#reb3l writes

[shesareb3l]

Hurt

words: 606 tags: drama, alcohol overindulgence, self-blame, survivors guilt a/n: a small dabble with my halo oc, Iema 'Zykuree. setting is right after the end of halo 2 and as the events of halo 3 are starting. song included to set the mood. might be mildly off-canon

The empty bottle clanked hard against the table as it was set down roughly.

“Another,” Iema rumbled at the bartender, her voice thick as she slumped over the table. Without a word, the bartender swapped the empty bottle for a fresh one, which she hardly registered. Her head and neck extended across its surface, and her white and silver Councilor helmet lay opposite her, gleaming under the dim lights. The Sangheili stared at it with a look of pure disdain before turning her eyes to new bottle, her reflection staring back from the dark amber liquid. Her snout wrinkled in disgust.

‘You…’ Her thoughts slurred, muddled by the alcohol. ‘…you did this. You let this happen.’ Her green eyes darted away from the face in the liquid, and her hand fumbled for the bottle. She tilted her head back, taking several long gulps.

She just wanted the thoughts to disappear.

‘NO!’ The voices roared back at her, the voices of friends and fellow Councilors—voices now silenced forever. ‘WE WILL NOT!’

Iema groaned, setting the now half-empty bottle down as she shut her eyes.

‘YOU DID THIS. YOU KILLE—’

The slide of the door interrupted the echoing accusations, bringing with it a burst of light. Iema squinted, turning her head away as two figures stepped into the musty bar.

“Where is she?” a low voice asked. The bartender grunted in response. Footsteps echoed off the walls as the figures approached.

“Councilor?” one of the Sangheili called, his voice rough but familiar—one she knew all too well and was not ready to face.

“There is no Councilor here, Rol,” she muttered, refusing to lift her head. “They’re all gone. Murdered.” Her hand clenched into a fist before reaching for the bottle again.

“For Urs’ sake.” Rol sighed, exasperation clear in his tone. He murmured something to the figure behind him. “Give us a moment.” The second figure moved away as Rol dragged a chair noisily across the floor, seating himself across from Iema.

“Iema,” he began, his voice gentler now. But she still refused to meet his gaze.

“What do you want?” she snapped, bringing the bottle back to her mandibles. Before she could drink, Rol snatched it from her grip.

“That’s enough,” he growled, slamming the bottle down on the table. “Pull yourself together, Iema. You dishonor yourself. You’ve been hiding here for days. The Swords of Sanghelios—”

“So what?” she shot back, finally pushing herself up to face him, her arms shaky. “What could I possibly be needed for? Ceremonial duties? Leadership? Council?” Her brows furrowed, and she stared down at the table, the anger turning inward. “I am nothing but a failure. I… I allowed it to happen. I…” Her voice broke, and tears that welled in her eyes, fueled by the alcohol, were quickly blinked away. “I let them kill them, Rol. I… I didn’t foresee it... I should have…” Her head hung limp, her voice a whisper. “I should have known. I should have stopped them.”

Rol let the silence linger, watching his fellow warrior and friend anguish. “Iema,” he said quietly, leaning forward, “no one lays blame against you. Rather, they are grateful that you survived.”

She scoffed at the thought. ‘Survived.’ It didn’t feel like survival.

Rol sighed, leaning back as he accepted he wouldn’t win this argument tonight. “Look… there’s someone I want you to meet. I think they may be of some assistance.” He gestured, and the echo of footsteps approached once more. “Iema, I want you to meet Ascetic Vrok ‘Balav.”

Iema slowly turned her head, her green hues meeting the orange glow of the Ascetic’s eye covers on his helmet. “It’s my pleasure to meet you, Councilor,” Vrok said with a bow of his head, his voice calm and steady. “I think we may be able help each other.”