Work Text:
Saint sighs and taps the button to delete another decades obsolete message. Reports about landing sites and weather patterns from before he had gone to the Infinite Forest are useless to him, and the records kept by the Last city contain much the same information in greater detail.
The next message is a recording of landing permission from equally long ago. Another is a news bulletin. A delivery manifest. Supply requests. Reports on Fallen movements for Houses that no longer exist. He deletes them all. They make him feel old.
He should have done this years ago. Decades ago. But in the Infinite Forest, any scrap to remind him of home, of reality, had been valuable, and when he returned… easier to copy everything to more permanent storage to be sorted through 'later'. Then the pyramids, the Witch Queen, the Witness… He had forgotten about old documents and recordings .
Until now, when his data storage had… complained. Vehemently. And he has few excuses to continue putting it off. Failsafe is still sorting through the last batch of data he had secured from the Vex network, so there is no reason to made another foray there. The Plaguelands are in that state where the incursions can be held off with regular patrols. And the Imperium… they are working on rumours now, engaging in small skirmishes as they try to pinpoint what their next move should be. And there are enough Guardians bent on revenge for what happened in Tharsis that he is not needed.
He hates waiting. Funny, how people speak of Osiris as impatient when in many ways, Saint is the same.
Another set of deployment orders for patrol areas. Delete.
Request to refil some of the supply caches along the road to the City. Delete.
A voice message from the Pilgrim Guard asking him about the best route to take through particular territory. Dele– no, that one can stay. There will be no more messages from Vell Tarlowe. He does not wish to lose what still exists. Perhaps Eris would appreciate hearing it too? He will ask her.
More mundane requests sent out to everyone with the correct clearnace. News updates. comments from Vannet conversations that ended a lifetime ago. Delete. Delete. Delete.
“Is that you, my son?”
Saint's breath catches. His synthetic heart feels as though it skips a beat.
“It is, father. The Devil Kell Solkis... is dead. This war is over.”
“Such courage and power—the greatest ever to brace these worlds. You bring all of us peace, we will light the final flare, Devil Red. They will all know what you've done.”
He pauses the recording, his throat tight with emotion. How long has it been since he heard his father's voice? Not just as a message to the entire City, but a conversation with him?
Solkis… yes, he knows when this must be from. How could he forget? Killing their Kell had broken the Devils, for a time at least.
He reaches up to rub at the gouge just above his eye. The battle had nearly broken him too.
He starts the recording again, chest aching at the memory of this conversation, at the memory of his father.
“Father, I don’t think I have the energy to return. I’ll rest here, and come back to be honored when I return.”
“Of course, son, but—”
“There is something concerning you? More Fallen march on the City?”
“No, not this time. I have word that Osiris was seen on Mercury. The Caloris Basin. He’s turned his mind back to the Vex.”
“Mercury? Too many channels to know. You activate one, you start to feed its veins. He threatens our peace.”
“Your duty, my son. You must never forget.”
“I cannot.”
He closes his eyes and wraps his arms around himself, forcing himself to breathe through the swell of memory that overtakes him. The acrid scent of spilled ether and damaged meetal. The deep exhaustion which had seemed to permeate every plate and rivet and wire of his body, leaving it so heavy that he could barely move.
The last time he ever heard his father's voice, though he had not known it at the time. He had emerged from the Infinite Forest too late to save him, too late to fight against the Red Legion who had taken the City.
"Saint?"
He uncurls slowly and looks up at Osiris. His beloved's expression is drawn into a frown, and Saint realises how he must look – like he is protecting a wound from further damage. It is not so far off, he thinks.
"Ah… I am alright," he says, forcing a smile.
"You do not look alright," Osiris says, searching his face.
Saint waves a hand dismissively. "I heard an old recording," he says. "A message from my father. The last time I spoke with him. I had not been prepared for the effect it would have on me."
He had thought that he had grieved when he returned, out of step with everyone else of course, but maybe that grief never really leaves.
Osiris crosses the room to him, and lays a hand on his shoulder. Saint gives him a grateful look. He pats Osiris' hand where it rests. "I do not mean to worry you, my bird."
He feels as though he has done a lot of that in recent months. He does not like feeling as though he is burdening people.
Osiris' fingers tighten, giving a gentle squeeze. "How many months did you spend sitting at my bedside, unsure if I would wake?" he says. "How much worry did I cause you by running off to Neomuna in the middle of battle?"
"That is different," Saint replies. Osiris had been left comatose by the Witch Queen, and wounded in his heart with the loss of Sagira. He had not just listened to a message.
"What I mean," Osiris says firmly, "is that I would rather be made to worry, than leave you to struggle alone."
"I do not like making you worry, then," Saint says.
"I do not like making you worry either, but I have, and yet you are still here." Osiris offers him a small smile.
"You must always have last word," Saint replies, letting his amusement show.
"I must," Osiris agrees. "Do you want to play this message for me?"
Saint considers that for a moment. It mentions Osiris, was from after his exile when the two of them were still at odds. But perhaps it would be good to listen again with someone. He cannot deny that it was good to hear his father's voice talking to him again. it has been so long.
"I know that you and my father parted on… poor terms," he says delicately.
"You are more important than my feelings about someone who is no longer here," Osiris says, with all of the bluntness that he is known for. It makes a rush of fondness fill Saint's chest, and he grasps Osiris' hand and tugs him down onto the sofa next to him.
"Then, I would appreciate company," he admits.
Osiris nods and settles, drawing his feet up and leaning against Saint's side, a point of familiar warmth.
Saint takes a breath and starts the message over.
“Is that you, my son?”
He can practically mouth the words along with his younger self. He wonders how things would have been different if he had gone back to the City instead of straight to to Mercury, but at the time, he had been so angry at Osiris. And so desperate to see him again despite that. And then he… he never had. He had died without seeing Osiris or his father again.
A strange thought.
The message ends, leaves his chest tight once more, but perhaps a little less. He breathes through it until the feeling eases, and then glances at Osiris.
Osiris' lips are a tight, harsh line, his hands clenched on his lap hard enough to turn his knuckles pale. The air around him has become distinctly colder.
"Osiris?" he asks tentatively.
He can see Osiris gathering himself, the deep breath he takes, drawing the anger back beneath his skin. The look he gives Saint is searing.
"Are those truly the last words spoken between you?" Osiris asks, his voice rough with unvoiced emotion.
"Yes," Saint replies and gives an apologetic shrug. "I know they seem harsh, but it was soon enough after your exile that my heart still hurt, and I allowed anger to colour that." He had not had time to ever truly come to terms with what had happened there. It had been in the middle of his fight against the House of Devils. It had seemed one more thing to fuel his anger against their enemy.
"I do not mean your words, Saint," he says, and every word sounds as though it is taking Osiris an effort of will not to shout. "I mean–" Osiris stares at him for a long moment, and then shakes his head, making a noise of frustration.
Saint frowns, unsure what to make of this. He had not expected such a reaction. They have spoken of his father before, even shared good memories of him, so why would Osiris find this conversation so objectionable if it is not Saint's words? He feels as off-balance as he had back then, still dizzy from the headbutt that had killed Solkis.
"You must tell me if I am to understand, Osiris. It seems it is a day for me to make you feel unpleasant emotions," he says, trying to make it sound like a joke and failing miserably.
"I am not angry at you," Osiris says sharply. "I–" He shakes his head. "I should not have said anything."
He moves to stand, but Saint catches his hand. "Tell me," he says. "I want to know."
He does not like this feeling that he is missing something.
Osiris hesitates for a moment, and then allows himself to be pulled back down. "Did you not hear it, Saint?"
"Hear what?"
"The way he spoke to you," Osiris says. "You nearly died facing Solkis, and he could not spare a moment to ask about you."
