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Chapter 12: Mark of Shame

There was no comfort to be had for Oriné ‘Fulsamee in the markets or bazaars; his appetite for sweets and human trinkets had failed him. Nor could he turn to the temples for guidance, at once fearing and reviling their sacred grounds. He felt forsaken by the very life he had been raised to believe was divine and righteous.

But he could not go back to the suite that had been set aside for his family. For some reason, he couldn’t stomach the idea of facing his mother and father. Perhaps because of his outburst or the information about the war that had been revealed, or because when it came down to it he could neither protect his sister nor get his vengeance against the one who had doomed them all. In both instances his heart held him fast. There was nothing he could do to assuage the sorrow in his heart about Fulsa, and despite all his rage he could not bring himself to exact retribution against Ekla.

So he did what he could: search for a tavern in which he could drown himself in brandy and shame.

It took him a while, but he found a large hostelry located several sectors away from Ekla’s apartment. Deciding it would do well enough for his purposes, he entered, the laser-carved doors sliding aside and admitting him. Within was a well-lit open area with tables, chairs to accommodate various species, a central ovaloid bar, and various flora installed around the edges. The chosen specimens, native to Sanghelios, were unremarkable themselves but their simple presence provided comfort and nostalgia. Oriné wasn’t sure if the latter would mix well with alcohol.

As he stepped in, a massive hand reached out and stopped him from advancing; he followed the arm with his eyes and found that a very large Sangheili had arrested his movement. The stranger’s eyes were settled on his sidearm, a plasma pistol magnetically attached to his hip, but as Oriné turned to face him the individual noticed the markings on his armor. For a moment, the unfamiliar eyes flickered to another corner of the establishment, drawing Oriné’s attention as they did so. Clustered in one area was a pack of Jiralhanae, drinking and muttering among themselves.

Reluctantly the bouncer withdrew his hand and allowed the Elite Minor passage inside. As he went, however, Oriné nodded reassuringly towards the guard. “I have no desire to cause trouble,” he said, “simply to drink.” The guard motioned him past.

Maneuvering his way around a group of Kig-Yar, Oriné made it to the bar area. Behind it floated a Huragok, keeping the machines in working order. The creature looked like a series of gas-filled bladders lumped together with several tentacles hanging down. At any moment during repair, the tentacles split into thousands of tiny cilia and could probe into machines; some wondered if perhaps the cilia were even smaller, able to slide into the space between molecules, but few could believe such simple creatures as Covenant Engineers would be capable of something that wondrous.

Wishing for a live bartender, the Elite Minor highlighted the command for a strong whiskey, and moments later a goblet arrived in front of him. For a while he stood sipping the drink and watching the people around him; there were live Unggoy servers, but they only retrieved drink orders from the machine.

As the “evening” wore on, he found himself in the company of a couple other Sangheili. One was a Minor like himself, on leave but from a different ship in the Dn’end Legion. He had just returned from a simple campaign around a gas giant that had involved destroying the planet and then scanning the asteroid belt for human installations.

Oriné’s other companion was an older, retired Major. If he was to be believed, he had survived the worst of the war with the Jiralhanae and was the father of a beautiful saitarelé. Then again, he confessed that this particular pub had been his third on this night’s tour. Still, his conversation was enjoyable, though occasionally unintelligible.

Together they discussed many things, from women to combat to life. The former Major, Oriné learned, had been born on Sanghelios but due to his “unquenchable heroics” had been awarded a small flat here in the Holy City. His fellow Minor was from an agricultural colony with a long family history of little military value and great expanses of land. As they chatted, despite his increasing intoxication, Oriné was careful not to let slip the reason he was in the city; fortunately his companions were in a similar state, and didn’t bother asking why a member of the S’gor Legion was so deep in friendly space.

Somewhere after his third whiskey and fourth ale, Oriné realized that he was having difficulty finding his hooves. The trio sat at a table so the inebriated Minor could follow his legs to their conclusions, but after a moment they realized that they had chosen a table close to the Jiralhanae pack. Though the thought sobered them slightly, it was not long until they were giggling loudly at poorly whispered jests.

Eventually one of the Jiralhanae took offense and stood, sauntering over as menacingly as he could. The three Sangheili stopped laughing (barely) and turned to face the newcomer.

“Your presence is malodorous and irritating, Sangheili filth,” the creature growled. Judging by the color of its fur, and its general disposition being one of visible but contained rage, Oriné decided this one was slightly experienced in the art of the fight. He believed his companions had arrived at the same conclusion. “Please remove yourselves.”

Still, though part of their brains were undoubtedly telling them to stop, the alcohol had already ravaged their sense of caution. “Yes, well, your presence is smelly and annoying,” the other Minor slurred. The Sangheili all giggled while an even darker look passed over the Jiralhanae’s face.

The Major put a finger to his mandibles. “You know,” he began, “I won a pelt on Doisac—you know Doisac, don’t you?—that is very similar to your own coat. It may belong to your father.” At this point the Brute bared his tusks, but the older warrior was undeterred. “I was just thinking, I made a drapery of that pelt, and yours would make a nice accompanying rug.”

Despite his stupor, Oriné knew that the old man had crossed a line, but instead of striking him the Jiralhanae simply snarled and left. They watched him go, and subsequently collapsed into a fit of hysterics.

——

By the time he decided to call it a night, Oriné doubted very much that the night was over, but hardly cared. His sense of time, as well as shame and dignity, had dulled enough that the idea of stumbling barely-aware into his family’s provided apartment to the shock of his parents held no hazard to him. Still, he decided, it was best if he dipped his head into a fountain to perhaps dispel the aroma that hovered around him.

In the state that he was, the Elite Minor had no idea how he eventually found himself cutting through alleys and avenues in an attempt to find a serviceable pool, but he was neither surprised by this realization nor particularly dissuaded. The thought that he was completely lost hardly fazed him. He was sure he’d find a helpful map at some point. His sister’s trial was still two weeks off; he had plenty of time.

Fulsa’s image, particularly that of her held prisoner and standing before the council, sobered Oriné enough that he realized the throughway he had chosen to navigate down was blocked by a darkened figure at the other end. A moment later, he recognized the shaggy outline of a Jiralhanae.

Combat instincts cut through the alcohol-induced fog, though not entirely. As he went for his plasma pistol, he realized too late that someone was behind him and received a solid thump to the back of his skull for his lack of observational skill. He tumbled forwards, landing on his armed hand and pinning his own weapon beneath him.

A large foot placed itself on his armored back; Oriné rolled an eye to find himself staring into the eyes of a familiar-looking Jiralhanae. But for the first time he realized that he didn’t recognize this individual from the bar, but from the temple grounds a few years ago. This one had been part of the attack against his person, a scene that had nearly ended in his death had it not been for a chance Honor Guard patrol.

The Brute leaned down so far that Oriné could smell his breath, a stink made up of part ale and part halitosis. The smile that met his eyes was jagged and cruel. “Have you forgotten how to scream, hatchling?”

Oriné did not answer. Instead he rolled, using his left arm to push his side up slightly despite the overpowering pressure on his back, and exposed the tip of his weapon. He angled the shot, quite literally from the hip, and squeezed the trigger twice in quick succession. The first bolt caught the Brute in the throat and sent him flinching back, giving the second the opportunity to enter through the chin and vaporize half the creature’s brain. The important half; the Jiralhanae fell back, dead. Down the alley the Sangheili heard the companion howl in rage and sorrow at the death of its packmate, but he didn’t stick around to see what came next. In a second he was on his feet and sprinting in the other direction.

Fear and alcohol did not mix well, and again Oriné found a gap in his memory. Yet somehow he was in the right area from which he could locate his family’s suite, which he did with situationally unfeasible accuracy. When he entered, he did not see his father or mother; a quick and quiet investigation revealed that both had gone to bed. Vowing to do the same, Oriné was somehow able to get both his helmet and a single mandible guard off before his knees buckled and he sank, already unconscious, to the floor.

——

There were few repercussions from the murder in the alley. At first, when he had been able to think clearly after his self-devastating binge, Oriné had feared that he crossed a line, dooming himself to quick execution for killing another member of the Covenant in cold blood. Of course he knew it hadn’t been so, but as the only survivor was a friend of the deceased he surmised the story would cast him in a very negative light.

And technically he was right. The official story said a bloodthirsty Sangheili had murdered a Jiralhanae who had been out for a late-night stroll with his comrade. As the account said, this murderous being had appeared out of nowhere and shot the Brute dead without provocation; the Prophets caused a stir on the Com Net, condemning the murderer and demanding an investigation.

However, due to the nature of the crime, the investigation was left to the Honor Guard. Tensions had been rising even more sharply since Oriné’s last visit to this city, and the Sangheili felt more and more pressured: crime rates between the competing species was climbing, friendly fire incidents becoming more and more common, and many murders of Sangheili had gone unattended by the Prophets. As a result, the Guard Captain who was placed in charge of the investigation sounded so unimpassioned that Oriné believed he could have walked right up to him on a crowded street, loudly declared his guilt, and not received any sort of punishment. In fact, the Captain would likely buy him a drink, either to congratulate him or try and trigger another rampage.

Still, Oriné said nothing. Best not to burden his parents, who were already concerned because of his spree; they asked him to stay close. As an adult he had no obligation to follow their requests, but he did so out of love.

They were not limited to their suite. At their leisure they could leave and walk about the city, though they were forbidden from exiting High Charity itself. Oriné showed them the various places he had found during his first stay, trying to keep his parents in a good mood. His father made an honest attempt to be amused, if not jovial, but his mother had become introverted and quiet. She preferred to spend most of her time brooding inside the apartment.

It was on such a trip that Oriné and his father found their way to the site of the old Heretic museum. Alsa had left earlier, expressing a desire to lie down, and they had let her leave.

