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Chapter Text

“At least the rain will probably drive everyone else under cover as well,” the little drone says, the flaps of her shell spinning mournfully as she stares out at the heavy storm which pounds down over the grim ruins of the settlement they’ve taken shelter in.

As if in response to her words, a flash of lightning casts the building into sharp monochrome relief for a second, only to be followed quickly by a deep rumble of thunder.

“It must be right overhead,” he says, and then frowns. He does not know how he knows that – he has never seen a thunderstorm before, not since he was resurrected – and yet the knowledge is there as easy as breathing. Is that something he had once learned in that time before he had been dead and then been alive again? Or is it knowledge that his companion had granted to him when she had raised him?

A vexing question, to be sure.

He leans in to poke at the small fire that he had kindled, and then adds another few bits of wood which make it sputter and hiss before it settles. Thankfully they’d managed to gather enough to see them through the night before the deluge had begun.

There is something almost hypnotic about the flames, the way they flicker and twist, casting dancing shadows across the walls of the room. It is a living thing that he must sit and tend to, feed and contain and control, lest it wrest that control away and consume him. He stretches his hands out towards it, letting it warm him, finding that spot where the warmth is balanced perfectly between comfort and pain.

“I think your bucket is full,” the drone says.

“Thank you.” He stands and crosses to where a door opens out onto a small ledge – perhaps there had once been a balcony there, or maybe a staircase long-since crumbled to nothing. He’d set a deep metal bowl there to catch the rainwater, and it is indeed full. He carries it carefully back to the fire and sets it on top of the fire where there’s a small platform made from logs which will hold it still.

Even that brief exposure to the rain has left him chilled, and he huddles down as close to the fire as he can get, wrapping his blanket around his shoulders. After a moment, the drone joins him – she settles on his shoulder and he raises the blanket to let her huddle beneath it, pressed against his neck.

It feels… right, somehow, to have her settled there, like she belongs there. Of course, she has told him that they do belong together, but hearing it and feeling as though it is true are two different things.

Another flash of lightning and peal of thunder. He watches through the window as it arcs across the sky, a fractal bolt of energy seeking its mirror on the ground.

He had wanted to keep moving, but is glad now that he had heeded her suggestion to hole up for the night. The ruins further in the direction they were heading were sparser from what he had glimpsed from a distance, smaller buildings which provided less of a vantage point than the one that they’re currently in, several floors above ground. More vulnerable, more chance that they would have been spotted should anything be out in weather like this.

The water begins to boil and he gingerly wraps damp cloth around his hands to pull the bowl off the fire. He fills a cup from it and then empties the contents of a small pouch into it – sweet-smelling leaves that he had collected while foraging. They settle onto the hot water and he pokes at them with a stick so that they bruise and darken, and begin to release their scent.

He wraps his hands around the cup, letting the warmth seep into his fingers as he breathes in the steam. Strange that he had known that this plant was safe, and that it would make a simple tea, but he does not remember what it tastes like. Such a strange gap in knowledge that he has been left with.

When it cools enough, he takes a sip of the warm liquid and it is fresh and bright and clean, like the first breath after resurrection.

Chapter Text

With the technology that allowed easy transportation and creation of goods during the Golden Age destroyed or rendered non-functional, we see the re-emergence of older systems of trade routes spreading across the globe. The Silk Road, a network of Eurasian trade routes active for around 1300 years until the mid 15th Century as reckoned by Pre-Golden Age scholars, showed a resurgence in use, proving popular with refugees and traders, especially as the Iron Lords consolidated power in Old Russia.

“What’ll it be, stranger?”

The bartender grins at him, beneath a trimmed black beard, and plants his hands on the bar, leaning towards him. It gives Osiris a good view of the gun at the man’s hip, an obvious warning should he decide to cause trouble.

Not that he has any intention of doing so. He has not come here to pick fights. There are enough fights in the world that he hardly sees reason to start new ones.

“Tea,” Osiris says. “Whatever kind you have.” He has encountered teas made from all manner of things during his travels – fruits and seeds and leaves, whatever is available to flavour hot water and make it more… comforting.

The bartender raises an eyebrow. “Really? This ain’t a cafe. Got some beer, wine, some stuff that might be vodka… might be pike fuel.”

Cafe, another word that he knows the meaning of, understands the concept, and yet he has never experienced one. Those strange not-memories that sometimes plague him.

He wonders idly if others like him, risen, experience them. Perhaps he will soon find out.

“Hot water then, if you have nothing else.” He does not intend to permit even the chance of getting drunk. Too much risk.

“I’m not running a charity here,” the bartender says. He folds his arms over his chest, dark eyes narrowed.

“I will pay whatever you charge for a beer then,” Osiris replies. He has acquired some small amount of glimmer during his travels, and other items scavenged from the ruins of the Golden Age.

“Well, in that case, take a seat.”

He heads back into the room behind the bar, and Osiris finds a table in a corner where he can watch the door and keep his back to the wall. The bar is mostly empty, save for a couple of people wearing armour engaged in a card game of some sort. Osiris watches them for a few moments, but when they pay him no mind, he turns his attention to the window – through it, he can just see the start of the path which leads up the mountain.

“You got business up on the mountain?”

The bartender sets a drinking bowl down on the table next to him. Osiris glances at it, finding it half-full of a milky looking beverage.

“I had heard that the Iron Lords have a great repository of knowledge.”

The bartender snorts and swings himself onto a chair, leaning against the back of it. “You’ll have a fight. They don’t share easy.”

“They will share with me,” Osiris replies with supreme confidence. There is no question in his mind. He will allow no question in his mind. He has travelled too far to entertain doubt.

“You’ve certainly got the attitude of one of ‘em,” the bartender replies.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Osiris gives him a sharp look.

“High and mighty, arrogant,” the bartender says bluntly, “they sit up there on their mountain congratulating themselves. Forgettin’ the rest of the world is still fucked.”

“Have they not helped people?” He has heard of them during his travels, stories of the Iron Lords have spread telling of how they have defeated Warlords, freed people.

The bartender shrugs. “Maybe. But I’ve known enough people be collateral damage for their crusades. Get the feeling we’re not real to ‘em sometimes.”

“We?”

“Ghostless,” the bartender replies, “those of us with just the one life.”

