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zalia · 2 years

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[Fic] Anamnesis

Title: Anamnesis

Fandom: Destiny

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Saint/Osiris

Summary: Saint has had many dreams; dreams of the Last City and what it will become, dreams of love, of hope. Dreams of the Infinite Forest, of those fleeting memories which are not his.

And of course, of the golden fields and the tower.

Saint-14 dreams. And the dream begins like this.

He walks through the Infinite Forest, follows paths across swathes of yellow and scarlet grasses that have never existed in reality, and passes through the glowing fractals of Vex architecture.

He is looking for something. He knows that. It is the most important thing in the world, and he must find it.

Ahead, between pillars, he sees a flash of golden feathers, the flick of a deep red cowl.

Osiris.

Yes, that is what he is looking for! Osiris, always Osiris. That was why he was here, to drag his foolish, brilliant Phoenix back to the world, no matter how many Vex he has to destroy. No matter how poorly the City may take it.

Saint runs after him, leaping gaps between platforms, and pools of glittering radiolaria which grasps for him as he passes.

“Osiris!”

Another flicker of gold at the corner of his eye. Saint turns and follows that glimpse of his beloved down the hallway of black stone. It is somehow both cavernous, dwarfing even his large frame, and claustrophobic. The deep silence of the place weighs heavily upon him, and his footsteps feel like an intrusion

Lights appear at ground level as he walks, a malevolent red that mingles with the purple of his own armour to make a shade that reminds him of old blood. Ahead though, the light is bright, a blinding white. Osiris would be there, he thinks, bathed in the light.

(Burned up by it.)

The path is clean lines and precise angles. There are turns at regular intervals, each one seeming to lead to that same bright light. His only guidance is the occasional flash of red and gold, his fiery bird always ahead of him, ushering him ever onwards.

“Brother Saint?”

Saint starts awake, breath coming harsh and heavy in artificial lungs. He looks around, squinting into the darkness. There’s the soft damning beep of a heart monitor nearby. Ah, the hospital. And there is Osiris laid out on the bed in front of him, cradled in wires and tubes and machines to sustain him. No light to bring him back.

Geppetto bumps against his shoulder, and he sighs softly, reaching up to cradle her in his hand.

“You seemed unsettled,” she says.

“A dream,” Saint says, with a weak smile. “Nothing more.”

“That dream?” Geppetto asks, concern in her voice.

He knows the one she means. The dream of golden fields and the tower. The dream of fighting everyone he has ever known.

“No. Not tonight. Another dream.”

One he can barely remember now, though the feeling of it lingers long into the day even as he stands in bright daylight beneath the Traveller.

Saint-14 dreams. And the dream begins like this.

A hundred turns, a hundred identical paths set into black stone. He is getting closer though, he knows it. Here and there, along the walls are vases, and the unrelenting black of the stone is broken with flecks of red and green and amber. Sometimes there are smooth rounded patches, like drips of wax from a candle, as though the stone had been subjected to the heat of Solar fire.

And it is not silent, he realises now. The sound is just very slow, and very deep, a thump, thump, thump, like the beating of a colossal heart. Now that he’s noticed it, he can feel it reverberate through his chassis, perfectly in time with his own heart.

It is his companion as he walks the dark hallways, a reassuring echo.

And there, ahead of him, is a staircase. A scrap of red cloth rests on the first step.

“How is he?”

Ikora’s voice is gentle. Everyone is so gentle with him these days, and while he is grateful, he also hates it. It feels like he is being coddled. Him! Saint-14, the hero of Six fronts!

“He sleeps still,” Saint replies. “But he is alive and I know he will return to me.” Osiris is strong. Even without the light. “These machines are very useful,” he adds, a lacklustre smile along with the words.

“If you ever need to talk…” Ikora says.

Saint nods. “I will come to you.”

They both know it is a lie.

The dream begins like this.

The sound is very slow, and very deep, a thump, thump, thump, like the beating of a colossal heart. Now that he’s noticed it, he can feel it reverberate through his chassis, perfectly in time with his own heart.

It is his companion as he walks the dark hallways, a reassuring echo. It fills wires and circuits and joints as though it were made for him. There is something familiar about it though he cannot place it. Perhaps one of those things that lingers alongside the Crypt in his mind. Something that had been encountered by Saint-13, or Saint-5, or the Saint who must have existed before them all, flesh and blood. The ones who came before he was chosen by the Light.

(Stolen by the Light.)