The museum was now an empty hall, just a few benches and empty alcoves all that were left of the place that had one stood there. Oriné remembered with clarity his visit and the revelations that had filled him with scorn, but now he felt only sympathy. The owner of this museum had been charged with heresy like Fulsa, and also like his sister Oriné did not know the outcome. He hoped the Sangheili had been found innocent and kept his life, though not his honor or dignity. Perhaps he had become a farmer and found peace in his work.

Upon entering, Oriné caught sight of the lone Kig-Yar caretaker. He remembered the hostile individual from his last visit, but like before the creature caught sight of his armor, grumbled an honorific and managed a bow, and shuffled away. The Elite Minor watched him go before he and his father sat on a bench, allowing the elder Sangheili a chance to rest.

They sat in silence for a few minutes before his father spoke up. “Your entire unit was lost on Coral?”

Oriné was taken off-guard by the timing, but he had suspected the question would come up. “Yes,” he replied, “though I was knocked unconscious by the initial barrage. I was rescued by my friend, Hada ‘Sobotee.”

“And what of him?”

“He was killed by a sniper a short time later. I delivered the news to his family myself.”

There was silence for another period. Oriné shifted uncomfortably, suddenly finding his armor very unwieldy.

“Your mother and I did not know about the Head Master’s daughter,” Orita said finally. Neither of them was making eye contact with the other. “We were very confused when we heard.”

“I... had not wanted to tell you.”

Orita looked at his son. “Why?”

“It was improper of me, and I was greatly shamed by it,” confessed the Elite Minor, unable to meet his father’s intent gaze. “For my actions I was banished to gulag duty, never expected to see combat again. I could not bear to tell you or mother for fear of what you would think or say; it was only through pure chance that I was able to earn my way away.”

“Is that where you earned that marking?”

Oriné looked down at his armor. The honor marking was carved into his right breastplate, a place of great honor where everyone who faced him could see it. The glyph was a Forerunner symbol meaning “savior,” reserved for warriors whose valiance had saved a superior officer and countless allies from doom. On his gauntlet there was another marking, a lesser glyph meaning “survivor” that had mixed tones: one the one hand, it signified that he had come out alive from an impossible situation, but on the other it meant that his unit had not. He had received it after he left Pearl, but he did not like to boast or even think about it. It returned too many painful memories to the surface.

He recounted his story, beginning with Ekla and ending after his release from gulag duty. Oriné hesitated to speak of Pearl, but when his father asked he answered all his questions: the conditions, how he felt, what it was like. Orita had never truly been exposed to ground combat, his career instead lying in the naval field. The two theaters rarely overlapped. It was difficult for the younger Sangheili to describe the chaos and uncertainty of battling the enemy forces face to face in a harsh environment.

When he finished, the two sat in a contemplative silence for a while longer. Finally the older Sangheili stood, stretching his back. “I suppose we should return,” he said. “There’s no other place of interest around here, truly. All the legends of the Arbiters bore me.”

Oriné looked up at his father. “Do you feel shame?”

Orita glanced back at him. “What?”

“What I have done, does it make you ashamed?”

At that moment, expecting some sort of somber expression, Oriné was completely taken off-guard when his father chuckled. “I was never selected for vestar duty,” he said, “but while at Institution I became madly attracted to my friend’s charge. For the week she was there, we would sneak into the temple gardens and spend time together.”

He looked at the bare walls, mind in another time. He continued, “When it was time for her to leave I snuck aboard her ship and stowed away, hoping to continue our illicit maneuvers. Of course, I was discovered and our acts brought into the open. The Major was furious with me and disciplined me with great force, and she was dismissed from the Coven for her part in it.”

As Orita trailed off, Oriné realized he was gaping. He brought his mandibles back together. “You truly went through that?”

“Of course I did,” his father said with a wide smile. “How do you believe I met your mother?”

——

A week had gone by when two unexpected visitors came to the ‘Fulsam Lineage’s suite. Hearing the chime, Oriné went to the door and bade it open. In the hallway he found himself in the presence of a Councilor and a cleric.

“Excellencies,” he said, suddenly aware of his casual lack of dress. He bowed his head and stepped aside. “Please, come in.”

As they moved inside, the cleric nodded to him. “You must be young Orna, yes?”

“No.” Orita walked into the room wearing a sarong wrapped tightly around his waist. “That is Oriné.” Oriné watched as their two visitors touched foreheads with his father, clasping hands and greeting each other very warmly. “I know it has been a while since you last saw him.”

“Indeed,” rumbled the Councilor, “the last I saw he was but a hatchling with wide eyes and soft skin playing with his sister. I was not expecting a seasoned warrior.”

“Nor I,” said the cleric. “How fares your mate?”

Orita shook his head. “None too well, I’m afraid. It has hit us all hard, but she suffers the most.”

Now thoroughly confused, Oriné edged into his room to dress himself in a robe; though his father seemed homely with these dignitaries, Oriné did not know them. He selected an indigo robe with soft purple lining and secured it with a silver belt. Once dressed, he went back out to find the Councilor had removed his helmet and all three had kneeled around a table. They chatted idly, each with a cup and a story. His father saw his entrance and motioned for him to join them.

“Son, I would like you to meet my long-time friends,” he said. He indicated first the Councilor—“This is Hada ‘Kobota, an old comrade from the war with the Jiralhanae”—and then to the cleric—“and this is Ako ‘Makillra, my childhood companion.” The Councilor ‘Kobota was taller than average and very muscular; it was clear that he had earned his position through war. His father likely knew him from serving on a ship. On the other hand was ‘Makillra, the cleric. He was slightly stout, if the shape of his robe was any indication, but Oriné wondered if his priestly duties allowed any time for observing physical exercise. However, he had a kind look in his face.

“You likely do not remember them,” continued Orita, “but they visited you shortly after you hatched. Ako was the one who blessed you and your sister.”

The cleric nodded, the motion very fluid as if practiced for ages. “You were among the most beautiful hatchlings I had ever seen,” he said, “though malnourished from sharing the same egg. For a while I feared that my blessing had been in vain.”

“Now we hear of you and your troubles,” interjected Councilor ‘Kobota, “how you have been bedding a Head Master’s daughter and your sister provoking the wrath of the temples.” The silver-armored Sangheili clicked his mandibles and took a sip of whatever it was he held. “You both have inherited your father’s penchant for creating a scene.”

The three older males laughed at that, and Oriné suddenly had a thought that perhaps his mother had been the Councilor’s charge.

The youngest Sangheili shifted his weight slightly. “Forgive my impertinence, Excellencies,” he said, “but why is it that you’re here?”

The mirth died quickly. A sobering air fell upon the small assembly. Orita spoke first: “I asked them to come because I hoped they could help us sway the Council to understand that Fulsa is no heretic. Hada is a leading member of the Council on Sanghelios and is acquainted with the Judge, and Ako is a respected cleric of the clergy. Their voices may give us enough weight in the coming trial to save your sister.”

‘Makillra, who had been taking a deep gulp of his drink, set down the cup and nodded. “I would like to speak to Fulsa, if the Hierarchs will permit me, to understand exactly what heresy she is reported to have said.” He looked from Orita to Oriné. “Do either of you know what she spoke?”

They shook their heads, Oriné adding, “They asked me to recite the third passage of the Final Ceremony of the Great Journey. I believe it may have been related.”

The cleric clicked his mandibles. “A thorny area of the Divinidex. Few dare to attempt interpretation for fear that any new information would be seen as heresy. It may be into this trap she has fallen.”

“Is there any way to dismiss this trial if such were the case?” asked Orita.

Slowly the rounded Sangheili shook his head. “No, but it would certainly make it pass quicker. It is a double-edged sword: if her reinterpretation is closer to the Gods’ Divinidex than the previous one, she would be promoted to the second circle. However, as it stands, it appears that hers was further, and is therefore heresy.” He lifted the cup and nursed whatever liquid it contained. “As I said, thorny.”

The ‘Fulsam patriarch lowered his head. “I suppose we must hope for a fair and balanced trial.”

“You need not hope,” ‘Kobota interjected, placing his cup down. It was empty. “Judge ‘Cafalae is very wise and unbiased. Your daughter’s innocence will fast be proven, and though she will not keep her position or her dignity, she will at least have her honor and her life.”

Oriné’s head perked up. “This is the Judge presiding over the trial?”

The Councilor smiled. “He is the Judge of the entire High Council of Masters, yes. The only way he could have ascended to that position is through a record of being fair and impartial. He is not looking to make an example of any who do not deserve it.”

Mulling it over, the Elite Minor nodded. As he was not privy, or particularly interested in politics, he wasn’t sure what to think. The way the Councilor had said it, however, made it seem favorable.

The conversation likely would have continued along that vein were it not for Alsa’s emergence from the bedroom. Rising and greeting her, their two guests made room for her to kneel with them. Immediately the subject changed to lighter things; the pallid tone of her skin and her dull, lusterless eyes made it clear she was still deeply in grief. They spoke instead of their lives and happenings, catching up together. At one point the conversation shifted to Oriné’s well-being and his adventures, but the young Sangheili did not speak about battle or the trying times on the frontlines for his mother’s sake. Nobody seemed to mind.

By the end of the evening, after a light supper and after-meal wine, farewells were exchanged and ‘Kobota and ‘Makillra took their leave. Oriné felt a comforting sense of belonging that he had lacked ever since leaving his comrades on the Transcendent Voyager.

But it was not to last.

——

The next day, Oriné sat in the living area of the suite watching a hologram generated by the Com Net receiver that had been allocated to the family. Apart from the regular news broadcasts, a greater amount of media attention was being given to the approaching trial. It was being hyped as a representative affair of a “growing lack of faith among Sangheili youth.” Various scenes and images appeared as a speaker, invisible, described the specifics of the trial, including a recording of the Elite Minor’s outburst during the interview.

I had thought that session closed, he thought as he watched a third-person account of him storming the pulpit. Disparaging though it was to see such an incident broadcast to the public, he took pride in the fact that he had looked strong and virtuous, defending his sister even against the encroaching Honor Guard. There was a scene switch just before Ekla would have entered.

