Chapter Text
Saladin steps into the room, glancing around the chambers nervously. The hum of the engine still fills his ears, faint, yet every present. He’s not quite used to the constant noise. Nor is he used to seeing Cabal at every turn, addressing him as one of their own.
Within the room sits Caiatl, as well as a large table spread with various foods. Her gaze shifts from the table to him as he steps within.
“You wanted to see me, Empress?” he asks, still uncomfortable with her title on his tongue… or maybe he’s uncomfortable with the thought he was no longer under Zavala’s orders. No longer addressing a Commander - a friend.
“Bracus Saladin, sit,” she states - or rather orders. A broad hand gesturing to a nearby seat.
He accepts the seat, holding back a sigh. Reduced to nothing more than a Bracus for her council. He resists the temptation to reach out to the food. He does not deserve this. It is her meal, not his. Instead, he watches as she removes her faceplate and serves herself a plate. Politely he averts his gaze to allow her to eat in peace.
The food smells delicious, twisting the hunger deep in his gut. He’s not used to it right in front of him, taunting him. Reminding him of the hunger that is only truly satiated by food and not that of ghost. He knows the last time he has eaten - truly eaten - was when Zavala had brought him out to dinner. Prior to the Crow’s betrayal - no. Rash decision. It was not betrayal. Before and after then, he sustained himself on Isirah’s aid. It was what he deserved. Nothing more.
After several minutes, the uneasy silence is broken by her:
“Are you not hungry?”
The question startles him more than he cares to admit. Yet, despite it, he stills himself and responds in an even tone:
“I do not need to take food from your table. I have taken enough already.”
She barks in laughter, reaching across the table to where he is seated and setting down what looks to be akin to a large turkey leg. Right onto his plate. Right in front of him. The scent twists his stomach, causing it to rumble, and it takes all his strength not to crumble then and there. If this is a cruel joke, he only wishes it will finish soon.
“I can hear your hunger from here. A warrior needs a proper meal to fight. Eat,” she states, reminding him too much of himself.
He stares at the plate, unable to believe this is nothing more than torture. His torture. Deserved for failing Crow and for taking his punishment.
“Empress, if this is a test, I -”
“You worry too much. I am effective, not cruel. Eat your fill - there is too much for me to eat alone,” she dismisses him without so much as looking at him, too engrossed in shamelessly taking another serving for herself.
Gingerly (shamefully), he picks up the food that was presented to him and takes a bite. He can feel her watching him and he hates it.
Hates her for making sure he’s following orders.
Hates her for sparing attention for the lowest of her commanding officers.
Hates himself for how good food finally tastes.
Hates how he reaches for another piece, full of shame as he feels her gaze follow his actions.
It’s not until his plate is full and he’s taking regular bites does her gaze leave him. As if she was worthy of worrying about him… or he was worthy of her worry.
“Do you miss the tower?” she asks, breaking the silence once more.
“Pardon?” he coughs, pretending to have not heard her question in an effort to not answer it.
“The tower. Do you miss it?” she repeats, watching him. Giving him no escape.
He swallows his mouthful first.
“No more than I normally do.”
“Normally?” she presses, urging him to continue.
“I do - did not live at the tower. I lived where Iron Lords lived for centuries. I only ventured to the tower for Iron Banner.”
“I see… so if I were to ask about Zavala, you’d be unable to answer my questions?” she continues while reaching for thirds. He was not one to judge, slowly working towards a second plate and uneducated on Cabal dietary habits.
He should leave well enough alone. Answer her with a straightforward ‘no’ (a lie) and allow the conversation to move on. Yet curiosity drives his tongue. He needs - no, wants to know why she is curious about Zavala in particular. Addressing him with his name rather than title.
“Not exactly. Zavala was once my pupil and remains my friend - if you do not deny me the freedom of speaking with him. I know more about him than most,” Saladin explains, choosing his words carefully and watching her actions. He does not want to overstay his welcome. Abuse her mercy.
“Then you can answer my questions?” she repeats, her gaze once again returning to him. He can see curiosity and the faintest hint of something unfamiliar. Unprofessional.
“I refuse to share weaknesses or battle strategy,” he states, setting ground rules with a silent plea that she doesn’t take offence to his words.
She snorts softly, shaking her head. He watches her tusks glint in the firelight. The gold bands around them look old, slightly tarnished. Suggesting to him that they have not been replaced in a long, long time.
“I do not wish to know his weaknesses. He is an ally and I do not strive to sever our alliance. You would not be here if I did,” she states calmly, her tone edging on amused. “I want to know about him. How he is outside his command. He worries me.”
