Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was not often that Saint-14 cursed the gift of visions. The ability to dream. To feel. When you stride forward through battle with a focus, clarity is self-fulfilling. The Speaker had been an unwavering ally to the Titan’s crusades against the Fallen. The Traveler may be a silent god, but through its messenger, he had found endorsement. He had been a hero. The battle of Six Fronts. Twilight Gap. Years of constant war against humanity’s mightiest enemies that concluded with Saint’s name emblazoned on history books and popular mythos.

Why, then, did he feel so hollow?

Why, when he closed his eyes, did images of the warding sigils from the Eliksni Quarter plague the recesses of his mind?

His thumb slid across the top of a stack of crates. Despite stubborn attempts to decode symbols entirely unfamiliar to him, irritation swelled in the Titan’s chest at an ultimate inability to read the alien language scribbled on the delivery note. A grey grime that festered in the corners of the steel plating betrayed the source of the supplies Saint was carrying. More ‘gifts’ from their generous donor on the Tangled Shore. He pondered what each box might contain; it would not be the first time he questioned the value of supplies being funnelled into the City’s alien refugees.

He struggled to find the energy to lift his gaze from the boxes he held. Every attempt to breathe, to collect himself, to take in the surrounding plaza left a wire taut in the back of his neck. He theorized that the Endless Night was the culprit. The simulation’s ability to seemingly sap even the strongest of Guardians imbued Saint with anxieties he never knew he stowed. Grounding himself felt impossible when the reality of even your own emotions came into question. Anger and bile would clutch at his chassis but its claws would feel unnatural and unprompted.

Saint would no longer allow it to waver his judgement. He lifted his head up to the sky. The wire snapped.

Vex code made manifest in reality scarred the air with flickering white lines, much of which formed grids and patterns high into the eternal night sky like a roof to a cage. There was an unnatural silence that deafened even the gentle wind that Saint had come to relish. The Exo could at least take small comfort in his grief at the loss of such things. The Vex hold on the city was much like the programs that made it - uncaring, unfeeling, artificial. After the revelations discovered in the depths of Europa about the history of the Exo’s, reminders of his humanity - and his distance from the Vex - were relieving. At least, until the visions came back.

A careless tilt of the head toward the walls that protected them left a cold presence fused to Saint’s body. A sudden rush of what felt like winter air. His violet eyes looked up at those walls he had looked up to so many times before, but instead of the hope once found in pristine white foundations that reached into the clouds, he instead saw crimson. Like an infection, blood cascaded down from the top of the wall. It painted long rifts into the brickwork. Scars to stain his hope in reminders of the bloodshed caused by his hands. What hope had he stripped from others in the process? Why did he care? His knees buckled under a weight he could not fathom and he was left hypnotised by the nightmare display before him. And of the sigil it had begun to paint at the base of the wall. The ward of protection against the demon and monster that Eliksni hatchlings feared. The Saint.

They were different times, he argues. The Kell’s he fought were monsters, he reasons. Yet still the guilt remained. It gnawed away at his mind. The blood pooling in his palms would not wash off. Saint wished to cry out in anger, but could not muster the strength. He vigorously shook his arms, armor plates clattering together, attempting to shake his body free of the superimposed imagery glued to his subconscious. But the blood still gathered. The blood of thousands slaughtered. A price paid for freedom but one heavy under the scrutiny of those the toll was extracted from.

“I’m not often one to disturb a man deep in contemplation, but it would appear they are more nightmares than ideological observations that you’re contending with.” A familiar voice to Saint’s side shattered the stupor with which he had been imprisoned by. The Titan wasn’t sure how long his eyes had been closed but as he looked back out to the plaza he was sat in, the calm he was greeted with was a welcome surprise. Osiris emerged from the shadows, the details of his robe’s finery lost in the darkness the city was wrapped in. “Though I could perhaps have gathered as much seeing as you’re out here alone to begin with hauling supplies.”

“Hmph.” Saint could only offer an appreciative grunt as he gathered his bearings. His gaze quickly shifted back to those imposing walls in the distance, and he could instantly feel much of the stress twisting his internal wires drain seeing only the usual white surface. His hands carried dust and dirt from the crates instead of the red stains from his visions. A heavy sigh rattled around the inside of his helmet. “Nightmares would be accurate. Yes.”

There was a patient silence that the two shared for a moment, though Saint felt a discomfort at just how silent it was without the usual city ambience to fill the space.

“It’s somewhat fascinating, isn’t it?” Osiris continued. There was a spark in his eyes as he took in the landscape, one no doubt spurred on by the fascination with the Vex that the ex-Warlock had never quite shook free of. “When people hear the term ‘simulation’ they imagine a facade. Something that exists in only image alone with no tangible physical properties. Yet this Endless Night is proving to be something far more worthy of fear.”

“The Infinite Forest taught me much of how real a simulation can be.” Saint could feel a fire in his throat as he spoke. “I could at least take comfort in that burden being my own… but this? The people of the City don’t deserve this.”