"I contacted him," Saint replies, "he knew I was alive!"
"He heard that you were too tired to return to the City and still sent you into the arms of the Infinite Forest!"
"That–" Where is Osiris getting this from? Not his message, surely! "Osiris, it was my choice to pursue you." As he had pursued Osiris many times over the centuries. "He did not command me."
Osiris holds his gaze for a long moment, brow furrowed as though he cannot parse what Saint is saying. "Saint…" His expression softens and he reaches up to touch Saint's cheek gently. "He would not have brought up my name if his intention was not to send you hunting me. It was not an idle mention. He knew how you would respond."
"He thought you were a threat," Saint protests. "I thought you were a threat," he adds, a touch of guilt creeping into his voice. At the time he had been so angry with Osiris, had genuinely believed that he had become like Toland – obsessed with the object of his fascination to the extent that he had become a threat. How had he let himself believe such a thing of the man who had given up dreams to defend the City?
"There were timelines where I might have been," Osiris says, and looks away. His hands clench in his lap. "I saw enough of them in visions and later in simulations."
Saint swallows, and after a moment, reaches over to rest his hand over Osiris'. "But you did not. Not in this one. Not in many others."
And that is what matters. He had nearly been driven mad once by the idea of other versions of them both thanks to the Conductor, but that will not happen again.
Osiris offers a small smile and squeezes his hand in return. "We are not talking about me," he says then, and Saint recognises the care he takes with the words, because his beloved would probably enjoy nothing more than to launch into an impromtu lecture about his place in other timelines.
"The Speaker should have let you rest," Osiris continues. "He always put the weight of his expectations and the City upon your shoulders and he did not even allow you time to rest!"
Osiris' voice becomes harsh with old, dry anger, and Saint wishes that he had gone for the lecture instead.
"I am a Guardian, Osiris!" Saint says, voice raising with his vehemence. "And an exo. I do not need rest in the same way those without the Light do. I am glad to carry the burdens of my people for them."
It is his duty. It has always been his duty. Osiris knows this, for he bears the same duty.
"You are still a man, Saint," Osiris replies. "Even Guardians need to rest."
"Says man who seems to avoid it at every opportunity," Saint shoots back. Even now, when Osiris is mortal, he becomes distracted, and Saint finds him working late into the night.
It is unfair of him to think that. He knows that Osiris is trying to do better, but centuries of habit cannot be changed so easily.
"We aren't–" Osiris begins, giving him a look of tight-lipped frustration. His hands clench and unclench and Saint can practically see him trying to fit the words together in his mind instead of snarling the first thing that comes to him.
Osiris has hurt many people that way. Hurt himself just as much. Saint tries to give him that time whenever he can, even if right now his own frustration makes him wish that Osiris would lose his temper.
"This conversation," Osiris begins, gesturing to the datapad, "it is not the first time he did this, Saint. How many times did you return from a mission, exhausted and hurt, only for the Speaker to send you out again with barely time enough to collect more ammunition?"
"I–" Saint begins, "–we did not always have enough people, enough Guardians to send." Not ones who could handle those missions. Not ones who were Saint-14.
"I was Vanguard Commander, Saint," Osiris says, venom lacing the words, "I knew exactly how many people we had available for those missions. You were not the only option."
"That… it was necessary," Saint protests. "I survived. Others may not have."
Osiris gives him a stricken look, as though he has been hit. "You did not survive, Saint. Not this one. He sent you to your death!"
"You are being ridiculous," Saint snaps. There is a twisting, roiling, itchy feeling growing inside him, and maybe movement will help to dispel it.
"Am I?" Osiris replies, his voice sharp. "He manipulated you."
Saint shakes his head. "That is not true. I chose to chase you. My choice."
It had always been his choice.
"You told me once that he found you at the moment when Geppetto raised you," Osiris says. "That the first thing he said to you was that you would be an example for others to follow. The paragon of what a Guardian should be."
"Yes, he did," Saint agrees. "And I have worked every day to try to live up to that."
"I am not questioning your success," Osiris replies, "or the honour of your path. But can it truly be said to be your choice to walk it when you were never shown any other path?"
Saint stares at Osiris, at the man that he loves. He has sometimes joked that Osiris was the first thing he ever wanted for himself, the first thing that he ever did to earn his father's disapproval. He had never meant it with any seriousness, and yet…
No! No, this is unfair! His father had loved him, had raised him to be who he is. He is far from the only one to make sacrifices for their cause. He is far from the bravest or most devoted. He still must strive to live up to the legend that people see in him. That his father saw in him.
"He loved me," Saint says as a rebuttal. "He was my father." So what Osiris is saying cannot be true. "He guided me to become who I am."
Does't eveyone need guidance? Had Osiris himself not been guided by his mentors?
"Guided you by a noose around your neck," Osiris says.
Cold floods Saint, crawls through every wire and circuit, tightens around his chest until he cannot breathe.
"You go too far, Osiris," he manages to say, though his voice sounds breathless and wrong in a way that he cannot pinpoint.
"I am saying nothing that is not true, if you would just listen!"
"No!" Saint says. "I will not listen to this. My father was a good man."
His father had devoted himself to his people, as Saint had done. He had led them through the darkest times. Saint would be nothing without him.
Osiris opens his mouth to spit another poisoned barb, but Saint gives him a searing look, and the man wisely chooses silence.
"I do not want to hear it, Osiris," he says. "I…"
He shakes his head, throws his arms up, and storms towards the door.
"Saint? Where are you–"
"Out," he says. "I need to think. I need…" What does he need? It is so hard to tell. "I need space," he says, a touch more gently.
He does not wait for Osiris' reply before he leaves, closing the door carefully behind himself.
Geppetto armours him once he steps outside, and he feels more at ease immediately. In some ways, he feels more like himself when he wears it, his symbols and his regalia, as though the armour is his true body, and what he wears in the privacy of their home is illusion, artifice.
A forgery of a man who does not exist.
He does as he has done many times before. He walks the streets of the City.
"So, what happened?"
Saint hurls the shield with a bit more force than is necessary. It ricochets off the corrugated metal roof of the building, and flies back down towards the other Titan.
Lord Shaxx catches it and holds it, and even from this distance, even with Shaxx wearing his helmet, Saint can tell that Shaxx is giving him A Look.
"What happened? Nothing happened," Saint replies.
"Hm," Shaxx says, and then hurls the shield back towards him.
Saint catches it, tosses it up and down a couple of times, before throwing it again.
"What is this 'hm'?" he demands.
"It's just a little unusual, is all," Shaxx replies.
"What is unusual?" Must everyone around him speak in riddles?
Shaxx catches the shield. "You're usually a bit more enthusiastic than this."
"I am perfectly enthusiastic!" Saint replies. "Throw shield back and I will show you how enthusiastic I can be." Which is a perfectly normal thing to say so he doesn't understand why Shaxx is still looking at him like that.
"You're a very bad liar."
Shaxx throws the shield, and Saint has to move quickly to catch it when it bounces off the side of one of the cannons. He is surprised those cannons still work. Someone must be maintaining them, even though the rest of Twilight Gap is a near ruin. Maybe the City is better off now, but they never had returned to the point of having watch outposts. Even the other towers have been repurposed over the years. He thinks it is good that they feel less need to be on high guard, but sometimes… sometimes he feels lost. Like he does not quite fit in the world that he had returned to.
"I do not lie," Saint says. "You know that Geppetto does not like it when I lie." He uses the edge of the shield to hack idly at the frozen ground.
"Which is why you're very bad at it when you do lie," Shaxx shoots back.
"Maybe I just wish to stretch my muscles and breathe clean air and spend time with friend." That is not so strange, is it? He and Shaxx have done this before. It is fun.
"That would be more convincing if you were giving any evidence of actually enjoying yourself."
