If you want to move to a preceding or following part, or read an actual description of the story, click [url=https://www.bungie.net/en/Clan/Post/1901902/223764924/0/0]Table of Contents[/url]. He spun around and came face-to-face with a four-eyed Fallen Dreg, its shock pistol at the ready. The alien fired, the shots nearly hitting him in the waist. Nicholas flinched away violently, drew a knife from his belt, and threw it right into the Dreg’s face. It collapsed and fell backward down the hill. Nicholas’ heart beat with adrenaline. He inspected his belt where the shots had nearly hit and breathed a sigh of relief. Thankfully, they had missed the incendiary grenade he had clipped to it, his last one until he could find more. Really, he wasn’t sure it would even work, it was so old, but he kept it on his person in case he needed to get out of a tight squeeze. He resumed going down to the battlefield. He arrived as the sun was halfway over the horizon and the fires from the ruined ship were smoldering away. The woman was crawling unsteadily away from the wreckage of the Fallen Walker, as though she were trying to reach her old ship. “[i]Izvinite[/i],” Nicholas called out to her in Russian. “Do you need—” The woman flipped around, her hood falling back off her head. Nicholas started in surprise. The woman was bright blue, like the midday sky, with short-cropped white hair and lemon yellow eyes. Her soft features were strained with pain and fear, but Nicholas was pretty terrified himself. He pointed his gun at her and yelled, “[i]Chto ty takoye[/i]?!” Morgana was fairly startled by the ragged human in front of her herself. He was completely filthy, with particularly dark mud under his dark green eyes that may have been intentional. Dirt was caught in his stubble that lined his square jaw and matted his thick eyebrows. His long, unwashed brown hair was drawn back and tied behind his head with a piece of wire. He looked almost as threatening as the Fallen, but clearly was very afraid of her. Had he never met an Awoken before? “[i]Chto ty takoye[/i]?” he asked again, shaking his sniper rifle at her. His language sounded familiar to her, maybe Russian. If he couldn’t understand the City’s vernacular, it might be more reassuring for him to hear his own language. Morgana certainly needed help, and if this was the best she could come up with, it would have to do. “[i]Pomogi mne, pozhaluysta[/i],” she asked for help. This surprised Nicholas even further. “[i]Ty govorish’ po-russki[/i]?” [i]You speak Russian?[/i] “[i]Da[/i],” Morgana confirmed. “[i]Vy mozhete mne pomoch’[/i]?” [i]Can you help me?[/i] Nicholas dropped his gun slightly. “How do you know my tongue?” Now it was Morgana’s turn to be surprised. “You know the language of the City? Are you from there?” “[i]Nyet[/i]. You answer my questions first, [i]da[/i]?” he responded with a strong Russian accent. “So you come from City. Again, I ask, what are you?” “I’m an Awoken,” Morgana replied. Nicholas nodded his head slowly, lowering his weapon completely. “Ah. My mother told me about your kind. Escapees, during dark times. I did not imagine you to be shaped like humans but colored so strangely.” The tips of Morgana’s fingers were getting cold. She needed help. “Well, now you know. Listen, I’m hurt pretty badly here. A Fallen stabbed—” Nicholas waved her off, interrupting, “Yes, yes, I saw that happen. I’m surprised you survived. Are you in any pain?” She was caught off guard by his rudeness, but realized that she felt more scared than in pain. “Not really. Am I in shock?” He kneeled down and examined her wound. “I do not think so. The shock blade overloaded nerves in your wound, which may be preventing your system from going into shock.” He gently touched her injury. “You cannot feel this, [i]da[/i]?” She shook her head. “No.” He looked at her satchel. “Do you have medical supplies or first aid with you?” “No,” she said, silently chastising herself. Why hadn’t she thought to bring any along, especially when she had had the dream of her own death? And probably by this wound, no less? “Do you have anything?” Nicholas shook his head. “I have nothing on my person. If we can keep you from bleeding, I can bring you back to my home and see if there is anything there. I make no promises though, I have very little.” “I’ll accept that,” Morgana sighed. “Thank you. I’m Morgana Rahool.” “I am Nicholas Piotrevich Volkov.” He tore off a long strip of cloth from a Fallen cape and held both ends. He paused uncomfortably. “To be effective, I would have to wrap it around you, which you may find…unsuitable. Unless you believe you can dress the wound yourself.” She blushed despite losing blood. She understood his awkwardness. “Oh no, no, I think I can handle it mys---” She tried to straighten up, but a sharp, deep pain in her abdomen made her gasp and lie back down. “No, never mind. You can go ahead.” Nicholas coughed anxiously and tried to