the barn, and they’re conversing in soft, hushed tones. Neither of them pay him any mind, assuming him to be engrossed in battle plans for how hard he’s staring at the map sprawled out on the table, the surrounding tablets and scrolls. 

“It’s not all on you,” Hawthorne is saying. “I’m going to fight, your Commander is going to fight-” She looks up and their eyes meet, glowing azure to dark mahogany, “The Guardians and the Militia, my scouts,” She does not make a move to pat Kira’s back; In fact, the closeness of the Guardian seems to make her a bit uncomfortable. “We’re all in this thing together. I’m glad you got your Light back, kid, but Light doesn’t make you brave. From what I can tell, it just makes you more stupid and reckless.”

Zavala thinks back to the lesson he’d taught this same Guardian, a long, long time ago. It wasn’t actually that long - not even a decade ago, really - but it certainly feels that way.

“‘M more careful now,” Kira whispers. It sounds painful, when she speaks, but her voice grows a bit stronger each time she does. “I want to protect everyone.”

It sounds so small, though. Hawthorne dips her head when Zavala looks over again, blinking pointedly. He looks away, lest Kira also take note that he’s paying attention to their conversation and lock up once again. He cannot shake the feeling in his gut that there’s something going on. There’s something she isn’t telling him.

“I know, kid.” She settles, as if burrowing into the awkward position she’s wiggled her way into, and Hawthorne does finally pat her arm a little, rather awkwardly. “I know.”

When she realizes she’s starting to doze, Kira forces herself up with a silent yawn. “We’re going to take a walk,” Ghost announces for them both. “We’ll be back in time to take watch, if you need it.”

Hawthorne nods. Zavala clears his throat. “You should get some rest.”

Kira shrugs. “Hard to come by, these days,” Ghost replies, in a strange-for-him cadence. The handful of words she’s produced - that he’s heard over the last few days - are all similar to that. It stings Zavala, her silence. It’s a hauntingly stark contrast.

“Stay safe out there,” Hawthorne tells them both, and then they’re gone.

The Commander turns to her completely. “She speaks to you,” He says, tucking one hand into the other, behind his back.

“Sometimes,” Hawthorne supposes. “Not as much as you think.”

“She wasn’t like that before.”

“I gathered that. So?”

“I’m concerned for her well-being.”

Hawthorne lifts her right eyebrow and tilts her head in a sarcastic variation of a nod. “That’s one thing we can agree on,” She says, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back carefully against the hay. “It might be a first,” She jibes. “You ought to write it down.”

The joke is ignored. Zavala has more important things on his mind. “I have known that Guardian since her first day born again, Hawthorne. She is one of mine.”

“She is,” The ponchoed woman agrees, to his surprise. It doesn't feel like a cop-out, or like he's being ridiculed.

He paces, arms still tucked at the small of his back. “Why does she speak with you, then?”

The Farm Overseer rises to her feet, looking at the map Zavala’s been standing in front of for the better part of an hour. She moves two of the markers on it, indicative of which path she endorses for a supply run. Zavala frowns and looks at it, tilting his head as if he hadn’t considered her point of view.

Seemed to be a bit of that, lately, Hawthorne thought to herself. Zavala continued fussing, which for someone as stuffy as he seemed, was a polite way to say he was fidgeting.

“Look, she’s just a kid, alright? Her Ghost found her what, ten, twelve years ago?”

“She is a Guardian,” The Commander counters. “Age is relative.”

“By comparison to you?” The pitch of her voice rises at the end, indicative of a question.

Zavala looks away.

“A kid,” Hawthorne presses, “Who everyone is putting all this pressure on to defeat Ghaul.”

“She’s our best chance.”

“She’s not our only hope, though, Zavala.” Hawthorne gives him an accusing look. “You lot talk about her like she’s some secret weapon in your arsenal. She’s a person, and she’s clearly working through some things. She might need the kind of reinforcement that doesn’t get answered with a ‘yes, Sir,’ or begin with a ‘save us, oh chosen one.’ Every time someone thanks her for being ‘chosen,’ she flinches. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen it.”

“Survivor’s guilt is tricky,” Zavala concedes. “Nevertheless-”

A large, rolling boom and the sound of trees falling in the distance steals their attention. “Fallen,” They say at the same time, Hawthorne rolling her eyes and shouldering her sniper rifle, Zavala gritting his teeth and retrieving his auto-rifle without another word.

They head off in the direction of the blast, past Guardians who urge the Civilians to take cover, and mixed forces trying securing their perimeter from anything that tries to force its way inside.

Kira steps between them, seemingly materializing from thin air and rushes forward. She braces her fists. He thinks to caution her - there could be Civilians and Guardians alike, all susceptible to damage from her lightning-fists. The words do not come in time, for the Guardian darts by them at an inhuman sprint.

The Titan moves through the trees surrounding the clearing the Fallen have attacked, carefully. Not nearly as stealthy as a Hunter, but she makes due. Hawthorne’s shots ring out. She hears the sounds of an AR - Zavala's - mowing down any that get too close. The Fallen look dazed and confused.

She drops a Barricade in front of nothing, lurching into the clearing. It draws their fire, indicates to them that there might be enemies she’s protecting there. The few militia fighters she can see limping away are in the other direction, staying low as they move through the brush.

Stepping into the open, she pulls her sidearm out and unloads it into the shields of an over-zealous captain. He scowls in his shrill tone and sends jets of arc energy at her. It stings where it cuts through her armor, and on her cheek, which is only exposed skin.

One of the Wretches drag back a scout by the foot, bloodied and unconscious. She can see the rise and fall of his chest - shaky, but strong - and from her periphery, a woman darts after him. The Fallen aim and fire at the newcomer just as a shout rings out to draw their attention away. Kira reaches for her Light and the Void answers her call.