“Is that why you’re out here?” Osiris’ query made Saint’s left optic flicker. He looked down to the tiled concrete beneath him in defeat. He could hear Osiris move closer, his boots heavy against the path, until Saint soon saw them in the corner of his eye. “As much as I don’t doubt the importance you give to your charge protecting the people, your delivery manifest tells a different story. After your clashes with Mithrax, I’m surprised to see you so eager to take supplies to the Eliksni Quarter.”

A smile twisted itself into being on Saint’s face. It was hard to stifle the laugh he could feel forming in his throat at Osiris’ forwardness. His partner may be giving him the space to answer his questions, but Saint knew they were, in reality, rhetorical; Osiris understood exactly why he was out here.

“Would you walk with me, Osiris?” Saint asked hopefully. His head lifted slightly as the weight of his fears became easier to bear. “Perhaps an ally to lean on would not be so bad under this false sky.”

“Perhaps, indeed.” Osiris offered an outstretched hand to Saint; one the Titan gladly took as he was lifted up from where he was seated. “I would have been quite disappointed to have followed you out here only to discover my worries were unfounded.”

How Saint longed to be having this walk at a time when an ugly shroud did not enrapture the city. When a brisk wind could pass through the alleys and districts, or when the people would decorate balconies in woven lanterns during more joyous times. Osiris’ companionship still filled Saint’s chest with a sense of unwavering calm despite his anxious disposition, but it was marred by the corrupted streets they walked through.

The ex-Warlock beside him had a different stride to what Saint may have expected. The purposeful, methodical paces he had could come to assume from Osiris had drifted into memory, replaced by a bounce in his step that perplexed the Titan. Their distance had often felt astronomical since Sagira’s passing, it was true, but Saint hadn’t expected to see so much change in Osiris so quickly. Maybe it was for the better; a shift in perspective. Saint’s focus slid away from the destination and instead fell upon his partner, watching as a pair of seasoned brown eyes absorbed every facet of the path the pair walked.

The weight of the crates in Saint’s grasp started to become just that little bit easier to bear. Distracted from the burdens that left rust plaguing joints, the thought of open talk with Osiris did not anchor fear in his chest like it previously did. Awash in lilac and emerald glows from neon signage adorning storefronts, Saint took a deep breath.

“You are probably right to worry.” He admitted. “This simulation weighs heavy on me. Plays tricks on my mind. The Fallen… the fear in their eyes when I walk by. I cannot shake it.” The quiet voice trailing from the Titan’s mouth carried little of the presence he was known for, resigned defeat tangled in every syllable.

“The Eliksni have much to fear of a lightbearer so deeply entrenched in their collective mythology. Those wise enough in these difficult times may look past old wounds to forge brighter futures, but not all have the time or energy to reflect on prejudices.” Osiris’ words were cutting. Little was done to sweeten the ultimate hard truth that Saint had to confront and swallow. The expression on what little of Osiris’ face peaked out from the mask was soft, painted in a sympathy not offered by his words alone. “But it is fair to say that hatred harbored… is mutual here, is it not?”

Saint found it difficult to muster any resentment toward the interrogation but he still bristled at the concept of admitting his irrational discomfort toward the Eliksni. “Hatred is a strong word.” His protest was a weak one, he knew that, but his quickening mechanical pulse made it difficult to contemplate more apt responses. He could feel the beads of crimson encroaching the corners of his vision again.  The sound of metal groaning filled his ears, unaware of how the impending threat of further nightmares had tightened his grip on the crates. Any further attempted rebuttal beyond that point was choked by the familiar yet rare sensation of a hand pressed against the metal of his gauntlets. It froze him in place, locked up his joints to where he could only turn his head to face Osiris beside him. 

“What is it that you see, Saint?” Osiris asked in his ear. The question was enough for Saint to hang his head.

“Guilt. Blood that I cannot wash from my hands. The sigil of the Saint.” His arm crossed across his chest to rest on top of Osiris’. With longer to prepare, he would have walked unburdened by the bulk of armor many were accustomed to seeing him in, if only to feel the true warmth of Osiris’ flesh against the interlaced fibres of his metal form. For now, the feeling alone would be enough. It had to be. His imposing figure shrunk in the dim lighting as he leaned further into the touch, almost crowding the far smaller Osiris. “It follows me through the city. Makes the walls a canvas for death and plague. Even if I try to retreat to the deepest corners of my mind, the thoughts still linger.”

“Tools of trickery by a program designed to tear us further apart. Feelings of doubt or confusion are not enough for the Vex, instead replaced by exaggerated emotional torment. Guardians, nor Exo, are immune to it.” Osiris’ hand trailed up the length of Saint’s arm, eventually resting ever so gently against the side of the Titan’s helmet. A shiver danced down Saint’s spine. “Running does nothing. Confronting Mithrax’s words is necessary in the process of disentangling your mind from these visions.”