There, ahead of him, is a staircase. A scrap of red cloth rests on the first step. He stoops to pick it up, rubs the material between his fingers. He fancies that he can smell Osiris on it still, scorching heat and sand and the tea that he liked to drink when they were together.

He ties it to his arm, the red bright against the purple ribbon of his accolades.

He begins to climb.

He cannot see the top of the stairs; there are far too many for that. The steps are shallow, and at points there are small landings, where more of those vases and small carvings-

“I'm glad you're staying," Crow says from the door. Saint stands and gives a silent nod of greeting, before glancing back at Osiris, still sleeping. “I understand.”

“You do not,” Saint replies, sharper than he intends, a flash of defensiveness because he cannot share this. No-one can share this. He sighs, the feeling dissipating into exhaustion. "Tell me something. Up there…" He points skyward, indicating the Leviathan in orbit over the Earth, the red glow of it violence against the sky. "Your doubts, your shame—they come alive?"

"Yeah," Crow replies, looking away.

"That is why I do not go to help," Saint says, though it seems like an excuse to his own ears. "Because—because I know Osiris will be waiting for me. Up there. And I… I cannot bear seeing another thing wearing his face."

He cannot bear the accusations he would hear, all of them true. Cowardice. He would rather hear them from Osiris’s own lips when he wakes.

Crow’s hand settles on his arm, small and warm. He has been through terrible things, that boy.

He pulls the Hunter into a tight embrace, optic lights blinking off.

"You are good bird. Than-”

It begins like this.

The red cloth is bright against the purple ribbon of his accolades.

He starts to climb.

He cannot see the top of the stairs; there are far too many for that. The steps are shallow, and at points there are small landings, where more of those vases and small carvings of dark stone are set out. They are formless things at first, but as he climbs, he begins to see the shapes of them.

His father. Zavala. Ana. Shaxx. Ikora. Old comrades from the early days of the City, and newer faces. Crow and Mithraks. Devrim Kay. The shipwright Amanda. They grow in detail with each landing passed until he feels like he is looking at the person in miniature.

The light illuminates the imperfections in the statues. A figure of Tallulah Fairwind, with a deep gouge as though pierced by a claw. Cayde-6, pitted with gashes, the stone burned in places. Crow, his face cracked like a broken mirror.

His father, crushed nearly to dust.

He touches the red cloth at his arm, and keeps climbing. He is getting close, he knows that, and he lets that deep, relentless beat fill him, soothe unease, and buoy hi-

-ield leaves his hand and bounces against a pillar before Shaxx catches it.

"So, how is he?" Shaxx asks. He hurls the shield back towards Saint. Saint catches it, feeling the ache when it hits his palms.

"No change," he says, and gives a heavy sigh. He hurls the shield back towards the other Titan, finesse forgotten and replaced with force. "Sometimes, I-"

-m onwards, up and up. It seems endless. It seems like he isn’t moving at all.

But he knows he is. He’s getting close. He doesn’t know what is at the top, but he knows that it is desperately important. It must be, if Osiris is leading him there.

That deep heartbeat grows more prevalent, echoing his every step, every movement, until it seems as though the beat is moving him.

And there, there he can see it. There’s a flash of his fiery bird’s red-gold robe and then, towering abo-

-siris’s hand in his, and it feels so small, fragile in a way that his beloved had never been. It does not suit him. He should be filled with fire and life, sharpness on his tongue, and sweetness on his lips.

He raises his beloved’s hand to his lips. “I wonder if I deserve this. If I had just been stronger, better. If I had half of your cleverness…” He gives a bitter laugh. “You changed the fabric of reality to save me, and I cannot even recognise when a monster has stolen you.”

He smooths the pad of his thumb against Osiris’s hand, feels the bones there. Too thin. As though the loss of his light has hollowed him out, left him a shell.

He should have known. And all his strength, and all his Light is useless to save the most important thing in the world.

Beyond the curtains, night falls, but the room is dark, so it makes no difference to Saint.

It begins.

The stairs open out into a flat area, and towering above it is a statue. It’s made of the same black stone as the stairs and the halls, and seems to be a woman draped in dark fabric, arms outstretched.

He knows it. He cannot place it, but the sense of familiarity is overwhelming. He knows this, he knows her.

It feels like coming home.

He moves towards the statue, and then hesitates when he spots another flash of red. Osiris is laid at the base of it, arms resting at his sides, Sagira’s hollow shell laid against his breast.

He is deathly pale and unmoving.

“No…”

Saint falls to his knees at his beloved’s side, rests a hand against his cheek. He is too late.