Her shield is a delicate lavender, like spring flowers, with a sheen of sparkling indigo-violet. She moves like the lightning she once commanded, bringing down the edge of the shield on the arms holding the unconscious resistance fighter. They snap and explode into a purplish hue. The woman reaches him as Kira turns back, deflecting fire.

“GO!” She yells, as loud as her voice will let her. It’s harsh and clipped enough that the terrified scout gets the idea and drags the man away far more gently out of the fray than he’d been dragged into it. Hawthorne is close, Kira knows. She’ll provide cover fire to help them escape.

Kira pays them no further attention, her focus drawn by the Captain who has called for what seems to be his entire brood. She growls and pushes forward, dispatching as many as she can as quickly as she can, lest they catch sight of another straggler.

Meanwhile, The Commander watches from the treeline. “She was always a Striker,” He remarks, more to himself than to the Farm Overseer beside him, voice taking just the slightest bit of awe. His eyes track his Guardian as she dispatches Fallen forces with the Void-formed shield.

“I wonder where she got that from,” Hawthorne turns her head to the right to look his way, eyebrows waggling ever so slightly.

“What?” Zavala's pull together as he ponders her words at a delay, unable to take his eyes of the sight.

Hawthorne simply shrugs, saying sincerely, “I heard shields were your thing.” Another look his way finds him meeting her gaze. “I don't presume to know,” She continues, grunting as Louis lands hard on her arm, knocking her off balance. The Fallen have spooked him, being this close. “I just figured that if she wanted to protect everyone as bad as she does, that she'd want to be just like you.”

It's a rare, heartfelt compliment and they both know it. She does not try and belittle it with petty, angry words. Instead she walks away, following their people back to safety, leaving him to think on it.

And giving him an opening to talk to her in private.

It's clear the Guardian isn't expecting him to be standing directly behind her when she finishes obliterating their Fallen foes. The shield - an intricate thing, with the Titan’s sigil adorning the middle - dissipates silently with a warm blink, and the sheen of purple fades once more.

Zavala squeezes his fists and releases them, taking a step forward when she stands ramrod-straight and freezes as their eyes meet.

“Kira,” He says, softly. Fondly, even.

“Alright,” Her Ghost appears beside them, swinging this way, then that. “They’re gone.”

She nods, never breaking away from the Commander’s gaze. Ghost nudges her cheek gently, but phases away when Zavala approaches. “I’m sorry,” She whispers, when there are precious few feet between them both. She’s wringing her hands anxiously, as if she’s done something wrong.

“Whatever for?” Wide blue eyes watch her as she looks down, then forces herself to look back up. He’d tell her she’s done him no harm, he knows she means him no ill will, but… he needs to know why she’s avoiding him. What's caused her to shy away.

“It should have been you.”

Her lip trembles, but she doesn't dare look away. For all that’s been thrown at her, her sincerity hasn't wavered.

It should have been…

Oh, he realizes, heat crawling up the back of his neck, skin prickling as he realizes the validity of Hawthorne's earlier words. She needs guidance. Understanding.

“No, Kira,” He tells her, taking another step forward. A great sob tears from her and it makes what's left of his war-torn heart break. He pulls her in for an embrace and she lets him, her whimpering attempt not to fall to pieces loud in his ear. “It's okay,” He murmurs. She shakes her head. “It is. I'm not angry with you.”

“You should be,” She whispers thickly.

“I will admit that I’m surprised,” The Commander informs her, pulling back to look into her bloodshot eyes with a gaze far softer than his usual decorum allows. It’s rather apparent she needs the reinforcement, “But upset? No.”

She looks away, shaking her head. “I didn’t want to tell you,” She finally admits, guilty. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You haven’t hurt me, child.” Kira’s eyes snap back to him. “You’ve made sound decisions and come back from insurmountable odds. What part of that should provoke anger?”

“It should have been you,” She repeats, over and over through her tears, until her words are nearly intelligible between heartrending sobs. “You’re better,” She breaks off after a while. “I-I'm not strong enough.”

“You are,” He counters in a low rumble, the side of his face pressed to her forehead. She cries on. “I know it.”

Chapter Text

He ducks slightly, using the side of his jaw to push back the flap of the large, sunbleached tent.

“Whoa,” Hawthorne responds, startled by the intrusion. “Uh, hey there, what’re you doing?”

“Move back the blankets,” He instructs instead, tipping his head toward the cot. Her cot, not that she has time to use it.

In the relative dimness of the tent, the fractal patterns of light shushing and pulsing under the Commander’s skin emit a soft glow, cool on the cheeks of the Guardian limp in his arms, stringy copper-brown hair pressed against his armor.

“Right after you tell me what you’re doing,” Hawthorne quips back, though her voice lowers to half its previous volume.

Zavala’s nostrils flare, as if that’s obvious. In a way it is, but she does deserve an explanation, if he is to be honest with himself. “People barge into my tent at all hours of the day and night,” He offers by way of explanation. “I don’t sleep.”

“Neither do I,” Comes the grumpy reply, but Hawthorne pulls back the blankets anyway. She's less likely to be interrupted and she knows it; His logic is sound. Kira's pauldrons and chest plate are barely leather armor, but once he lowers her legs onto the bed he props her against him to undo the fraying ties. She lolls, unconscious.

“She needs better armor,” Zavala remarks quietly, as one of the clasps that secures her pauldron breaks off in lieu of unbuckling.

“You should have seen what she was wearing when I found her,” Hawthorne comments as strides over to them, deftly untying a boot, removing the Guardian’s left one first before moving to the right. She sees Zavala flinch from the corner of her eye and shifts her attention back to Kira. Her greaves are barely leather reinforced with rope. “But yeah,” Suraya agrees, in a far more docile tone, “I’ll see what we can turn up.”

It doesn’t take long for them to divest her of her rag-tag armor, leaving her in a rumpled tunic and trousers. Zavala pulls the blankets up to her chin, smoothing a stray lock of hair from her forehead before looking back at Hawthorne. Her brow is still furrowed. The Commander looks around cautiously, as if he’s just realized what he’s done.