“Worries you? How so?” Saladin presses, his own curiosity peaked.
“He is tense and stiff. There is no victory in his mind - at least none that I can see. Like you… but worse. You at least bend to change and recognize victory - mercy too. He doesn’t. He bears the face of a man hiding a great many pains, and I am inclined from intelligence reports to believe that he does not allow himself much in the way of relaxation.”
“Intelligence reports?” Saladin questions, attempting to absorb and understand her concern. He is concerned for Zavala - both as a friend and as a brother-in-arms, yet he can’t quite grasp why Caiatl would be concerned for him as well. He recognizes the alliance hinges on their ability to work together, but Zavala’s lack of self-care and rest has yet to affect it.
“My own conversations with him. Both over comm-lines and in person. He is tired, yet he does not allow himself to rest. He refuses to accept victory, or at least the small ones, and his battle cry is weak. You’ve seen this too, I can see it in your eyes,” she states, laying out her cards on the table as she lifts yet another drumstick to her mouth.
He sees it in her eyes first, then hears it in her tone, and it dawns on him. Akin to a puzzle piece finding its place in an elaborate puzzle, he finally realizes her concern. Though his conclusion is unsteady and full of holes. He waits, carefully choosing his words in an effort to coax her to reveal more before he makes an accusation.
“I can admit, I’m aware he does not take care of himself. That is not for the lack of trying on anyone’s part. The most I have gotten him to agree on is to go out for dinner with me when I visit the tower to run Iron Banner,” Saladin finally says, watching her response intently.
“If he agrees to dinners, invite him here. I can have my chefs prepare a similar meal to this in celebration of our shared victory over Savathun,” Caiatl states, confirming Saladin’s suspicions.
Finally able to spin this conversation fully away from him, he nearly smiles.
“You enjoy the company of Zavala,” he points out, keeping his accusation vague in case he is wrong.
She opens her mouth for a moment and almost as quickly shuts it. Instead, she takes a bite of her food and chews it before speaking. Saladin knows he has caught her. Knows he is right. Suddenly he is no longer concerned with overindulging his starved body and reaches for seconds.
“Do you see a problem with that?” she says slowly as if forming each word in her mouth. Unsure if she wants to know his answer.
“I…” he starts to say before stopping. He repeats her words several times in his mind before finally coming to a conclusion. “I may be old and stuck in my ways, but that doesn’t mean I am incapable of embracing change. However unconventional it seems to me, it is not my decision to judge. Nor is it mine to make. All I simply need to know is when you deem it appropriate for me to invite him - or if you wish to invite him yourself.”
“Do you accept this or are you opposed to this?” she repeats, still watching him intently. In her eyes, he sees the swirls of something strangely familiar to him. Worry seeking validation or approval. From him of all people? He questions her judgement, or perhaps his own.
“I’m not opposed to this, but I cannot accept it until I know more. I will not stand in your way, and while I remain indifferent in my judgement, I will assist you. If only for the benefit of my old student,” he clarifies, still choosing his words. He watches the worry swirl in her eyes before morphing back into the unidentifiable emotion.
“Three days from now, before you are to return to the tower to host Iron Banner. The same time I sent my initial invitation to invite you to my table. Tell him not to be late, and dress how he feels appropriate,” she commands, rising from her seat with an empty plate left in her spot. “... and I expect your attendance as well. Now, I have work to do. Continue until you are satisfied, then let one of the guards know you are done. They will let my staff know to clear away whatever is left.”
He watches her rest her hand on the door.
“As you wish, Empress,” he says, minding his manners.
She nods in approval, replacing her faceplate and stepping out into the hall. Leaving him alone with enough food for several courses that would feed both him and his wolves. He stares at his half-finished seconds and sighs.
The dark whisper in the back of his mind reminds him of how many people this food could feed. Of all those in the Dark Ages who could have thrived. Of how quickly the Iron Lords would’ve picked every bone clean, mugs of mead and moonshine in their fists, and loud cheers sounding throughout the hall. The grief eats away at him as he finishes a few more bites before standing from the table. Abandoning the room.
Saladin does not eat for the next three days. He allows Isirah to sustain him, but only what is necessary. She has long since stopped fusing over this subject. Mostly he is relieved that she has, so he doesn’t have to explain himself over and over again to her in a twisted game that leaves him feeling worse. A small part of him wishes she pushed him harder.
He feels dirty, unworthy of the food he consumed during his meeting, and unworthy of the food he will eat when Zavala arrives. Even now as he stands in his shower, hot water running down his back, scalding his skin, he finds himself unworthy of surviving this long. Unworthy of the armour that sits on his bed in the other room, and of the mercy he was allowed.