be as modest as possible. His unease was evident, which was oddly gratifying to Morgana. His savage appearance belied an honorable nature. When he tightened the bandage around her sternum, the wound throbbed excruciatingly and she was afraid she would pass out. He removed his hands quickly, finished with the wrap but letting her readjust herself to get comfortable. Nicholas cleared his throat. That was absolutely an uncomfortable experience. “Can you walk?” Morgana tried bending to push herself up, but immediately found more difficulty. Nicholas took hold of her arm tenderly and carefully draped her arm across his shoulders, keeping her wounded side close to his body. “Very well,” Nicholas huffed. “We will travel this way. Do not move more than you must, or your wound will continue to bleed. It will take time to return to my home, but we should arrive much sooner than it will take the sun to set.” “Thank you again,” Morgana grunted, trying to take a few steps forward. Nicholas scoffed. She had no idea how little he had. “I make no promises.” They left the battlefield slowly in their three-legged fashion. The way they had to travel put the sun right in their eyes, but Nicholas knew the landscape well. They went out of their way to take the easiest paths, though they were not the fastest. Morgana had to rest frequently because trekking made her dizzy, so their journey was even slower. Nicholas appreciated it when she shared her water from her satchel. It tasted so much better than anything he had drunk in a long time he was tempted several times to gulp the whole bottle dry, but refrained. After traveling this way for an hour, they had left the destroyed ship far behind and the sun was well over the hills ahead of them. Morgana could almost feel herself absorbing something from the wilderness, imagining herself getting wilder as time went on. “How long have you lived here?” she asked Nicholas, trying to distract herself from the growing throb in her injury. Nicholas slid her a sideways glance. He knew she was just asking to occupy herself, but he wasn’t used to polite conversation and found the question invasive. “Six years.” “Just six years? Where were you before?” “Not far from here.” Morgana expected him to continue, but he just stopped. “Well, how long have you been living on your own, out in enemy territory?” He laughed sharply. “I’ve been by myself for six years, but I’ve been in ‘enemy territory’ for my entire life.” She raised her eyebrows. “How old are you?” He scratched his chin. “I never bothered to know my age. My mother would know, but she died six years ago. I would guess that I am, as they say, ‘in my mid-twenties.’” Her mouth dropped open. “You’ve lived for over twenty years outside of the City, any settlement, or organized refugee camp?” He laughed again. She really had no idea what life was like out here, did she? “Those ‘settlements’ and ‘camps’ are lies. ‘Enemy territory,’ as you put it, is everywhere. They live on false sense of security. They exist only by grace of lazy Fallen invaders, who, when they find no other sport, maraud and pillage to pass time. Only ‘safe’ place is your City, home of Guardians, who protect last free peoples of Earth so long as they grovel beneath a large broken [i]machine [/i]that Guardians also grovel beneath.” Morgana was astounded. What was this barbarian thinking? “’Grovel?’ No one grovels to the Traveler! We live and work to salvage and restore our Golden Age. Only by its Light through the Guardians can we save humanity from extinction!” Nicholas shook his head. “I have heard tales. My mother told me same things you say now. You both state promises you are not sure you can keep, but you say them anyway to make children feel better. But children do not stay young out here.” “You can’t say the Guardians don’t fulfill their duties!” Morgana argued. She stopped walking, forcing them both to stand still. “You said you watched the battle yourself. Didn’t you see how valiantly they fought the Fallen, to try to keep me safe?” Nicholas turned to face her. “What has that to do with it? Their power impresses me. I admire their strength. I pity their lack of freedom. I despise their weakness. Gild them as you wish, but under no circumstances would I ever envy them or ever want to be them. I value my freedom more. And what are you to them? Some priest to your machine god?” “I’m a cryptarch, if you must know,” Morgana replied hotly. “What is ‘cryptarch’?” This caught Morgana off guard. “I…I study ancient artifacts and documents from the Golden Age, hoping to learn ways to aid the Guardians in their fight to retake our worlds.” Nicholas’ eyes shown with understanding. “Ah, you are historian, yes? You seek answers to riddles in past?” “Or from our enemies,” Morgana added, feeling some of her dignity return. “So you know of Fallen kind and culture, [i]da[/i]? Tell me, do they have mercy, compassion, or gods like humans have?”