Chapter Text
You miss him.
Though, arguably, one doesn’t have to do much to miss the Hunter Vanguard, despite contrary to popular belief.
You miss the stupid intercom slip-ups, the low-fives in passing when you brush past him to report in to Zavala--and no matter how stealthily you’d both manage the deed, neither of you could ignore Ikora’s rolling eyes. How he’d taunt you into bets for the Crucible and watch all his glimmer flush down into Shaxx’s pockets because Titans.
Sometimes he’d even come around and you’d feel a tug at your renowned butt towel, wiping his supposedly grease-stained hands into the fabric while thanking you for always carrying one around for his needs.
That was the day Cayde-6 almost metamorphosed into Cayde-7, and to this day you still wonder if he’d ever found the right replacement parts for that hinge on his dented jaw.
But you’d both been good sports about the entire ordeal, even if it meant a wounded pride every time he’d bound past the Crucible handler (“You been keeping that jaw well-oiled, Hunter?”), or even a quietly smug Zavala (“None of my Titans have been bothering you, have they, Cayde?”), and much to Cayde’s surprise, the Iron Lord Saladin.
If it’s a punch you need thrown, Saladin had mused, standing sentry as ever, you best know who to steer clear from.
You see these moments across the destruction of your home, of watching the Tower you’d found safety and shelter and family turn to blazes from uncontrollable pyres. It’s not the warmth of the Traveler’s light, not of Cayde’s cloak brushing against the side of your arm as you lazily chat over duties and long days out on the frontier.
Pockets of dirt shower and pelt your victory regalia as you glance at the spot you’d both preferred, the balcony leading to the hallway of New Monarchy and the Speaker. How you’d both munch on post-ramen shop snacks and crumble them up to feed the already-fattened pigeons on the grass and rail, naming your favorites (which, to be fair, were all of them) as you fawned over the eager things.
Flames swallow what’s now left of the front lawn, the Vault full of all of your loot, and there’s something driving you harder than dying, again and again and again only to feel the rush of resurrection. It’s different than diving into a raid, exploring the depths of the unknown and pit falling into a darkness that you may never hope to leave the same you’d came through.
From facing an insurmountable danger straight through your eyes--passing between past and present through Atheon’s Vault of Glass, to the throne room of the Taken King Oryx himself. You’ve been through the mill, have died only to rise to your Ghost again--and always, always have you returned here, to your once untouched home with thoughts of safety and Cayde-6.
Seeing the crumbled stairwell leading to the Vanguards, and you miss him even more than that chunk of debris smashing apart the Vaults full of your hard-earned score.
And you know then, time and time again always, that you have a duty foremost above all: to protect and defend as the sentry you know you are, mentored and guided by legends like Saint-14, Commander Zavala, Lord Shaxx and Lord Saladin. To put yourself first in front of the line of fire, to uphold what the Titans had built and forever sworn to safeguard.
There’s bittersweet memories of picking up the pieces left by your predecessors. Like Rezyl Azzir, Kabr, Saint-14, Jolder and Radegast, legendary heroes all in their own rights and a heavy weight left to burden upon you and your own fellow sentries. It’s you who should’ve been the first to the call, you who should have been able to prevent it from happening in the first place.
And this is how I allow their memory to live? You wonder, taking shelter from hailing bullets, gunfire, all around explosions that would have otherwise been another story to share around drinks and a roaring fire pit. It’s all gone. The last city on earth will be gone.
And though the crumbling home beneath you may be nothing but physical, shaped into thoughtlessly immovable concrete, a part of you hopes that the civilians, the Vanguards, your fellow Guardians can escape with their lives intact and their Ghosts safely secured in tow.
This physical realm may soon be gone, but rising from the dead is a concept ages old.
Cayde’s words come dancing around one last time. The last time you had been able to see him after your own fall from the Tower, rushing wind and an inactive Ghost on neither standby nor speech spiraling through the air, and you know well enough that this death will be a hard and painful one.
You only hope the last thing you hear before you hit the ground is guardian down, but you doubt it’s any better than Cayde’s final complaint about the destruction of your favorite ramen shop.