“I didn’t mean to commandeer your tent,” He murmurs, almost sheepishly.

The Farm Overseer shrugs and lights a propane burner, the kettle above it already filled with water. “Just like you didn’t mean to commandeer my Farm,” She muses in a sarcastic whisper, rolling her eyes. The comment itself lacks any real bite.

“You offered it up, if I recall,” The Commander answers, playing along.

“Technically she did,” Hawthorne shrugs, looking to Kira.

The water begins to steam on its way to a boil. At rest, with her eyes closed, it’s easy to see the dark circles around her eyes, the haunted purplish tint to her eyelids. The Commander doesn't speak, so it seems she'll have to interrogate it out of him. “Want to tell me how this happened?”

Zavala lets out a haggard, not very Zavala-like sigh. “It’s a long story.”

“I’m sure you can summarize,” She answers, motioning for him to drop into one of the two camp chairs beside her little table. He hesitates as she says, “But we don’t have a war-council meeting until tomorrow morning, and as was previously discussed, neither of us tend to sleep.”

“Really, Hawthorne, it’s-”

She pours the boiling water into a pot that she plunks between them, producing two well-worn, clean teacups. “Tea’s already brewing. May as well start talking.”

-/

He isn’t quite sure how they got onto the subject, but it’s after the tea started being cut with whiskey, in the hours where twilight and midnight meet. He isn’t inebriated, he has too much control for that and the timing for being drunk could not be worse, but the words are loose on his tongue, looser than they should be.

“We thought she was dead,” He realizes he’s saying, bowed over the rickety table, careful not to rest his full weight on the thing. “We left her up on the Command Ship, the Almighty... I was in the Plaza when it happened, and-”

Hawthorne splashes more alcohol into his mug, then tops it off with lukewarm tea. If he notices that she’s not pouring more booze into her own cup, he doesn’t say so.

“Amanda-” He grimaces as he takes another sip. She douses out the imbalance by pouring him more tea. “Holliday felt responsible for it all, but I was the one who sent her there,” He turns, watching Kira breathe, her fingertips twitching and clenching as she dreams, “I condemned her to death and yet, here she is.”

Hawthorne’s dark eyes flit between morose, ethereal blue and the sleeping warrior. Her dreams aren’t pleasant, she can tell by the way Kira’s Ghost tos and fros, occasionally humming something that calms his partner with a synthetic drone. Guardian-Ghost dynamics are interesting. She can liken them enough to her relationship with Louis. She gets the idea.

“You may not like me very much,” Zavala says after a nearly comfortable silence, and Hawthorne’s eyes dart back to him. Maybe she’s had a heavier hand with that bottle than she thought, “But I’d do anything to protect us. All of us. And the Guardians? Regard your soldiers as your children,” He breathes, “And they will follow you into the deepest valleys.”

“You know,” She muses, switching their mugs and taking a sip. Yeah, that’s strong, she thinks. Bet the big guy doesn’t drink as nearly much as his soldiers do. “You regard your soldiers as your children, but did you ever think they might do the same to you?”

“It is a possibility I’ve entertained,” He admits tiredly. “You’re right,” He continues, and she leans forward intently, wondering if maybe giving him a little liquor wasn't the worst idea she's had. “She’s young. Practically a child, in the body of an adult.”

“Mature enough,” Hawthorne concedes. “She has a good head on her shoulders.”

“Perhaps, but this... She was ashamed to show me her abilities, Suraya.” His face is pinched, head shaking in disbelief, a fist banging quietly against the table as the words flow, “Afraid to show me that when the Shard asked for her intent and the Light gave it form that she chose to protect. She thought I’d be furious with her for being imbibed with the same type of abilities that had been taken from me,” His eyes lock onto Hawthorne’s, her dark gaze serious and alert. “She didn’t take anything from me.”

“I know,” Suraya agrees. “And she definitely didn’t take into account how proud you’d be,” She says, smirking playfully.

Fleetingly, he wonders when he became so incredibly transparent. “The things the girl could do with her fists,” Zavala says eventually, leaning back, eyes glossy as his mind’s eye calls upon a memory. “It was magnificent. Even as a fledgling Guardian she was refreshingly bright. But this? This growth - that shield. Hawthorne. It’s extraordinary.”

“Our Guardian is that,” Hawthorne admits with a gentle push of her mug up and over the table.

Zavala clinks his chipped cup against hers and drains it. Hawthorne pours him the rest of the tea. “I am proud of her,” He agrees, after a minute silence. “Honored, that she’s chosen to emulate me.”

“There are certainly worse role models for her to have,” The frontierswoman comments. The Commander glares at her. “What? It’s true. I’m glad she wants to be you when she grows up. You’re not so bad.”

“That’s the liquor talking,” He muses, sardonic.

“Nah,” An indulgent smile blooms across her usually severe features. “I’ve been giving you double what I’ve had myself. Honest to a fault,” She jerks a thumb at her chest. “'S what landed me out here.”

“I just don’t know how much more she can take,” Zavala mentions, after a few seconds of watching his newfound comrade’s features. “We’re expecting a lot from her-” He tilts his head to the side as Hawthorne inhales sharply to interject, “Like you’d said,” He rather pointedly admits to keep her silent. “But we need her.”

“But she isn't - she cannot be a means to an end.”

“No,” Zavala agrees.

“So that means we give her time to figure things out,” Hawthorne reasons. “I’m not so keen on sending her to drag back that Hunter Vanguard of yours from Nessus, anyway.”

