#LET'S GIVE THEM PROPER BONDING TIME !! HE HAD ENDURED HER TRYING TO BONK HIM ENOUGH ]

[lunaetis]

▸▸ [ @tenkoseiensei || eden starter call ]

─「エデン」─  " it hurts, but i know how to hide it. " the TRAILBLAZER looked out into the endless darkness beyond herta space station. the other had stumbled into one of the rare moment where she was clutching at her chest. seemingly, the SCAR from having the stellaron shoved right into her was throbbing slightly. she saw little to no reason for her to hide it from him. not like he was going to tell on her to anyone. at least eden didn't think he would. golden hues blinked at him.

                " what ? do you want to see it ? " it wasn't like she minded it, either way. this one had no shame whatsoever.

[thedistantstorm]

Phoenix Protocol 08

Zavala x Awoken Female Warlock | Mid/Post Forsaken | Slowburn | Gratuitous Descriptions of Light | Self-Confidence/Self-Worth Issues | Redemption | Trigger Warning:Self-Harm(canonical in nature)

When the Traveler’s Light was returned to the Guardians after the defeat of the Cabal, it did not manifest itself the same in everyone. Miyu, an Awoken Warlock, finds herself struggling with her abilities, her Light feeling different and not her own. With her Vanguard preoccupied with grief and all eyes turned to the Reef, she finds herself turning to an unlikely source in an attempt to rediscover her connection to the Light and define what it means for her as a Dawnblade.

Previously

Her feet shift before she strikes. A gleaming sword burns through the air, sluicing droplets of water on their expedition earthbound, her blade the most perfect extension of self. No sound of breath, no shift of robes gives her away.

Instead, it is the deadly sound of metal parting the air that draws him away from quiet conversation with his Ghost. Her swordplay does not sing like the conventional kind he's both watched and faced in the Crucible; It is old, an art form long forgotten, from the remnants of a people whose scattered survivors had been assimilated into the conglomerate of people gathered under the Traveler's might.

He does not realize he's staring until his Ghost repeats herself for what he swears is (at most) the third time but she insists is the fifth or sixth.

“You're not listening,” She says. His eyes dart to her narrowed, almost pouting optic, then are torn back as the Guardian before lunges almost theatrically, poised and graceful before dropping back, sliding her sword against her chest and then sheathing it with a reverence that seems long forgotten in this day and age. “Za-va-laaa,” She whines, her voice small and quiet but shrill enough to draw his attention. “I have to give an answer to Amanda. Are you approving her order or not?”

Blue eyes blink at her, and she can see the cogs turning in his mind. He has no idea what she's asking him. “Yes,” He says, “Fine.”

White cones twitch in a silent laugh. “You just approved her refit and upgrade order totalling just over three hundred million glimmer.” He inhales sharply, eyes sparking like an arc grenade as realization crosses his features. She continues in her youthful tone. “You sure about that, Z?”

“Perhaps it would be... best, if we schedule a meeting to discuss what exactly she requires.

She chirps around another bout of laughter, audible this time. “Yeah, maybe. I'll talk to Amanda and set it up for you, since you seem pretty… whats the word? Enthralled.”

He narrows his eyes at her, their partnership too old to make him flustered over the taunt, though he clicks his tongue at her by way of reply (a sign she's somewhat unsettled him with her observation). With a final peal of laughter and a tiny, affectionate bonk of her cones against his forehead, she disappears from sight.

With his Ghost gone, he's helpless to watch as she moves through several sets of stances. During her final set, her sword glows the color of sunrise, and he feels her Light set ablaze. It's like a comet, like stars meeting their end - lonely and bright.

He finds his eyes drawn to the tensing of her hands, the way they grasp the hilt of her sword tighter than before, notices the tensing of her shoulders. It's hurting her; her own latent abilities fighting her as if she’d become their enemy.

“Miyu, stop!” Her Ghost is a beacon of concern. He cries, “Drop it!”

But, she doesn’t. Instead the Warlock shakes her head, anger and resentment blanketing her features. Her lips move, but Zavala can't hear the words. Regardless, he's compelled forward by a fellow Guardian in need.

Strong arms come around her, his chest solid against her back. “Let go,” Zavala urges quietly into her ear. “Miyu, let go.”

Still, she shakes her head. His hands cover hers, and hears him hiss when the flames lick his skin, but he does not move away, his fingers prying hers from around the flaming sword. It scorches the ground when it finally drops from their combined grip, leaving her staring down at large hands, enveloping her own.

They’re burned...

...like hers.

Her knees shake when it hits her; the damage she's inflicted upon him washing over her with the subtlety of a tsunami. “I'm sorry,” She apologies. “I'm so sorry.”

