HOME | DD

Description
Chapter 13: Three Trials

When Oriné ‘Fulsamee awoke, he knew Fulsa was already dead.

He knew it by the way his hearts felt at once heavy and light, weighed down by sorrow but deprived of some crucial part. Every breath was a labor, a reluctant motion made against a world in which he would rather be dead, a phantom with his sister. Even as he opened his eyes and found himself lying in a medical bed, his parents sitting somberly nearby, the fact that the elegance he had secretly admired in the Covenant architecture was gone indicated his twin had left the mortal coil and her soul had been cast into Hell.

Rolling his eye, Oriné recognized the inside of a healing room when he saw it, a private one; likewise he took notice of his two parents, once vibrant with life and love, now looking like two faded reeds about to be plucked from the soil by the wind. He remembered that look; Hada ‘Sobotee’s parents had that same look after Oriné’s visit.

He sat up, the motion catching his parents’ eyes. They rose swiftly and came to him, his mother clasping his hand and his father standing somberly over him. They were all weeping silently.

Where do we go from here? Oriné tried to find an answer within himself, but he couldn’t.

As they mourned together, the door chimed and slid open. All three looked up to see a grim Sangheili messenger, clad in cobalt armor, standing in the doorframe. “The Hierarchs request your presence,” he said. “If you will dress and follow me.”

It took Oriné only a few moments to don his own armor, and once that was completed the three members of the ‘Fulsam Lineage were led from the healing room. From the smooth and well-kept walls Oriné knew he was still on High Charity, which wasn’t that much of a surprise; moving him would not have been necessary. But why did the Hierarchs wish to speak with his family? Didn’t their shame run deep enough?

Wasn’t his sister’s life enough to sate them?

The Elite Minor shook his head in an attempt to rid himself of the bitter thoughts boiling up within him. His sister had been executed for her heresy, for his heresy. Perhaps if he had not held doubts before, Fulsa would not have wavered either. Had the Gods sensed his misgivings and, through this action, punished him for it? The shame threatened to tear him apart all over again.

Suddenly he realized that, as he was pondering the deeper meaning of recent events, they had proceeded to the primary gravity lift in the Council Chambers that led to the Sanctum of the Hierarchs. All together the group of four ascended, passing through intricate designs displayed on curved screens along the inside of the shaft. Oriné watched as lattices of multi-colored lights flashed past his eyes, and he was briefly mesmerized into amnesia. By the time they stopped, however, the effect had worn off.

The antechamber was composed of six hovering pillars bordering a lit walkway leading up to a grandiose door. Honor Guards were visible everywhere, lining the walk and the walls and even standing at the ready behind them along the gravity lift. Though they looked passive enough, Oriné knew both from experience and hearsay that in an instant they could spring into action. The Honor Guard was heralded as a largely ceremonial unit, but many of the most skilled and prudent warriors were part of its ranks.

Following the lead of the guide, the three walked along the path in silence, coming up to the door in due time. It gave a chime, much louder and tonal than the standard admittance sound, and split apart to slide into the walls and ceiling. Inside waited the three Hierarchs, clustered around a central pillar of light, heads bowed, lips moving in silent prayer. For a moment Oriné was afraid to enter, lest his presence disturb their sacred meditations. But the insistence of their guide drew him and his family into the room, the door sliding closed behind. The ‘Fulsam Lineage were bade to draw near the Prophets, which they did so, dropping to their knees at an appropriate distance. Close as they were, the Elite Minor could hear hushed whispers; they weren’t calling upon the Gods, they were speaking to one another.

After a moment’s pause they turned their attention to Oriné and his family.

“I thank you for coming,” the High Prophet of Truth intoned. He spared a moment to look at their guide. “You may take your leave.”

Bowing low, the other Elite Minor made his exit.

The Prophet’s attention returned to the remaining Sangheili, specifically Oriné’s father. “We understand your sorrow at the loss of a child, but heresy in any form may not be allowed to propagate. Your daughter’s words were offenses most vile and could not be permitted to taint others.”

“We understand well, Excellency,” Orita replied, though his eyes never left the floor. Oriné could almost taste the venom in his voice, and it was clear that the Hierarchs had caught the edge of his words as well.

“Quite.” Truth allowed his gravity throne to sway him a little to the side. “Do you know why you are here?”

“You give us the chance to regain our honor,” the elder ‘Fulsamee said at length.

In his chair, Mercy nodded. “The Three Trials.”

Oriné didn’t dare glance up, but he felt his own ignorance weigh in his mind. He hadn’t ever heard of these trials, but it was apparent that they were a method with which a Lineage could regain its honor. He didn’t hold much hope, however.

His father seemed to share his sentiment. “With respect, Highest Excellencies, my bones are too old to undergo these trials. I may still have the heart of a warrior, but my body fails me a little more every day.”

The Hierarchs hovered in silence broken only by the tapping of Regret’s impatient fingers on the arm of his throne. Truth pulled at his jowls in contemplation. Mercy looked to be on the verge of sleep. Clearing his throat, Orita continued, “But perhaps my oldest son, Orna, would be able to return from duty to complete this test.”