"I am enjoying myself!" Saint protests. To prove it, he lobs the shield towards Shaxx again, making sure to have it bounce off a couple of obstacles to keep things interesting. To keep things fun.
Shaxx catches the shield and throws it back.
Saint catches the shield, and throws it back.
Shaxx catches the shield and throws it back.
Saint catches the shield, and throws it back.
Shaxx catches the shield and throws it back.
Saint catc–
"I am upset," Saint says. Shaxx folds his arms across his chest, and watches until Saint continues. "With Osiris. We had… argument," he adds, in case Shaxx couldn't figure that much out.
"What did you argue about?" Shaxx asks.
Saint crushes the void shield to nothing in his palm, and then waves an arm vaguely towards the space in the sky where the Traveller used to be. "I found old recording," he begins, "message from my father when I killed Kell of Devils. Osiris heard it and… he said ridiculous things."
"What sort of ridiculous things?" Shaxx asks.
Saint shifts uncomfortably, remembering what Osiris had said, how he had acted. "It is not important."
"Bullshit," Shaxx says. He stomps towards Saint, who suddenly understands how terrifying the man must have been as a Warlord. "If it isn't important, you wouldn't be here sulking."
Saint draws himself up sharply. "Sulking? I do not sulk!"
He is a Titan! He is a hero of the City! He is Saint-14!
He does not sulk.
Shaxx gets close enough to prod a finger against the centre of Saint's breastplate. "I know sulking when I see it and you're sulking like you did after Osiris' exile."
Saint cannot fight down the wince at that. Shaxx is far too good at pinpointing weaknesses. "He was… Osiris did not like how my father spoke," he says grudgingly. "He said my father mentioned Osiris' name on purpose to get me to chase after him, instead of returning home. He said my father manipulated me."
He gives a snort of derisive laughter at the ridiculousness of that. Guidance is not manipulation. Concern is not manipulation.
Shaxx does not laugh.
He doesn't say anything, just looks at Saint. Lets the silence drag out until Saint is squirming in his armour. He is very glad they are not in the City right now where someone could see him. He has a reputation to maintain for the sake of his people.
"Whatever you wish to say, just say it," he snaps finally. Shaxx at least can take it. Shaxx knows him far better than most people. Probably better than anyone but Osiris.
"I mean… Osiris is not wrong," Shaxx says.
Saint would roll his eyes if he could. As it is, he steps back, half turns away, throws his arms up in a gesture that he hopes conveys how ridiculous this all is. "Not you as well. Where has this come from?"
"It's always been there," Shaxx says. "It's hardly news that Osiris and the Speaker did not get on. And I had my own conflicts with him. You know this."
"Conflicts between other people and my father do not have anything to do with his relationship with me," Saint points out. If anything, it just means that they have a grudge. He knows that not everyone agreed with his father, but Saint is hardly the right person to voice those disagreements to.
"Look, I have not heard the message that upset Osiris, and I will admit that his reactions can sometimes be… extreme. But the way the Speaker treated you and him always rubbed me the wrong way."
"How?" Saint asks, turning back to face Shaxx. "What has 'rubbed you wrong way'?" Let him at least hear Shaxx's reasoning.
Shaxx sighs, his shoulders slumping. "The expectations he placed on you. That he always seemed to expect you to be perfect."
Saint shakes his head. "Expectations are not manipulation, my friend," he says. "My people needed a hero, someone to look up to, to help them to feel… safe. I simply did my best to be that."
He still does, though there is the Guardian now, who is a true hero.
"That's what I mean!" Shaxx replies. "It often felt like he wanted the hero, but didn't have much time for the man."
"He cared about me," Saint protests. "He simply wanted me to be the best that I could be. Would not any parent want that for their child?"
"How would I know?" Shaxx asks. "I've never had them! You're the only one who has, and I didn't like what I saw."
Saint supposes that expecting a Guardian, especially one as firmly independent as Lord Shaxx, to understand the bond between father and son, was a little foolish on his part. Many Guardians have made their own families, bonds of cameraderie and mentorship, but they are not the same as having a father like Saint had.
A heavy hand drops onto his shoulder, and Saint looks up at Shaxx. "I saw you push yourself to the brink of exhaustion in battle, and then beyond that, and the Speaker would still have you touring the City afterwards without a break."
"My duty…" Saint protests. People had needed to know that they were safe, that the battle was over.
"Duty is one thing, Saint," Shaxx says, tapping on his pauldron in lieu of a squeeze, "we've all made sacrifices for duty. But the rest of us weren't required to be so on show near-constantly." He tilts his head. "The rest of us weren't made the focus of the entire City, and expected to be exactly what they wanted at all times."
"You speak as though that was intentional on his part," Saint says doubtfully.
"Wasn't it?" Shaxx asks. "Even before I met you, I'd heard rumours about the Speaker setting you up as an idol. The fact that you happened to genuinely be as good as your name doesn't change that."
Discomfort is a squirming thing inside him, like wires fighting to loosen and crawl out of his body. He had heard similar rumours, spoken when people did not realise who he was. He had always thought them ridiculous, of course! If he was in agreement with what he was doing, then how could it be a bad thing?
He knows now what being puppeted feels like, and that experience had been… so very different to his experience with his father.
He remembers his father gripping his shoulders, drawing him upright out of a slouch.
He remembers the days when his accolades had felt like a weight around his neck, drawn tight by expectation.
"I…" What does he even say to this? "My father loved me." And Saint had wanted to make him proud.
"What does that have to do with anything?" Shaxx asks, blunt as always. "You can love someone and still hurt them, still exert control over them. They're not mutually exclusive."
Saint shrugs away from Shaxx's grip, and reforms the shield. "It does not matter in any case," he says, tone firm enough to indicate that he does not wish to discuss it any more. "My father is dead and I am not."
All of this over one ancient recording. He wishes he hadn't bothered trying to clear out the messages.
"If it wasn't important, you wouldn't be so invested in arguing about it," Shaxx says before he turns away and walks back towards the other end of their arena.
Saint throws the shield, and it makes a hollow sound where it hits an old wooden beam before bouncing away.
There is a light on in Osiris' study when Saint returns home, a warm, familiar glow that still fills him with relief when he sees it. It means that Osiris is here, that he is alive and awake and has chosen to stay. He does not know if he will ever truly get used to it, and he never wants to take it for granted.
Geppetto strips him of armour and leaves him in clothing more suitable for their home. More vulnerable and exposed as well. But there is nothing to fear here, is there?
He goes to lean against the doorframe looking into the study, watching for a moment as Osiris scribbles notes in his abysmal handwriting. He had sometimes written private research notes in code, as Warlocks are wont to do, but truly, Saint believes he need not have bothered when the only person with much chance of reading Osiris' handwriting is Osiris himself.
"You do not need to lurk," Osiris says. "My temper has cooled."
Saint pushes away from the door and steps fully into the study. "I am too large to lurk," he replies, "I leave that to the Hunters."
Osiris snorts, and then turns his chair around to face Saint. "Is Twlight Gap still standing?"
Saint shrugs. "As much as it was this morning," he replies. "If years of Crucible matches and a battle could not destroy it, then I doubt myself and Shaxx could manage it."
"You sell yourself short. The two of you together are a force of nature."
"Perhaps we shall test it if we find place that needs to be torn down," Saint says. "It is strange enough still to see the buildings unmanned and falling apart. I would be sad to see them gone entirely."
"The world has changed since all the eight towers of the Last City were manned," Osiris says and there is a touch of wistfulness in his voice.
The world has changed indeed. Sometimes Saint wonders if Guardians are stagnant beings, if true change is beyond them. He had at times worried that Osiris, with his new mortality, would change in the way that the Ghostless do – so quickly, too quickly for Saint to keep up – and leave him behind. And Osiris has changed, it is true, but he has also remained himself, that man that Saint loves.