The Commander huffs. “He isn’t that bad.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, thank you.” She narrows her eyes and he straightens in his seat, matching her scrutinous gaze. “If Kira doesn’t want to fight,” She begins, serious. “If she can’t fight. If, Light forbid, she dies for good,” Zavala tenses but maintains eye contact all the same. The moment is tense. “I’m still going to fight. I was born Lightless. I’ll die Lightless. But that doesn’t mean there’s nothing myself and the rest of the survivors can do. This battle doesn’t depend on her alone. It could, if she chooses that role. I’m not discounting that. But it isn’t the only way. It’s not going to stop us from doing everything we can to help figure this out. It doesn’t mean we’re doomed without her.”

“I know. But it will be perilous.”

“It’s already perilous. Do you know how many times I’ve been shot at this week?”

“About as many times as I.”

She smirks. “You’re probably right. Which is saying something, because you’re a bigger target.”

Chapter Text

He blinks his eyes open blearily, the smell of dewy grass soothing to his senses. Scrubbing the back of his hand over his eyes, he stretches. Without the Light, he feels incredibly stiff. He must have drifted off for a moment. 

“It's almost dawn,” Hawthorne calls in a quiet mezzo-alto. She has one hand on Louis's underbelly, stroking downy feathers and the other wrapped around the edge of a data-pad on the other side of the tent.

Not a moment, then, he thinks, looking down at the blanket draped over him. “Did you-”

“She hasn't moved,” The Farm Overseer replies, rather than to explain why she did something kind for him. He massages a kink in his neck - his head was tipped back against the wooden frame of the cot. He barely remembers sitting on the ground, but he knows Hawthorne had joined him when Kira's nightmares turned into the kind that caused whimpering, strangled screams and they had both taken turns trying to calm her.

Zavala rises and turns back to the sleeping warrior. He pats her hand, limp and half curled around her Ghost's jagged, scratched shell. 

“I think the worst of it is over now,” The small being murmurs. “Her vitals have been far more stable over the last hour. I don't think she's dreaming.”

“I'm going to freshen up before the council meeting,” Hawthorne says. “Come get me if need be.”

“Thank you,” Ghost replies. The woman nods back.

“You should, too,” She tells Zavala. “You can come back when it's over.”

He watches the Guardian a moment longer. “If you're sure,” He addresses her Ghost.

The cyan light of the Ghost’s optic flickers as he speaks. “I'll come get you both if need be.”

-/

Kira doesn't wake until the following morning. When she does, she's practically catatonic, eyes dull and hair sweat-soaked and stringy. Hawthorne ushers Zavala out of the tent when he asks how she's doing and it takes two minutes for her eyes to track him, much less for her to acknowledge the Ghost murmuring sweetly against her cheek.

He returns an hour later to find Hawthorne leaving the tent with a lump of bed linens and clothing in her arms, headed for one of the barns nearby in hopes of having them cleaned.

“Did she say anything?” She has to look away from the earnest blue glow turned on her. 

“I don't think she would have known her own name if I asked her,” Hawthorne answers honestly. “She could barely keep her eyes open.”

He frowns.

The severe woman juggles the linens to balance on one arm, and squeezes his forearm with the other. He looks down at the dark hand wrapped around pitted metal and back up at her face, blinking owlishly in surprise. Her eyes are warm and terribly gentle. It's not the worst look he's seen on her. “She's gonna be okay.”

But she doesn't wake up until much, much later, stays conscious barely long enough for them to feed her some lukewarm soup, and goes right back to sleep.

-/

Hawthorne’s voice is firm. “Go.”

“I'm afraid,” He confesses. Oh, how the mighty have fallen, he thinks, to have no qualms admitting it to her. “It's been almost a week now. She-”

“Then I'll go.” She replies.

“You just came back.”

She shrugs, slapping her hips as she does. “I live out here, Zavala. This is my life. I got it.”

“You haven't slept.”

“I caught a nap on the way back. Amanda wanted to drive the rover.”

“I know how she drives. There is no way you could have.”

She smiles sheepishly - caught, and the very beginnings of a smile shine in his eyes. She tips her head to the side. “Really. I promise it's fine.”

“No,” He maintains eye contact far longer than is appropriately polite. Thinking through a myriad of uncomfortable, though not necessarily unpleasant thoughts. “I... trust you to keep an eye on her while I'm gone.”

“The 't’ word, huh?” She smirks, passing by him to enter the tent again. “Wow. I feel honored.”

“Don't let it go to your head,” He answers deadpan, following her inside and reaching for his rifle. Her flippancy is undercut with something that's almost tangible, though hidden carefully out of reach. 

“Please, you wish it meant that much to me.”

He chuckles, low and slow. Ah, he remembers now. It's just been… a while. She turns, surprised by the sound. The rumble of his voice is thoughtful as he replies. “Perhaps.”

“Perhaps?”

Zavala smirks at her and ducks under the flap. Playful is an interesting look on him.

She kicks her boot at a smudge on the canvas floor. There's a fluttery feeling in her gut, and she knows she isn't hungry.

-/

Kira groans when she comes to, feeling like she's been dragged behind her ship from Venus to Io. She’s warm. Maybe even comfortable, but maybe also a little sore from not moving. The blankets smell like fresh air and earthy tea leaves, sandalwood and night sky. Safe. A combination of Zavala and Hawthorne.

“Mornin’ sunshine,” Comes a rough drawl to her left. Amanda Holliday is tinkering with a piece of metal that looks like it came off a sparrow. She finishes what she's doing and regards the stirring woman. “You actually openin’ those peepers this time or is it another false alarm?”

“'M up, 'm up,” She hums.

Her Ghost phases in front of her face, waiting until she blinks open her eyes to start a scan.

“Heart rate is fine, blood pressure is stable. You've been out of it for days now, so I wouldn't suggest sitting up too fast,” He coaches.

“Where'm I?” Kira asks in a quiet murmur, eyes trained on the point where a large beam steeples the tarp covered ceiling.

“What do you remember?”

“The Fallen ambushed a returning patrol,” She recants. “And then Zavala…” Then, with a look to the side, she falls silent.