Overall, however, the assumptions and inferences being made by the speaker threatened to bring about a very similar rage. Oriné’s Lineage was being examined by people who had never met or heard of them, and yet this “authority” continued to speak as if he knew every little detail. The Elite Minor was glad for the excuse to walk away when he heard the door chime.

When the door slid open he found himself again looking into the helmeted face of Hada ‘Kobota, but instantly he knew something was amiss. The first thing he noticed was that, today, there was no cleric with him but instead a full detachment of Honor Guards. All six of the crimson-and-gold armored warriors were arranged in a protective formation and had foregone their ceremonial pikes in favor of plasma rifles, four of them looking back and forth down the hallway while two gave Oriné scrutinizing glares. Instinctively he spread his hands, distancing his arms from his waist to indicate that he wore no weapons on his sarong.

The second thing he saw was a dark and troubled look on ‘Kobota’s face. “Is your father about?” the Councilor asked, all traces of yesterday’s humor gone. “I have something urgent to tell you both.”

A moment later, Orita was at the door. The two members of the ‘Fulsam Lineage waited expectantly while the Honor Guards sized them up and decided they were no threat. “I have dire news,” ‘Kobota said at last. “Judge ‘Cafalee was assassinated.”

Immediately Oriné felt a cold sensation in his stomachs.

“When?” asked his father. From the look on his face, he felt something similar.

“Moments ago,” the Councilor said. “I do not know any more at this point, but an emergency session of the Council has been called. I believed you must know now, before the official announcement, as one of the things we will be discussing is the continuation of Fulsa’s trial.”

Despite the numbness he felt, Oriné was able to nod. “Very well,” said Orita. “Thank you. Any word from Ako?”

“He has been granted permission to speak with Fulsa. Is there anything you would like us to pass along?”

“Tell her that we love her,” Oriné suddenly blurted, barely in control of his own mandibles, “and that we are doing everything in our power to help her.”

‘Kobota nodded. “Very good. I’ll inform Ako.” With that, he was urged to go by the Honor Guards and obliged, moving swiftly through the hall towards the gravity lift. The two Sangheili watched him go, then retreated back into the apartment to settle themselves in front of the Com Net receiver and await the official announcement.

When it came two hours later, Oriné was surprised to see Councilor Rakola ‘Orgalmae standing in full regalia. The Councilor raised his head and straightened his shoulders, the cloak he wore over his armor settling comfortably around his neck. “Loyal citizens of the Covenant,” he began, “it is my great burden to bear to you all the death of Judge Yvola Das ‘Cafalee, killed in his home by an armed assailant.”

The young Sangheili pursed his mandibles in thought. That he had three names was a sign of great honor; Das, a single honor meaning “justice,” was reserved for Councilors who had shown great fairness during their time in the position.

“He was slain as he slept by a dishonorable coward,” continued ‘Orgalmae, “killed with a metal blade. He is survived by a widow, two sons, and five grandchildren.” So that was it: assassinated, likely by a Jiralhanae who just happened to have a passcode onto the grounds of his estate here in the holy city. And, much like all the other incidents that made tensions rise, the Hierarchs were going to completely overlook it.

As for Fulsa, that meant her certain chance at a fair and honest trial was dead. Feeling numb, Oriné struggled to find hope, and remembered what Councilor ‘Kobota had said: one couldn’t become a Judge without being fair and honest. Though the replacement would not be the same, he would hopefully be just as good.

Thinking the announcement was finished, the Elite Minor was shocked when ‘Orgalmae lowered his head slightly and kept going: “The Hierarchs recognize that in these times tensions run high and deaths have become more common, and in their great wisdom have made a decree. The position of Judge of the High Council of Masters has been removed, and the Hierarchs themselves are to take the role until such a time as they believe the political situation to have relaxed.

“That is all. Glory be to the Forerunners.”

The hologram blinked out, leaving the two ‘Fulsamee elements sitting in silence. Finally mustering the courage required to do so, Oriné stood and began heading for his room.

“My son,” his father said behind him, voice quiet. “Everything will be all right.”

Oriné stepped into his room and let the door slide closed.

——

Two days before the trial began, Oriné and Orita were summoned to the offices of Cleric Ako ‘Makillra, located in the temple district in the shadow of the great Dreadnought. They went, Oriné in his armor and his father in a very formal robe, via the gravity pathway meant for rapid transit across the streets of the city; neither wished to deal with the hassle of the hovercraft.

When they arrived they were stopped by an Honor Guard Captain. Oriné recognized him as the one who repeatedly halted his entry during his time as guardian of a vestar. However, if recognizance went both ways he didn’t see it.

“What is your business here?” the Captain asked.

“We have been summoned by the Holy Cleric ‘Makillra,” replied Orita.

The unknown Sangheili eyed them both in cold silence. He was likely sizing them up; though of a low rank, Oriné had a distinguished honor marking and filled out his armor quite well, and Orita’s robes had the borders and designs indicative of a former Zealot. Finally, without another word, he stepped aside and allowed them access.

Within the walls of the temple were lavish decorations that Oriné had never imagined to see in a place of supposed humility. Trees neatly trimmed and bathed in private artificial light much like that of the rest of the city lined the major hallways. From above waterfalls cascaded into crystal pools surrounded by benches and full of small fish swimming. Aware of a growing ache in his stomach, the Elite Minor briefly wondered if anyone had ever attempted to eat any of them. He decided he would not like to be the first.

Further in, where larger, multi-tiered dome-rooms were located, vines climbed the walls and fixtures made of violet-tinted glass hung from the ceiling. Framed by the controlled growth were inscriptions, the letters carved in gold and set into silver placards. They shone in the light given off by the fixtures, seeming to be possessed of a divine glow. For a moment, though he had cared little for the Faith curriculum, Oriné wondered if perhaps this was Paradise.

However, catching his attention more so (and being caught in return) were the holy practitioners that strolled through these halls, some in complete silence and singularity while others paced in the company of fellow celebrants, chatting about what Oriné could not guess. In particular he noticed the Priestesses and vestars, clad in their attire fitting their positions. The older and more experienced bowed their heads to the two warriors as they passed while the younger, newer additions waved informally and giggled behind their hands, whispers slipping over the makeshift barriers. The Elite Minor fought to keep his blush down as his father covertly nudged him.

Oriné could have spent all day marveling at the ancient sights all around him, but he and his father were there on business. They were directed to the guest offices by an Honor Guard, but upon arrival were told by an escritoire that ‘Makillra, seeming distressed, had gone to the open-air gardens located further up in the temple. Taking a gravity lift, the pair alighted on the proper floor, and again Oriné was caught up in the sights. Through columned, paneless casements he could see the entire city laid out before him, but sloping downwards toward distant walls slightly obscured by fog. He knew the mist was generated by many homes and shops venting unused water and the like, and that it was cycled outside constantly, but it still gave a very serene look to High Charity.

It did not take long to find the cleric; he was the only one present. He stood on a veranda ringed by small kempt shrubs dotted with flowers, with his arms behind his back and looking out towards the Dreadnought and the Pagoda of Fasul beyond it.

As they approached and he turned, Oriné could tell immediately that something was wrong. He was not as intimately familiar with Ako as his father, but the look of unmitigated sorrow on his face was unmistakable.

There was no place to sit, but the cleric made no motion. He said, “I spoke with Fulsa.”

Orita waited a beat, hoping for something additional. “And?”

‘Makillra sighed. “Even if she showed signs of remorse, what she says is... I’m sorry, old friend, but it is heresy, potent and plain. She says such things about the Great Journey, such blasphemous things of the Forerunners and their ascension to Godhood that I cannot repeat it.” He looked up, eyes already mourning. “I am sorry, but even if I were not a cleric, I could not speak in her favor.”

Numbness passed over Oriné. So all was lost; he felt weak in the knees, suddenly wishing there were a place to sit. At his side his father hung his head with grief. The two stood on the edge of weeping, and Ako took it as his cue to leave. As he went he touched each of their shoulders, and then stepped past them, robes swishing in his wake.

All is lost.

——

Outside, Oriné had seen the crowds waiting, gathered together to discover the fate of the heretic, his sister. Inside, the anticipatory atmosphere seemed much the same. The Council chamber was bustling. Unlike the amphitheater, which curved around a semi-spherical area, this was just a hall with a very high and vaulted ceiling. On each side were raised benches, much like the amphitheater, and on each side the different races of the High Council of Masters were assembled. On the right sat the Sangheili Councilors, most wearing a black cape in addition to their armor, likely out of mourning for the fallen Judge. On the left were the Prophets, clad in their crimson vestments; with a shock Oriné realized they displayed nothing to express remembrance.

However his eyes were drawn from the blatant disregard for respect towards the termination point of the hall: where once there was a gravity throne in which the Judge sat, now three hovered over the bare floor. Each held one of the three Hierarchs, the High Prophets of the Covenant. As a triumvirate, they ruled over all the Councils and saw that an orderly and prosperous time was maintained.

The Elite Minor, and indeed all the Covenant, knew their names by heart: in the center sat the Prophet of Truth, the Voice; to his left was the Prophet of Regret, the Hand, and to the right the Prophet of Mercy, the Mind. Oriné remembered that Regret had given the opening speech when he first arrived at Institution, and Mercy had been the Prophet falling asleep at Commencement. Now, though, he looked wide awake and alert.

Standing below the Sangheili Councilors and in front of the row of Honor Guards, Oriné and his parents tried to look dignified, but he knew that their inner turmoil was evident on their faces.

Other than the Honor Guards lining the entire room there were a few others of note: Ekla, as well as a few other Priestesses who were older and had robes of higher Circles; and, more shocking, a small gathering of Jiralhanae. Oriné didn’t recognize any of them, and figured that even if he did he wouldn’t care. He was immensely surprised that they were even allowed to be present, but judging how close they stood to the Hierarchs they had been invited. All wore what amounted for uniform for them, bandoliers and sparse, harsh-looking armor, but one stood out with white hair.