He leans down suddenly to touch Osiris' cheek. The man gives him a surprised look that warms into intrigue and then pleasure when Saint kisses him gently.
He wishes that he could leave things like that, pretend that their argument had never happened, that Lord Shaxx had said nothing at all, but he knows thta the thought is in his mind now. If he entirely ignores it, then it will fester and rot until he cannot contain it any longer.
"Shaxx agrees with you," he says after a moment. He knows that Osiris will understand what he means.
Osiris tilts his head a little, regarding him for a moment before he nods. "Lord Shaxx and I both had our… conflicts with the Speaker," he says delicately. "I cannot know for sure your own experience, but I can look at mine and extrapolate."
"Your relationship with my father was far more antagonistic than mine," Saint replies. Like throwing a solar grenade into a gas leak.
"It was not always," Osiris says with a touch of discomfort. "Thee was a time when we were close."
"I remember," Saint says. He wonders if there is a single moment he could pinpoint when it had ended, or if it had been a slow deterioration, much the same way his and Osiris' relationship had crumbles in the months leading up to his exile. "I think for a time my father believed that you might be the person to take up his mantle." Though it is difficult to imagine Osiris having the patience to act as Speaker. Saint had seen how he had detested his own cult, those who had viewed him as a spiritual leader rather than a man trying to navigate the twisting paths that had eventually led them here.
"A foolish notion," Osiris says, as though the very idea is ridiculous.
"Says man who spoke of his visions and wrote prophecy into being," Saint replies, and he nudges his forehead against Osiris' for a moment to help to convey his amusement.
Osiris waves a hand dismissively, but he smiles all the same. "My visions, no matter the source, would hardly have been a basis for claiming to speak for the Traveller. And in the end, such a position is one created by humans, to serve their needs. And I lack the temperament to fill such a role."
"That, I cannot deny," Saint says fondly.
Osiris is silent for a long moment, mouth tightly closed like he is trying to keep words trapped behind his teeth until he can find the correct ones. "My words earlier," he begins, and then continues doggedly before Saint can interrupt, "I saw in the way that he treated you the shade of how he attempted to treat me."
Saint takes a deep breath, forces down the sick feeling that threatens to well up once more. He has heard some of this before, of course, but when Osiris had been at his most honest, he had also been at his most vicious, and Saint at his least receptive. "Explain."
"Our disagreements were not entirely matters of… logistics or procedure," Osiris says, "though they played a part. Much of it was the way that he tried to control me. To have me cut pieces of myself away to be more… palatable. He found me asking questions frustrating and disloyal. He treated me speaking my mind and offering answers as attempts to undermine him." Osiris spreads his arms wide in a gesture of frustration. "So how could I watch him cut off your doubts, your exhaustion, your questions, and not see a pattern? How could I learn that you lived with the idea that any comfort you might find was selfishness, something you were depriving others of, and not see his influence?"
Saint can only stare at him, trying to process that tirade. His chest is tight, cloying heat filling him, choking him. He should protest. He should defend his father, should defend himself, but the words will not come.
Osiris touches his arm lightly and he flinches. Osiris' expression is filled with grief and conviction. And Saint feels guilt for putting it there, for asking anything of him, instead of shoving his own confused feelings down far enough to ignore them.
He is meant to be an example, after all. Meant to protect and reassure others, not make them feel… conflicted.
"I do not say this to hurt you, Saint," Osiris says, his voice gentle.
Saint shakes his head, and takes Osiris' hand, holding it between his own. "I know. We have thrown enough barbs at each other that I can tell when you wish to hurt."
It had taken a long time for Saint to learn that Osiris would not take offense at being challenged. That he much preferred it to the attempts at placation that Saint had been more familiar with.
His shoulders slump. He is suddenly drained, hollow. "I have many things to think about," he says. "Having my memories brought into question is exhausting."
Even if this is a far more mundane version than the manipulation and twisting of his thoughts that the Conductor had subjected him to. There will be no copy of himself that he can use to recover the truth this time.
"I know," Osiris replies, a twist of pain in the words, "I remember."
At least Osiris has a reason to hurt, to fear a revelation of manipulation and false memories. The Witch Queen had harmed him deeply. Saint's reasons feel deeply petty and small in comparison. The kind of thing that he should be able to shrug off.
He is fairly sure that if he voices that thought, then Osiris's temper will flare once again. That is something to consider.
But not now. Not when his head is already filled with fog and ache.
He raises Osiris' hand to his mouth to press a kiss against it. "I… I need time," he says. "Many things I must consider."
"Of course," Osiris agrees. "I will do my best to not bring this up unless you ask."
That is quite the promise from Osiris, and Saint feels a swell of affection for him, prickliness and arrogance and temper included. He would not be Osiris without those things.
Which begs the question of who Saint-14 would have been if there had ever been his father's influence.
Ah, now is not the time.
"I would like tea, I think," Saint says, and he loves the way that Osiris' eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles.
"I would like that too," Osiris replies. "Let me mark where I got to in my work and I will join you."
"I will wait," Saint says. "I like watching you work."
He likes being able to lure Osiris away even more."
Saint remembers when the Vanguard Commander's office had been a windowless room, barely more than a cupboard – the only private space that they could spare when people were still living in tents or repurposed shipping containers. He remembers when there had only been tents, with meetings and work done around camp fires and the walls of today had been a distant dream.
And today he can stand in Zavala's office and stare out through the floor to ceiling windows of bullet-proof plasteel and see the entirety of the Last City spread out below. It is a magnificent sight, surpassing even the images that the Guardian had shown him on Mercury all those years ago. Lifetimes ago.
He can feel the Speaker's mask boring holes into the back of his armour, and after a moment he sighs, turns around, and heads to the back of the office to look at it. He has done this several times before. He had done it almost every day when he had returned to the City after leaving the Infinite Forest, and paced outside the Speakers' quarters, never quite getting up the courage to enter alone. They are not his father's rooms, of course, just a reconstruction, still devoid of an inhabitant to take up the mantle, but it felt like an instrusion nonetheless.
He crouches down in front of the case which contains the Speaker's mask, mounted like a trophy, or… a museum artefact is probably a more accurate comparison. A relic of the past, like those that he has seen in the City Museum – items from the early days of the City or the Golden Age, or even older – preserved behind glass, like bugs caught in the pieces of amber he had once collected on the shores of the Baltic Sea.
Sometimes he feels the same way, a relic of a time that has passed. The only reason he is not in a museum is because he can still move too quickly to be put into a case.
"I wonder what you would say if I could speak to you now," he says, tracing the familiar lines of the mask through the glass. Would his father be proud of him? Would he welcome him? Or would he see a man changed so much as to be unrecognisible?
How would he respond if Saint told him about what Osiris and Shaxx had claimed?
The door to the office opens, and Saint stands up quickly to greet the office's inhabitant. Zavala looks surprised to see him, but recovers admirably. He gives Saint a respectful nod and walks over to sit behind his desk.
"I apologise, Commander," Saint says. "I should have waited until you were here but…"
Zavala's gaze shifts to the case containing the Speakers' mask that Saint is standing next to, and his expression softens. "If I truly wished to stop people entering, I would lock the door when I left," he says. "Is there something I can help with, Saint? Or are you simply here to…" He gestures to the mask.
"You ask more difficult question than you realise, Commander," Saint says, with a soft, self-depreciating, laugh.
"I think we have known each other for long enough that you do not need to call me Commander in private," Zavala says.
"Perhaps," Saint replies. He heads over to the desk and settles on one of the chairs in front of it. "I do not wish people to think that I do not respect you as Vanguard Commander."