“No,” Mercy replied immediately, seeming to startle himself out of his stupor. “Your son is currently engaged in operations vital to this Covenant’s crusade against the human vermin. He cannot be recalled at this crucial juncture.”

A beat passed. “Indeed,” answered Truth; if the tone of his voice was any indicator, he had been mildly annoyed by this statement. Why? Oriné wondered if maybe he and his family were suddenly witness to a strain between the Hierarchs, but that was impossible. They remained united through faith in the Forerunners. Nothing of this life could possibly be worth diverting attention inward, away from the Great Journey.

He was so involved with this thought that he hardly felt when all the eyes in the room fell upon him. Glancing up, he saw the Hierarchs watching him intensely and his parents casting him sidelong glances from their own humble positions. Oriné resisted the urge to click his mandibles in the presence of such holy figures.

“I know nothing of these trials,” he said, “but if it will restore honor to my Lineage, I will undertake them immediately and with all my strength.”

“Well said, young warrior,” said Truth. “Should you pass the Three Trials, your Lineage will be absolved of all its shortcomings and allowed to once more bask in the warm conviction of the Holy Covenant.”

Mercy floated forward. “The trials shall begin tomorrow. Take the rest of the day to collect yourself, as tomorrow your life shall be laid at the feet of the Gods in order to judge your worthiness.”

This is nothing new to me, thought Oriné in reply, but said nothing. He and his parents were dismissed and ushered from the Sanctum, and indeed from the entire tower, with haste.

——

Oriné should have been sleeping. But how could he? After they returned to the suite he had pressed his father for information on these Three Trials.

“The harshest test of recalcitrance and redemption,” the older Sangheili had said. Once he had an edge to his voice, a hidden desire of his to impart his wisdom and the wisdom of the world on others, but with his daughter’s death it had fled him. Now he was only an old man. “In some ways you will have the advantage: the structure of the trials closely follows that of a war college curriculum. Your more recent experiences at Institution should prepare you well.

“You must be cautious, however. This will not be like the Proofs. Instead your life itself will be tested, and failure means death.” After that, his father and mother had retired for the night, and Oriné had hoped to do the same.

Rest was not forthcoming.

Instead he stared out through the window into the harsh evening light of High Charity. The crowds were dwindling but were far from distinguished; from his vantage point he could hear the distant bustle of a nearby bazaar, but it was fading. Even with the onset of night, nothing was getting darker.

He inspected his hand. Once it had been soft with thin fingers, a child’s hand, but now it was harsher. Stronger. Muscle collected around the joints, rough skin swallowed chords of fiber running from the back of his hand all the way down his arm.

Motion caught his eye and drew it up. In the street a cloaked figure was passing. Her form was well concealed, but Oriné recognized that graceful neck anywhere and at any angle. His once-gentle hand curled itself into a vicious fist. He willed her to walk on.

She didn’t. She stopped and turned her eyes to scan the building.

She cannot see me, he told himself. She cannot find me.

Her eyes came to rest on the window he leaned against. Instinctively he moved back and then cursed himself; she had surely seen the motion. Now he was zeroed, she continued to stare, waiting for some response. Scowling he moved away from the window to lie on the bed, but his legs betrayed him and carried him to the door. In a few moments he was outside, standing beneath the eaves of the apartment building. It wasn’t cold at all, nor was there any wind: the advantages of a perfectly maintained artificial atmosphere.

From her position across the street, Ekla stared back.

Oriné held his ground, standing off against the urge to cross over to her. It was a battle of wills, which he eventually won. She cracked and came to him, taking long strides with recognizably slender legs.

“You have done enough damage,” Oriné hissed once she was close. “Why do you feel like you must continue to torment me?”

As she drew nearer Oriné had seen an odd expression on her face. Now it was level with his neck, and he realized it resembled what he had imagined remorse would look like on her face, had she ever shown any. Her eyes were wide, pinched at the edges, and very tired. In fact, upon examining the conservative profile offered by the cloak, her shoulders had sagged from their once proud bearing.

“You are the one who torments me,” she said quietly. “You and your sister.”

Oriné cocked his head but did not let his expression of rage waver.

“I cannot shake her from my mind!” Ekla exploded. Her emotion washed over the Elite Minor in a wave, but he stood firm. “She continues to run up to me, urging me aside with those deftly spoken heresies, but whenever I turn away from her I see her tortured form being burned, branded, draw and quartered in the square...”

With great fortitude, Oriné squeezed his eyes shut and fought to keep that mental image from his conscious mind. It was true that he had fainted before he saw the full extent of Fulsa’s punishment, and he had been glad of that. He knew it would come to him in nightmares, but the last thing he could stand was facing such a grotesque image waking as well as sleeping.

Ekla continued on. “Amidst it all, though, is a horrific doubt. I wonder if there was not a knell of truth to her predictions. What if she was right and we have just extinguished some insight that would otherwise have been valuable?”

“Enough!” Oriné roared. His voice reverberated down the now-empty street, but he didn’t care. “You continue to tease and torment me! Would that these doubts have come soon enough to save my sister, but now I think they come at an hour too late!” He leaned in, lowering his voice to a dangerous rumble. He let his anger consume him, felt the hate and rage course through his veins, pumping his hearts and powering his limbs. Though pain was its intent, the Elite Minor was intelligent enough to know that physical damage could heal with time.