Osiris curls his hands around the drinking bowl as the bartender stands up, the warmth seeping into his fingers. It’s pleasant after the days of trekking through the inhospitable mountains. He breathes in the pungent scent.

“What is this?” he asks before the bartender leaves. It certainly is more than hot water.

“Shirchay,” the bartender replies. “You’ll need it if you’re planning on making the climb.”

Osiris takes a sip, and it is rich with cream and butter, and leaves a salty tang on his tongue.

Chapter Text

The establishment of the Iron Temple on Felwinter Peak, the site of the pre-Golden Age Vostok Observatory, acted as an anchor point for the new trade routes and refugee trails. While no large permanent settlement was established at the base of the mountain, the presence of the Temple and the safety of the area under the watch of the Iron Lords led to the area becoming a flourishing trade hub akin to ancient Samarkand on the Silk Road, with many people choosing to wait out the winter there rather than risk further travel through the mountains.

“The pass will be closed off by morning, I’m certain of it.”

Osiris sheds his heavy fur-lined cloak and hangs it near the fire to dry off, followed by his boots. He’d tried to shake off as much of the snow as he could before coming inside, but there’s still a small puddle of snowmelt forming beneath them.

Lord Felwinter glances towards the window at the dark sky and the heavy snowfall. It is not a blizzard, not yet, but it is constant, and even the observatory across the bridge has been rendered invisible. “It does seem fortunate that you returned when you did. It would not surprise me if this winter is a long one.”

He stands and heads to the fireside where there is a kettle, and he hangs it on a hook over the flames to heat.

Osiris grimaces at the prospect of a long winter. The winters here are always harsh, but some of them are worse than others, unnatural weather patterns leading to months of harsh weather and near total darkness. He has learned that they are products of the destruction wreaked by the Collapse.

He settles into his favourite chair, curling his feet beneath him as he soaks up the heat of the fire. Felwinter’s study is a place of comfort, filled with soft furnishings, tapestries and curtains, books on shelves that are crowded with a fascinating array of tchotchkes and ornaments, bits of scavenged technology and Golden Age trinkets sitting next to interesting rocks, and while many might find it at odds with the exo’s reputation as someone almost unapproachable, Osiris has always thought that it suits him perfectly. Felwinter’s curiosity about the world is boundless.

“How is the settlement?” Felwinter asks. His affect is flat, and many would take it as disinterest, Osiris knows the concern that he has for the people under his care. Besides, if he did not care, he would not ask – Osiris appreciates that about him.

“Well stocked, I believe,” he replies. “Wu Ming seems content enough, and glad to have patrons who aren’t Risen. I am sure he will have plenty of ‘favours’ and little jobs on offer for the next group of Wolves who head out on patrol.”

Assuming Lord Saladin does not burn the bar down over some slight.

“I have no doubt of that,” Felwinter says. “Still, it may not be such a bad thing. I chose this mountain because of its remoteness. But now that we are many, I fear it leaves us… cut off. Distant.”

“Is that so bad?” Osiris asks. “It is quiet here. Easier to work and study without distraction.” Theoretically at least – the Iron Lords are not known for being quiet in their passions – but better than the crowds that he had encountered today, the settlement swollen with traders and travellers waiting out the winter.

“Seeing ourselves as removed from humanity is the first step that leads to the Warlords, my student.”

“I do not mean that we should see ourselves as better than them,” he protests, “but we are different.” Their Ghosts, their Light, their immortality… people are scared of them, and rightly so, so perhaps it would be better to protect them from afar.

“And that is its own danger,” Felwinter replies. “We must see them as equals, not just subjects under our protection, and we need them to do the same, to see us as people, as comrades to fight alongside, rather than monsters or… expendable cannon fodder, little better than combat frames.”

Discomfort crawls in his belly at that. His mentor has a way of making things abundantly clear – where the Iron Lords speak of duty and honour, Felwinter is pragmatic, blunt about the necessity – that Osiris appreciates, even when it forces him to face unpalatable ideas.

More than once, a settlement had driven him away after catching a glimpse of Sagira, or having him return after being killed, even when that death was in defence of the people living there. A bitter feeling to be sure, and one that could easily turn to rot.

Felwinter plucks the kettle out of the flames with his bare hands, unconcerned with the heat in a way that is unlike anyone else Osiris has met. He watches as his mentor cuts a small chunk off the compressed block of tea leaves and adds some to each cup, then pours water over it. A small thing, so mundane, and yet Osiris finds himself fascinated by the grace of each movement, the way each one seems calculated with mathematical precision.

His mentor adds a drop of honey to the tea, just as Osiris likes it, an unthinking care in such a small gesture, and then turns to offer Osiris the cup. “To warm you after trekking through the snow.”

Osiris takes the cup and curls his hands around it, breathing in the scent of the amber liquid. He takes a sip and it is sweet with vanilla and honey and affection.

Chapter Text

With distances between settlements often being long, traders and nomads turned to another ancient method to preserve and transport tea - tea bricks. Whole or finely ground tea leaves are steamed, then compressed into bricks or discs which can then be cut or broken up to be consumed. In pre-Golden Age times these would be wrapped in paper or cloth, and were often adulterated with other products such as flour to act as a binding agent. However post-Collapse technology meant that vacuum packing was the primary method of creating tea bricks.

“You’re leaving?”

Even out of armour, Lord Saladin and Lady Jolder cut imposing figures – tall and straight-backed and regal, every inch Iron Lords, and the press of their Light is impossible to ignore.

Osiris inclines his head in agreement. “Lord Felwinter believes that it would be good for me to venture out and ‘spread my wings’,” he says, a wry smile twisting his lips.

“It’s not a bad idea,” Jolder says, smiling at him. “You’ve barely left since you arrived here and demanded that you be allowed access to our databanks. I thought Radegast was going to throw you off the mountain.”

“As if that would have stopped Osiris,” Saladin says, amused.

“It would not,” Osiris agrees, “and I have left several times. I have accompanied Lord Felwinter on research expeditions, and fought alongside the Iron Lords many times, as you know.” Other people would baulk at the way he talks to them – he is not an Iron Lord after all – but he has known them for long enough, and fought beside them enough times that the lack of title is nothing but formality.

“Trawling dusty Golden Age facilities and engaging in combat aren’t the same as travelling, exploring,” Jolder says.