The Elite Minor found he didn’t care.

At the far end came a chime and everyone fell silent. The door parted, revealing four Honor Guards dressed in their bulky, angular armor. Amidst them in stark contrast was Fulsa, standing like a single blade of blue grass amidst several stones. The guards escorted the prisoner, Oriné’s sister, up to a small pulpit; she walked up the ramp of her own accord and stood.

Immediately Oriné saw the difference. She had seemed a little frightened during the interview, but now she was... confident. Determined. Defiant. The gaze she fixed at the Hierarchs was dripping with cool anger, her hands clenched into tight fists. The snaking blue cuff was gone, leaving her arms free.

Truth’s throne floated forward. “Fulsa of the House of Sam, Clan ‘Ful,” he intoned, “you stand before the Council accused of heresy in the highest degree.” He paused and looked at her, seeming to notice her for the first time. “This congress will decide if you are indeed guilty of this heresy. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she said. Her voice sounded different, too. There was no childish intonation, no hint of the crècheling she had once been. She had become an adult.

Floating backwards, Regret and Mercy began the questioning. It was like the interview, as without the Judge the Hierarchs had to make their own decisions regarding this case. But Oriné knew this wasn’t a good thing; they were going to make the decision too fast with too little deliberation, not the two weeks of thought and discussion it should have received.

“You have studied the Great Journey in detail, yes?” Regret’s voice was smooth and controlled.

“Yes,” Fulsa replied, her newfound steel voice ringing through the chamber, “I desired to be one of the Chosen Elect.” Even from his place on the side, Oriné saw her sister’s eyes flick from one Prophet to the next. “I have no such desire now.”

That gave pause to the entire assembly. She showed no sign of remorse. Fear gripped the Elite Minor’s stomach; what was she thinking? Even if she truly believed whatever she thought she had found, she should try to ease the Prophets’ wrath by at least appearing recalcitrant.

Recovering from the shock, Regret leaned in. “Did the truth of the Lords’ Path dazzle your eyes, drive you mad with fervor and worship, make your tongue and mouth spell out words that your mind had no control over?”

Fulsa’s eyes narrowed. “No, of course not.”

“You were a candidate for the Second Circle,” Mercy cut in, “a very rare honor for one your age. Did you not think that perhaps your ill-conceived speculations about the Great Journey would cause you to lose your position?”

“Some things are more important.”

Oriné began to feel numb; overwhelmed by the dread that was consuming him. Mercy frowned. “Such as?”

“The truth.”

Harsh and angry whispers echoed through the Council chambers, the Councilors speaking in low tones. All the sounds coalesced in the room so that he couldn’t pick out individual voices or words. After a moment, Truth waved his hand and the sound quieted back down to silence.

“Is it true,” he said, “that you have forsaken the Great Journey?”

Finally, Fulsa looked conflicted. There was a glimmer of doubt in her eyes. “I do not forsake the Great Journey,” she said after a moment, “and I do not doubt that the Forerunners were as Gods and Lords. But...” She rolled her neck. “But I have found that the Sacred Rings were not the vehicle of the Great Journey.”

Shouts and cries erupted in the Council, but Mercy slammed his fist on the holographic controls for his throne and his voice boomed louder over all the clamoring, bringing the Councilors to order. He turned his eyes, venomous and sharp, towards the young Priestess. “You dare to doubt the scriptures, the Holy Divinidex?”

“There have been misinterpretations before,” Fulsa shot back. She had become defiant again. “As no Codex has yet been found, our interpretations of the accounts left by our Masters are circumstantial translations with only speculative context.”

“But you speak against the Great Journey,” Truth said, hovering forward. “That is one of the most corroborated and accepted truths of the Divinidex.”

“There is one section wherein the Great Journey is not affirmed, and if read closely the Sacred Rings are said to be deadly,” said Fulsa.

Renewed silence fell over the assembly. A cleric sitting among the Councilors shot to his feet, clearly enraged. “You speak of the Damned Times! To even look upon those records is a heresy in and of itself! Those have been dismissed as the disparaging writings of our Lords when they themselves lost faith, and thus damaging to the Covenant at large!”

“They should not be ignored!”

Roaring once again took the Council, and Oriné looked around. Councilors on both sides were rising to their feet and making condemning gestures towards his sister, whom stood and looked at them all. However, instead of anger or accusation in her eyes there was something else: pity. Whatever she felt, whatever she found, it made her feel sorry for all those assembled.

“Silence!” Truth’s voice carried over the Council and the spectators, aided by audio inflation. The Councilors quieted, but many did not resume their seats, instead continuing to glare venomously at Fulsa.

“In light of these... blatant heresies,” said the Hierarch, “we find we truly have no alternative.” Truth hovered forward, once again adopting his formal posture as the Voice. Oriné was horrified. There would be no deliberation, no investigation; she was to be sentenced now.

“Fulsa of the House of Sam, Clan ‘Ful, Priestess of the First Circle of the Sacred Coven, you are hereby found guilty of vile heresy. You are to be executed following torture.” Truth raised his eyes up to the Council at large. “The ‘Fulsam Lineage is now found to be in disgrace: any further offspring made without first regaining the lost honor, aside from the four existing now, will be destroyed as heretics. The Hierarchs have spoken.”

Cheers of affirmation arose from the Council and filled Oriné’s ears, drowning out even his mother’s sobs, as he looked at Fulsa. She hung her head, graceful neck seeming to bend under a colossal weight. Oriné was so overwhelmed that he did not notice the Prophets’ mistake: there were only three children of the ‘Fulsam Lineage, not four.

But soon there would be only two.

Two of the Brutes moved forward and seized Fulsa’s arms, dragging her down from the pulpit and towards the door. Oriné reacted instinctually, rushing forward to try and help her. Two Honor Guards lowered their pikes onto his shoulders, pain buzzing through them as they delivered none-too-gentle shocks into his body; but compared to the pain of a bullet entering his flesh, they were nothing. He pushed forward, and behind him he heard the footsteps as the Guards gave chase.

He reached Fulsa, grabbing one of the arms that held her and tried to pry it away, but it was like steel wrapped around a precious item. It would not budge. Two firm hands gripped him from behind, but he reached out to his sister. She reached back and seized his hand.

In that moment, Oriné was back on Sanghelios, a child once more. They rolled together in the fields, laughed and played soldier, dueling with sticks and rocks. He was always careful not to hurt her or let her come to harm; there was a connection between them. According to ancient Sangheili beliefs, twins were linked. One’s fate would be the same as the other. In old times they would be celebrated together, tried together, killed together.

Now Oriné faced losing her. He wished that he would be killed with her, but he knew that even this outburst would not be met with lethal force. Her torture would be prolonged and physical, but he would have to live the rest of his life without her. A slow death.

The grip on his shoulders became too strong and he was pulled back, his hand slipping out of hers. There was concern in her eyes, for him, he knew. But there was no fear. Trying to struggle forward again, he felt the sharp impact of a spear in his back, the sensation ringing even through his armor. Still he tried, and he felt another blow push the air out of his lungs. As his limbs grew limp and heavy of their own accord, Oriné drew in a breath.

“I love you!”

He shouted to her shrinking form, growing smaller as the Jiralhanae, accompanied by their albino leader, walked through the door. He was roughly hauled back to his mother and father, and the three of them were ushered out the same way, but many steps behind the Brutes ahead.

Once in the artificial light, Oriné could see straight down the path to the platform ahead. It was in clear view of the throngs gathered below, but there would be holographic representations of the imminent proceedings a lot closer for them to watch. In his mind, Oriné knew that he and his family were to be given a very close vantage point.

Fulsa was brought to the edge of the platform, arms raised and gravity cuffs holding her wrists level with her head. The rest of the ‘Fulsam Lineage was brought close, off to the right but where they would be given a perfect view.

The white-haired Jiralhanae stepped up and looked out over the crowds. “This former priestess has betrayed the Covenant!” he shouted, voice amplified by unseen devices. Below the crowds roiled, their shouts reaching even the ears at the top of the tower.

Two points in the air around Fulsa’s arrested form began to glow; suddenly they lashed out, sending waves of energy cascading down her arms. At this she cried out, and Oriné realized they were burning her. He lurched forward but was stopped by an Honor Guard.

“Hold,” he said quietly. “There is nothing you can do now.”

Oriné watched with desperate helplessness as Fulsa thrashed and writhed, her head jerking from side to side, mandibles clenched as a pained groan slipped out. The bracers on her wrist were heating drastically, turning a dull red and sizzling against her flesh. Her robes, once beautiful azure, began to darken and curl. The Elite Minor could barely stand the sight. It felt as if his own skin was burning.

The Jiralhanae was pacing back and forth, eyes on Fulsa as she was tortured. He continued to speak, “She has disgraced the Great Journey, calling it a futile effort! Thus she will not be part of its greatness!” More jeers erupted from the crowd; holographic representations of the suffering being inflicted would be playing, allowing those fortunate enough to be out of eyesight the opportunity to watch. “Watch as this heretic burns for her lies!”

After a few additional minutes of this torture, the albino Brute made a motion and two Jiralhanae stepped forward. They seized her vestments and proceeded to tear them off, finding some unexpected resistance as the edges of her bracers and necklaces had fused to her skin. The floor grew unstable under Oriné’s hooves as they peeled them off and Fulsa whimpered, her nerves not yet burned into inertness.

For a moment, Oriné thought that perhaps it was over. But as a long object floated up a nearby gravity lift, he realized the worst was yet to come. The end glowed dangerously, a raised symbol visible among the hot metal. Picking it up, the torturer approached Fulsa, stopping directly in front of her.

“Your heresy,” the Jiralhanae hissed, “shall never be forgiven.”

He plunged the brand into Fulsa’s chest.

The scream was long and loud, shaking all within earshot to their very soul. Though Oriné fainted when the smell of his own sister’s burning flesh hit his nostrils, that scream would structure his nightmares for years to come.