There was another kind of injury that could last the length of a life.

“No matter what you think of faith or of supposed heresies, know this: you killed her. You betrayed her confidence; you committed her to this fate.” He backed off, but did not raise his voice. “Now be buried under your burdens and trouble me no more.”

He turned and walked back inside. Behind him he thought he heard sobbing, but when he ascended the gravity lift and returned to his room she was no longer in the streets. A moment passed while he made sure she hadn’t followed him, and then he fell back into the bed.

And rest was still not forthcoming.

——

In his dreams, he was in that strange place again. Featureless Sangheili stood around him in the circular arena, muttering their nonsense. This time, however, Oriné ignored them all and proceeded straight to the golden shape. As before it looked up at him and spoke in a detached, ethereal voice:

“Oriné? Is that you?”

Who are you, said Oriné, but without words. Was this Fulsa? Was this place Paradise, the limbo before the Great Journey? But she wouldn’t be here; for her heresy, she would be in the Hells, freezing and burning and drowning and starving for all eternity. The only way this place felt cold was its distance, its vagueness.

As before, Oriné could only reach out his hand and take the outstretched arm of the one before him. Grasping the hand, Oriné felt a bond, but it was not one shared between siblings. It was one shared between brothers-in-arms, comrades of the battlefield. He remembered the sensation from when he pulled his fellow warriors out of the mud of Coppice, when he embraced the arms of Yarna and Rtas and Rabu. It was a familiar feeling. It was a comforting feeling.

And as he pulled his unknown comrade up, he felt the two of them ascending, embracing each other. Light enveloped them, vaporizing the arena around them. Suddenly his golden comrade let go.

“I see now,” he spoke, voice echoing infinitely. “My role is done, my friend. But your part has not yet been played out.”

Oriné tried to ask, but his mandibles, if they were his, did not respond. Instead he heard another voice, one he had known from his very first breath:

“I will watch over your friend, dear brother,” she said. “You remain unfulfilled, and you must save your Brothers from my fate.” The light faded.

When he awoke, Oriné found his eyes filled with tears. Even as the memory of the dream faded into the false night of High Charity, no amount of nictitating could clear them away.

——

“The trials alone will not be enough to save your Lineage’s honor,” the Lesser Prophet said, standing in the doorway of the apartment. “I am sorry to deliver this news so early, but upon reflection it has been decided more must be offered for the Gods to forgive such dire sins as your family suffers.”

Orita suppressed the urge to slam his fist against the wall. His mate and son were both still sleeping, having missed the quiet and insistent chiming of a visitor. However, this news was hardly welcome.

He took a deep breath. “And what more do the Hierarchs demand of my family?”

“You will be returned to active service,” said the Prophet. He was a small and spindly thing, grey robes flowing over what Orita knew was a slight body with poor bone and muscle density. The Prophets, since their homeworld was allegedly destroyed, had spent many eons in space as a nomadic tribe. It was how they had stumbled across the then-independent Sangheilian Empire so long ago, and their divergent beliefs of Forerunner artifacts had triggered the War of Fortune. Such time in weightless vacuum had not been forgiving to their physiology. Most required gravimetric aids, such as belts or thrones, to move about.

But that was ancient history of a hundred light years away. Here, today, he was being recalled to duty. “You understand I am old, correct? I can no longer bear the burdens of a youthful warrior, can no longer trek across a battlefield alive with fire...”

“Your age has been taken into account, as well as your experience,” the Lesser Prophet assured him. “The Hierarchs, in their divine wisdom, understand that to throw away your years of sacrifice would be an empty and futile gesture. They are willing to restore your old post and promote you to Ship Master after a brief time, during which you must appropriately show your duty to the Covenant.”

Orita considered this. There were older Sangheili in the Navy than he, though not by much; most of his peers from his previous wars had moved on to political or religious arenas by now, or had simply retired to take care of their families. The old ‘Fulsamee had become one of the latter, not thirsting for further societal or political advancement. He had accepted a modest but fair flat in the capital even though his dream had been a homestead by one of the many seas of Sanghelios, with a small white beach flanked on either side by dense forest, and an open plain in which his children could play and he could watch, vigilant and subdued.

Now he seemed to be pulled even further from that dream.

“Very well,” he sighed. He conceded fate’s victory here. As the patriarch of the family he would have no peace, but even if it were to kill him, he would earn peace for his sons, so that they may live out his dream. “When am I to be deployed?”

“At the end of your son’s Trials,” the Lesser Prophet; the two bowed, said meaningless partings, and Orita watched the weak creature hobble down the hallway towards his waiting escort. Once the Prophet was safely gone from sight, the old Sangheili withdrew from the hallway and returned to his room. He slipped into bed next to his mate; she did not stir.

All the fatigue of age crushed him, but he had been deprived of the desire to sleep. Instead he just watched the steady rise and fall of Alsa’s body, listened to the soft hum of her breathing. In her dreams, maybe, there was a happier place.

