Chapter Text
Ninth Age of Reclamation
Commander Rtas ‘Vadumee looks down at the blood-soaked Silent Shadow warrior sprawled on the medical bed... or at least what’s left of the warrior, who’s missing his entire left arm and both left mandibles. He’s unconscious after being administered a sedative, but his pained screams still echo in Rtas’s mind.
“We should put him out of his misery,” the First Blade says, his face impassive. “He’s no use to the Silent Shadow now.”
Rtas steps away from the bed and touches his fingers to his temple. The searing florescent lights of the medical bay are giving him a headache. As he contemplates the situation, he suddenly wishes he wasn’t in charge of SpecOps. Wishes he didn’t have to make such terrible choices. The lives of his brothers mean everything to him. Every death is a tragedy.
He’s met this injured warrior once before at a special meeting on High Charity. His name is Jega ‘Rdomnai. The Blademaster couldn’t contain his excitement when he met Rtas, eagerly telling him about his accomplishments in the Silent Shadow with a zeal that was almost excessive. He was fiercely devoted to the Great Journey, that much was certain.
But now... Rtas has a choice to make.
It’s true that Jega won’t perform as well… if he even survives. He’ll have to relearn how to speak. Eating will be difficult. And missing an entire limb… yes, his days as an elite assassin will certainly end. But they can move him to engineering. Perhaps station him on Zhoist or a gas mining colony. Who is Rtas to decide if someone is useless simply by their combat ability?
He sighs. “No, ‘Rdomnai will stay in service to the Covenant. We already have enough dead Sangheili brethren.”
And that was that.
Rtas later discovered that Jega replaced his lost parts with metal prosthetics. Developed such an intense, vengeful bloodlust for Spartans that even the most hardened warriors despised him for his behavior. He was practically an outcast now, shunned by every Sangheili. A pariah among his own race.
Sometimes Rtas wondered if he confined poor Jega to a fate worse than death.
***
2560, Zeta Halo
Shipmaster Rtas ‘Vadum sprints through the forest with only starlight to guide him, crashing through the undergrowth, his hearts pounding wildly. Despite pain engulfing every part of his body and a deep cut in the side of his head bleeding profusely, he pushes on, trying to put as much distance between him and his crashed pod as possible.
His anger keeps him going, too. Anger not at his friend Blademaster Vul ‘Soran who insisted on shoving him into the escape pod and telling him to get off the ship (despite Rtas’s need to make sure the crew of over two hundred personnel got to safety), but anger at himself for letting the Banished get the jump on the Shadow of Intent.
It was a straightforward mission. Arbiter Thel ‘Vadam sent them to help the UNSC on Zeta Halo. The fight against the Banished and their new allies, an alien species known as the Endless, was going poorly. The broken, scattered UNSC forces were pushed into hiding and survival mode instead of fighting mode. Rtas and his crew were supposed to swoop in and save the day... only Rtas underestimated the strength of the Banished fleet. After being bombarded in orbit around the ring, they were forced to scramble to escape pods. But even that proved fruitless, as Rtas was shot off course during his descent and barely survived the ensuing crash.
He thinks he hears something behind him and spins around, but there’s nothing following him. Not yet. He instinctively unclips his energy sword and tries to ignite it, but it sparks and sputters, the blade broken. As if things aren't already bad enough with his COM link out of commission after banging his helmet against the side of the escape pod during the crash, now he doesn't have a weapon.
Suddenly, he trips over a fallen tree and tumbles into dirt and thorny brush, but he doesn’t get up. Despair grips him. Vul ‘Soran, Tul ‘Juran, Stolt...they could all be dead right now, blown to pieces before they even reached solid ground. Or captured by the Banished, tortured. And it’s all his fault.
As the adrenaline pumping through his veins wears off, the pain returns in full force. Groaning, he rolls onto his back and stares at the glittering band of stars stretching across the sky. He finds the curve of the ring on the horizon and follows it up and up to the ships in orbit far above. The smoking remains of the Shadow of Intent, his pride and glory, are up there.
His vision blurs. After all the battles he’s fought, this is how he’s going to die. Alone in a world he would once have thought was sacred.
***
Rtas swims in and out of consciousness. He’s vaguely aware of being dragged across the ground, rocks and bushes scraping against his armor. He feels a firm grip on his leg. Not flesh. Something cold. Whatever it is, he doesn’t have the strength to fight it off.
He blacks out again.
***
When Rtas comes to, he’s propped up against the wall of a narrow cavern. Sunlight streams through the entrance, resting on his weary body, bringing him warmth, a sense of calmness. The first thing he notices is the thick bandage covering his head. He runs his fingers over the fabric. The pain from the wound has dulled to a barely noticeable throb.
Puzzled, he stands up, his legs shaking slightly. When he steadies himself, he heads outside, hoping and praying to see someone from his crew.
Rtas stops in his tracks, his hearts skipping a beat.
A Sangheili sits on a log nearby, peeling the skin off a large yellow fruit. His metal arm and mandibles gleam in the morning sunlight. His armor is battered and dented. A nasty bruise covers a large portion of his grey face. He looks up from his food, his bright orange eyes fixing on Rtas.
“'Rdomnai,” Rtas says.