Description
Chapter 12: Mark of Shame

There was no comfort to be had for Oriné ‘Fulsamee in the markets or bazaars; his appetite for sweets and human trinkets had failed him. Nor could he turn to the temples for guidance, at once fearing and reviling their sacred grounds. He felt forsaken by the very life he had been raised to believe was divine and righteous.

But he could not go back to the suite that had been set aside for his family. For some reason, he couldn’t stomach the idea of facing his mother and father. Perhaps because of his outburst or the information about the war that had been revealed, or because when it came down to it he could neither protect his sister nor get his vengeance against the one who had doomed them all. In both instances his heart held him fast. There was nothing he could do to assuage the sorrow in his heart about Fulsa, and despite all his rage he could not bring himself to exact retribution against Ekla.

So he did what he could: search for a tavern in which he could drown himself in brandy and shame.

It took him a while, but he found a large hostelry located several sectors away from Ekla’s apartment. Deciding it would do well enough for his purposes, he entered, the laser-carved doors sliding aside and admitting him. Within was a well-lit open area with tables, chairs to accommodate various species, a central ovaloid bar, and various flora installed around the edges. The chosen specimens, native to Sanghelios, were unremarkable themselves but their simple presence provided comfort and nostalgia. Oriné wasn’t sure if the latter would mix well with alcohol.

As he stepped in, a massive hand reached out and stopped him from advancing; he followed the arm with his eyes and found that a very large Sangheili had arrested his movement. The stranger’s eyes were settled on his sidearm, a plasma pistol magnetically attached to his hip, but as Oriné turned to face him the individual noticed the markings on his armor. For a moment, the unfamiliar eyes flickered to another corner of the establishment, drawing Oriné’s attention as they did so. Clustered in one area was a pack of Jiralhanae, drinking and muttering among themselves.

Reluctantly the bouncer withdrew his hand and allowed the Elite Minor passage inside. As he went, however, Oriné nodded reassuringly towards the guard. “I have no desire to cause trouble,” he said, “simply to drink.” The guard motioned him past.

Maneuvering his way around a group of Kig-Yar, Oriné made it to the bar area. Behind it floated a Huragok, keeping the machines in working order. The creature looked like a series of gas-filled bladders lumped together with several tentacles hanging down. At any moment during repair, the tentacles split into thousands of tiny cilia and could probe into machines; some wondered if perhaps the cilia were even smaller, able to slide into the space between molecules, but few could believe such simple creatures as Covenant Engineers would be capable of something that wondrous.

Wishing for a live bartender, the Elite Minor highlighted the command for a strong whiskey, and moments later a goblet arrived in front of him. For a while he stood sipping the drink and watching the people around him; there were live Unggoy servers, but they only retrieved drink orders from the machine.

As the “evening” wore on, he found himself in the company of a couple other Sangheili. One was a Minor like himself, on leave but from a different ship in the Dn’end Legion. He had just returned from a simple campaign around a gas giant that had involved destroying the planet and then scanning the asteroid belt for human installations.

Oriné’s other companion was an older, retired Major. If he was to be believed, he had survived the worst of the war with the Jiralhanae and was the father of a beautiful saitarelé. Then again, he confessed that this particular pub had been his third on this night’s tour. Still, his conversation was enjoyable, though occasionally unintelligible.

Together they discussed many things, from women to combat to life. The former Major, Oriné learned, had been born on Sanghelios but due to his “unquenchable heroics” had been awarded a small flat here in the Holy City. His fellow Minor was from an agricultural colony with a long family history of little military value and great expanses of land. As they chatted, despite his increasing intoxication, Oriné was careful not to let slip the reason he was in the city; fortunately his companions were in a similar state, and didn’t bother asking why a member of the S’gor Legion was so deep in friendly space.

Somewhere after his third whiskey and fourth ale, Oriné realized that he was having difficulty finding his hooves. The trio sat at a table so the inebriated Minor could follow his legs to their conclusions, but after a moment they realized that they had chosen a table close to the Jiralhanae pack. Though the thought sobered them slightly, it was not long until they were giggling loudly at poorly whispered jests.

Eventually one of the Jiralhanae took offense and stood, sauntering over as menacingly as he could. The three Sangheili stopped laughing (barely) and turned to face the newcomer.

“Your presence is malodorous and irritating, Sangheili filth,” the creature growled. Judging by the color of its fur, and its general disposition being one of visible but contained rage, Oriné decided this one was slightly experienced in the art of the fight. He believed his companions had arrived at the same conclusion. “Please remove yourselves.”

Still, though part of their brains were undoubtedly telling them to stop, the alcohol had already ravaged their sense of caution. “Yes, well, your presence is smelly and annoying,” the other Minor slurred. The Sangheili all giggled while an even darker look passed over the Jiralhanae’s face.

The Major put a finger to his mandibles. “You know,” he began, “I won a pelt on Doisac—you know Doisac, don’t you?—that is very similar to your own coat. It may belong to your father.” At this point the Brute bared his tusks, but the older warrior was undeterred. “I was just thinking, I made a drapery of that pelt, and yours would make a nice accompanying rug.”

Despite his stupor, Oriné knew that the old man had crossed a line, but instead of striking him the Jiralhanae simply snarled and left. They watched him go, and subsequently collapsed into a fit of hysterics.

——

By the time he decided to call it a night, Oriné doubted very much that the night was over, but hardly cared. His sense of time, as well as shame and dignity, had dulled enough that the idea of stumbling barely-aware into his family’s provided apartment to the shock of his parents held no hazard to him. Still, he decided, it was best if he dipped his head into a fountain to perhaps dispel the aroma that hovered around him.

In the state that he was, the Elite Minor had no idea how he eventually found himself cutting through alleys and avenues in an attempt to find a serviceable pool, but he was neither surprised by this realization nor particularly dissuaded. The thought that he was completely lost hardly fazed him. He was sure he’d find a helpful map at some point. His sister’s trial was still two weeks off; he had plenty of time.

Fulsa’s image, particularly that of her held prisoner and standing before the council, sobered Oriné enough that he realized the throughway he had chosen to navigate down was blocked by a darkened figure at the other end. A moment later, he recognized the shaggy outline of a Jiralhanae.

Combat instincts cut through the alcohol-induced fog, though not entirely. As he went for his plasma pistol, he realized too late that someone was behind him and received a solid thump to the back of his skull for his lack of observational skill. He tumbled forwards, landing on his armed hand and pinning his own weapon beneath him.

A large foot placed itself on his armored back; Oriné rolled an eye to find himself staring into the eyes of a familiar-looking Jiralhanae. But for the first time he realized that he didn’t recognize this individual from the bar, but from the temple grounds a few years ago. This one had been part of the attack against his person, a scene that had nearly ended in his death had it not been for a chance Honor Guard patrol.

The Brute leaned down so far that Oriné could smell his breath, a stink made up of part ale and part halitosis. The smile that met his eyes was jagged and cruel. “Have you forgotten how to scream, hatchling?”

Oriné did not answer. Instead he rolled, using his left arm to push his side up slightly despite the overpowering pressure on his back, and exposed the tip of his weapon. He angled the shot, quite literally from the hip, and squeezed the trigger twice in quick succession. The first bolt caught the Brute in the throat and sent him flinching back, giving the second the opportunity to enter through the chin and vaporize half the creature’s brain. The important half; the Jiralhanae fell back, dead. Down the alley the Sangheili heard the companion howl in rage and sorrow at the death of its packmate, but he didn’t stick around to see what came next. In a second he was on his feet and sprinting in the other direction.

Fear and alcohol did not mix well, and again Oriné found a gap in his memory. Yet somehow he was in the right area from which he could locate his family’s suite, which he did with situationally unfeasible accuracy. When he entered, he did not see his father or mother; a quick and quiet investigation revealed that both had gone to bed. Vowing to do the same, Oriné was somehow able to get both his helmet and a single mandible guard off before his knees buckled and he sank, already unconscious, to the floor.

——

There were few repercussions from the murder in the alley. At first, when he had been able to think clearly after his self-devastating binge, Oriné had feared that he crossed a line, dooming himself to quick execution for killing another member of the Covenant in cold blood. Of course he knew it hadn’t been so, but as the only survivor was a friend of the deceased he surmised the story would cast him in a very negative light.

And technically he was right. The official story said a bloodthirsty Sangheili had murdered a Jiralhanae who had been out for a late-night stroll with his comrade. As the account said, this murderous being had appeared out of nowhere and shot the Brute dead without provocation; the Prophets caused a stir on the Com Net, condemning the murderer and demanding an investigation.

However, due to the nature of the crime, the investigation was left to the Honor Guard. Tensions had been rising even more sharply since Oriné’s last visit to this city, and the Sangheili felt more and more pressured: crime rates between the competing species was climbing, friendly fire incidents becoming more and more common, and many murders of Sangheili had gone unattended by the Prophets. As a result, the Guard Captain who was placed in charge of the investigation sounded so unimpassioned that Oriné believed he could have walked right up to him on a crowded street, loudly declared his guilt, and not received any sort of punishment. In fact, the Captain would likely buy him a drink, either to congratulate him or try and trigger another rampage.

Still, Oriné said nothing. Best not to burden his parents, who were already concerned because of his spree; they asked him to stay close. As an adult he had no obligation to follow their requests, but he did so out of love.

They were not limited to their suite. At their leisure they could leave and walk about the city, though they were forbidden from exiting High Charity itself. Oriné showed them the various places he had found during his first stay, trying to keep his parents in a good mood. His father made an honest attempt to be amused, if not jovial, but his mother had become introverted and quiet. She preferred to spend most of her time brooding inside the apartment.

It was on such a trip that Oriné and his father found their way to the site of the old Heretic museum. Alsa had left earlier, expressing a desire to lie down, and they had let her leave.