He closed his eyes and tried to think of what it might be.

——

“I am to do what?”

Standing at the high edge of the garden below him, Oriné could see that it was more like an arboretum. It was thick with foliage, so much so that the Elite Minor couldn’t see through to the floor below the canopy. Small birds would shoot up through the leaves, allowing the sun to shine on their silvery wings, and then plummet back down. If legend was to be believed, they were native to the Prophets’ home world. He certainly hadn’t seen them on any world he had visited.

Beside him hovered a Lesser Prophet. For a while Oriné had thought that perhaps these trials were important enough to warrant the Hierarchs’ undivided attention. Apparently he had been wrong, and instead a Councilor was to see him off.

“Within this forest,” repeated the Councilor, “is a Jiralhanae convict. He has been promised his freedom if he should evade or kill you before you can capture him. In order to pass this Trial of Knowledge, you must capture him alive and bring him to the Honor Guards located at the far end, whereupon you will be sent immediately to your next labor.”

Oriné tried to pierce the obstructing flora with his gaze, but it failed. “I must capture him, but he may kill me?”

“Yes.” When the Prophet Councilor nodded, his entire body bobbed, supported only by the anti-gravity belt around his waist. “Such are the conditions of the trial.”

The Elite Minor ran a final check on his armor. He was permitted full shields and his motion tracker, good to up to fifteen meters, but he doubted its effectiveness if the forest was as bristling with life as it seemed. But he was not allowed any weapons; his energy sword was attached to his hip, but he had been forbidden to use it. That having been said, he wondered why he should carry it, but when he asked the Prophet had remained silent.

This is ludicrous, he thought, but it wasn’t just for himself that he did this. It was for his father and mother, so they may at least live with one less burden. It was for Orna, lost on some distant front and silent for so long. It was for Fulsa, to perhaps earn back some of her Honor. It was for him.

“Very well,” Oriné said. “When shall I begin?”

“Immediately.”

Nodding, Oriné took two steps forward and slid down the steep edge of the ravine. The normal path down on this side had been blocked off; by entering the chosen arena, there would be no going back. To succeed or die were his options.

As he dropped below the canopy he felt a solid impact on his face. Instinctively his training took over and the war-oriented part of his brain analyzed the situation: an enemy was impossible to fight on this steep of an incline, so he lashed out to grab whatever it was and fell backwards, sliding the rest of the way on his back.

When he came to a rest his eyes finally focused and he realized he was holding a vine. His face burned. He had been caught off-guard by a plant? Glancing up, he saw that the Prophet was gone; at least he didn’t have to suffer that embarrassment.

Tugging at it, he found it to be quite elastic, and a moment later it revealed itself to be quite musky. Oriné tried not to gag on the overpowering stench. With a mighty pull it snapped from its tree of origin, and Oriné was left with a length of creeping plant; he wrapped it around his body like a bandolier, securing it with a loose knot close to his waist so it would be easily accessible.

He took a moment to take in his surroundings. At a glance, his anticipation about the state of his motion tracker seemed to be correct: it was obscured by the comings and goings of all the fauna just large enough to trigger it. Of course it made sense: clearly it could not be so easy for him if it were to be any sort of Trial. Still, if his motion tracker was designed to be useless, why taunt him with it?

Slowly he began wading through the waist-deep brush around the edge towards the thicker and larger copses in the middle. Small animals and insects chirped and buzzed around him, making his motion tracker go mad. It seemed like his eyes and hands were the only tools he could rely on.

Once amidst the taller scrub Oriné ducked down low. He watched and listened to the activity around him, engaging his active camouflage and settling into an observational position. Around him life disturbed by his passage slowly and cautiously returned to its former activities.

The more time passed, the more life around him returned to its normal state. Eventually the creatures strayed closer and closer, drawing nearer and nearer but somehow knowing where he was, despite the light-bending abilities of his camouflage. Perhaps it was an instinct of the baser animals, he wondered, that they were acutely aware of all the changes in their surroundings, changes that higher, more evolved minds would pass over as routine. He hoped that the Jiralhanae, while certainly primal, would pass over his hiding spot as well.

Patience proved ever the virtue, as several minutes later there was an unnatural sound throughout the wooded arena: flora moving suddenly and roughly against the wind, fauna fleeing from an unrecognized force. Oriné moved his head only slightly, mostly rotating on his eyes in order to observe the environment around him.

There. A dark and shaggy figure was pushing its way through the forest, moving as cautiously as it could manage; its head was extended in order to smell its prey, doubtlessly the Elite Minor, as it moved. For a moment the Sangheili was afraid, realizing he had forgotten to disguise his scent, but remembered the vine. Its aroma had nearly knocked him over on its own, and it pervaded the canopy. Indeed the Brute passed within a meter of Oriné and did not detect him.

Relief quickly gave way to panic. The Jiralhanae was slowly making its way towards the slope that led out of the forest. If he were to evade, the Trial would be over, and Oriné’s family would be dishonored without hope of redemption.