“I find both quite invigorating,” Osiris says. “There is much to be learned from the relics of the past.”

“Careful, you sound like Timur,” Saladin says.

“Hardly,” Osiris replies. “Besides, my interests lie beyond the work of one man. I seek the truth of the Light and the Traveller, not some Golden Age idol.”

Jolder laughs and slaps his shoulder, and even Saladin smiles as he adds leaves to the ceramic teapot, fills it with water, and leaves it to brew.

“Felwinter wishes me to visit the City,” he says quietly. That secret, fledgling place that the Iron Lords have carried close to their hearts for so long. “I think he worries that I–”

He shakes his head, dismissing the thought. It is not something that he wishes to dwell on.

“Felwinter would not have told you of it or given its location to you if he did not believe that you were worthy of such trust,” Saladin says.

“Am I truly so transparent?” Osiris asks, a touch of bitterness seeping into the words. He knows how others see him – not everyone, but enough. His association with Felwinter would have earned Radegast’s mistrust even if Osiris was not so… himself.

“If someone takes the time to know you, absolutely,” Jolder says, and there is fondness in her voice.

Osiris feels a lump form in his throat, and is silent for a few moments until he can speak again. “In any case, I will be back here soon enough. This City is vital and I do wish to see the Traveller in person, but the Iron Temple is my home, and probably a better place for my studies than somewhere filled with constant distraction.”

He sees Jolder’s eyes narrow, and the tightening of Saladin’s lips, but neither of them makes further comment.

Saladin pours the tea, holding the teapot as though it is a priceless relic. Osiris takes his cup and holds it, letting the scent flow over him. “Assam?”

“Of course,” Saladin says.

Osiris offers a small smile and drinks, savouring the earthy, malty taste.

“You know you will always have a home here, Osiris,” Jolder says.

Chapter Text

The influx of travellers and refugees from across Earth to the settlement that would become the Last City of course brought an equally global, sometimes extra-planetary, variety of customs and traditions, including, of course, tea customs. From the traditional mate de coca of the mountainous area of the Last City given to help stave off altitude sickness, to the Japanese chadō (茶道), to the spiced and roasted teas of Golden Age Mercury, each found a home, and even today, it is a rare street which does not have some form of tea house or cart on it, and large kettles are common sights in the communal kitchens.

“Where are you taking me, Saint?”

The big exo had grabbed him almost as soon as he had arrived back in the City, bright with the enthusiasm that Osiris is coming to realise is how Saint approaches almost everything. He does nothing in half-measures – from combat to playing with the children of the city, everything he does is with his whole heart and spirit behind it.

Osiris has to wonder if Saint approaches more intimate activities in the same way. He has many admirers, Guardians and Ghostless both, and Osiris thinks…

Ah, idle thoughts. Hardly appropriate. They are comrades, perhaps even friends, and there is no reason to assume that Saint would be interested in anything different.

“You will see soon enough,” Saint says as he turns down a small side-street, pulling Osiris after him, his grip, his very presence, a force as inevitable as gravity. “Be patient.”

Osiris scowls at him, and Saint laughs in a way that makes it impossible for even Osiris to truly take offence.

Another turn, and this street is little more than an alleyway between buildings, but Saint comes to a stop outside a nondescript blue door – only the sign on it saying ‘Open’ gives an indication that it is anything other than a random home.

“Here!” Saint says, finally letting go of Osiris’ arm to spread his own wide, as though he is showing him the most priceless of treasures rather than a grubby entranceway.

“What is it?” Osiris asks tersely. He has never learned to mask his impatience, and there is part of him – an unworthy part admittedly, but one honed by long years of travel and danger – that expects a trap or trick, at worst to cause harm and at best to make him look foolish, which is possibly worse. Death he can recover from, but humiliation?

Saint meets his gaze, frustration there for a split second before it melts away in the face of whatever he sees in Osiris’ expression. He smiles softly, and then pats his shoulder. Osiris feels the press of his fingers like brands. “I will show you, yes? I have been excited to bring you here since… since you left.”

Osiris raises an eyebrow at him. “That was weeks ago.”

“I had not expected that you would be gone for so long,” Saint replies, a little defensive, and guilt wells up inside Osiris. It is a stupid emotion and he has nothing to feel guilty about! He had given no promises about how long he would be, and he is certainly not beholden to anyone here and…

“My work necessitated it,” he says, but it sounds hollow. He shakes his head and barrels on to try to extricate himself from this awkwardness. “Well, show me this grand secret then.”

Saint snorts but pushes open the door and steps inside, and Osiris follows him.

The air is fragrant, and the walls of the small room are lined with jars of– “Tea…?”

Saint beams at him. “Yes! People have brought many varieties to the City, and when I found this shop, I knew that I must bring my friend Osiris here.”

The way he says it is utterly sincere, as though he truly has been saving this place for Osiris alone. Looking at him, Osiris finds that he believes it too, and there is a warm thing blooming in his chest.

He looks away quickly, turning his attention to the shelves, examining carefully handwritten labels. “Is there something that you would recommend, Saint?”

“I may have a few ideas,” Saint says, sounding far more pleased at the question than it really warrants.

They emerge from the shop a while later, a bag clutched in Osiris’ arms. He’d purchased several different teas, and the proprietor had added a few samples of other blends.

“I am glad to see you happy,” Saint says. “You will have to tell me what they taste like.”

His palm is warm at the small of Osiris’ back as they step back into the sunlight of the Last City. Saint had waited weeks for him to return, when Osiris had given him little indication of when that might be, or consideration that his absence would even have an effect.

“You would be welcome to try some for yourself at my home,” he says. An impulsive thought spoken aloud and he bites back the immediate urge to take it back. He does not say things that he doesn’t mean and he has no intention of starting.

Saint is silent for a moment, watching him with curious intensity, and then he smiles again, and for all that he is a master of the Void, his smile is warmer than any Solar light. “I would like that very much.”

“Come along then,” Osiris replies. “I would quite like to try these myself.”

He makes tea for both of them in the small apartment that he stays at while he is in the City, using the familiar motions of boiling water and steeping the leaves to steady himself. He does not often have guests, and when Saint’s fingers brush his as he passes over the cup, he almost forgets to drink.

