I: Sparky and the Scrivener
The Ghost hovered a few meters above the small campfire and tried, again, to explain the rules. The Lightbearer chewed on a bit of tough gray root. He had softened it over the fire and its sour flavor had mellowed into something approaching black pepper. To his surprise, he found himself enjoying it. He interrupted his Ghost. "You've explained how it's supposed to work, and I've explained that I don't care," he said with playful finality. "I don't like any of the names you've suggested. And either we both get new names, or neither of us do." The Ghost flew down to eye level, where its shell appeared iridescent purple in the firelight. "I have had several good names already," it replied. "I enjoyed some of them quite a bit." The Lightbearer shook his head. "You said I had a name before as well, but you won't tell me what it was." "Can't," it corrected him. The Lightbearer fell silent. The Ghost emitted a static sigh. "Purely as a hypothetical exercise," it said carefully, "what would you name me?" "You are… a light in the darkness," the Lightbearer began, and paused. He stumbled over the sudden weight of his words. From the beginning, this little Ghost had been the only thing keeping him going. It seemed every Guardian he met had little interest in him except to hold him accountable for the unknown sins of his past, but this almost unbearably earnest Ghost had mended him again and again. It nourished him with its encouragement and its inexplicable single-minded faith in him. It showed him compassion. Sometimes, when he writhed awake with a hot knot of nameless anxiety in his belly, the Ghost would rest on his chest and hum to him until he fell back to sleep. The Lightbearer took a breath to regain his composure. "And thus, I name thee Sparky." The Ghost emitted a pained groan, contracted in the air, and fell to the ground, where it lay facedown in the leaf litter. The Lightbearer smiled. "I'm sensing some reluctance, Sparky." The Ghost gave the barest pulse and rolled itself over in the leaves—a tiny, lazy movement. It dimmed its light to a bare flicker. "It's terrible," it said flatly. "Picky," the Lightbearer sniffed. "Very well. I can do better." The Ghost warily resumed hovering. "How do you feel about Gleam?" he asked. "Flash? Or maybe Glint?" "Glint?" A rainbow of colors played across the Ghost's eye. This usually meant he was calculating complex enemy behavior, determining combat outcomes, or mapping hundreds of bullets and their millions of possible trajectories. "Oh, I like Glint!" The Lightbearer drew to his feet by the fire and bowed deeply. "Then it is an honor to meet you, Master Glint." He reached out a finger and wiggled one of Glint's points in greeting. The absurdity of the gesture delighted the little Ghost. "And now that you have a name," said the Lightbearer, "perhaps I will be more open to ideas as we search for mine." Glint dipped in the air, acknowledging his partner's progress. The pair smothered their fire earlier than usual that night. The next morning, a passer-by saw Glint's Lightbearer without his helmet. The Titan beat him mercilessly with her flaming hammer, snapping his collarbone and crushing his pelvis. He died hours later of internal hemorrhage. Glint brought him back and the pair traveled in silence for a long while.
The Ether pipes rattled their arrhythmic beat as they greeted a new arrival in the Spider's lair. He entered with hesitance. Gold eyes flitted around the room like a nervous animal. His clothes were those of a traitor. The white shawl of a funerary covering draped across shoulders that hunched downward as if a heavy burden rested on them. He was thin from hunger, broken by the cruelty of a face he did not recognize, but others reviled. Out of "compassion" he was given a space to rest: a modicum of privacy amid the rattling pipes. The Spider, with one hand at his mouth, perched so far forward on his throne that it dipped down toward the floor. "Nothing? " he asked one of his lieutenants, who offered a wordless shake of his head in response. "And you're sure? This isn't just some…" Spider waved one hand in the air, as if gesturing to his point. "Some clever ruse?" The silence that Spider was met with may as well have been a resounding affirmative. "Fascinating." Spider grunted as he slid forward off of his throne. He landed on the floor with surprising grace, but when he walked, it was with an ambling gait—a feigned weakness. He dismissed his lieutenant with a flippant gesture and traipsed toward the nearby storage room. The pipes were quieter in there, but only just. Seated on the floor, wrapped in the tattered white cloth of his burial shroud, the man once known as Prince Uldren Sov looked up to the wide shadow Spider cast in the doorway. He rose to his feet, then bowed. "Baron," he said mistakenly, unaware that Spider neither held no such a title, nor led a great house. Spider's response was a smug laugh, though he tried to temper it behind smiling words. "You look like the underside of a Dreg's boot," Spider opined as he glided into the room with a silence that belied his stooped posture and uneven gait. His guest—a Lightbearer, no less—turned to his Ghost in a moment of uncertainty. "We've had better days," was the Ghost's response. Spider restrained himself from criticizing the Ghost for intruding on the conversation and pointedly ignored him. "My boys said they found you adrift in space, that your ship ran into some… debris," Spider said. "Awful generous of them to… retrieve you." The Spider circled, slowly, blue eyes glowing in the gloom of the dimly lit space. Up close, he carefully assessed the Lightbearer's posture, his expressions, and even something as intimate and subtle as his scent. "How long were you trapped up there, in the vacuum? Dying and being reborn… over and over again?" The Lightbearer slouched, and his gold eyes averted to the floor at the memory. "Long enough to know what eternity feels like. Long enough to know I'd never escape without…" he looked up to Spider, to the glow of those Ether-infused eyes. "Without help." "That's me," Spider said eagerly, "very helpful. Very helpful indeed." Now sure that the Lightbearer didn't recognize him, Spider ambled up close and took an assessing look at his new guest. "I don't think I caught your name," he added—one final test. "I…" The Lightbearer didn't know how to answer. His Ghost was silent too. "I don't have one." It took all of Spider's energy not to burst out in gleeful laughter. "Well, that won't do," Spider insisted as he laid a hand on the Lightbearer's shoulder. "That won't do at all. I won't have someone in my care…" and Spider was careful to emphasize that word, "without a proper name." With a sly tone, Spider moved in closer and suggested, "How about we try one out? Just for a little while. You and me." His voice lowered, gravely and hushed. "What do you think about… Crow?" The Lightbearer's eyes showed no recognition. The Spider's shone with predatory intent.