The museum was now an empty hall, just a few benches and empty alcoves all that were left of the place that had one stood there. Oriné remembered with clarity his visit and the revelations that had filled him with scorn, but now he felt only sympathy. The owner of this museum had been charged with heresy like Fulsa, and also like his sister Oriné did not know the outcome. He hoped the Sangheili had been found innocent and kept his life, though not his honor or dignity. Perhaps he had become a farmer and found peace in his work.

Upon entering, Oriné caught sight of the lone Kig-Yar caretaker. He remembered the hostile individual from his last visit, but like before the creature caught sight of his armor, grumbled an honorific and managed a bow, and shuffled away. The Elite Minor watched him go before he and his father sat on a bench, allowing the elder Sangheili a chance to rest.

They sat in silence for a few minutes before his father spoke up. “Your entire unit was lost on Coral?”

Oriné was taken off-guard by the timing, but he had suspected the question would come up. “Yes,” he replied, “though I was knocked unconscious by the initial barrage. I was rescued by my friend, Hada ‘Sobotee.”

“And what of him?”

“He was killed by a sniper a short time later. I delivered the news to his family myself.”

There was silence for another period. Oriné shifted uncomfortably, suddenly finding his armor very unwieldy.

“Your mother and I did not know about the Head Master’s daughter,” Orita said finally. Neither of them was making eye contact with the other. “We were very confused when we heard.”

“I... had not wanted to tell you.”

Orita looked at his son. “Why?”

“It was improper of me, and I was greatly shamed by it,” confessed the Elite Minor, unable to meet his father’s intent gaze. “For my actions I was banished to gulag duty, never expected to see combat again. I could not bear to tell you or mother for fear of what you would think or say; it was only through pure chance that I was able to earn my way away.”

“Is that where you earned that marking?”

Oriné looked down at his armor. The honor marking was carved into his right breastplate, a place of great honor where everyone who faced him could see it. The glyph was a Forerunner symbol meaning “savior,” reserved for warriors whose valiance had saved a superior officer and countless allies from doom. On his gauntlet there was another marking, a lesser glyph meaning “survivor” that had mixed tones: one the one hand, it signified that he had come out alive from an impossible situation, but on the other it meant that his unit had not. He had received it after he left Pearl, but he did not like to boast or even think about it. It returned too many painful memories to the surface.

He recounted his story, beginning with Ekla and ending after his release from gulag duty. Oriné hesitated to speak of Pearl, but when his father asked he answered all his questions: the conditions, how he felt, what it was like. Orita had never truly been exposed to ground combat, his career instead lying in the naval field. The two theaters rarely overlapped. It was difficult for the younger Sangheili to describe the chaos and uncertainty of battling the enemy forces face to face in a harsh environment.

When he finished, the two sat in a contemplative silence for a while longer. Finally the older Sangheili stood, stretching his back. “I suppose we should return,” he said. “There’s no other place of interest around here, truly. All the legends of the Arbiters bore me.”

Oriné looked up at his father. “Do you feel shame?”

Orita glanced back at him. “What?”

“What I have done, does it make you ashamed?”

At that moment, expecting some sort of somber expression, Oriné was completely taken off-guard when his father chuckled. “I was never selected for vestar duty,” he said, “but while at Institution I became madly attracted to my friend’s charge. For the week she was there, we would sneak into the temple gardens and spend time together.”

He looked at the bare walls, mind in another time. He continued, “When it was time for her to leave I snuck aboard her ship and stowed away, hoping to continue our illicit maneuvers. Of course, I was discovered and our acts brought into the open. The Major was furious with me and disciplined me with great force, and she was dismissed from the Coven for her part in it.”

As Orita trailed off, Oriné realized he was gaping. He brought his mandibles back together. “You truly went through that?”

“Of course I did,” his father said with a wide smile. “How do you believe I met your mother?”

——

A week had gone by when two unexpected visitors came to the ‘Fulsam Lineage’s suite. Hearing the chime, Oriné went to the door and bade it open. In the hallway he found himself in the presence of a Councilor and a cleric.

“Excellencies,” he said, suddenly aware of his casual lack of dress. He bowed his head and stepped aside. “Please, come in.”

As they moved inside, the cleric nodded to him. “You must be young Orna, yes?”

“No.” Orita walked into the room wearing a sarong wrapped tightly around his waist. “That is Oriné.” Oriné watched as their two visitors touched foreheads with his father, clasping hands and greeting each other very warmly. “I know it has been a while since you last saw him.”

“Indeed,” rumbled the Councilor, “the last I saw he was but a hatchling with wide eyes and soft skin playing with his sister. I was not expecting a seasoned warrior.”

“Nor I,” said the cleric. “How fares your mate?”

Orita shook his head. “None too well, I’m afraid. It has hit us all hard, but she suffers the most.”

Now thoroughly confused, Oriné edged into his room to dress himself in a robe; though his father seemed homely with these dignitaries, Oriné did not know them. He selected an indigo robe with soft purple lining and secured it with a silver belt. Once dressed, he went back out to find the Councilor had removed his helmet and all three had kneeled around a table. They chatted idly, each with a cup and a story. His father saw his entrance and motioned for him to join them.

“Son, I would like you to meet my long-time friends,” he said. He indicated first the Councilor—“This is Hada ‘Kobota, an old comrade from the war with the Jiralhanae”—and then to the cleric—“and this is Ako ‘Makillra, my childhood companion.” The Councilor ‘Kobota was taller than average and very muscular; it was clear that he had earned his position through war. His father likely knew him from serving on a ship. On the other hand was ‘Makillra, the cleric. He was slightly stout, if the shape of his robe was any indication, but Oriné wondered if his priestly duties allowed any time for observing physical exercise. However, he had a kind look in his face.

“You likely do not remember them,” continued Orita, “but they visited you shortly after you hatched. Ako was the one who blessed you and your sister.”

The cleric nodded, the motion very fluid as if practiced for ages. “You were among the most beautiful hatchlings I had ever seen,” he said, “though malnourished from sharing the same egg. For a while I feared that my blessing had been in vain.”

“Now we hear of you and your troubles,” interjected Councilor ‘Kobota, “how you have been bedding a Head Master’s daughter and your sister provoking the wrath of the temples.” The silver-armored Sangheili clicked his mandibles and took a sip of whatever it was he held. “You both have inherited your father’s penchant for creating a scene.”

The three older males laughed at that, and Oriné suddenly had a thought that perhaps his mother had been the Councilor’s charge.

The youngest Sangheili shifted his weight slightly. “Forgive my impertinence, Excellencies,” he said, “but why is it that you’re here?”

The mirth died quickly. A sobering air fell upon the small assembly. Orita spoke first: “I asked them to come because I hoped they could help us sway the Council to understand that Fulsa is no heretic. Hada is a leading member of the Council on Sanghelios and is acquainted with the Judge, and Ako is a respected cleric of the clergy. Their voices may give us enough weight in the coming trial to save your sister.”

‘Makillra, who had been taking a deep gulp of his drink, set down the cup and nodded. “I would like to speak to Fulsa, if the Hierarchs will permit me, to understand exactly what heresy she is reported to have said.” He looked from Orita to Oriné. “Do either of you know what she spoke?”

They shook their heads, Oriné adding, “They asked me to recite the third passage of the Final Ceremony of the Great Journey. I believe it may have been related.”

The cleric clicked his mandibles. “A thorny area of the Divinidex. Few dare to attempt interpretation for fear that any new information would be seen as heresy. It may be into this trap she has fallen.”

“Is there any way to dismiss this trial if such were the case?” asked Orita.

Slowly the rounded Sangheili shook his head. “No, but it would certainly make it pass quicker. It is a double-edged sword: if her reinterpretation is closer to the Gods’ Divinidex than the previous one, she would be promoted to the second circle. However, as it stands, it appears that hers was further, and is therefore heresy.” He lifted the cup and nursed whatever liquid it contained. “As I said, thorny.”

The ‘Fulsam patriarch lowered his head. “I suppose we must hope for a fair and balanced trial.”

“You need not hope,” ‘Kobota interjected, placing his cup down. It was empty. “Judge ‘Cafalae is very wise and unbiased. Your daughter’s innocence will fast be proven, and though she will not keep her position or her dignity, she will at least have her honor and her life.”

Oriné’s head perked up. “This is the Judge presiding over the trial?”

The Councilor smiled. “He is the Judge of the entire High Council of Masters, yes. The only way he could have ascended to that position is through a record of being fair and impartial. He is not looking to make an example of any who do not deserve it.”

Mulling it over, the Elite Minor nodded. As he was not privy, or particularly interested in politics, he wasn’t sure what to think. The way the Councilor had said it, however, made it seem favorable.

The conversation likely would have continued along that vein were it not for Alsa’s emergence from the bedroom. Rising and greeting her, their two guests made room for her to kneel with them. Immediately the subject changed to lighter things; the pallid tone of her skin and her dull, lusterless eyes made it clear she was still deeply in grief. They spoke instead of their lives and happenings, catching up together. At one point the conversation shifted to Oriné’s well-being and his adventures, but the young Sangheili did not speak about battle or the trying times on the frontlines for his mother’s sake. Nobody seemed to mind.

By the end of the evening, after a light supper and after-meal wine, farewells were exchanged and ‘Kobota and ‘Makillra took their leave. Oriné felt a comforting sense of belonging that he had lacked ever since leaving his comrades on the Transcendent Voyager.

But it was not to last.

——

The next day, Oriné sat in the living area of the suite watching a hologram generated by the Com Net receiver that had been allocated to the family. Apart from the regular news broadcasts, a greater amount of media attention was being given to the approaching trial. It was being hyped as a representative affair of a “growing lack of faith among Sangheili youth.” Various scenes and images appeared as a speaker, invisible, described the specifics of the trial, including a recording of the Elite Minor’s outburst during the interview.

I had thought that session closed, he thought as he watched a third-person account of him storming the pulpit. Disparaging though it was to see such an incident broadcast to the public, he took pride in the fact that he had looked strong and virtuous, defending his sister even against the encroaching Honor Guard. There was a scene switch just before Ekla would have entered.