He knows there are those who would prefer him. Those who would have set him up as a ruler. Or more likely, a figurehead that they wished to control. Lakshmi-2 had been the driving force of that idea, the attempt to manipulate him. A shadowy echo of the Conductor and her mantle of control, trying to get into his mind.
Osiris might have something insightful to say about that. Saint just finds the thought exhausting.
"Given current events, your concern is perhaps warranted," Zavala says, voice dry. He looks tired, Saint thinks. They all do. Maybe they always have.
"I think those who are loudest and most… violent about their wish to remove Vanguard should try sitting through Consensus meeting with Osiris," Saint says, and that makes Zavala snort.
"It would certainly make them think twice," the Commander agrees. "If they wish to take over some of the paperwork, I would welcome them."
Light talk. Light talk about serious matters.
And Saint is here, worrying about things in the past that he cannot change.
"I wonder what my father would make of… of everything," Saint says suddenly. "Guardians embrace the Darkness and use it to fight the enemy that caused the Collapse. Other cities of humanity have been found. We have visited the heart of the Traveller and fought great battle there."
Like the City itself, it is beyond anything that Saint had dreamed of when he was Vanguard Commander. He does not envy Zavala the task.
Zavala leans back in his chair. "The Speaker was a unifying presence," he says. "He brought Guardians and Ghostless together, provided guidance. The City is poorer for his loss."
"I fear that he would have reacted poorly to House of Light," Saint admits. "I did."
It had taken being confronted with his own monstrosity, the knowledge that he was a story used to frighten their children, to make him begin to change his mind.
Osiris had once told him that his father was a bad influence on him,sending him on his crusades against the Fallen. His love had shown a respect for the Eliksni even then that Saint has only recently cultivated in himself. He cannot deny that he regrets the harm he has caused to the Eliksni. Defending the City is one thing, but he had hunted them down with ruthless dedication.
"Perhaps," Zavala concedes. "I confess that I had my doubts. Centuries of enmity are difficult to set aside."
"But you overcame that," Saint says.
"As did you," Zavala points out. He's frowning now, studying Saint like he is searching for something. "Has something happened?"
Saint shakes his head helplessly. "No. Yes? I have many things that I have been thinking about and I am still no closer to working out how I feel about any of them."
What is he doing? He had not come here to make Zavala bear his burdens. The Commander is busy, so much rests on his shoulders and it is selfish of Saint to expect anything from him.
"I simply… I wonder what I would have done if the Speaker had still been here when Misraaks and his people had arrived. If he would even have agreed to let them enter the City." His father had been the one to send him on his crusades after all, and Saint had gone willingly at the time.
He wonders what his father would have done about Osiris' return, and all that has transpired since Saint had returned.
Zavala steeples his hands in front of his mouth thoughtfully. "We live at a time where we know that there are other timelines. Elisabeth Bray can attest to that, as can Osiris, I'm sure. And the Conductor seeks to assert her own version of reality over the one we live. There are things that I wish that I could change, choices that I would make differently in hindsight, but in the end…" He shakes his head. "In the end it does not matter. We can learn from mistakes, but thinking about paths not taken is simply a quick way to drive yourself mad."
"Too much Warlock talk for my tastes," Saint says, and Zavala gives a small smile in response. "So much changed in the time I was gone," he continues, gesturing out at the city beyond the windows. "You have led it well, Commander. You led it well even before I left for Mercury. I was perhaps, not as present as I should have been."
Once he had thought it necessary for him to leave, to fight his crusades. Maybe it had been! He cannot see all futures. But the City had flourished in his absence, become more secure than he had dreamed. And that is not his doing.
"Different times," Zavala says.
"Not so different," Saint replies. "You have dealt with greater threats than House of Devils." Taken Kings and Red War, Warminds and the Witness. There are more dangers in the world than Saint had ever imagined. But more wonders too.
"The Guardian dealt with most of them," Zavala says. "And of their own accord in several cases. I admit, I did not pay them much heed until after the Black Heart was destroyed. Too preoccupied with mundanities. Some would say that I was too timid, focused on defence, as though our enemies would simply go away if we ignored them." He sighs and leans back in his chair. "Perhaps they were right, and I should have been more like you, taking the fight to our enemies. The Sunbreakers certainly believed that," he adds, with a wry and somewhat sad smile.
Another loss that Saint has had to learn of . He had worked with the Sunbreakers, helped them to build their forge. They had been comrades, friends, and friends to Osiris also. Learning that their order had been destroyed had grieved him.
"Why did you not?" Saint asks, curious despite himself. Even with the Devils broken, there were other Fallen Houses, other threats.
"The Vanguard were needed here," Zavala says. "At least that is what we believed. That we could not risk leaders unless it was a matter of direst need. That attitude only increased after the Great Disaster. Enough Guardians were lost that we couldn't afford to lose more."
"And my father, he was in favour of this?" he asks.
"I… believe that he saw the necessity," Zavala replies, a touch reluctantly, "though he seemed at times frustrated with the lack of action."
"And he did not push back against the lack of action?" Saint asks earnestly, leaning towards Zavala. His father had never been someone that he could view as passive.
"It was agreed by the Consensus," Zavala says, seeming surprised at Saint's insistence. "He accepted the decision with grace for many years. It was only when the Guardian arrived with news of the Hive that he broke the Lunar Interdiction to send them there. That was his own choice. We did not know about it until he announced that stopping the Hive ritual was our highest priority."
The feeling of discomfort gnaws at Saint's belly. He understands Zavala's words but it feels… wrong. His father had not pushed back, had not urged the Vanguard, urged Zavala, to take to the field? And those years of a distant Vanguard in their Tower, the source now of so much friction, of an army wishing to wipe out all Guardians, his father had allowed that?
He twists his fingers together in his lap, draws himself up to sit straight. An old habit. His father had disliked it when he slouched, would always pull his stance straight. Heroes do not slouch, and he must be an example to all Guardians.
Heroes do not take resources that others might need. They do not claim comforts until everyone they defend is comfortable. They accept, with grace, the thanks of their people, but they never expect anything from them, not even words.
He does not like this feeling, like the world around him is less real than it had been. Like Vex simulations. Like the feeling of his memories suddenly making no sense, making him doubt everything and wonder how he had not questioned things before.
This doubt about his father… it is a bitter little knot of spite and unworthy thoughts that he wishes he could excise.
"Saint?"
Zavala's voice breaks through, and Saint looks up sharply at the Commander. There is an expression of deep concern on his face, and that makes guilt swell up once more.
"Are you alright?"
"I…" He does not know the answer any more than he had known this morning, or yesterday. He is starting to wonder if he has ever truly been alright. "There are many things that I have needed to re-evaluate since I returned from Infinite Forest, and after the Conductor…" He does not need to elaborate about that. Zavala's look of sympathy is enough, and it makes Saint want to vanish. "My own behaviour," he continues, barrelling on, "and perhaps that of other people."
How people he cares about had been poorly treated. That is a safer thought than one that puts him at the centre of things.
"We've all had to re-evaluate our stances on matters in recent years," Zavala says. "Things that I once took for granted have proven to be more nuanced than I ever imagined. It is not long ago that I thought that stasis would inevitably corrupt those who wielded it."
"I would have said the same once," Saint agrees. The Darkness had, for so long, been the enemy, but now he knows that it is simply a tool, one that can be wielded for good and ill. And even with that knowledge, the thought of using it himself is one that fills him with discomfort.
He shakes his head and pushes himself to his feet. "I have taken too much of your time, Commander."
"Not at all," Zavala replies. "It feels like we never truly got chance to talk after you returned. We've been lurching from one emergency to the next for so long."
It does feel that way, so little time to breathe between moments of crisis. He is sure that he remembers things being easier once, even in the early days of the City. Or perhaps that is simply wishful thinking and rose-tinted optics. Perhaps he is getting old.