The tea is light and refreshing, like the scent of jasmine on his tongue, and he wonders if he would taste the same sweetness in Saint’s mouth.

Chapter Text

When we talk of ritual, the tendency is to picture some grand, often solemn, and frequently public event, something structured and organised, such as the Jewish Shabbat service, or Catholic Mass, or the memorial service for the Battle of Six Fronts. Some may also think of the preparations conducted by Warlock before engaging in Thanatonautic pursuits. But ritual can simply mean an act, or series of acts, which are regularly repeated at a particular time or in a particular situation. The day of Shabbat being taken for rest and contemplation is no less a ritual for the lack of a specific service leader, and the act or serving tea to guests is no less a ritual simply because it is ‘what everyone does’.

“Aren’t you going to answer that?”

Osiris carefully measures out the tea leaves and pours them into the small teapot, then adds a second measure, before he answers. “No.”

“It might be important.” He can hear the frown in Ikora’s voice.

“Then they should use the emergency frequency. I am making tea.”

The kettle clicks off and he pours the hot water into the teapot. The leaves swirl in the torrent of water, and he sets the lid onto the pot, turning it precisely so that it will not spill when he pours it.

He hears Ikora’s sigh as he moves the pot to the tray, and reaches for the small jar of honey, a spoon, a strainer. Those are set next to the pot, laid out like offerings in their prescribed positions.

“Surely the tea can wait a few minutes.”

She is not the first to suggest it, he doubts she will be the last, and the thought still twists discomfort in the back of his mind, like a pebble in a shoe, or a thorn caught in a piece of clothing.

“If a call is of such import that I cannot take tea, then it is too late for my intervention to be useful.”

He picks up the tray, the familiar weight settling in his hands as he carries it to the low table. He sets it down and places Ikora’s cup, then his own, handle pointing towards his seat, spoon laid out next to the cup. He sits cross-legged opposite his student. “Our lives are filled with such uncertainty, it is easy to become lost. It is wise to guard those things which prove to be grounding.”

Saint has his patrols of the City and his beloved pigeons. The Hunters have their semi-organised games of hide and seek around the rooftops. Even the Iron Lords would take time to care for the wolves, take them hunting, even join their singing.

And Osiris? He has his tea. A moment of peace carved out of time which he can rely upon.

Ikora raises an eyebrow and then pours herself a cup. She offers to pour for him as well, but he shakes his head. It needs to steep longer for his tastes.

“But tea?” Ikora asks with an air of incredulity. “You can drink tea whenever you like. I don’t see why having it now is so important.”

He adds a spoon of honey to his cup but does not reach for the pot yet.

“You meditate every morning, do you not?” It is something that many Guardians engage in, and is one of the most basic parts of Warlock training. A way to focus the mind, to shut out outside distractions and devote attention to the Light and to the Self.

“Of course,” Ikora replies. “It helps me to keep my head clear, to hone my control.”

It is control that she needs. She is as impulsive as he is in many ways, but perhaps better at hiding it. Better at maintaining the appearance of what is needed.

“And I make tea.” He finally picks up the teapot and pours it to an invisible line in the cup that is nonetheless fixed in his mind. He stirs it twice, and watches the honey dissolve in the hot liquid.

“Those aren’t the same at all.”

“Why not?” Osiris asks.

Ikora sighs and looks away. He can see the frustration etched on her face. Perhaps it would be kinder to simply explain – that traditional meditation frustrates him, the feeling of doing nothing, the way his thoughts run away if he does not have a something to guide him, that making tea, a precise set of well-known motions and timing, are meditation for him – but understanding it is something that Ikora will only come to on her own.

“In everything else, you seem to hate being held to a routine,” Ikora says finally. “I can see how you chafe at the meetings, the repetitiveness of it.”

She is not incorrect. Many aspects of being Vanguard Commander frustrate him, the demands upon his time especially.

“Routine and ritual are not the same thing. And ritual is essential.” If they cannot have their rituals, what are they even fighting for?

“Sometimes you make no sense,” Ikora says, though there is fondness in her voice.

“It will make sense to you one day, I am certain of it.”

He picks up his cup, closes his eyes, and drinks. It tastes rich and woody and exactly like every other time he makes it.

Chapter Text

Meetings are one example of the way that tea has permeated the culture of the Last City. Prior to the Red War, Consensus meetings would begin with the Speaker serving a special blend of tea made from leaves grown in the garden beneath the Traveller to each delegate as a symbol of the unity between them. Meetings between factions or negotiations between those doing business tend to follow a similar pattern, with the host serving each of the guests present, often using a tea set reserved specifically for such a purpose.

“We cannot combat a force that we do not understand!”

The Speaker’s mask is devoid of expression, of course it is, but Osiris can easily imagine the sigh that he must be suppressing as he regards Osiris.

“Take a seat, my son. Let us discuss this properly,” the Speaker says, with a calm that only frustrates Osiris further. How can he be so calm when everything that they have built could be destroyed, or unmade?

He thinks about objecting, but the Speaker has already turned away to the tea set and there will be no dissuading him from that task. So Osiris sits and submits himself to this cage of niceties which seems so beloved by many here.

He stares around the room while the Speaker works, taking in the familiar sight of shelves filled with books and other esoterica. It is unchanged from his many other visits, and that familiarity makes it feel stagnant. Waiting here is an itch beneath his skin that he can only endure.

The Speaker returns and sets down the delicate cups and saucers, the steaming pot of steeping tea. No milk though, or honey. Osiris knows they are not to the Speaker’s taste. He waits for the Speaker to serve him so that he can speak his piece, but the Speaker simply settles himself comfortably and does not touch the pot.

“You know that I value your council, Osiris,” he begins. Osiris opens his mouth to reply, but the Speaker continues without offering the opportunity. “But you speak out of turn. The Consensus is a place for discussion, negotiation. All ideas must be considered.”

Beneath his scarf, Osiris’ lips twist into a bitter line. “All ideas except mine.”

The Speaker does sigh then – the sound is shame crawling down Osiris’ spine, and he resents it deeply. He has not spoken falsely! Why should he feel shame?

“Your ideas are… divisive,” he says. “Our unity is our strength and you seek to fracture that.”

“I seek nothing of the sort!” Osiris snaps, frustration welling thick in his throat. “Everything that I do is in service of humanity.”