With a cry he catapulted from his spot, running straight at his target. The Jiralhanae turned, snarling its own challenge. For a moment, Oriné chided his opponent for turning away from certain victory, no matter how devoid of valor; if he had simply run for the exit, he would have made it and the Trial would be finished. And he thinks to engage an invisible opponent in unarmed combat! This would be over quickly, despite the Brute’s apparent size and strength.

However, the Elite Minor had overlooked one deadly complication. Though blind to his location, the Jiralhanae was not helpless. In a quick motion it drew something from its tattered belt and swung. Oriné was barely able to halt his rushed advance in time, and despite the fact that falling backwards hadn’t been part of the plan, it likely saved his life. The detached bayonet the Brute carried would have passed through his neck, shields and flesh be damned, if he hadn’t suddenly and accidentally changed altitude.

Lying on the forest floor, his body shape stood out like a sore thumb among the grass and moss, and the Sangheili had to react quickly in order to avoid being skewered by a downward thrust. Up on his feet the Jiralhanae continued to track him, despite his active camouflage. As he dodged swings and kicks, Oriné realized that the vine’s scent, which had so well covered his own, was now acting as a targeting device.

Growling, the Elite Minor disengaged his camouflage and activated his shields. He couldn’t get rid of the vine; not yet. He had a plan.

Upon his appearance, the Jiralhanae halted its attack and grinned devilishly. “Ah, a Sangheili. I should have known by your slipperiness.” It lowered its stance but did not lunge. “Are you simply here to impede my progress, warrior, or is there something in it for you if you bring me back? I figured the terms of my freedom to be a little... suspicious.”

Oriné dropped into his own martial stance. “Upon your capture, I am one step closer to regaining my family’s honor,” he said. The Jiralhanae showed its mouthful of teeth, lips upturned into a cruel smile.

“The Three Trials, then,” it rumbled. “You must be of the family of that Priestess who was recently executed. You have undertaken a grave and fatal path.”

“So they say.” Digging his hoof into the dirt, Oriné lunged, going for the neck of the beast. His own strength could not match that of the Brute, so instead he had to focus on the strategic pressure points where he could cripple the creature with the least energy possible. It would make his fight difficult, which was for certain.

The Brute suffered no such limitation. It allowed the Sangheili to come at him and began swinging its massive fists, one still clutching the blade, putting up a powerful defense. Oriné ducked one blow and let his shields absorb the impact of the bayonet, metal sliding over the field around him. He was physically unharmed, but his shields screamed in protest at him. Another such attack too soon would be stopped only by his armor and the flesh and bone underneath.

He slid under the next barrage and struck upward at the creature’s central plexus. His fist hit home, but the blow was softened by layers of muscle. The Jiralhanae grumbled its discomfort and began kicking, catching the Elite in the side of the head and sending him tumbling through the grass. It pressed on, jumping on the incapacitated Sangheili, but Oriné took the impact and rolled, ignoring the shrill alarm in his helmet and the lack of air in his lungs. As he tried to get to his feet, his fingers almost grasped the plasma sword at his hip, but at the last moment he stayed his hand.

I will win with honor.

The convict pressed the assault. Oriné modified his strategy, switching almost entirely to defense unless his opponent was overextended, at which point he struck with savage fury of his own. Such lapses in combat ability did not come often; the Brute was clearly highly educated in his martial abilities, likely having at one point also been a soldier.

“You have fought on the battlefield before,” Oriné grunted as he sidestepped a fist. The Jiralhanae brought it back to a defense position too quickly for a counterattack, however.

“Yes,” it replied. “I was part of the force deployed to Harvest. I was one of the first combatants in this war, unlike your filthy species.” The remark was meant to sting, but Oriné did not let his racial pride cloud his judgment.

“So you say. But that was the first deployment of Jiralhanae soldiers on the front line, and following your dismal failures to properly deal with all the humans in the system, the last deployment of Jiralhanae soldiers on the front line. After that you were relegated to temple guardians and political muscle.” The Brute struck with a blind fury, driven to rage by his comments, and Oriné saw an opening. He struck with extended fingers, plowing them straight into his opponent’s windpipe. The creature gagged and staggered back. “Something tells me you were not pleased with the transition.” He leaped forward, sensing his chance. Planting one foot firmly in the Brute’s face, knocking him onto his back; regaining his balance, Oriné struck again, further dazing the ex-warrior at his feet.

Using his adrenaline to his advantage, the Elite Minor rolled the Jiralhanae over, seized its arms, and quickly bound them using the vine. There was enough left over that, using its stretchiness and the Brute’s knees he was able to bind all four limbs together. In addition he dislocated the creature’s arms, just for safety’s sake.

“Our time will come again,” the Jiralhanae growled as Oriné struggled to get it on its feet. “You shall be disgraced, we will prove our greater worth to the Hierarchs, and you will become lowlier than the Grunts.” It spat a tooth at him, but the object just bounced off his shields.

“March,” he commanded, and began pushing the Jiralhanae towards the distant slope.

Climbing out of the arena, Oriné saw the two Honor Guards to whom he was supposed to report standing on either side of a door. Coercing his prisoner forward, he straightened up and stood before the sentinels, muddy but proud. “Here is my target, apprehended and alive.”