The Sangheili is unmistakable. But what is he doing here? Rtas was sure he died during the Great Schism. But then he spots the symbol on the chest plate of Jega’s armor and understands. Of course. Why wouldn’t someone like Jega join the Banished? The Sangheili in the Covenant had disavowed him entirely, after all.
Jega climbs to his feet, but doesn’t approach Rtas. He tilts his head slightly, studying him with an unreadable expression.
“I don’t know if you remember me...” Rtas begins.
“Of course I do.” Jega’s voice is deep, raspy. “You act like the Covenant split apart centuries ago.”
It truly does feel like centuries to Rtas, what with everything that’s happened in such a short amount of time. The Schism. The Flood overtaking High Charity. The Didact returning. Cortana and the Created. Now the Banished and the Endless.
Rtas steps closer to Jega, but the Sangheili flinches and ignites a red energy sword built into his metal arm. Startled, Rtas backs away.
“Easy, brother,” he says, keeping his voice measured. “I just wanted to thank you for helping me. You didn’t have to do that, especially since I’m not Banished.”
Jega gazes steadily at Rtas, the plasma of his blade crackling menacingly. After a moment, he turns off the weapon, seeming to relax. But only slightly. His expression remains wary.
“I’m no longer part of the Banished.” Jega motions to a pile of fruit on the ground and settles back on his log. “Eat.”
Rtas sits in the dry grass and fallen pine needles and reaches for a fruit, studying it. His starving and wishes he had some meat or seafood or anything, but this will have to do. He takes a bite and grimaces. Bitter. He sets it aside.
Before Rtas can inquire about the red Banished symbol etched on Jega's armor, Jega says, “When Atriox returned, he didn’t take kindly to our losses. And I, being the only survivor of high command, took the brunt of his anger. I fought him off and barely escaped with my life.”
“And now you're in hiding." Rtas is slowly understanding Jega's situation.
“Not that it matters. We were all dead the moment Atriox released the Endless from their Cylixes.”
Rtas doesn’t know much about the Endless...or the Xalanyn as they’re officially called. Even after poring over the notes Thel received from Spartan Olympia Vale, the primary liaison between the UNSC and the Swords of Sangheilios, he still doesn’t understand. All he knows is that if the Banished repair Zeta or unlock something worse beneath its surface, things won’t end well for anyone in a huge portion of the galaxy.
“There’s still time to stop him,” Rtas says. “Thanks to you, I’m alive to fight another day.”
Jega stays quiet, flexing the fingers of his metal hand. “You seem...unbothered by me,” he muses. “I know you aligned yourself with the Heretic, but I’m still Banished. Altered. A disgrace.”
“There’s nothing to be bothered by. I have an Unggoy and a female Sangheili in my crew. It’s time to leave our rigid ways behind,” Rtas says. “As for you being a former Banished, well, that’s the least of my problems right now.” His hearts clench when he mentions his crew. An image of Stolt and Tul’s charred bodies lying somewhere on the ring flash across his mind.
Jega’s gaze softens, if that’s even possible for such a grizzled warrior. He opens his mandibles to say something, but a sizzling glowing green bolt of plasma streaks past them, hitting a tree trunk. The Sangheili jump to their feet as three Kig-Yar and a tall Jiralhanae emerge from the dense forest.
“It’s the traitor!” a Skirmisher hisses, training her weapon on Jega.
“Get them!” the Jiralhanae roars.
Jega is already in motion. Blade ignited, he runs at the Banished soldiers with alarming quickness, spinning around and effortlessly cutting down the Kig-Yar, who don’t even have time to shout in surprise.
The Blademaster jumps at the Jiralhanae next, but his opponent gets the upper hand, grabbing Jega around the neck.
The Jiralhanae chuckles and lifts Jega off his feet. “Oh, Atriox is going to be pleased when I bring your sorry corpse to him. You’ll be reunited with your dear Escharum soon, ‘Rdomnai.”
Rtas recovers from the shock of the ambush. While the Jiralhanae taunts Jega, he races to one of the dead Kig-Yar and grabs its plasma pistol, then carefully aims at the Jiralhanae’s head. One blast and the Jiralhanae drops Jega, howling as he falls backward. He blasts him one more time and he goes still.
Groaning in pain, Jega stands up and deactivates his blade. “We need to move. Find a new place to hide and scavenge. They’ll be scouring this area.”
“I can’t,” Rtas says. “I need to find my crew. We have a job to do here." He pauses. "You can come with me.”
Jega chuckles, picking up a knapsack lying in a patch of wildflowers and slinging it over his shoulder. He turns around and walks away.
Rtas isn’t ready to let him go yet.
“My crew is my family. I can’t let them die!” he says. He hesitates, then adds, “Just like I couldn’t let you die.”
Now Jega turns around, his curiosity piqued. “What are you talking about?”
“The First Blade of your squad was ready to…decommission you, to put it nicely,” Rtas says. “I said no and had you transported to the main medical frigate.”
Jega stands there, mandibles parted slightly, dumbfounded. “That was because of you?”
“Yes.”
“But..” Jega searches Rtas’s face, as if he’s expecting it to be a lie. When he only finds sincerity, he says, “I’ll help you find your crew, but I’m not allying myself with any humans. Especially not after the Demon killed—“ he breaks off and turns his back to Rtas again. “Let’s move.”
As they begin their search, Rtas reflects on the situation he’s found himself in. His unlikely new companion. He wonders if they’ll even survive.