“The questions that you ask turn people away from the Traveller,” the Speaker says firmly, that infuriating calm never wavering. It is always like this – he remains calm and Osiris always feels as though he has lost some battle he did not even know he was fighting.

“They are questions that need to be asked,” Osiris replies.

“Are they?”

Osiris stares. Such a foolish question. Of course they must be asked!

“The Traveller is our only hope, my son. The questions that you ask lead you to forget that. Your focus on understanding the nature of the Darkness is… you forget your place.”

He straightens up sharply, the words pricking at his pride. “My place?” he says, venom dripping from the words.

“You are an extension of the Traveller’s majesty, Osiris. It has granted you many gifts. What lies in the Darkness is deceit, the rot that consumed the Golden Age.”

He bites back the words that he wishes to say – he is not an extension of anything! He is himself entire. He takes a breath and clasps his hands in his lap to retain some semblance of stillness and calm. “I seek only to understand the enemy that we face.”

“You are clever, and curious, Osiris,” the Speaker says gently, as though the words are supposed to be a balm to him, “but the understanding that you seek is a poison which will consume you. Remember Toland.”

How can he forget? Toland’s obsession with the Hive, the order of exile that Osiris had signed himself. The man had been a danger to the City, but he had also been a friend once.

“I am not Toland,” Osiris replies.

“You are not,” the Speaker agrees, “but I fear that you may walk the same path as him. I seek only to help you. I see our future in you, Osiris.”

“I know,” Osiris says quietly, as close to an apology as he can allow himself. The Speaker has impressed this upon him many times. At first it had been exhilarating – a mark of respect that he might be seen as someone to guide the hopes of humanity.

Now it feels like a noose around his neck, tightening day by day.

The Speaker pours the tea into Osiris’ cup and then his own. He will not drink publicly, and Osiris considers it a waste, but whenever he has mentioned this, he has been told that the point is not in the drink, but in the symbolism of the service, the way that it ties them together.

He takes a sip, and the tea is harsh with bitterness from steeping too long.

Chapter Text

The importance of tea to the culture of the Last City cannot be understated! Even when removed from communal, social occasions, the act of making tea for oneself is still a ritual which connects a person to their home and to those that they have shared the ritual with before.

“Well, this is… homely,” Sagira says as she looks around the space that Osiris has claimed for himself on Mercury, hidden away from the prying eyes of the Vex and anyone from the City who might decide to pursue him.

It is currently very much a space of bare rock and metal, a solar lamp casting harsh light through the space. He has set up a bedroll and the absolute necessities, but it is still…

“It will become more comfortable as we unpack,” Osiris replies. They have only been here for a few hours, though the preparations have been underway for… for a long time. His exile had always been a matter of ‘when’ rather than ‘if’.

“Right. And we’ve totally spent the night in worse places before.”

“We have.” Crumbling buildings and barely shaded hollows on Earth in those early days after his resurrection. Damp caves and mouldering tower blocks on Venus, wondering if they had secured the area properly, or if the Vex would drive them off partway through the night.

Mercury at least is dry and warm, and it should be trivial to install a few solar panels to generate power.

With a little luck, they will find the entrance to the Infinite Forest soon enough, and then he fully intends to spend most of his time there.

He sits down on the bedroll and pulls the tea set towards himself to begin preparing tea. The tea set is a dark red and decorated with a pattern of golden birds in flight. It had been a gift from Saint.

Looking at it makes his breath catch in his throat, and after a moment he sets it aside and has Sagira bring out a simple metal travel mug, one that has come with him on numerous research trips and patrols.

He boils water over the small camping stove, and adds a teabag to the cup – it is far from how he prefers to make tea, but sometimes necessity takes precedence over preference.

Sagira settles in the feathers of his cowl as he waits for the water. “Do you think Saint–”

“I do not care,” Osiris says, more sharply than he had intended. “He made his feelings extremely clear.”

That he thought that Osiris was a threat. That he agreed with his exile. That he–

He hears the kettle begin to boil and shakes his mind away from those thoughts. There is nothing to be gained from dwelling on it.

“Yeah but he… maybe if you just give it a couple of days and then talk to him,” Sagira says.

“It hardly matters,” Osiris replies as he pours water into the mug. “I cannot return to the City in any case, and he will not leave.” His people come before everything, and despite the hurt of their parting, Osiris would not have him change for his sake. Saint’s devotion to their people had been part of what he had fallen in love with.

“It was always going to end this way,” he adds quietly. He had foreseen it, albeit the broad strokes more than the details.

He had not expected it to hurt so much. Foolish of him really.

“Guardians make their own fates,” Sagira says, nudging him, and he cannot help but smile.

“I know. In any case, we have much work ahead of us, and so much time to fill without tiresome Consensus meetings.” The freedom to focus on his studies without interference, without needing to justify himself to people who will never understand him.

He takes a sip of the hot tea. The metal of the cup overwhelms the distant floral taste.

Chapter Text

The deepening of relations between the Last City and the Awoken of the Reef have led to an increase in trade and cultural exchange between the two. Because of this there has been a resurgence in interest in Awoken tea culture, with particularly Earthborn Awoken seeking to renew ties to their ancestral culture.

While the Reef grows a variety of teas, none hold such a place in the imagination as that made from Queensfoil. The ban imposed upon it by the Last City due to the specialist preparation required to make it safe for consumption, coupled with the difficulty of acquiring it, led to it taking on an almost mythical quality in the minds of those who heard of it, akin to the ‘Potion of Healing’ attested to in many pre-Golden Age grimoires, the ingredients for which have sadly been lost to time. Despite this, recent events and the new close relationship between Earth and the Reef has led to a small amount of Queensfoil being grown within the Last City itself.

“Queensfoil Tea,” Mara Sov replies before he can even ask the question. “My Techeuns use it to see into the Ascendant Realm, and to pursue visions.”

Osiris looks down at the cup she has set before him – the liquid is viscous, and it shimmers as it swirls, though he has not touched it to set it to motion. He glances back up at the Queen of the Reed. “I am not one of your Techeuns.”

“No, but from what you have told me of your visions, and what I have observed, I believe it may be beneficial in allowing you a more reliable and clearer method to seek them.”

She does have a point – he has gone seeking visions at the edges of death before, and in meditation, but it is an imprecise art, one that is difficult to control. A more reliable method could be very helpful.