“Very well, young one,” one of the Honor Guards said. “You have passed the Trial of Knowledge.” He keyed a code into the door behind him and it slid open. “You may proceed. The Trial of Faith awaits you.”

As he stepped through, Oriné looked behind him. The other Honor Guard drew his plasma sword, and just before the door closed, the Elite Minor was treated to the sight of the Brute being skewered right through the chest.

——

No Prophet waited to brief him, but as soon as he stepped into the room, ellipsoid and bland and large, Oriné wished there had been some warning.

“Ekla,” he hissed.

The priestess turned calmly. “Hello, warrior,” she said, voice perfectly level. “Welcome to the Trial of Faith.”

He balled his hands into fists. “So your torment will last?”

She gestured to a plain cushion located in the middle of the floor. “Sit and be prepared.”

For a minute Oriné continued to glare, but Ekla remained impassive, standing in her flowing priestess robes. She is staying calm, he thought, somewhat surprised and also hurt. The idea that she could keep her cool while he lost his temper irked him. Out of spite he forced his own rage to an internal simmer and knelt on the pillow.

“What is this Trial?” he asked, though not kindly.

“In the Trial of Faith, you shall be left to meditate and commune with the Gods, in order to beg their forgiveness and prove to the Hierarchs that you still hold their favor. A warrior without the Forerunners’ eternal blessing is useless to the Covenant.” From a small satchel she withdrew incense sticks and a holder. “You must allow the presence of the Divine into your mind and soul. For that, you must have a vision.”

Oriné scowled. “It is that simple, then? Have a vision and move on?”

“Nothing of Faith is ever simple,” Ekla replied, the first flickers of emotion playing on her face. She placed the holder directly in front of Oriné, inserting the two sticks. “I doubt your Lineage can even remember the names of the Great Ones for all the heresy that has come from your line.” Gripping a small tab at the top of each stick she pulled, the phosphorus strip igniting the tip and sending twin tails of smoke flicking into the air.

As the Elite Minor opened his mouth to retort the fumes hit him. He blinked, suddenly feeling the floor tip and dive beneath him. He grabbed for the cushion and the floor, hoping to steady himself against the unforeseen change, but found that neither were there. He could see the room plain as day, as he could his limbs and the pillow on which he knelt, but they were untouchable. He watched as his fingers probed against the metal floor, feeling nothing. What is happening? Looking up he searched for Ekla, suspecting it was one of her tricks, but even though he saw her he couldn’t recognize her.

To him, it felt like a vital component of his brain had been disconnected.

Images flashed by, hazy and vague, but the emotions he felt from each were real. Though he could not figure out what he was seeing, he felt pain and triumph, grief and absolution. He wrestled with his mind, trying to get it under control, but control seemed just beyond his capability. Internally he reeled.

After a time, though, some semblance of calm returned to him. Images still flashed before him, but now he was beginning to understand: they were simply his memories, jumbled and distorted, but still his own.

But what did this have to do with a vision of divinity?

Nothing, his rational brain argued. You are drugged. Disorientation and hallucination accompany your current state. These images are merely stock from your mind. There is no significance, only randomness.

But the scriptures said that, in beginning of their Great Journey, the Forerunners had begun a calculated chain reaction which would end in a Second for the Covenant. What seemed hapless and random was in truth carefully plotted and occurring in a pre-ordained order. Nothing deviated from the Plan.

What cruel Plan would have scorned Fulsa so, a female of wit, beauty, and intelligence. Surely the Plan requires interpreters, and in its course it may have eliminated one such individual. How would such a Plan justify itself?

It needs no justification. It is divine. It is the Word and Rule, as spoken through the Voice, as dwelled upon by the Mind, as acted upon by the Hand.

Three frail creatures that likely ascended to the position by blind luck, not a celestial guiding hand.

Do not all things live and move in a Cycle? Birth, growth, age, death. This wheel, ever turning forward, is what drives the Covenant towards salvation, driven by the Will of the Forerunners.

The wheel does exist, and it does turn, but the motion has no direction, no destination. It merely goes until it no longer can.

The wheel must have started somehow, and whoever began its journey must have had a destination in mind. The wheel turns and the Cycle spins.

The Cycle spins, it is infinity.

Infinity linked together forever.

A wheel of infinity.

A Cycle of the Divine.

A sacred ring.

“The Cycle,” Oriné murmured. Slowly he began to feel again, sensation coming to his limbs, returning to his mind. The images cleared, his thoughts settled, and he felt...

He felt cramped.

With a groan he struggled to stand, knees stiff and cracking in protest, muscles feeling like lead. Clearly it had been a long time since he last moved. Nearby, Ekla rose from a sitting position of her own and crossed over to him, staying close but maintaining a minimum distance. She might have feared physical retribution.

Oriné shook his head. “How long have I been in a trance?”

“Three hours,” Ekla replied. “Have you had your vision, or shall I prepare more incense?”

The thought of undergoing that again was enough to turn the Elite Minor’s stomach. “No, I have seen things,” he said, still feeling groggy.

“What did you see?”