Overall, however, the assumptions and inferences being made by the speaker threatened to bring about a very similar rage. Oriné’s Lineage was being examined by people who had never met or heard of them, and yet this “authority” continued to speak as if he knew every little detail. The Elite Minor was glad for the excuse to walk away when he heard the door chime.

When the door slid open he found himself again looking into the helmeted face of Hada ‘Kobota, but instantly he knew something was amiss. The first thing he noticed was that, today, there was no cleric with him but instead a full detachment of Honor Guards. All six of the crimson-and-gold armored warriors were arranged in a protective formation and had foregone their ceremonial pikes in favor of plasma rifles, four of them looking back and forth down the hallway while two gave Oriné scrutinizing glares. Instinctively he spread his hands, distancing his arms from his waist to indicate that he wore no weapons on his sarong.

The second thing he saw was a dark and troubled look on ‘Kobota’s face. “Is your father about?” the Councilor asked, all traces of yesterday’s humor gone. “I have something urgent to tell you both.”

A moment later, Orita was at the door. The two members of the ‘Fulsam Lineage waited expectantly while the Honor Guards sized them up and decided they were no threat. “I have dire news,” ‘Kobota said at last. “Judge ‘Cafalee was assassinated.”

Immediately Oriné felt a cold sensation in his stomachs.

“When?” asked his father. From the look on his face, he felt something similar.

“Moments ago,” the Councilor said. “I do not know any more at this point, but an emergency session of the Council has been called. I believed you must know now, before the official announcement, as one of the things we will be discussing is the continuation of Fulsa’s trial.”

Despite the numbness he felt, Oriné was able to nod. “Very well,” said Orita. “Thank you. Any word from Ako?”

“He has been granted permission to speak with Fulsa. Is there anything you would like us to pass along?”

“Tell her that we love her,” Oriné suddenly blurted, barely in control of his own mandibles, “and that we are doing everything in our power to help her.”

‘Kobota nodded. “Very good. I’ll inform Ako.” With that, he was urged to go by the Honor Guards and obliged, moving swiftly through the hall towards the gravity lift. The two Sangheili watched him go, then retreated back into the apartment to settle themselves in front of the Com Net receiver and await the official announcement.

When it came two hours later, Oriné was surprised to see Councilor Rakola ‘Orgalmae standing in full regalia. The Councilor raised his head and straightened his shoulders, the cloak he wore over his armor settling comfortably around his neck. “Loyal citizens of the Covenant,” he began, “it is my great burden to bear to you all the death of Judge Yvola Das ‘Cafalee, killed in his home by an armed assailant.”

The young Sangheili pursed his mandibles in thought. That he had three names was a sign of great honor; Das, a single honor meaning “justice,” was reserved for Councilors who had shown great fairness during their time in the position.

“He was slain as he slept by a dishonorable coward,” continued ‘Orgalmae, “killed with a metal blade. He is survived by a widow, two sons, and five grandchildren.” So that was it: assassinated, likely by a Jiralhanae who just happened to have a passcode onto the grounds of his estate here in the holy city. And, much like all the other incidents that made tensions rise, the Hierarchs were going to completely overlook it.

As for Fulsa, that meant her certain chance at a fair and honest trial was dead. Feeling numb, Oriné struggled to find hope, and remembered what Councilor ‘Kobota had said: one couldn’t become a Judge without being fair and honest. Though the replacement would not be the same, he would hopefully be just as good.

Thinking the announcement was finished, the Elite Minor was shocked when ‘Orgalmae lowered his head slightly and kept going: “The Hierarchs recognize that in these times tensions run high and deaths have become more common, and in their great wisdom have made a decree. The position of Judge of the High Council of Masters has been removed, and the Hierarchs themselves are to take the role until such a time as they believe the political situation to have relaxed.

“That is all. Glory be to the Forerunners.”

The hologram blinked out, leaving the two ‘Fulsamee elements sitting in silence. Finally mustering the courage required to do so, Oriné stood and began heading for his room.

“My son,” his father said behind him, voice quiet. “Everything will be all right.”

Oriné stepped into his room and let the door slide closed.

——

Two days before the trial began, Oriné and Orita were summoned to the offices of Cleric Ako ‘Makillra, located in the temple district in the shadow of the great Dreadnought. They went, Oriné in his armor and his father in a very formal robe, via the gravity pathway meant for rapid transit across the streets of the city; neither wished to deal with the hassle of the hovercraft.

When they arrived they were stopped by an Honor Guard Captain. Oriné recognized him as the one who repeatedly halted his entry during his time as guardian of a vestar. However, if recognizance went both ways he didn’t see it.

“What is your business here?” the Captain asked.

“We have been summoned by the Holy Cleric ‘Makillra,” replied Orita.

The unknown Sangheili eyed them both in cold silence. He was likely sizing them up; though of a low rank, Oriné had a distinguished honor marking and filled out his armor quite well, and Orita’s robes had the borders and designs indicative of a former Zealot. Finally, without another word, he stepped aside and allowed them access.

Within the walls of the temple were lavish decorations that Oriné had never imagined to see in a place of supposed humility. Trees neatly trimmed and bathed in private artificial light much like that of the rest of the city lined the major hallways. From above waterfalls cascaded into crystal pools surrounded by benches and full of small fish swimming. Aware of a growing ache in his stomach, the Elite Minor briefly wondered if anyone had ever attempted to eat any of them. He decided he would not like to be the first.

Further in, where larger, multi-tiered dome-rooms were located, vines climbed the walls and fixtures made of violet-tinted glass hung from the ceiling. Framed by the controlled growth were inscriptions, the letters carved in gold and set into silver placards. They shone in the light given off by the fixtures, seeming to be possessed of a divine glow. For a moment, though he had cared little for the Faith curriculum, Oriné wondered if perhaps this was Paradise.

However, catching his attention more so (and being caught in return) were the holy practitioners that strolled through these halls, some in complete silence and singularity while others paced in the company of fellow celebrants, chatting about what Oriné could not guess. In particular he noticed the Priestesses and vestars, clad in their attire fitting their positions. The older and more experienced bowed their heads to the two warriors as they passed while the younger, newer additions waved informally and giggled behind their hands, whispers slipping over the makeshift barriers. The Elite Minor fought to keep his blush down as his father covertly nudged him.

Oriné could have spent all day marveling at the ancient sights all around him, but he and his father were there on business. They were directed to the guest offices by an Honor Guard, but upon arrival were told by an escritoire that ‘Makillra, seeming distressed, had gone to the open-air gardens located further up in the temple. Taking a gravity lift, the pair alighted on the proper floor, and again Oriné was caught up in the sights. Through columned, paneless casements he could see the entire city laid out before him, but sloping downwards toward distant walls slightly obscured by fog. He knew the mist was generated by many homes and shops venting unused water and the like, and that it was cycled outside constantly, but it still gave a very serene look to High Charity.

It did not take long to find the cleric; he was the only one present. He stood on a veranda ringed by small kempt shrubs dotted with flowers, with his arms behind his back and looking out towards the Dreadnought and the Pagoda of Fasul beyond it.

As they approached and he turned, Oriné could tell immediately that something was wrong. He was not as intimately familiar with Ako as his father, but the look of unmitigated sorrow on his face was unmistakable.

There was no place to sit, but the cleric made no motion. He said, “I spoke with Fulsa.”

Orita waited a beat, hoping for something additional. “And?”

‘Makillra sighed. “Even if she showed signs of remorse, what she says is... I’m sorry, old friend, but it is heresy, potent and plain. She says such things about the Great Journey, such blasphemous things of the Forerunners and their ascension to Godhood that I cannot repeat it.” He looked up, eyes already mourning. “I am sorry, but even if I were not a cleric, I could not speak in her favor.”

Numbness passed over Oriné. So all was lost; he felt weak in the knees, suddenly wishing there were a place to sit. At his side his father hung his head with grief. The two stood on the edge of weeping, and Ako took it as his cue to leave. As he went he touched each of their shoulders, and then stepped past them, robes swishing in his wake.

All is lost.

——

Outside, Oriné had seen the crowds waiting, gathered together to discover the fate of the heretic, his sister. Inside, the anticipatory atmosphere seemed much the same. The Council chamber was bustling. Unlike the amphitheater, which curved around a semi-spherical area, this was just a hall with a very high and vaulted ceiling. On each side were raised benches, much like the amphitheater, and on each side the different races of the High Council of Masters were assembled. On the right sat the Sangheili Councilors, most wearing a black cape in addition to their armor, likely out of mourning for the fallen Judge. On the left were the Prophets, clad in their crimson vestments; with a shock Oriné realized they displayed nothing to express remembrance.

However his eyes were drawn from the blatant disregard for respect towards the termination point of the hall: where once there was a gravity throne in which the Judge sat, now three hovered over the bare floor. Each held one of the three Hierarchs, the High Prophets of the Covenant. As a triumvirate, they ruled over all the Councils and saw that an orderly and prosperous time was maintained.

The Elite Minor, and indeed all the Covenant, knew their names by heart: in the center sat the Prophet of Truth, the Voice; to his left was the Prophet of Regret, the Hand, and to the right the Prophet of Mercy, the Mind. Oriné remembered that Regret had given the opening speech when he first arrived at Institution, and Mercy had been the Prophet falling asleep at Commencement. Now, though, he looked wide awake and alert.

Standing below the Sangheili Councilors and in front of the row of Honor Guards, Oriné and his parents tried to look dignified, but he knew that their inner turmoil was evident on their faces.

Other than the Honor Guards lining the entire room there were a few others of note: Ekla, as well as a few other Priestesses who were older and had robes of higher Circles; and, more shocking, a small gathering of Jiralhanae. Oriné didn’t recognize any of them, and figured that even if he did he wouldn’t care. He was immensely surprised that they were even allowed to be present, but judging how close they stood to the Hierarchs they had been invited. All wore what amounted for uniform for them, bandoliers and sparse, harsh-looking armor, but one stood out with white hair.