“And the side-effects?”

“Improperly prepared, fatal,” Mara says, a touch of cool amusement to her voice, “and we do not have conclusive information about its effects on humans, although I believe death is less of a concern for you than it might be for most.”

The bluntness of what she says is appreciated, and immediately raises his already high opinion of her. She is not playing politics with him, trying to hide behind pretty and meaningless words.

“I do not wish to seem ungrateful,” Osiris replies. “I know that this is not offered lightly.” He is one of very few outsiders who has been permitted to pass beyond the Vestian outpost and the Reef, and into the hidden cities of the Awoken – a great show of trust. Strange isn’t it? That he should be shown more trust here than he was in the city that he had fought and died to defend.

“I would have been disappointed if you displayed no prudence in asking,” Mara says, “I have no time for sycophants who dare not question me.”

He offers a brief, wry smile. “That is an opinion that we share.”

His followers have made themselves comfortable on Mercury, and would hound him at every turn were he any less adept at concealing himself. Their behaviour is such that he cannot… dare not share more of his work with them. He cannot trust them to question him, or to present information that is less than perfect even when it is accurate.

“It is not entirely for your benefit that I offer this either,” Mara says. “What faces us… I would be a fool to turn away any advantage, and your visions may expose paths other than those that I have seen.”

Another pertinent point. Different perspectives, experiences, all of those may affect what one sees, or the interpretations of what is seen.

“Are you not concerned that my visions may sow division amongst your people?” He tries to keep his tone light, but the bitterness seeps in anyway. It is still a wound which has not healed.

Mara is silent for a long moment, scrutinising him. He bears it silently, though he cannot help but wonder what she sees when she looks at him. An ally? A useful tool easily discarded when it has served its use? A dangerous wild card that needs to be kept close?

A friend?

How strange that he should wish for the last when he has avoided closeness since his exile.

“I am no stranger to division amongst my people,” she says finally, and there is a wellspring of grief in her words that is too deep to be feigned. “It can be a destructive force when handled poorly. But if we cannot tolerate any division, how are we any different to the Vex?”

He could make comment that even the Vex have their factions, but he holds his tongue for once. In the end all of the Vex seek the same final shape of reality, and he sees no reason to antagonise Mara. Not when she is trying to help him.

Not when he is very short of people he can trust.

“Then I thank you for this,” Osiris says. He raises the cup to his lips and drinks deeply. It is bitter, but there is a cloying sweetness which remains on his tongue, like the scent of a garden left to grow to ruin.

He closes his eyes, and dives.

Chapter Text

Throughout history, tea has been a part of death rites and rituals. Ancient archaeological records attest to sites where tea containers or teapots were included amongst the grave goods of high status individuals. And tea services have been part of grieving for time immemorial – from highly formalised funeral ceremonies in parts of China, to the conventions of offering tea as a form of comfort to support those who are in mourning.

Inevitably, with the migration of people from around Earth, many of these traditions made it to the Last City, and have continued to be practised alongside the newer funeral practices which emerged post-Collapse. One such practice is to include a small box or packet of tea with the remains of the deceased so that if they are resurrected by a Ghost, the new Guardian will feel welcomed and know that they have a home.

“I do not require your pity!”

Osiris switches off the holo screen and Ikora’s concerned face vanishes. The main room of his small home on Mercury is cast into a ringing silence. Even the Vex seem to have taken their leave. Perhaps they have heard that a place as close to sacred as is possible for them has been breached.

Probably they simply have other matters holding their attention – the Guardians have certainly made their mark in the wake of Panoptes’ defeat, and he imagines that the sudden influx is keeping the Vex occupied.

“Osiris…” Sagira’s voice is soft, careful, and for a second he hates her, hates the Traveller for bringing him back and hates Saint for…

“It is my fault,” he says, voice rough with a grief that he had not allowed himself to express over comms. Let the Guardian believe he feels a distant sadness over the loss of a brave comrade. They do not need to know about the black pit of guilt and despair which had opened in his belly when he had seen the tomb.

Ikora knows better.

Saint-14 had followed him to Mercury, searched for him, and Osiris in his anger, in his arrogance, had let him become lost so deep in the Infinite Forest that even Osiris could not find him again.

Osiris had killed him as surely as if he had held the gun and crushed his ghost with his own hands.

“Saint was an adult. He chose to follow you,” Sagira says, and he doesn’t deserve this, he doesn’t deserve her! She has always been his better, and there are times when he wishes… she should have picked someone more worthy than him.

“And I chose to let him wander,” he says wretchedly.

Sagira settles against his neck, offering a silent comfort that he also does not deserve.

If he had just swallowed his pride and gone to Saint immediately… if he had done that years ago and avoided his exile, even if it would have killed something inside him… at least Saint would have been alive.

Is he bound to lose them all, one by one? Felwinter, Jolder, Nirwen, all of the Iron Lords devoured by the Warmind. Mara made sacrifice to the Taken King with no certainty that she would survive. Saint entombed in the Infinite Forest.

Who is left?

Better to drive Ikora away once more than risk the same fate befalling her.

Sagira nudges him and he startles back to himself, finding that the candles have burned down to nothing without his realisation. How much time has passed?

It does not matter. He knows how fickle time can be.

He pushes himself to his feet and goes to the small kitchen area. Usually he finds the act of making tea meditative, taking the time to focus upon each movement, carving out a space for quiet in his mind. Today they are unthinking, the teapot filled with no memory of water running, a spoon in his hand that he does not recall picking up.

A cup full in front of him, fragrant steam rising from it, and he cannot even say which leaves he has brewed.

He cradles the cup between hands that feel old and stiff, letting the warmth seep into his fingers as though it could ever replace the warmth of Saint’s hand in his.

He drinks, and it tastes of…

It tastes of nothing at all.

Chapter Text

As well as customs, refugees who came to the Last City also brought with them the paraphernalia of tea culture. This alone should give some indication of the importance of tea culture: travel during the Dark Age was an inevitably risky proposition – as well as the threat of Warlords, bandits, and Eliksni raiders, more mundane concerns such as weather and climate needed to be considered – so the choice to carry tea paraphernalia such as teapots, cups, etc. suggests that those were considered necessities rather than luxuries.

“Come on!” Sagira says, giving him a mental nudge. “Are you really going to keep him waiting?”