“You're in Hawthorne's tent,” Holliday informs her when it's clear she's not planning to say another word. “According to what she told me, ya been down a little more than a week. It's… good, though,” The blonde admits, rising and patting her arm. “I think we could all use a recharge. You most of all.”

Kira sighs, rasping, “So you're babysitting me?”

“Hawthorne had to sit on a meetin’ since Zavala went on a supply run. Figures, it's the first time one of them hasn't been sittin’ with you for more than a minute.” She shrugs. “An’ I ain't babysitting you. Figured ya might not wanna wake up alone in a weird place.”

“My Ghost is with me.”

“Kira,” He chides, already exasperated.

“Sorry,” She relents, cinnamon eyes flicking over to the Shipwright. “I don't mean to be so cranky.”

“Well,” Amanda says, sighing as she staggers to her feet, “I mean, you should be pissed at me. I'm the one who dropped you off on that bastard's doorstep an’ then left ya there.”

The Titan swallows twice, hard, before tilting her head Amanda's way. Her jaw tics. “I don't blame you,” Kira says, as even as her wavering, sleep-rough voice will allow. “What-” She breaks off, closing her eyes. “If you had come back for me, they would have killed you.”

Amanda sighs. “I know, but even still.” She lingers silently for a beat. “Hey, uh, if ya don't mind me asking,” if Amanda's saying that, she likely will, “How did you make it off the Almighty?”

Kira shakes her head, frowning in silent disbelief. From the corners of her eyes, silent tears well. “I don't know,” She says, making no effort to stop them from falling, her gaze glassy as she recalls the plummet from the Almighty to the burning City below. She should have died, she knows it in her bones. “I really don't know.”

Chapter Text

Cayde thinks he’s funny.

He always has.

Kira just isn't as good at following along anymore.

She tries to laugh, tries to react how he - how he expects everyone to react - but it’s hard. The one time she tries to force out the words, he cuts her off, exasperated that it takes her so long.

She doesn’t try after that.

He doesn't mean anything by it, she knows, he just operates to the tune of his own schemes: easy-going and free, the picturesque idea of a Hunter. It's easy to get lost in the lush, humid, Vex-twisted forests of Nessus; Easy to forget for a moment what's happening at home, until some Red Legion scum tries lining her up in her sights and she has to shake off the images of Towerfall, hiding behind a rock formation until she feels the restless hum of the void and bathes her enemy in violet-blue.

She wonders if that's why Cayde's come here. Wonders why he and Ikora didn't come when they heard Zavala's message.

They had to have heard Zavala's message.

Then, he tells her why he has the Vex Teleporter he's procured. So, maybe it's not, she thinks. Maybe he is helping, in his own way. Of course, he thinks it's the single item that's going to win them the war. Ghost tells her the teleporter is mid-range at best.

Kira doesn't really care about shady Vex tech. She really just wants to go home.

Right now that's a cot that isn't her own, and a place that smells like wet grass and campfire; Quiet voices that curl like smoke in gentle whispers to cut through her dreams.

Cayde, like he can read her thoughts, tells her he'll go to the Farm, but she'd better go get Ikora.

“Time's 'a wastin’,” His voice crackles, like a whip. “Once the three of us get together, with you in the mix, that ugly space rhino will be a breeze!”

Kira sighs, and tells Ghost not to bother when his optic narrows and his shell shivers in barely concealed rage. “You're not just some weapon,” He seethes privately. She shrugs. It's not worth arguing, she's never been able to pin down what Cayde thinks. Ghost doesn't comment that she's not trying to speak again, just hovers dutifully over her shoulder as she clomps tiredly back to their ship.

He patches her into Earthen comms once they're back in orbit. Cayde's in there already, barking over Hawthorne's voice - “Hey, heard you guys missed me,” And Zavala is already sighing heavily. Cayde's ship left not a minute before she did. Seems he didn't want to waste any time, she thinks. Even without solar flares and meteor showers, he's still hours away from even breaking Earth's atmosphere.

There's a blip on her comm, a private request. She does not miss how Zavala tells Cayde in a harsh bark that he may listen, but there are missions underway and he can fraternize when his boots are on terra firma.

“Kira, report,” Zavala's voice cuts, sounding leagues closer than the static-laiden radio droning in the cockpit. She missed where Ghost had patched the request in, so she jerks a little at the sound. His voice drops lower, as if he might have expected as much. “Did everything go alright?”

“Yes,” She answers, immediately.

There's nothing but quiet breathing on the other side. Long, slow, deep breaths. It's calming. A difference from the chaotic cry of distant Vex hydras and dragon-birds that squawk through humid red-brown forests. She sighs. He's waiting for the rest, wants her to tell him more, but everything really did go fine and she doesn't want to talk about it.

“Cayde has informed Hawthorne that he's sending you to Io.”

“He has,” She confirms.

“If the situation were not nearly as dire, I'd have you come back first, but… we cannot afford to waste time. I need Ikora with us.”

“Understood.” Quieter, she mumbles ruefully, “I can handle it.”

He chuckles, and the exchange almost feels routine. Normal. “Even so.”

When another silence spans between them, she takes a deep breath and asks: “Is everything alright there?”

Zavala collects himself, speaking evenly, “Hawthorne is preparing her speech to put Cayde in his place. I'm sure you heard him already trying to override her.”

She hums, tipping her head back against the headrest. She'd slept for a week, but she already feels tired again. “Don't let him.”

“I won't. Not completely,” He assures his charge “You sound protective of her.”

“She's good people.”

“Yes,” Zavala agrees. “I believe she is.”

Kira smiles - a tiny, lopsided little thing - and closes her eyes.

“Cayde is rambling about the Vex,” Ghost comments idly, scoffing, “Pretty sure we did all the fighting.”

There's only static for a couple moments. Then, tentatively, “Did you... happen to,” Zavala ventures, “Shoulder charge any Minotaurs?”