"My father once told me that there is no before and after," he says. "We try, we doubt, we grow. It is all one path." Just endless, incremental change. Usually he finds that a hopeful thought. Right now it just seems exhausting.
"He was not wrong, though there are certainly times when it would have been nice to feel less doubt," Zavala says ruefully. "The Speaker always seemed to have absolute faith. As did you."
Saint lets out a bark of laughter at that and gives Zavala an incredulous look. "You have a strange view of me," he says. He is not sure how to feel about the idea that even Zavala might see him as the armour. Then again, he sees himself often as the armour. "I am often so full of doubt that I worry I cannot contain it. And about those things where I have felt no doubt, I have usually been wrong."
About the Eliksni and the necessity and nobility of his crusades. About the perfection of the Light, and the evil of the Darkness. About the danger that Osiris posed to the survival of the Last City.
About his father.
Pigeons, at least, he can trust. They have been with humans for thousands of years, before exos and the Golden Age and the Traveller. Their loyalty and consistency far outweighs his own.
"Matters where we were proven wrong tend to stick out more in our memories," Zavala says. "I know they do in mine."
"And when you believe you may be wrong about a person that you had faith in?" Saint asks.
"No-one could have predicted that Savathûn was impersonating Osiris," Zavala says. "We–"
"I do not mean Osiris," Saint replies. "I have doubted Osiris before. Many times. We parted in acrimony before his exile and it is only recently that we have rebuilt trust between us." Trust that the Conductor had nearly destroyed and it is one more small but significant crime to lay at her feet.
"Then…" Zavala says, the unspoken question hanging in the air between them.
Saint cannot refuse to explain now. But Zavala has faith in who the Speaker had been to him. But he deserves truth, doesn't he? They both do. And is this not what Saint had come here for? But it is another of his burdens that he is placing on another who already carries so many. But Saint needs some way of exorcising these thoughts or they will eat away at him. He wishes Osiris had never said anything, and he is glad that Osiris had, all at the same time.
"My father allowed you to stand in Consensus in my place so that I could undertake my Crusades, but he refused to allow Ikora to stand in Osiris' place, so that he could continue his research. But in the end, Osiris was the one who was right, and I… I cause untold damage to Misraaks and his people."
Zavala remains silent, watching him, brow furrowed, and Saint feels the thoughts welling up inside him.
"Osiris says that there were parts of the disagreements between him and my father that I was not privy to. That he attempted to control Osiris, to make him less Osiris and more like… like me. Lord Shaxx says that my father set me up as an idol but had little patience for the man, and I… it feels as though foundations that I believed were solid have turned out to be sand."
His father had been there from the moment of his resurrection. His father had been part of that foundation, had helped him to become the man he is. And now… "I do not know what to think. It is why I was here, as though a broken mask could offer some answers."
Maybe that was how his father had felt about the Traveller – a distant god, offering no counsel.
Zavala still is not speaking.
Saint rubs a hand across his face as though he can wipe away this feeling like humans wipe away sweat. Had that first human felt such doubt about becoming an exo? Or had they gone into the process with blind faith? Had Saint-1, upon awakening in the Deep Stone Crypt, questioned the choices that had led him to icy Europa?
Philosophy has always been more Osiris' purview than his own.
"I should not have bothered you," he says. "I do not wish to add to your troubles when we face so many. My apologies. I will–"
"Stay," Zavala says, with a firmness that has so far been absent. Saint cannot ignore it. "I cannot say that I have any special insight about the relationship between yourself and your father. We worked together, but that is very different to being family. But I do know that it is normal, expected even, for any child to question what they know about their parents. It is part of growing up."
"I am many centuries older than a child," Saint points out. "I should have questioned things before now."
"Guardian lives do not easily map onto those of the Ghostless," Zavala says. "We can try, but the differences make themselves known eventually." There is an old scar in the way that Zavala says it, one that makes Saint unable to dismiss him. "When you know that there will always be more time, some things lose their immediacy."
Right up until you realise that time has become limited. It is a bitter thought. How much time had he and Osiris wasted and now… there isn't enough. He doesn't need to point that out to Zavala.
"Perhaps," Saint says. "I never got to speak to my father again after I left for Mercury." He'd never had the chance to experience how things might have changed between them. He'd never had time to make those changes in himself.
The look Zavala gives him is sympathetic. "The Red War took many things from us. But…" He pauses, looking thoughtful, head tilted. "I might know someone who may be better able to understand your doubts, if you wish to talk to someone."
Talk to someone. For all that he will push Osiris to speak to a therapist, when it comes to Saint himself, it feels… indulgent. Wasteful. Selfish. There are so many people who have been through worse than him, who deserve help far more than he does.
"I am not sure a therapist would be wise," he says. People need their heroes, not the fallible people, full of doubts, who wear the armour.
"Not a therapist," Zavala says. "just someone who has similar experiences, but without the baggage that Osiris or Lord Shaxx have regarding the Speaker."
Saint considers this. It is true, nearly everyone he knows had also known the Speaker. Or they are someone who he counts amongst those he must protect. Someone outside that though?
"I– I will think about it," he says. Just that admission makes his stomach clench. He would not consider himself an anxious man, but right now, he thinks he is nothing but anxiety.
Zavala gives a slow nod. "Let me know what you decide. We should take advantage of this comparative lull while we have it."
Before they have to focus on the next emergency. On Dredgens and Vex and another looming end of the world.
"It almost makes me think fondly of Dark Age," Saint says. "Things were less complicated."
"It is the price we pay for living for more than survival," Zavala says.
Saint sighs. "It is true. I would not go back. I am just…"
"I understand," Zavala replies.
"Thank you, Commander," Saint says. "I appreciate your counsel. I will leave you to your work."
"Not what I would call thanks," Zavala says, a touch of amusement in his voice.
Saint waves that away. "You are much more dedicated than I ever was. It is why you ended up in position, I think."
Zavala bears it well. Saint is very grateful that the City had been left in good hands when he had not been able to take care of it.
He takes his leave, pausing only to say farewell to the Speaker's mask. It is a habit, and it feels right to do so, no matter how confused his feelings are right now.
“Your duty, my son. You must never forget.”
“I cannot.”
Saint stops the recording. Starts it again.
“Is that you, my son?”
“It is, father. The Devil Kell Solkis... is dead. This war is over.”
“Such courage and power—the greatest ever to brace these worlds. You bring all of us peace, we will light the final flare, Devil Red. They will all know what you've done.”
“Father, I don’t think I have the energy to return. I’ll rest here, and come back to be honored when I return.”
“Of course, son, but—”
He sucks in a breath and stops the recording. The breath sticks in his throat.
He thinks he can hear it now, what Osiris had heard. Eagerness instead of concern, expectation instead of relief. Had it always been there and he had just missed it? Is he allowing the words of others to sway his mind? He does not want to hear it. He does not wish to doubt someone who had been so influential to his life! But now that he does, he feels… stupid. Gullible.
Sad.
This is ridiculous. There are better things that he could be doing. He should be walking the city, or organising Trials, or running missions. And instead he is here in his ship, listening to the recording over and over again as though it is not already burned into his mind.
It will not let him rest, and he wishes to rest. He wishes to return home and eat food and enjoy his time with Osiris. He wishes to watch new Guardians reach the heights of their power through combat. He wants…
He wants to forget all of this.
But he… he thinks he needs something else.
He flicks away the recording on the datapad, and opens his messages to contact Zavala.
Saint is not a man who is used to feeling small – even without his armour, he is larger than most people, even most exos – but Empress Caiatl dwarfs him. She is wearing what he assumes is less formal clothing, but that still seems to involve a lot of armour, and even in this private space – a receiving room, he thinks, it is comfortable, but not comfortable enough to be her own personal space – she has an imposing presence, and a regal bearing.