The Elite Minor found he didn’t care.

At the far end came a chime and everyone fell silent. The door parted, revealing four Honor Guards dressed in their bulky, angular armor. Amidst them in stark contrast was Fulsa, standing like a single blade of blue grass amidst several stones. The guards escorted the prisoner, Oriné’s sister, up to a small pulpit; she walked up the ramp of her own accord and stood.

Immediately Oriné saw the difference. She had seemed a little frightened during the interview, but now she was... confident. Determined. Defiant. The gaze she fixed at the Hierarchs was dripping with cool anger, her hands clenched into tight fists. The snaking blue cuff was gone, leaving her arms free.

Truth’s throne floated forward. “Fulsa of the House of Sam, Clan ‘Ful,” he intoned, “you stand before the Council accused of heresy in the highest degree.” He paused and looked at her, seeming to notice her for the first time. “This congress will decide if you are indeed guilty of this heresy. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she said. Her voice sounded different, too. There was no childish intonation, no hint of the crècheling she had once been. She had become an adult.

Floating backwards, Regret and Mercy began the questioning. It was like the interview, as without the Judge the Hierarchs had to make their own decisions regarding this case. But Oriné knew this wasn’t a good thing; they were going to make the decision too fast with too little deliberation, not the two weeks of thought and discussion it should have received.

“You have studied the Great Journey in detail, yes?” Regret’s voice was smooth and controlled.

“Yes,” Fulsa replied, her newfound steel voice ringing through the chamber, “I desired to be one of the Chosen Elect.” Even from his place on the side, Oriné saw her sister’s eyes flick from one Prophet to the next. “I have no such desire now.”

That gave pause to the entire assembly. She showed no sign of remorse. Fear gripped the Elite Minor’s stomach; what was she thinking? Even if she truly believed whatever she thought she had found, she should try to ease the Prophets’ wrath by at least appearing recalcitrant.

Recovering from the shock, Regret leaned in. “Did the truth of the Lords’ Path dazzle your eyes, drive you mad with fervor and worship, make your tongue and mouth spell out words that your mind had no control over?”

Fulsa’s eyes narrowed. “No, of course not.”

“You were a candidate for the Second Circle,” Mercy cut in, “a very rare honor for one your age. Did you not think that perhaps your ill-conceived speculations about the Great Journey would cause you to lose your position?”

“Some things are more important.”

Oriné began to feel numb; overwhelmed by the dread that was consuming him. Mercy frowned. “Such as?”

“The truth.”

Harsh and angry whispers echoed through the Council chambers, the Councilors speaking in low tones. All the sounds coalesced in the room so that he couldn’t pick out individual voices or words. After a moment, Truth waved his hand and the sound quieted back down to silence.

“Is it true,” he said, “that you have forsaken the Great Journey?”

Finally, Fulsa looked conflicted. There was a glimmer of doubt in her eyes. “I do not forsake the Great Journey,” she said after a moment, “and I do not doubt that the Forerunners were as Gods and Lords. But...” She rolled her neck. “But I have found that the Sacred Rings were not the vehicle of the Great Journey.”

Shouts and cries erupted in the Council, but Mercy slammed his fist on the holographic controls for his throne and his voice boomed louder over all the clamoring, bringing the Councilors to order. He turned his eyes, venomous and sharp, towards the young Priestess. “You dare to doubt the scriptures, the Holy Divinidex?”

“There have been misinterpretations before,” Fulsa shot back. She had become defiant again. “As no Codex has yet been found, our interpretations of the accounts left by our Masters are circumstantial translations with only speculative context.”

“But you speak against the Great Journey,” Truth said, hovering forward. “That is one of the most corroborated and accepted truths of the Divinidex.”

“There is one section wherein the Great Journey is not affirmed, and if read closely the Sacred Rings are said to be deadly,” said Fulsa.

Renewed silence fell over the assembly. A cleric sitting among the Councilors shot to his feet, clearly enraged. “You speak of the Damned Times! To even look upon those records is a heresy in and of itself! Those have been dismissed as the disparaging writings of our Lords when they themselves lost faith, and thus damaging to the Covenant at large!”

“They should not be ignored!”

Roaring once again took the Council, and Oriné looked around. Councilors on both sides were rising to their feet and making condemning gestures towards his sister, whom stood and looked at them all. However, instead of anger or accusation in her eyes there was something else: pity. Whatever she felt, whatever she found, it made her feel sorry for all those assembled.

“Silence!” Truth’s voice carried over the Council and the spectators, aided by audio inflation. The Councilors quieted, but many did not resume their seats, instead continuing to glare venomously at Fulsa.

“In light of these... blatant heresies,” said the Hierarch, “we find we truly have no alternative.” Truth hovered forward, once again adopting his formal posture as the Voice. Oriné was horrified. There would be no deliberation, no investigation; she was to be sentenced now.

“Fulsa of the House of Sam, Clan ‘Ful, Priestess of the First Circle of the Sacred Coven, you are hereby found guilty of vile heresy. You are to be executed following torture.” Truth raised his eyes up to the Council at large. “The ‘Fulsam Lineage is now found to be in disgrace: any further offspring made without first regaining the lost honor, aside from the four existing now, will be destroyed as heretics. The Hierarchs have spoken.”

Cheers of affirmation arose from the Council and filled Oriné’s ears, drowning out even his mother’s sobs, as he looked at Fulsa. She hung her head, graceful neck seeming to bend under a colossal weight. Oriné was so overwhelmed that he did not notice the Prophets’ mistake: there were only three children of the ‘Fulsam Lineage, not four.

But soon there would be only two.

Two of the Brutes moved forward and seized Fulsa’s arms, dragging her down from the pulpit and towards the door. Oriné reacted instinctually, rushing forward to try and help her. Two Honor Guards lowered their pikes onto his shoulders, pain buzzing through them as they delivered none-too-gentle shocks into his body; but compared to the pain of a bullet entering his flesh, they were nothing. He pushed forward, and behind him he heard the footsteps as the Guards gave chase.

He reached Fulsa, grabbing one of the arms that held her and tried to pry it away, but it was like steel wrapped around a precious item. It would not budge. Two firm hands gripped him from behind, but he reached out to his sister. She reached back and seized his hand.

In that moment, Oriné was back on Sanghelios, a child once more. They rolled together in the fields, laughed and played soldier, dueling with sticks and rocks. He was always careful not to hurt her or let her come to harm; there was a connection between them. According to ancient Sangheili beliefs, twins were linked. One’s fate would be the same as the other. In old times they would be celebrated together, tried together, killed together.

Now Oriné faced losing her. He wished that he would be killed with her, but he knew that even this outburst would not be met with lethal force. Her torture would be prolonged and physical, but he would have to live the rest of his life without her. A slow death.

The grip on his shoulders became too strong and he was pulled back, his hand slipping out of hers. There was concern in her eyes, for him, he knew. But there was no fear. Trying to struggle forward again, he felt the sharp impact of a spear in his back, the sensation ringing even through his armor. Still he tried, and he felt another blow push the air out of his lungs. As his limbs grew limp and heavy of their own accord, Oriné drew in a breath.

“I love you!”

He shouted to her shrinking form, growing smaller as the Jiralhanae, accompanied by their albino leader, walked through the door. He was roughly hauled back to his mother and father, and the three of them were ushered out the same way, but many steps behind the Brutes ahead.

Once in the artificial light, Oriné could see straight down the path to the platform ahead. It was in clear view of the throngs gathered below, but there would be holographic representations of the imminent proceedings a lot closer for them to watch. In his mind, Oriné knew that he and his family were to be given a very close vantage point.

Fulsa was brought to the edge of the platform, arms raised and gravity cuffs holding her wrists level with her head. The rest of the ‘Fulsam Lineage was brought close, off to the right but where they would be given a perfect view.

The white-haired Jiralhanae stepped up and looked out over the crowds. “This former priestess has betrayed the Covenant!” he shouted, voice amplified by unseen devices. Below the crowds roiled, their shouts reaching even the ears at the top of the tower.

Two points in the air around Fulsa’s arrested form began to glow; suddenly they lashed out, sending waves of energy cascading down her arms. At this she cried out, and Oriné realized they were burning her. He lurched forward but was stopped by an Honor Guard.

“Hold,” he said quietly. “There is nothing you can do now.”

Oriné watched with desperate helplessness as Fulsa thrashed and writhed, her head jerking from side to side, mandibles clenched as a pained groan slipped out. The bracers on her wrist were heating drastically, turning a dull red and sizzling against her flesh. Her robes, once beautiful azure, began to darken and curl. The Elite Minor could barely stand the sight. It felt as if his own skin was burning.

The Jiralhanae was pacing back and forth, eyes on Fulsa as she was tortured. He continued to speak, “She has disgraced the Great Journey, calling it a futile effort! Thus she will not be part of its greatness!” More jeers erupted from the crowd; holographic representations of the suffering being inflicted would be playing, allowing those fortunate enough to be out of eyesight the opportunity to watch. “Watch as this heretic burns for her lies!”

After a few additional minutes of this torture, the albino Brute made a motion and two Jiralhanae stepped forward. They seized her vestments and proceeded to tear them off, finding some unexpected resistance as the edges of her bracers and necklaces had fused to her skin. The floor grew unstable under Oriné’s hooves as they peeled them off and Fulsa whimpered, her nerves not yet burned into inertness.

For a moment, Oriné thought that perhaps it was over. But as a long object floated up a nearby gravity lift, he realized the worst was yet to come. The end glowed dangerously, a raised symbol visible among the hot metal. Picking it up, the torturer approached Fulsa, stopping directly in front of her.

“Your heresy,” the Jiralhanae hissed, “shall never be forgiven.”

He plunged the brand into Fulsa’s chest.

The scream was long and loud, shaking all within earshot to their very soul. Though Oriné fainted when the smell of his own sister’s burning flesh hit his nostrils, that scream would structure his nightmares for years to come.