Kira blinks open her eyes in soft surprise. “I did,” She replies softly.

“How many times to bring it down?”

“One,” She answers immediately, thinking back to another time and place.

“You should have seen it, Zavala!” Ghost wobbles and feints across the small cockpit. “It wasn't a small one either!”

“You've grown,” He tells her. She can hear the smile there, in his tone. It makes her feel warm inside. “I'm proud of you, Titan.” He clears his throat, trying not to be too sentimental but failing all the same. “More than words could say.”

-/

Ikora’s words blister her ears.

“What good is a resistance when you are the only one who would survive?”

Through the white noise, the static in her brain, and the clenching of her fists so tightly she thinks she’s going to rip apart her gauntlets, Kira realizes one powerful truth. The Warlock Vanguard is paralyzed by her fear of permanent death.

Kira resists the urge to tell the Warlock Vanguard that no small part of her wishes she had died back there.

Angry words burn at the back of her throat like bile, the replies for the Warlock's commentary kept at bay. Kira knows what fear and futility feel like. She can empathize with Ikora feeling like there was more she could have done.

She doesn't feel upset when Ghost tells the Warlock Vanguard that there's nothing she could have done, even if she thinks otherwise. Ikora should have come home, she thinks. At least Cayde had wanted to, but he'd gotten… stuck.

When they have Ikora reasonably convinced - her conviction to go home is encouraging - and the Taken under control, Asher Mir makes himself known. His near constant yelling and degradation makes her uncomfortable.

She isn't his assistant, damn it.

Asher's plain disdain for Titans makes her furious. Not so much for herself. She doesn't care what he thinks of her. No, not one bit.

Asher's ire is pointed squarely at her Commander. Her Vanguard. The man who embodies everything she aspires to be. The man who is willing to die to take back their home, to keep his people safe, while this coward hides and screams about everything and everyone and impatiently waits for the end. 

Kira stays silent while she listens to the two Warlocks spin theories and talk down to her - not her specifically, but she's a Titan too, damn it all - while she runs around thwarting the Taken and the Vex. All for a Warmind to tell them something they already know.

When the Cabal leave a system - win or lose - they leave nothing behind.

If they wanted to consult a Warmind so badly, she gripes silently to Ghost as she hops on her sparrow, They should have gone to the Cosmodrome.

Asher mocks Zavala again over the comms, as if he can hear her thinking unpleasantly about them. She bites her lip so hard that it bleeds.

Ghost cuts off the feed to her helm, and she slows her speed, projecting her concern that something's gone wrong. “Everything’s fine,” He's quick to clarify. “I'll keep tabs on the comms, at least until we get to the base. If they say something relevant, I’ll fill you in.”

When they return to Asher, and Ikora formally bids them farewell - she's going to rejoin her Fireteam on the premise that Zavala will do something stupid - Kira stands firm and silent before him. 

"Finally,' Asher says when they're alone, "I thought she'd never leave. Come now. There are several things I need you to do for me before you go back, assistant."

She regards him coolly and does not follow him back to the alcove of shell-like rock that serves as his operations base.

"I certainly hope you are not proving to be like the rest of your ilk," He growls, when she makes no indication of further interest, simply stares him down. Asher's voice carries like a thunderclap. "Assistant! Pay attention!"

Kira's eyes slide over to him, and her Ghost appears over her shoulder, looking at her in worry. His broken ceremonial shell twitches in concern.

"Kira," He warns.

But the Guardian does not stop. She stands toe to toe with the Vex-compromised Warlock. What she does not have in towering height, she has in broad shoulders. She is not a small woman. Her eyes narrow, almost maroon in the shady shadows of the inlet.

"I am not your assistant," Kira snarls are him. "I'm going home."

"Ah yes, typical Titan idiocy. Unable to complete a simple task without the order from your superior." He laughs. It's meant to be a dig at her. If he notices her anger, he does not care. "Well, go on then, back to your precious Commander. If the system implodes, I'll know it was you headbutting something you shouldn't have."

The Titan straightens. She does not have to speak loudly to demand his attention. "For all your demeaning conversation," Kira imparts in a volume barely above a whisper, "You've told me nothing I hadn't managed to infer before."

"The Great Vu-vu-zela knew the Cabal's Flagship would destroy the sun, did he?"

She remains quiet. They'd had theories, but nothing confirmed. “We-”

"That's what I thought. Now, if you'll excuse me, Titan, I have to find another assistant as mine has shown her true colors."

Chapter Text

The fire is warm against the dampness of the surrounding forest. It licks little flares of yellow-orange against the white, scratched metal of her boots. Fall is waning; Tyra told her earlier that she thinks it will snow tonight.

Everyone who comes through this part of the Farm is wrapped in furs or blankets, trying to stave off the bitter chill.

Kira isn't cold though, sitting on the far left side of a bench. Partly because of the fire, sure. But partially because of the woman beside her, tucked under her arm, slouching against her chest.

She'd been there, in the barn that doubled as their command center when the word came in. Watched Hawthorne take the news - news that had Zavala stop what he was doing, dispatch the team he was working with in short order. Hawthorne did not stutter or shake, her back ramrod straight, immediately asked for the names of any family left behind by the men they'd lost in the fray. After, she turned back to what she was doing as if the affair hadn't happened at all.

An entire team. Ten men. Her best. They'd stood no chance against the Elite Centurion, Thumos ‘the Unbroken.’

Hawthorne had personally selected them. Had been the one to order them to gather information on Ghaul's chosen. To take him down, if they could. One less thing for their Guardian friend to do.

Kira had been a Guardian under Zavala's tutelage long enough to know the feeling that eclipses a room at the knowledge someone's sent another to their death. But Zavala, though hard he takes his losses, is experienced in the bitterness of the art. He coughed. 

Cinnamon met cerulean. His eyes had flicked pointedly to the door.