“You say many words, but you do not so often heed your own advice.” Saint watched as his words pierced Osiris’ steel gaze, and his partner’s eyes widened. A fleeting moment of weakness; embarrassment - no, reflection - on the irony of the suggestions offered. The Phoenix was not one to bestow his personal feelings any value. Saint knew from the months following the loss of Sagira, where only failure greeted attempts at offering comfort.

“My mind is quite intact, thank you very much. I didn’t spend a few lifetimes studying the Vex to allow them such deep access to my consciousness on a whim.”

Saint would have raised an eyebrow at that if he could. Osiris’ stubborn refusal to admit vulnerability was seldom consolation.

“Anyway, it is not guilt that Mithrax intended you to feel. He does not seek pity from us.” Osiris switched the subject before further spotlight could be drawn upon his own issues. The quickness in his breath betrayed a deeper need for intervention, but Saint reasoned it was a battle for another day. His partner’s words perplexed him enough as is.

“Why else would he say those things? Why else force these images into my head? I am doing all I can to be reasonable and this is my reward?” There was fury buried deep in his gut coiling around his wires. The flames of anger licked at his chest, seeking manifestation; retribution at those who made him feel this way. A sharpness to his words saw the hand against his helmet retracted. Saint watched as a scowl formed on Osiris’ face, his arms crossed more akin to an annoyed teacher than a close lover.

“Mithrax did not plant such nightmares. You did, buying into a tale told meant to frighten young Eliksni. What he wanted from you was understanding. Perspective. Warrior to warrior. We have all done awful things in the pursuit of perceived peace - acknowledging that now, on the precipice of real change, allows for progress. What Mithrax offers you is a chance to be different from the Saint of old folklore and show yourself to be the radiant hero to the House of Light that you are to the humans of this city. To me.”

The old Titan was dumbstruck by Osiris’ words. He blinked, attempting to formulate a response of any kind yet the few words that began to materialize in the back of his throat felt insufficient. The shadow of the Traveler felt powerful in those moments, casting great planes of darkness across Saint’s form. Accolades of purple and gold adorning his armor washed away in the black and grey shades. He could not tell if it was further visions, but here wrapped in the Traveler’s embrace, he began to understand.

“...I-”

Saint began to approach Osiris but the sudden presence of a figure between them caught him off guard. He collided with the person, stumbling slightly as they dashed out from between the two Guardians and scurried toward the distant end of the tight path the three stood in. The silhouette of four arms outlined by neon lights betrayed the identity of the stranger. The sound of something clattering against the cobblestones tore Saint’s eyes away from the retreating Eliksni to the ground, where a datapad of some kind now rested at his feet.

“Hey!” Saint yelled, his words carrying far in an otherwise silent district. He watched the Eliksni freeze in place. They seemed to tremble, but perhaps it was just tricks of the light. “You uh… you dropped something!” Eventually four glowing blue eyes looked back at him through the din. They seemed hesitant. Their feet stayed by an instinctual terror. Saint could watch as they judged in their head whether the datapad was worth it.

Then he remembered the stories.

He offered the datapad in an outstretched hand toward the Eliksni, taking one knee to the path upon reflection that his foreboding height may play into the monolithic image of the Saint. “I am sure there is important information on here, yes? Make sure that it gets back to Mithrax.”

Cautious steps from the Eliksni soon followed. Saint was careful to not move, for fear of startling them. A sadness dawned on him watching them approach, the green fabric of their House of Light regalia coming into focus as the light of a nearby shop hit their form. How many stories had they been told of the demon with the ragged crest? Did they see only death in the purple hues of his visor? They seemed no larger than a dreg, most likely one of the younger members of Mithrax’s crew. Various badges and access passes had been pinned to their chest; no doubt made visible so that they attracted less unwanted attention in the tower halls.

They snatched at the datapad to quickly pry it from Saint’s hands. The Eliksni’s eyes scanned over its surface, claws swiping at a number of widgets and pop-ups that the Exo could not hope to have understood all listed in their native tongue. The pause that followed showed an apparent surprise that the datapad remained entirely intact… that no trick had been played. Their eyes darted between Saint and Osiris, before what sounded like a timid ‘thank you’ in Eliksni pushed through their throat, and they made a dash for the Eliksni quarter.

Saint groaned, tension evaporating as the interaction came to a close.

“Well, it might not be much… but it’s a start.” Osiris kneeled beside Saint, and the Titan felt an arm sweep around his back and pull him into an embrace. “It’s a start.” The Phoenix repeated, softer.

Saint reflected upon the stories of old. The tales his father told him. Ideology and faith that had spurred on so much hatred by his hands. In these uncertain times, the veil had been pulled back and the ugly truth of his blind devotion became more and more apparent. This age required more than a strong heart and fists ablaze in overwhelming Light. It begged for patience. Compassion. Even to those previously thought of as foes.

It’s a start.

The Saint closed his eyes and for once no longer saw the corruption of nightmarish reflections. Instead in the void flew a beacon of Light, carried on glistening wings, with a lantern held in white talons. One like those that often graced the sky when the city honored the dead. A sign to give respect. To mourn. But to ultimately move on to brighter futures.