She reminds him a little of Osiris in that regard. Both of them have a presence that is magnetic. It is not difficult to see why people would choose to follow them.
"I am grateful for the invitation," he says, bowing his head in the respect due to her. "I know that you have many things on your mind."
"Zavala suggested that I meet with you," the Empress says, "that we might have some things in common and a discussion might prove valuable."
"I had not expected Zavala to ask you," Saint admits. "My troubles seem very small compared to the challenges you have faced."
He has not lost a home to Xivu Arath. He has not had to flee his planet and attempt to govern a people in exile. What little he had experienced of Xivu Arath on Titan had been more than enough, and the Empress had waged war against that very force.
"You are a valued ally, Saint-14. And troubles that seem small can be the cause of greater issues later, as we are finding," she adds ruefully.
"I hope I will not cause issues of such scale," Saint replies, "and I thank you, Empress."
"Please, at least here, I believe we are familiar enough to dispense with some of the formalities. We have shared libations in celebration, have we not?"
That is a fancier way of saying 'we got very drunk together with Osiris and Nimbus after the defeat of the Witness' than Saint would manage, but it is not inaccurate.
"It was good celebration," he agrees. He rolls his shoulders to try to force himself to relax, and takes the seat that the Empress – Caiatl – gestures to. It is a good size for him, but tiny for one of the Barant. He imagines it is used for guests of a more human or Psion size. The little Psions at least. "Strange to think that enemy that caused the Collapse is gone, even now."
"And yet, there are still threats that we must face," Caiatl says, and she stares off towards the window for a moment. Saint wonders if she is thinking about her home planet, Torobatl.
"There are always other threats," he agrees. "It does not end." Things had seemed so simple when it was just Warlords and roving bands of disorganised Eliksni. Or maybe that is wishful thinking and he had just been too single-minded to notice the complexities. "My father once said–" He tails off into silence, a lump filling his throat and he has to swallow it doesn before he can speak again. "He said that loss is part of life's sweetness."
He had agreed once, but now? He knows that if he had lost Osiris, his life would have lost all sweetness.
"My father once raged at me that the only purpose of life was happiness, and that I had been fed the lie that everything is given value by its suffering and its strife." Caiatl says it with the absolute confidence that her father had been wrong.
The same confidence with which Saint had once believed that his father was right.
"That is… very different philosophy," he says.
Caiatl smiles at him. It is a little terrifying. "I grew up the daughter of an emperor. I wanted for nothing. Every pleasure, every desire, was catered to. Except for one."
"Oh?" Saint asks.
"Purpose," Caiatl says with relish. "Duty. To serve my people and lead them to greatness without falling into the excesses and hedonism of my father's rule."
"You have achieved much," Saint says. "Being good leader is difficult." He knows that he has tried but not always succeeded.
"I have," Caiatl says, utterly unselfconscious in a way that reminds Saint of Osiris even more. "I will continue to do so. There is still much work ahead. But what of you?" she asks, pinning Saint with her full attention. "I was surprised when Zavala mentioned your father. I was under the impression that Guardians did not have parents."
"We do not," Saint says. "We are resurrected without memory of our first lives. For most, they are resurrected alone save for their Ghosts. For me… my father was there when my Ghost found me. He told me that I would be an example for others to follow. The paragon of a Guardian."
"Lofty ambitions," Caiatl says and there is no judgement in her words.
"Hah! Yes. It was Dark Age," Saint replies. "The City was not yet the City. Many Lightbearers had become Warlords and caused much harm. My father… he knew that someone was needed to show other Lightbearers what they could be, and demonstrate to the people that we could be protectors, not just monsters. I have tried to live up to that."
And for that, he had needed to be above reproach. What use is a flawed example?
Caiatl nods. "He sounds like a man who understood people well. A leader."
"He was. My father was…" He wonders if he should hold off. He has heard enough of the Red War and the Barant history to know what heppened, to know of Ghaul and of Caiatl's connection to him. But she seems clear-headed about things. Unlikely to take offense.
"My father was the Speaker," he says after a finally, and he sees Caiatl's eyes widen. "He spoke for the Traveller, helped to lead the City until his death during Red War."
"Ghaul," Caiatl says, quickly putting things together. "I have heard of the Speaker. Ghaul wished for power beyond his ability to wield, and would not listen to the warnings that the Speaker gave him."
"He was a point for our people to rally around," Saint continues, 'to give them hope, faith in the Traveller and our future. I admired him. And yet now…" He shakes his head. "Osiris says that he manipulated me. He says that my father tried to control him and he recognised it in the way he controlled me. Lord Shaxx believes I was set up as an idol to consolidate the Speaker's power."
"And you?" Caiatl prompts.
Saint gives a bitter little laugh. "I… I do not know what to think," he admits. "My father taught me to be a protector of people. He raised me to work towards the dream of the Last City, and I cannot regret that. But… he also sent me out to hunt down Eliksni, even those who had not harmed us, and I became a monster to them." He remembers how chilled he had been when Misraaks had told him the tales the Eliksni had of him, that monstrous creature that thought nothing of slaying even children. "He would see that I was honoured by the people after battle, but the honours would take the place of rest and recovery from injuries. He appreciated the gifts given to me by the people, but disapproved of me using resources for my own comfort."
It is difficult, so monumentally difficult to look at these things objectively. Of course it made sense for people to see the hero who defended them! And he is a Guardian – death is only an inconvenience in most cases. But he remembers demanding that people under his command, even Guardians, rest and recover. He remembers his frustration with Osiris pushing himself to the brink of collapse.
He does not consider himself special. But is this not putting himself on a pedestal that he would not expect others to reach?
He sighs heavily. "Many contradictions. They make my head hurt. And he is gone now so it should not matter, and yet it matters very much."
"I understand now why Zavala said that we should speak," Caiatl says with more solemnity than Saint thinks his moping deserves. "By all accounts, I had a childhood that most of my people would have dreamed of. My father showered me with gifts to show his love. I wanted for nothing. It took many years to realise that he loved me as he loved his revelries – a way to make himself happy – and not as a person with desires and dreams of my own that did not align with his."
Saint considers that for a long moment, trying to piece it into his conception of his father, of their relationship. Caiatl's experience – the luxury of a royal upbringing – is so different to his own, but he thinks he recognises the shape of it nonetheless, like a shadow against a wall.
"I believed in my father," he says with some hesitance. "For many many years. He dreamed of the City, of humanity safe and united. I still believe in that." He tilts his head slightly, giving a wistful smile. "Myself and Osiris, we gave up our dream of seeing the stars to bring it to pass." And even with the Witness gone, there is so much work still to do, and time is now limited. "Eventually I even gave up Osiris because I believed… my father believed that he was dangerous, divisve. And I… I accepted that as truth. Looking back, it seems like madness."
His anger towards Osiris had only been quelled by his own death. When Savathûn had been impersonating him, it had struck at that old anger, transmuted it into fear that… that his father had been right. That the one thing that Saint had allowed himself to desire just for himself was as wrong, as corrupt, as he had been told.
He turns his attention back to Caiatl. "It is strange that when Osiris explained how he had been treated by my father, I felt more anger for that than I can muster for myself. Even when I recognise it."
The expectation to always be presentable, to be polite and gracious and listen to everyone, even when their ideas were stupid or served only to improve the standing of themselves. Osiris has mentioned more than once that he had felt under pressure to smooth out the rough edges of his personality, but Saint… he does not remember having rough edges in such a way. Or had he just adapted, forced himself into the desired shape from the moment of his resurrection, because he had never known anything else?
He remembers Lakshmi and Hideo coming to him during the Endless Night, the way they had spoken to him like… like a child. As if he could not tell that they were plotting, seeking their own power rather than the good of the people. Even his dislike of the Eliksni then had not made him blind to that.