She nodded in reply, letting herself out. Hawthorne's first, rebellious sob just barely reached her ears as she closed it behind her. 

Now, sitting in the dark, no one will ever know if she’d been crying - Zavala would never confirm it, and Hawthorne will never tell. Her eyes bore dark and heavy into the fire, looking for answers that would never come.

On the other side of them both, Zavala sits pensively, eyes watching the perimeter, silent and strong. It should be peaceful, this moment, Kira thinks. But it's not. 

She's angry. Angry that the Cabal continue to kill and maim. Angry that people like Hawthorne - people who aren't soldiers, who answered the call to protect their protectors when they needed to be saved - are forced to make these decisions, to have the lives of others burdened upon their shoulders.

“Zavala.”

Hawthorne does not flinch at the sound of Kira’s voice, spoken almost directly into her ear. It's strong, though it burns her throat to speak. Blue eyes blink her way, looking over the ridge of Hawthorne's hood. To Kira, he’s always been ‘The Commander’ or 'sir.’ This is serious, she's saying without as many words. Their eyes meet.

“I'm going to kill him,” Kira says. “Thumos.”

Zavala holds her gaze for a long moment. Finally, he nods. “Good.”

His eyes return to scanning the darkness of the treeline. Kira feels the muscles of the arm - Hawthorne's - under her fingertips pull taut. The fire pops, and Kira sees where pale blue and brown skin meet. He’s holding her hand, Kira realizes. She watches his fingers twitch in an answering squeeze.

Maybe some good will come of this war, she dares to think.

-/

Much later, when Kira's startled awake by sounds across the fire, she sees that Cayde and Ikora have joined them. Hawthorne no longer leans against her. Her hands are folded plainly in her lap, and her dark brown eyes are on the flames.

“Amanda says she’s got whatever air support we need,” Cayde is saying, on a perpendicular bench to Zavala's left. “Managed to tune up quite a few sparrows, too.”

“She’s done excellent work,” Zavala answers. “We’ll need them if a direct assault on the City is ever going to work.”

“I still think a direct assault on the City is bound to fail. Lightless Guardians are skilled, Zavala, but not used to fighting so carefully,” Ikora counters. She makes no comment on the survivors or Hawthorne’s scouts, who make up a large contingent of the forces. She discredits them, Kira realizes.

“Well, bet our Guardian could probably do a number on 'em,” Cayde supplies helpfully. “Then we clean up what's left.”

That leaves Suraya scoffing into the fire.

“I don't remember asking for your opinion,” Comes the voice of the Warlock Vanguard, wary of the outsider. Kira bristles, but Hawthorne does not rise to the bait. 

Silence falls over them.

“Guess not,” Hawthorne agrees, after a time. Kira knows the tone of that voice - it's the same one that she'd used when Zavala's broadcast had them dropping everything to go to Titan. The other woman's feelings are hurt, not that she'd ever admit it. “Excuse me.”

Zavala follows her with his eyes as she walks away. Kira's fingers ball into fists.

“She is good counsel,” The Commander states, levelly, when Hawthorne is well out of earshot. Diplomatic, always. “An ally we need.”

“A means to an end. We are grateful for her services in our time of despair, but… We're here now. Together, Zavala." Ikora's golden eyes still have that same half desperate, half self-preserving sheen to them Kira had seen on Io. "She is not what we need.” Her words echo tauntingly in the young Titan's mind.

Kira rises to her feet before she truly thinks about it, her voice shaking, tight fists making her gloves grit together meanly. There’s a buzzing in her brain. “And what do you know about what we need?”

Ikora leans back and regards her coolly.

“Kira,” Zavala warns, like a disappointed parent.

The Warlock waves him off. Smiles even, saccharine. “If there's something you have to say, Guardian, by all means…”

Cayde crosses his arms, slouching against the back of the bench. Kira fights back some of her fury. “You're discrediting her and the rest of the non-Guardians. You haven't been here, so don't pretend to know.”

Her Ghost flickers into the space over her shoulder, watching her irises dart back and forth wildly. 

“So now you find your voice,” Cayde drawls, tone breezy, but his optics hard. “Couldn't even say a word to me when ya found me on Nessus. I'm hurt. I get you're pissed and all, kid, but the Vanguard is more than capable of handling things.”

“Cayde, enough.” Ikora's steady gaze turns to the outspoken woman. “I know we have to take back the Traveler, Kira. The Cabal could wipe out our Sun. They could kill us all. Civilians will only-”

The Titan shakes her head, furious, interrupting, “These people have been fighting for their lives since the Cabal attack, not skulking around Io bitching about their Fireteam leader.”

“Kira!” Zavala barks, nearly a yell. “Stop this at once!”

It's too late. The damage is done. Ikora all but bellows, “How dare you! I was searching for answers, trying to find a way to save us!”

Kira snarls back, unyielding,“‘What good is a resistance when you are the only one who would survive?’” 

Zavala blinks, looking from one woman to the other. “What?”

Ikora remains silent.

Kira's eyes are ablaze with barely restrained fury. “Tell him,” She growls at the Warlock mentor. Ikora still doesn’t speak, so Kira explains, “That’s what you said to me when we told you about the resistance.”

A glance in Zavala’s direction reveals his expression to be carefully constructed, both stoic and blank. “I didn't mean it that way,” Ikora refutes, but she’s saying it to her Fireteam leader, not to the young Titan beside him.

“Yes,” She presses, “You did. You weren't looking for a way to save any of us. You were praying to whatever was left of the Traveler's influence on Io to try and save you.”

There is a dangerous quake to the other woman's voice as her gold eyes sweep back to the Traveler’s chosen. “Do not put words in my mouth, Guardian. The Cabal will not stop with Earth. They will take everything. I want to stop Ghaul just as badly as you do.”