He does not reply, but does continue walking, speeding up slightly as he follows the directions that he had been given.

While he has, of course, kept an eye on the development of the City since his exile, and he has viewed it from afar during his brief and acrimonious visit to the Tower after the Psions had commandeered his Sundial, it is a far different thing to walk through its streets once more, to see the changes that time has wrought. Streets exist where once there had been only bare and rocky ground, and in the darkness of the evening, the buildings blaze with lights, more than he has ever seen in one place. For a brief moment, he feels as though he has been transported back to the Golden Age, to one of their magnificent cities, only to turn a corner and be confronted with the rubble-strewn evidence of the Red War in a space where buildings had once been.

He stares for a long moment at the evidence of the devastation, and then pulls his hood further down to hide his face when a group of people approaches, laughing and chatting. They pay him no attention, but why ask for trouble by being obvious? His presence here is barely tolerated, a favour granted and not on his behalf.

His directions lead him to the outskirts, an area where homes begin to give way to farmland and forest, all carefully contained within the distant expanse of the wall.

“I think this is it,” Sagira says when he pauses in front of the house that his directions have led him to. It has round windows, and ivy and wisteria have grown up the side of the building to frame them. There is a garden filled with flowers, and he can see bird feeders hanging from branches and poles stuck into the ground.

He has never been here before, but he feels as though he would have recognised it even without the directions.

There is a light in one of the windows, warm and inviting, and suddenly he is paralysed.

He does not belong here. This homely place, filled with warmth and comfort is not for him, cannot be for him. He feels as though if he touches it, it will crumble to ash before his eyes. Has he not caused enough damage already?

“This was a mistake,” he says quietly, and turns to leave, only to stop dead at the sound of a door opening, and heavy footsteps that he knows well.

“Osiris?”

His chest tightens at the sound of that well-loved voice, and he turns slowly, lets the hood drop back. He had hidden from Saint once before and it had cost Saint his life. How can he ever justify hiding from him again? “Yes.”

Saint stares for a long moment and then beams. He is a silver silhouette in the warm light which emanates from the doorway. “Geppetto told me that you were here. You did not knock.”

He feels Sagira’s smug pride and knows that he has been betrayed by his own Ghost.

“I wanted to make certain that I had the right house,” he says. “This area of the City is unfamiliar to me.”

“Things have changed very much, yes,” Saint says, “I am still learning my way around.”

Osiris is certain that Saint has already learned the names of all of his neighbours and thoroughly charmed them. He doesn’t even need to try.

“But come, you do not need to stand on my doorstep,” Saint continues. “I am glad that you could make it.”

He steps aside to leave the doorway open for him, and how can Osiris refuse?

He walks the short path to the door, and enters.

The house has already become a home, despite the sparse decoration – Saint has always been more reserved than him about the objects that he acquires, leaning more towards pragmatism than decoration – with candles on the windowsill, a colourful blanket on the sofa, a figurine of a bird on a bookshelf.

“It suits you,” Osiris says, turning back to Saint. The distance between them feels unnatural yet impassable, a gulf that he cannot begin to work out how to cross.

“The Vanguard and Consensus have been very kind to me,” Saint says. “They tell me many of the things my Father kept of mine were destroyed in Red War, but there were some things… and this house that they have given to me though I am sure that there are many who deserve it more than I do. I would have been happy to sleep in my ship in hangar.”

“You deserve more than that,” Osiris says. “You deserve a place of peace.” After everything that Saint had sacrificed for the City and its people, he deserves every comfort.

“It is peaceful, yes,” Saint says, “and the City has grown beyond what I could ever have imagined, but there are things that I miss.” He holds Osiris’ gaze for a long moment, until the Warlock has to look away.

He is very rarely unable to think of something to say, and yet here he is, his mouth dry, words exhausted in the face of Saint-14 and the impossible proof of his existence. He is back in the world and it is everything that Osiris wanted and yet he feels like running.

“Sit down,” Saint says, and for a moment there is a gentle hand against the small of his back. “You have had long journey. I will make tea.”

He gives a small nod and goes to seat himself. Tea. He can do this. The ritual of it, the steps well known and formal enough to let him keep his distance. It lets him feel like he is able to get his feet back beneath him, get a better grasp on the situation – they will drink tea, be polite acquaintances. A cordial end to what they had been.

If that is how it must be, then he will accept it as the best option.

The sound of Saint moving around in the kitchen is a nostalgic one – he wishes that he had taken more time to appreciate it when they had lived together. He can easily visualise the process of it, Saint’s large hands handling cups and pots with delicate care, his patience when waiting for water to boil, that he always knew exactly what type of tea Osiris would favour at any given moment.

His love- Saint emerges a few minutes later with a tray laden with tea things. The samovar is new, he thinks. The one that had been in their shared home had most likely been destroyed or lost in the intervening years. A small thing and yet it still causes his chest to ache to think of its loss.

Saint puts the tray down between them and sits down, then sets an already full cup in front of Osiris.

“Thank you,” Osiris murmurs. He reaches for it, picks it up, raises it to his lips and then… stops.

There is a chip in the brim of the cup. He runs his thumb against it, and then down, tracing the lines of cracks in the porcelain, places where pieces have been fixed back together with glue and golden lacquer.

“This is…”

“Yes.”

He looks up at Saint. “I had thought it would have been lost along with everything else.”

“I did not leave it in the City when I left,” Saint says quietly, as though confessing some great secret. “I carried it with me when I went to Mercury.”

The admission drives the breath from Osiris’ lungs, and he forces himself not to grip the cup any tighter. He does not wish to risk breaking it a second time. “Why?”

Saint gives a soft huff, somewhere between amused and exasperated. “Is it not obvious, ridiculous man?”

He could claim that there are many things that it could mean. A cup that has been mended was still broken, cracked and flawed and fragile. A sign that they can never go back to what once was, or that Saint considers him too flawed to love.

He would be lying if he said those things.

Instead he breathes deeply, lets the scent of the tea fill his senses, and drinks. It is a simple blend, rich and smoky with an edge of sweetness.

It tastes like coming home.