He wracked his brain, trying to piece together everything that had happened? What had he seen? Nothing. It had been a dialogue among himself. But in that dialogue, he felt, there had been something significant. Even as he heard himself saying the words, “A Cycle that defines all life, that is guided by the Will of the Forerunners, that rolls ever towards the Great Journey,” he wondered if that was truly the meaning of his experience.

Was it the future he saw? The past? Or was it something independent of time itself?

In the present, however, he faced a Trial. Focusing his thoughts again, he realized that Ekla was considering him, scrutinizing his face. Finally, after an eternity, she nodded. “Very well, warrior. You have seen the Cycle of Divinity, the momentum of our Holy Covenant. The Gods do indeed show you favor, even after your family’s grave misdeeds. You must now move on to the next Trial, the Trial of Combat.” She bowed. “Go with the Gods, Oriné ‘Fulsamee.”

Surprising her, and even himself, he bowed in return before turning for the next door. If she were somebody else, he thought, he would not have passed this trial. His so-called vision was strange and vague, clearly not what had been expected of him. Another priestess would have seen through it and denounced him for it.

But as she had been speaking, he saw in her eyes a spark, a remnant of a passion they had once shared, no matter how much she had tried to keep herself removed from it. Their affair had affected her, too, even if not as much as it had him. Her coating of ice had ablated a little, and he had seen into her soul.

She did not love him. Not truly.

But despite that, he felt his own heart mend itself a little more.

——

The next room matched the previous one detail for detail: a rounded ellipsoid shape, bare of any decoration or feature. The floor was deep purple, the walls a steel blue, and there were two doors. The only difference was that this room held not one occupant, but two.

Oriné stood, mandibles parted in a blatant gape. “Yarna?” he said, staring at the first figure to which his eyes had locked on. The Elite Minor stood in his polished combat harness, matching Oriné’s own in hue, upright in a casual posture. The other was equally surprising, clad in void-black armor harshly at odds with his green eyes, but equally recognizable. “Rtas?”

The two came forward and embraced him, touching foreheads with him in turn. “I am sorry to hear of Fulsa,” Rtas said, voice full of regret. “She had been a beauty and a charm, but clearly not meant for this time.”

“Faithful Unit grieves with you,” Yarna said, “as do the many dancers we have courted and won over. One of them waits to comfort you, my friend.”

Despite everything that had happened, Oriné felt a semblance of who he had been returning, a contentedness he had missed since leaving the Transcendent Voyager on this hellish errand. Now the sensation threatened to overwhelm him, made him feel like collapsing to the deck and sobbing, but his mind was painfully aware of what was expected of him, why he had come this far.

He turned to Rtas. “Where have you been?”

“After my first deployment,” the green-eyed Sangheili said, “I was selected for service among the Prophet Blessed as an Operative. I was sent back to the Yermo province on Sanghelios, to study at the top war college in Iruiru.” He clicked his mandibles. “Now I am here, before I accept my first mission in Special Operations.”

Oriné never would have believed it. Though the black armor of the Prophet Blessed was very much revered among young Sangheili warriors, he had never thought any of his friends would have qualified for such an honor. Rtas least among them; Oriné had never believed him to be a subtle individual.

Next he looked to Yarna. “How is Faithful?”

“Well enough,” the Councilor’s son replied. “We have been relaxing, but missing your company fiercely.” He gave Oriné a lopsided look. “I got an odd communiqué from my father not too long ago that I wished to discuss with you, but it can wait for another time.”

Oriné nodded. “I was told I must face the Trial of Combat here,” he said, “but instead I find two friends. What is this?”

“This is indeed the Trial,” Rtas said somberly. “We are a part of it.”

Yarna stepped forward. For the first time, Oriné noticed the energy sword on his hip, and he checked to make sure his own was still present. Rtas bore one too, but as an Operative of the Prophet Blessed, the Special Operations section of the Army, it was expected that he wield one.

Why two Elite Minors had them was beyond Oriné’s understanding.

“I am your second,” Yarna said. “If you wish to decline this duel, I must take your place.”

Now Oriné understood the significance of the sword. He turned to Rtas, full of dread. “And you?”

“I am your opponent’s second.”

“Who is my opponent?”

Rtas twitched a mandible. “Should he not arrive soon, you’ll never know.”

For a few moments they stood in awkward silence, but just as Oriné opened his mouth to ask Rtas how he had been faring (and how he had become an Operative) the far doors lid apart, and a Sangheili in crimson armor strode into the room, sword already in hand.

Oriné’s breath froze in his throat.

From his expression, Yarna was as shocked as he was, but Rtas calmly turned towards the new arrival. “Olah, it is good to see you again.”

Olah ‘Seroumee grunted a greeting, but kept his eyes trained perfectly on Oriné. All the Elite Minor could do himself was stare, though with far less control. He had tracked and captured a Jiralhanae and been drugged by his old flame just so he could duel one of his oldest and most trusted friends?

The Elite Major, however, did not seem to have the same compunction. His sword flashed to life, a horrendous crashing noise as the plasma spilled from the small hilt and crashed against the magnetic containment fields, shaping it into a two-pronged saber capable of inflicting grievous injury to the opponent when properly wielded, and grievous injury to the user if mishandled. They were weapons of ceremony and of death.