He stands there until the water runs cold and then shuts off before finally getting out. He stares at himself in the mirror, graying hair carefully trimmed. Small hairs litter the sink, sloppily swept into the trash of his generously provided quarters. He can see the faint etching of his ribs underneath his skin, and the definition of his muscles. He hates what he sees. Hates how everything is too sharp - unfitting of a titan. Unfitting of an Iron Lord.
He sighs, willing himself to his room so that he could get ready for tonight. Jolder is waiting for him outside the door. He scratches behind her ears as she follows him to the bed where his armour is strewn out. She is the oldest of his wolves and the only one he could not leave behind in Crow’s care. She’ll die soon, he knows she will, and he does not want to force the young hunter to deal with that grief. He’ll bare it for him, and watch her die for a second time.
As he stares down at his armour, Jolder curled up on the bed, Isirah appears next to him.
“I can keep this at the ready for you tonight, but this is a formal event. You’re having dinner with Zavala. Wear something nice.”
“I know, but -”
“No buts. You’re having dinner with Zavala and Empress Caiatl, on a well-guarded warship. Wear one of your suites,” she insists, materializing a three-piece suite. The vest and tie are forest green, with the jacket and pants being black.
“Are you sure you’ll keep my armour -”
“At the ready. Now hurry up or you’ll be late,” she finishes for him, disappearing with his armour.
He admits defeat and carefully dresses. He knows he can’t win this argument with his ghost, even though he desperately wanted to. He feels exposed without armour. No weapons at his ready, no armour to protect him. He knows Isirah will revive him if needed, but it leaves a foul taste in his mouth. One that remains as his feet carry him down the hall towards the dining room.
To make matters worse, he’s already worrying over dinner. He feels the whispers crawl up his spine and pull at his ear, reminding him of how unworthy he is of a meal that’s not even in front of him yet. It’s not even prepared for him - this is not his victory. Nor is it Zavala's or Caiatls. It is Young Wolf’s - someone who wasn’t invited.
His thoughts are banished at the sight of a nervous Zavala, clad in a maroon tuxedo, fidgeting with his bowtie. He’s untied it and retied it three times in the time it takes Saladin to reach him. He’s never seen his friend so obsessed with his appearance, nervously thanking the Cabal soldier who’s allowed him to use his blade like a mirror.
“Let me,” Saladin huffs when he finally catches up to him, brushing away his friend’s hands.
“So now you’re giving me orders?” Zavala chuckles nervously, allowing Saladin to take the recently untied pieces of fabric.
“No, I’m just tired of watching you fidget with it,” he grumbles, focusing hard enough that his tongue sticks out between his teeth and past his lips. “There. Now stop touching it.”
Zavala glances at his reflection in the Cabal’s blade one final time before sighing in relief. The Cabal shows no amusement, but Saladin knows he’s just as amused as he is.
“Thank you, old friend. I admit when I got your invitation I was surprised… to say the least,” Zavala starts to say.
Saladin catches movement behind Zavala’s shoulder. His gaze shifts to notice Caiatl stepping out of the elevator, doing her best to dust off the sand from her shoulders. His eyes are immediately drawn to the uncharacteristic dress made of heavy blue fabric. He admires the decorative, yet affective, armour on her shoulders, forearms, and boots. Silently, he admits to himself that he envies the Cabal, if only because their formal wear still takes into account that of protection. His mind was only so at ease from his boots.
“Well, because Caiatl wants to keep me on a tight leash, she suggested we have our dinner here. So I wouldn’t divulge Cabal secrets,” Saladin lies, hoping that his tone comes across with the faintest hint of a joke. He makes eye contact with Zavala, then glances back behind him. Hoping Zavala understands.
“I see, well, I suppose our routine was getting a little old,” Zavala comments, finally turning around.
The expression that forms across his face is undeniable. The curl of the corners of his lips, the way his eyes soften, and how his shoulders relax the fabric of his jacket to folding softly. He has seen this expression on his friend’s face once before, he remembers the day it came and the day it left, and now he is witnessing its return. He knows, whatever happens, he is powerless to stop it. Just as he was before.
“Commander Zavala, I see you accepted Bracus Saladin’s request,” Caiatl observes as she reaches the doors. Two Cabal shuffle to push them open for her.
“Were you worried I wouldn’t?” Zavala questions as the three of them step inside.
Saladin’s stomach drops when he notices that the table is spread with far more food than before. Guilt creeps up in the corners of his mind as he wills himself to sit down in the middle of the table. Between both ends, where Caiatl and Zavala take their places.
“After everything that has happened, did I not have cause to worry?” Caiatl points out, her voice laced with pain.