Is that how they had learned to see him during his years as part of the Consensus? As a pawn to be manouvered for the political gain of others? Too stupid to realise what was happening?
Maybe they had been right. At least at one time.
"We both have duties to our people," Caiatl says. "It is easy to put others first because that is how we serve them. A harm done to them is worse than one done to ourselves. I realised upon the eve of the Midnight Coup, that my father deserved to be deposed not because of the harm he had done to me, but because he was a bad emperor, who served our people poorly."
"I do not think my father was a poor leader," Saint replies, "and I did not need to take such actions as yours, for which I am glad. I do not think I would be capable of such an act." Osiris might disagree. Saint folds that into the morass of uncomfortable thoughts that this has dredged up. "But perhaps his service to his people made individual harms seem justified. Perhaps he never even realised."
He… he isn't sure what would be worse, honestly. If his father had intentionally manipulated him in the service of the City, or if he had never realised that he was doing anything wrong.
Does it matter, if the outcome is the same?
"Perhaps," Caiatl agrees.
Saint scrubs a hand across his face, feeling every year of his many years of life. Feeling as young and lost as he had that day when he had first been resurrected.
What purpose does it even serve to think about this? His father is dead. He will never get to speak to him, to ask him.
He will never truly get to say goodbye.
He hesitates for a moment before looking Caiatl in the eyes and asking the question that is in his mouth. "Did you love him? Your father. Calus."
Caiatl takes a deep breath, draws herself up, and then releases it slowly. "I did."
"Even at the end?" Saint presses, leaning forward in his seat. "Even when you realised… everything about him?"
The Empress is silent for a long moment, and then she spreads her arms wide as though to encompass the entire universe. "As much as I hated him. That is not an admission that I make lightly."
Saint nods, gratitude warming him. "Then I am honoured to hear such an admission," he replies, and he means it. "I do not think that I can stop loving my father. I do not know if I wish to. And I believe he loved me. And yet…"
What was it Shaxx had said? Loving someone and hurting someone are not mutually exclusive?
"In the end, "Caiatl says, with a steely determination, "every child must choose their own path. My father made me, and I realised that I had to make something of myself, or I would remain a pretty doll for him to inflict his love upon, and to assuage the emptiness inside him."
"You have certainly become more than that, Empress," Saint says. He has seen her on the battlefield, seen how she leads her people. Not without flaws, but a good leader. A good ally. "I am proud to have fought alongside you."
"May there be many more battles to come, Saint-14," Caiatl replies.
Saint would prefer fewer battles, but he knows this is not the way of her people. The sentiment is appreciated anyway.
"You have given me much to think about. I am grateful for it," Saint says. New perspective is valuable, even if he is not sure yet what he needs to do about it.
"Of course," is Caiatl's gracious response. "It is rare to find someone whose experienced mirror my own in such a way. Being a leader, being a symbol to one's people, is an honour, but it can be a lonely one."
Yes. Yes that feels right. He is honoured to serve his people, to be viewed as a hero, but it also sets him apart from others. A hero cannot afford to be flawed, and he… he is just a man. And sometimes it makes it difficult to relate to people.
"Then I am glad that we have good allies," Saint replies, "and good friends." Friends he had never dreamed of making. Allies he had never imagined fighting alongside.
"Indeed. I am afraid I must leave now," Caiatl says, and she sounds genuinely apologetic. "I have matters to attend to."
Saint stands quickly, and offers a brief bow. "Your time is precious" he says. " I thank you for sparing some for me."
"I hope that it was of value," Caiatl replies. "Until we next meet, Saint-14."
She stands, and sweeps away, an indomitable presence. They are very fortunate with their allies, Saint thinks.
He is certain that it was of value. He just needs time to work out what it means for him.
Saint stands atop the wall, leaning against the railing and looking out over the Last City.
It is an old section of the wall – he remembers it being built – and the guard tower here has long since been abandoned and repurposed. Climbing plants wind their way across the concrete, finding purchase in every tiny crack, and there are birds nesting where the tendrils and leaves have grown thick. Tenacious things.
The sun is bright overhead, and he is not sure he will ever adjust to the lack of the Traveller in the sky directly above the City. It is a beautiful day and he is–
"You are moping." Geppetto gives him a reproachful look.
"I am not moping, Geppetto. I am thinking. It is different."
He holds his cupped hands out towards her anyway, and she settles on them, letting him stroke the fins of her shell.
"If you do that too much, you will end up like Brother Osiris," she says, a touch more gently.
Saint lets out a bark of laughter. "Hah! Yes. His mind is always running so quickly. Sometimes I worry that I will lose him and not be able to catch up."
It is not an unfounded fear, considering everything between them. And one day…
He shakes his head, trying to dispel such maudlin thoughts. Perhaps he is moping a little.
Caiatl's words had helped, it is true, but they cannot tell him how to feel. They cannot fix this. It still weighs upon him, even if the thought of what happened… of how his father had treated him, no longer brings hot denial to his mouth and thoughts.
"Are you thinking about the Speaker?" Geppetto asks, her eye narrowing in concern.
"What else?" Saint asks. He sighs. "It is like doing equations in my head. Trying to make them work." Like working out the angle he needed to throw his shield to make it ricochet where he wants it to. "If my father tried to treat Osiris in a way that makes me angry, and I know that he treated me the same way in many cases, then surely it means that I should be angry on my own behalf, yes?"
If he would not expect anyone else to run missions back to back to back with no rest, no time to recover, then he should not expect the same from himself. It is putting himself on a pedestal, separating himself from his people, as though he is more important than they are.
His father had taught him that he was not more important. His father had built him a pedestal to stand upon.
Nothing balances.
Geppetto takes to the air once more and bumps against the side of his helmet affectionately.
"I don't think you have to feel a certain way," she says.
"I suppose," he says. He leans against the railing, watching the movements of the railway and the ships taking off and landing. It is still one of the most beautiful sights that he has ever seen. He is glad that is able to see it with his own eyes.
"Geppetto?" he says eventually.
"Yes, Brother Saint?"
"Why me?" he asks. "Out of everyone in the world, you chose to resurrect me. Why?"
He knows that Geppetto had travelled with his father for many miles until they found him. His father had said he believed in Saint's potential to be the example of everything a Guardian should be. He appreciates having people believe in him, but now… now it also makes him feel a little like a thing to be moulded to someone else's specification.
Was he just a weapon in that first moment? A useful tool to fight the darkness?
Geppetto's shell spins for a moment before she replies. "Because I knew as soon as I found you that you were kind," she says gently. "I knew that there was no-one else I wanted as my partner. That is still true."
His breath hitches, his chest tightening at the words. The memory of tears spreads through him until he swears he can feel them and his body is wracked with silent sobs. Grief for the loss of his father, for not getting to say goodbye. Grief for the years lost, for the time cut short, for the years that Osiris will not see.
Grief for the man who taught him so much since the day he was raised, and who needed him to be a weapon and an idol more than a man. Who loved him, he thinks, and still hurt him. An imperfect man, and one who gave Saint so much of value.
For the anger on behalf of others, and that he cannot yet feel for himself.
Eventually they subside, leaving him exhausted, hollowed out, but… clean somehow. A weight removed, as though he had been holding those simulated tears in for… for years perhaps.
"Feel better?" Geppetto asks tentatively.
He needs time. Maybe it will always hurt. Maybe one day he will feel anger. Maybe he will never truly be able to balance those equations.
Maybe… maybe that is alright. He too is imperfect, after all, and there is no looming Witness there to force one eternal shape upon him.
"I… I don't know," he admits, giving a weak smile. Even if Geppetto can't see it, he knows that she will be able to tell, "but I think I will eventually."