Chapter Text

The apartment that Osir- that Savathûn had stayed in, is crowded with items which cover almost every available surface. There are books, yes, and trinkets, paraphernalia, parts of Vex, preserved plants from Io, all organised but not in any way that Saint can work out. He picks through them like a vulture on the battlefield, searching for anything that might help. The Hidden had searched of course, catalogued everything, taken their photographs and recordings for further study, but now it is just him.

Ikora had seemed pained to ask this of him, but he had… he knows Osiris better than anyone (or he thought he had, but now he is not sure what is a true memory and what is the Witch), and he may find things which the Hidden would miss.

He does not even know where to start.

The clutter is familiar – he had lived with Osiris for long enough to learn that his beloved was prone to collecting things, and leaving them strewn about his space, though he always knew where to find what he needed – and it should perhaps be comforting. He recognises many of the books, the bits of Vex technology, the heavy wooden desk that had sat in his study next to the window of the house that they shared. And yet there is something unsettling about it.

It is probably nothing, he tells himself, as he continues searching the place. Of course it would be unsettling to walk through the place where the Hive God had plotted her schemes while wearing Osiris’ face. How could it be anything other than unsettling?

He finds some of Osiris’ old journals, ones from centuries ago, leatherbound and embossed with his symbol. He clutches them to his chest for a moment, and then has Geppetto transmat them away for safekeeping.

(He finds a crystal filled with Void Light, trapped and bound, and he shudders as he examines it. It is a wicked thing, and he sends it to Ikora before he can be tempted to smash it.)

He finds a ring, untarnished silver inlaid with an amethyst. He had given it to Osiris so long ago that it feels like a dream. He had not realised that he had kept it all this time.

(He finds a trove of Ghost shells and recoils at the sight. They are empty, awful things, the signs that Guardians and their companions have died. These should have been interred with their partners, yet here they are, shut away in a box. These, he is certain, were not something that Osiris would have collected. For all his mistrust of the Traveller, he held reverence for their Ghosts.

He searches further, looking for one particular shell, but finds nothing, and eventually sends these on to Ikora as well.)

It is dark by the time he decides to leave. There will be another day to continue searching, but for now, he is heart-sick and cannot stomach more of searching through a tomb.

He pauses in the doorway and looks back into the apartment before he leaves.

It is full of familiar clutter. He is sure that most people would see it and believe that it was Osiris’ home. But he cannot shake the feeling of wrongness. Maybe if he had looked earlier, if he had invited himself there when the Witch Queen posed as Osiris then he would have noticed… what? He can hardly report a nebulous sense of unease and a wrongness that he cannot explain to the Vanguard.

He locks the apartment and leaves, relief filling him with every step that he takes.

It is only when he reaches his home and sets water to boil to make a solitary cup of tea, that he realises what had caused that unsettled feeling.

The apartment was full of clutter, yes, but there had been no tea set, no candles, none of the little trinkets that Osiris kept for no reason other than that they pleased him.

There had been nothing that made that place a home rather than simply a place where someone existed.

Chapter Text

The invasion of the Red Legion led to the displacement of a large part of the Last City’s population, with both those who left for areas such as the European Dead Zone, and those who remained in the City, suffering substantial privation. Lack of supplies and the Red Legion’s commandeering of the City’s production facilities led to citizens falling back on knowledge passed down from those who remember the exodus to the Last City.

Even with several years having passed since the ousting of the Red Legion and the reclaiming of the City, many residents have taken to learning these skills themselves as defence against a potential future attack. Foragaing for herbs that can be used in the place of traditional tea has become a popular pastime, and groups can often be found at the edges of the city, towards the walls.

Chamomile.

As though he some skittish new inductee into Ikora’s Hidden, returned from a difficult first mission. Someone in need of soothing. Someone to be handled with kid gloves.

Someone broken. Or as close to breaking as makes no difference.

“Osiris?”

He looks up at Ikora sharply, realising that he has missed what she had been saying. His hands tighten around the teacup. He feels as though he has misstepped – will she take his preoccupation as evidence that he is not who he is? That he has been irreparably compromised by his time imprisoned by Savathûn?

Would she be wrong in that assessment?

“The loss of my Light has not dulled my mind,” he says, acid in the words. “I am listening.” He sets the cup down and fixes her with an intent look.

He has only the barest idea of what she had been saying, and though her expression remains calm, he can tell that she knows that he is… distracted. She grants him the dignity of pretence at least, and continues with her briefing.

“The relics of Nezarec that we acquired are in safe keeping, although it is unlikely that they are the only ones that still exist. We have–”

Nezarec. A name that had, up until now, been a whisper from old stories. Mythology more than reality, and certainly exaggerated where they merged. Drifter’s stories could rarely be taken at face value, but apparently in this case, he had been truthful about visiting the tomb. Now he awakens to find that a folktale was not only real, but tied to their great enemy. And now tied to him. Responsible for dragging him out of that nightmare that he had been trapped in.

He remembers the taste of that potion in his mouth. Bitter as death, an awakening as potent as any resurrection, but sharper somehow. And yet the taste had been oddly familiar, like a long-ago memory brought to mind.

He reaches for the cup once more, to wash away the memory of the taste. As he picks it up, his gaze falls onto the shattered Ghost shell which rests on a cloth on the table. Pain lances through him, as bright and sharp as though he has plunged his own Dawnblade through his chest. Cold fingers tighten around his throat, cutting off breath, until he thinks his lungs may burst. Heat pricks at his eyes. And threading through it is that endless drumbeat of thought – this is his fault.

He brushes his fingers against her shell as though he can somehow coax her back to him. He should have a thousand ideas of how to change things, how to save her – a Lunar Sundial, Vex technology, dragon wishes – but all of them seem flimsy and distant in the fact of this grief.

His guiding starlight. His hope. His humanity.

She should be here instead of him.

“-siris? Osiris.”

He tears his gaze away and back to Ikora, knowing that he cannot feign his attention now. He had not even realised that she had stopped talking.

“Are we done here?” At least for today. He knows there will be more of these interrogations… meetings to come, but for today… He wants to go home. To Saint.

“Of course.” There is compassion in her voice and he hates it. He thinks he would prefer being interrogated by the Praxics to this gentle concern, so careful about his emotions and state of mind.

He picks up his cup again and drinks the cooling liquid quickly, as though it can wash away the bitterness that lingers in his mouth. It is light and sweet, and makes him think of flowers left to rot on a grave.