“... I suppose so. I didn’t mean to reopen old wounds, I apologize,” Zavala says quickly.
“I accept your apology,” Caiatl says in kind, reaching for the first piece of food. “Besides, this dinner is to celebrate our recent victory against the Hive. One less Hive God means one step closer to vengeance for my people.”
Zavala mimics her actions, taking food for himself, the two of them have completely forgotten Saladin’s presence.
“I agree. Savathun’s defeat is a harrowing victory for my people as well.”
“Then why do you not treat it as such?” Caiatl points out, leaning forwards in order to set a large pastry on Saladin’s plate. Apparently not having forgotten him as easily as he’d thought.
“Pardon?” Zavala coughs, setting down his glass and forcing himself to swallow without sputtering.
“There is no celebrating in your streets. There is no victory in your tower. Only the continued mundane routine. Even my people are celebrating, and the victory is not theirs. This is something to celebrate, surely you must recognize that,” she insists.
Saladin stares at the pastry as Zavala serves him a scoop of the same salad he’d served for himself. There’s a tense silence that washes over the three of them as Zavala struggles to find his response. All of them know she’s right, however, Saladin doesn’t know if Zavala has it in him to admit she is. In the moment of suspense, he’s so engrossed that he doesn’t realize he’s taken a bite of the pastry until Zavala starts speaking again.
“I wouldn’t know where to start. It has been a long wait since we have celebrated a victory,” Zavala admits, astounding Saladin.
As he focuses on the conversation, his body falls into auto-pilot, finally rewarding itself with food.
“I would be more than willing to extend my help to plan and prepare such a celebration,” Caiatl offers, perpetuating Saladin’s astonishment.
“It’s very generous, Empress. Yet, I would not want to impose a sense of responsibility -” Zavala starts to say.
Caiatl cuts him off rather quickly, much to Saladin’s surprise.
“I do. Just as I wish to impose that you call be Caiatl. We have an alliance, Zavala, and I see those I have an alliance with as an extension of my own people. A part of my responsibility. For you fight on the same battlefield that I do, and I do not send my people to fight without a cause. And when I do, I celebrate their return. Their Victory. No matter how small.”
Sensing he’s lost the argument, Zavala resigns and nods his head. Taking a sip from his cup instead.
“If you wish to assist in the planning, I will gladly accept your help.”
“Good, because I won’t have it any other way. Your people must know triumph, and so must you. If victory always seems unattainable, there is no sense in chasing it,” Caiatl says, putting her final words down before turning the majority of her attention to her meal.
Zavala does the same, leaving Saladin to realize he’s already finished what they’d placed on his plate and hunger still knaws at his bones. Begrudgingly, he serves himself seconds and neither moves to stop him. In fact, they both copy his actions. The room falls silent to the soft sounds of silverware against china.
“Now that business is out of the way, the gun you had Banshee create for me arrived several days ago. I was meaning to inform you, and then… current events got in the way. It handles far better than I expected,” Caiatl states.
“I’m glad you enjoy it, it took quite a few days to hunt down the correct pieces. There were several times I had to remind him what he was creating,” Zavala informs her. Saladin watches him lean on the table, ignoring his half-finished plate of food in order to continue the conversation.
“You had to remind him?” Caiatl presses, mimicking Zavala’s posture.
It’s at that moment, Saladin knows that his presence is no longer needed. Formalities are over and the two of them have grown comfortable enough to their lack of armour that there is no call for a mediator. However useless of one he was.
“He is an Exo who has gone through many reboots. His memory is damaged, so he often forgets the simplest of things. Though he is our most skilled gunsmith.”
“I see… well, tell him he did an honourable job. Even if he will not remember what he created to earn such praise.”
“I will see to it personally. Although, it would be more effective if I had a demonstration of how well it handles. Just to make sure it is working to the highest degree.” Saladin can see the hope twinkle in his eyes, a small smile creeping onto his own face at the sight of his old friend finding happiness once more.
“Perhaps after dinner, we can visit the training room and I will show you,” Caiatl suggests as if dinner wasn’t already long forgotten.
“I think that is an excellent idea,” Zavala agrees, taking a drink from his glass to mask his broad grin.
When dinner ends, Saladin quietly takes his leave, slipping away unnoticed. He smiles to himself softly as he walks back to his room. Although he’s not sure how he feels about the premise of their relationship, he knows for certain he will not attempt to dissuade them. He has not seen his old friend smile in such a way since his wife was alive. He knows this is good for them - good for both of them. Perhaps even for the alliance as a whole, if the two ever acknowledge the other feels the same way.