“Then go up to the Almighty and get him,” Kira challenges. Her nostrils flare and her chest heaves. Her eyes flash from Cayde, to Ikora, and even Zavala, who regards her warily. Her stance is firm, though there is only white noise and seething static in her brain, and the anger she's bottled up is thrashing about inside her like a bull in a china shop, demanding a way out. The Titan cannot help it, cannot deny the truth. She's furious with them. They - she, the common folk, the Guardians left behind - needed the Vanguard and the Vanguard wasn't there for them. “All of you.”

Ikora fidgets, prickly and uncomfortable. Zavala initially blinks in surprise at her vehement words. Clearly he had not expected to draw her ire as well. Then, as if accepting his fate, he leans forward, steeples his fingers to frame his lips, and rests his elbows on his knees as he thinks.

“Let’s not be hasty, kid,” Cayde calls out. His nonchalance suggests she’s asked them to take a casual stroll, not take a trip up to see the warmonger responsible for their imminent mortality and displacement. His words, however, contradict his tone. “There’s no way we’d stand a chance mano-a-mano with him doing… whatever he’s doing with our Light.”

“If it comes to it,” Zavala interjects, “We will.”

“You mean, after he kills me first.” His head whips over to her, incredulously. Her increasingly raspy voice is heavy in her anger. “What? It’s the truth. Light or not, I don’t fancy living through a second shove off the Almighty.”

“Yeah, yeah, we get it,” Cayde concludes. “You don’t want to go up there.”

“I'm not kidding,” Kira answers tersely. “When they caged the Traveler,” She offers a twisted smile, like the concept itself is something hysterical, “I had just made it out. Dismantled the shields on the Almighty, like I was told to do. I was…” Her eyes unfocus and then focus again on something not there, a fragment of a memory, “Standing,” She muses softer, “Right in front of him.” Her lips purse so they don’t tremble and her ears ring with white noise. “‘You’re not brave,’ he said. ‘You’ve merely forgotten the fear of death. Ah-allow me-’”

Ghost flutters helplessly next to her. “Kira,” He whispers, drawing her focus. “You don’t have to - You don’t owe them this,” He says, finally.

And maybe she doesn’t, she thinks distantly. But the moment she started speaking, the moment she started saying this, she lost the power to stop. The words have been bubbling up for a while now, and now that she’s started, they have to be let out. They have to.

“I realized there was no way Amanda was coming back for me,” She redirects, not looking at her audience. They're hanging on every increasingly alarming word. “He kicked us to the edge of the flight deck and I… I tried to save him,” She looks at her Ghost, “But I couldn’t reach him before he went over the edge-” Her eyes close and her voice wavers, hoarse from her outburst and from staving off tears. “I figured he’d kill me off up there, show me his might and call it a day,” She stares down Ikora, then Cayde, who looks down and away. “He made a big show of it, told me his name,” Zavala’s eyes are drilling holes into her, seeing through the cinnamon flecks of her irises, she swears it. “‘I am Ghaul,’ he said. ‘And your Light is mine.’ Then he… put his boot to my head and kicked me off the edge.” Her eyes widen ever so slightly. “I… remember the fall. And the impact.” From the corner of her eye, she notices Zavala’s eyes finally leave her face, reasonably ashamed. Her voice catches. “And seeing all of the people we couldn’t save. Things that-”

He reaches out a hand to grab her wrist. She jerks away. “Don’t,” She says, angered this time by his coddling. “Don’t touch me.”

“Sit down, then,” He tries instead. His voice is low, as if he’s speaking to a wounded animal. “You’re shaking.”

“Yes,” She agrees, viciously yelling, “Because while the three of you-” Her sharp inhale is a bit like a gasp, as if she’s woke up from a dream only to find out that the dream itself is real; That she’s been sleep walking. Panic rushes over her as if she’s been doused with a bucket of icy water. She should have just followed after Hawthorne, she thinks frantically. She never should have said this, she berates herself internally, she never should have- 

“Finish it,” Ikora snarls, and if the tone of her voice could kill, Kira's sure she'd be dead already.

“While the three of you-” Her eyelids flutter and Zavala slides down the bench just a little, clearly concerned that she’s going to keel over, pass out, “Were out there on your own, doing… whatever you thought was best, people were dying here.”

“I know that, Kira,” Zavala offers, carefully. “They do, too.”

She shakes her head, disagreeing, despite Zavala’s very steady gaze boring into her eyes, all but telling her ‘not now, not here,’ willing her to calm down, to stay quiet. Her voice is too gravelly, too raw to continue ranting, and her shaking is a constant, uncomfortable feeling that rattles outward from her chest. 

She can’t do this, she tells herself. She can’t look at them. Hawthorne had explained it to her as anxiety, when she’d noticed Kira’s behavior, nearly a month ago. Panic. It bubbles up in the cracks of her soul and tries to suffocate her. At the thought, she looks to her Ghost. Get me out of here, she thinks to him. 

He tips his shell sideways slightly as he regards her, then bobs. “C’mon,” He hums easily. “I think it’s about time we go.”

“I’ll say. I think it’s past the little lion’s bedtime,” Cayde jokes, trying to lighten the mood.

Her Ghost rounds on him fast enough to make Sundance spark into existence between her Guardian and the Titan’s provoked Ghost. Kira’s shoulders round for only a breath, long enough for the rest to see. “Leave it,” She says, softly, coughing at the rough tickle of her throat. It's only part of the price she'll pay for saying too much. She sags after a few more harsh breaths, more mentally exhausted than she's ever felt.

They turn from the campfire, and she hears the sound of metal armor moving from the bench. She shakes her head, not quite looking back over her shoulder. Her chest feels like it's shaking, pinpricks of anger and fear and feelings she can't truly process or comprehend. “Please,” She begs of him, feeling the tears well up. She knows he's disappointed, but she can't take anymore. It hurts and she's so angry. He falls still.  “Don't follow me.”

"Kira-"

"Please."