“No,” he repeats. “No, this cannot be.”

(Look.)

It is not a voice. Not exactly. More a feeling with deep meaning attached. It runs down the cords and oil of his spine like a gentle touch. It would be impossible to ignore, even if he could bear to tear his gaze from Osiris’s still form.

And there, he sees it. The tiniest movement of lips as Osiris breathes. It is a breath so deep and slow that he can hardly see it, and yet he knows that it matches the heavy thumping beat which has cocooned him since he entered this place.

(The Light has abandoned him.)

“He is strong,” Saint says. He touches his fingers to Osiris’s lips, feels the faint warmth of breath. “He will wake.”

He has to believe that. He is Osiris, his Phoenix.

(It would not save him.)

Would not.

“I must get him to safety.” Yes, the hospital. They will care for him. Bind him in wires and tubes… trap him… all but dead… drained of his fire… in a dark room.

(Left him hollow, a bird with broken wings.)

He wraps his arms around his love, pulls him against his chest. Sagira’s shell digs into him, sharp points pressing around his heart. Osiris is so light, like there is nothing to him. Has the loss of his Light truly left him like this, an empty shell, substantial as mist?

(It gave the Light to the one who destroyed him.)

Saint stills, breath catches in his throat, every artificial joint, every drop of synthetic fluid which passes for blood, freezing inside him.

(It gave the Light to the one who deceived you.)

“Savathûn…” The name is poison in his mouth. The Witch who had stolen Osiris from him, worn his form and his voice as surely as she had worn his armour and cowl. Who had made him doubt his beloved.

His anger has always burned hot, while his love’s had been cold as void. Perhaps that is why they matched each other. He feels it now, heat which floods his circuits and systems. But his grip on his warlock is gentle.

(An inconstant gift for many who have been so loyal.)

He has seen the reports of course, the pictures. The Throne World over Mars, it’s fetid swamps infested with Hive lightbearers and their ghosts. The slaughter of Guardians in the EDZ and the Cosmodrome, corpses defiled, killed by the very Light which they had fought to defend.

And all while his fiery bird lay as ashes drained of any spark.

(We do not offer false promises.)

“My father told me once that I would be a beacon of light, an example to everyone of what a Guardian could be.”

But his father is gone.

His father who had taught him, and loved him, and helped him become who he is now.

His father who had cast out his beloved, called him unworthy, a heretic. Had called it the Traveller’s will, when Saint knew that Osiris was the best man he knew.

Just like your father. All of you. In your next life, you should take more after me.

(We do not offer the false comfort of forgetting.)

He has learned about Riis, their Golden Age torn asunder while their Great Machine fled. The knowledge and advancements of the Eliksni lost and twisted into desperate brutality.

He has learned about Earth’s own Golden Age from books and the oldest people who had remained when he was Risen. Learned about their power, their glittering world, the advancements enabled by the Traveller. The belief that it would continue forever.

It is hard not to wonder what his place in it had been, what had driven him to icy Europa and the embrace of the Crypt. An intrepid believer in the future? Or a desperate man with no other options left?

(Look.)

He stands, cradling Osiris against himself, and focuses on that deep, constant beat that underpins everything. It eases his heart, soothes his racing thoughts. There is peace in it. Clarity. The sort that he has only ever felt in battle… or in Osiris’s embrace.

He turns from that great statue, her arms outstretched in embrace, and stares out over what lies below.

Every path is spread out before him. Every corridor and intersection, a grid of lines and nodes. Some of them are bright, a harsh light which stings his eyes, blinds him, and casts stark shadows which could cut flesh. Others are dark, softening sharp edges. It reminds him of Prague, the ruined buildings losing the precise angles of humanity, gentled by time and rain and vegetation. And Osiris’s lips against his, as they loved in the night.

(We offer a choice.)

In the distance, he sees the tower. He knows that this time, there will be no enemies to slaughter, no allies to tear down. Just golden fields.

It feels like coming home.

“I think I understand.”

(We offer Salvation.)

Osiris’s eyes open.

“-ther Saint? Saint?”

Abandoned.

Geppetto bumps against his shoulder, and he sighs softly, and keeps his hands loosely in his lap.

“You seemed unsettled,” his Ghost says.

“A dream,” Saint says, with a weak smile. “Nothing more.”

She hums soft concern, but goes to settle once more at Osiris’s side.

Out of sight, Saint uncurls his hand. In his palm sits a black stone, smoothed to a perfect circle. And on his fingers is a rime of ice which does not melt.

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