When her legs give, he follows her down, arms caged around her, mindful of their still entwined hands. Sobs wreck her petite frame with the force of an earthquake, her eyes still wide with terror, examining the damage she's inflicted to the one person willing to help her.

“Miyu,” He rumbles, pulling her back against his chest. “It's alright. I'm fine.”

She's still shaking her head in the negative when her healing rift unfurls beneath them like a pocket of sunlight.

There is something intimate about being so close to a fellow Guardian’s Light. Teaching is a practical application, and he is a man built on control. But there is no denying the heady prickle - gooseflesh from the back of his neck down, a coiling deep in his core - that comes with being exposed to the pinnacle of another’s l

Light.

He watches as her Light rectifies the damage to his hands in seconds, but takes far longer to heal her own. There is no doubt of the power behind her Light; it has been forged with great care. It is strong.

Where the pure Solar energy that consumed her blade and their hands was volatile and angry, the rift is soft and warm: more reflective of the woman trembling against him.

“Easy,” He tells her, when she scrambles to move. He can feel her fingers twitching insistently under his own; the damage done to them not really healed, at least not all the way. “Relax,” He chides. “I promise, it is alright. I'm not angry with you.”

Her Ghost gives him a very serious gaze over the top of her head. “Yu-mi, let me see,” The small being requests. “Maybe I can help.”

Zavala lifts their joined hands, tilting hers out for her Ghost's inspection. Miyu continues to cry, looking away. “You know you can't,” She says to him.

The Commander frowns.

“It doesn't mean I won't try,” Her Ghost says, by way of reply.

The beams of light do little more than warm her palms and illuminate the agitated aura swirling beneath her fingertips. Her fingers look healed. But the misfiring of the nerves tell him otherwise.

His own Ghost appears a moment later, a shimmer of Light and a beyond curious tilt of her cones not drawing any attention but that of her Guardian. He always sensed her easily. It came with time, with a strong bond.

“Adelaide,” He calls, tone rough like gravel, “Scan her hands.”

His usually cheery partner does so quietly, her cones drifting apart with both analysis and a flood of Light. The woman in his arms stills, watching the white-shelled Ghost work.

“Zavala, I… I'm sorry,” Adelaide says, quietly. Her shell twitches downward in sympathy when nothing happens. “I tried.”

The Commander nods. Miyu attempts to rise again, but without success.

“Let me go,” The dark-haired warrior requests, “Please.”

He makes a sound like he's thinking. Instead of answering her, or letting go, he asks, “How long does it last, afterward?”

“It will be fine by tonight.” Zavala watches her Ghost. His cones flinch at the scrutiny swivels in a silent negative.

Frowning, he queries, “And what will you do, until then?”

She shrugs. Her Ghost feints downward, optic narrowing darkly.

“Perhaps... attempt resurrection?”

The Warlock inhales sharply. Zavala figures it to be a confirmation.

His sigh pushes him further against her back. “Will it fix the damage?”

“Some of it.”

“I would not dare to think I know what you are feeling,” Zavala says, hands releasing hers, but resting on her shoulders. Both Ghosts watch him, concerned, scrutinous. “But perhaps tonight you should not.”

“Then what?” She turns to look at him through heavy lashes. Her moonlit gaze is limned in red, her cheeks darkened with evidence of her tears. Her aura nips beneath her skin like a spring coiled tight. “Tell me,” She pleads in a demanding whisper. “What do I do?”

The physical damage to this woman is minimal, in terms of what they endure regularly. It is nothing for her to suffer this damage on repeat. They are Guardians. It is what they do. And yet, he feels something inside him  He does not need some supernatural empathy to feel her soul crying as if it's being torn apart.

One palm moves from her shoulder to cup the back of her head, guide it to his chest. “It might be best if you allowed yourself to…” He pauses, trying to parse the proper word. “Grieve.”

She bolts from his grasp, quick, slippery, almost like lightning. She rises, eyebrows dipping. Enraged.  “Grieve?” She takes a deep breath, though it's more like a gasp than anything else. More than anger, it's panic.

“You think I'm a lost cause,” She accuses. “Don't you?” Her eyes dart to and fro between his similarly luminous irises.

He returns to his feet as well, hands our in a non-threatening gesture. “No, no, Miyu-”

“I thought you would understand,” She says, and it's more to herself than anything else. She flinches back when he inhales to speak, dipping into a low, formal bow out of habit for the version of herself seen dead centuries ago. “Thank you for-”

“Miyu-”

She won't look him in the eye, her downcast irises illuminating fresh tears on her face. “... I'm sorry to waste your afternoon.”

He takes a step forward and she bolts, so distraught she leaves her Ghost no alternative but to transmat her sword and follow.