Olah held his like an expert. Oriné had never used one before in his life.

“Draw your blade, Oriné,” Olah said. Compelled by the authoritative tone, the Elite Minor detached the hilt from his thigh, but did not squeeze the activation triggers. The Major frowned. “If you do not consent to this duel, Yarna will fight in your place.”

The thought of his friend being forced to die for him created a sour taste in his mouth and made his hand rise higher, but still he did not turn on the blade.

This is my final Trial?! The Hierarchs demand I kill one of my friends in combat! He held no illusions about the conditions of this battle: it would be to the death, not to first blood or first recoil. To win, he would have to kill Olah ‘Seroumee, the Sangheili he remembered from Jisako, the one who drove him on through Institution, the one who saved him after the death of Hada ‘Sobotee.

He would have to strike down his friend.

But if he refused, his other friend, whom he also loved like a brother, would take his place, and Oriné knew that Yarna’s skill with a sword was the same as Oriné’s: nil.

Olah tensed. The Elite Minor had to make a decision. With some effort he squeezed the contacts of the hilt down and the plasma blade sprung to life. Two white-hot prongs of energy exploded into existence, and suddenly Oriné’s arm was weighed down by sixty extra pounds. He struggled to keep the blade at the ready.

He opened his mouth to try to perhaps talk Olah down, but the Elite Major was already in motion. Entering into a swinging lunge the higher-ranked Sangheili barreled towards Oriné, who was barely able to raise his sword in time to block. Tendrils of electrons flared between the blades as they collided, filling the air with sparks and an intense roaring sound. Barely able to keep his balance, Oriné stumbled back, slightly dazed from the blow, but Olah swung again. This time the Elite Minor sidestepped and brought up his own blade for a parry, swiping aside his friend’s weapon, leaving Olah vulnerable.

But Oriné did not strike.

“Fool!” Olah cried out, slashing with his blade again. Oriné tried to stay light on his feet, but after just a few minutes of combat his hooves were feeling very heavy. His arm was burning from exertion. “You had an opening! Why did you hesitate?”

“I don’t wish to harm you!” Oriné cried out in reply, falling back again but suddenly feeling the wall at his back. Panic seized him, and then an incredible pain blinded him: the entire world turned white. He came back to the sound of his own wail dying out and looked down, seeing two lengths of plasma sticking into his shoulder, impaling him. Blood sizzled against the contained energy. The pain was unbearable.

“Duty tells you to fight me,” Olah hissed. “Duty to your Covenant.”

“The Covenant that killed my sister!”

“No!” Olah twisted the blade. A new fountain of agony welled up in the Elite Minor. “You allowed the Covenant to kill your sister! Your blind faith in an institution bound you to its rules and made you complacent to its whim! When it said your sister must die, you defended her within its own limited system and didn’t dare stray beyond it!” The blade was withdrawn, and Oriné slid down the wall, leaving a purple smear as he did so. A few feet away, Yarna and Rtas stood tensely by, watching the scene with growing anxiety.

“Confront your own sins rather than the Covenant’s, Oriné,” Olah said, towering over him. “In letting them put your sister to death, in following their guidelines, you have committed the ultimate act of submission.” The twin points of death hovered before Oriné’s face. “What is this one final command of amicicide?”

Somewhere inside him, Oriné’s soul acknowledged the truth in those statements. Perhaps it was for that reason that he was suddenly overcome with bloodlust. Buried rage exploded forth and consumed him, filling his limbs with power. Instantly his arm came up and deflected Olah’s blade, and he was on his feet. His mind was wiped clean by anger, an empty slate that was filled only with his training, memories of dueling maliers with Squadron Twenty-two, dueling nadier with Rtas.

Motion and thought blurred together. Suddenly Olah was on the defensive against Oriné’s emotional onslaught, forced to parry and parry without being able to strike back. The Elite Minor pressed his advantage, brutally slashing, drawing from an inner reserve of blind hatred. In his mind, he was striking at the Covenant who murdered his sister, at the white-haired Jiralhanae, at Ekla, at his own weakness and doubts. The sword could destroy it all, undo what had been done, reverse time and space and take him back to the simpler days of living, when he and his sister played in the city and went with their parents to the lagoon, when Orna was still with them, ever the watchful older brother. Before she was a priestess, before he was a soldier, before they understood the Covenant better than just a bedtime prayer. It was within reach; all he had to do was extend his hand...

An unfamiliar sensation ran up his arm that jarred him out of his fury. His eyes focused on reality and he realized that his own blade had been shoved straight into Olah’s chest. Purple blood gushed out from his friend’s two destroyed hearts. For a moment, Oriné simply stood there, morbidly fascinated with the feeling of horror in his stomachs. It felt like a void, creating a bridge between the soldier he was and the warrior he could have been.

He had killed before, but he had never felt someone die.

Instantly he released his hand, the blade snapping out of existence and the hilt falling to the floor, and he lunged and caught Olah’s body before it could drop. The Elite Minor’s mandibles worked to try and form an apology, but he couldn’t coax any sound from his own throat.

Oriné wanted to hear some final words, a last phrase of explanation or forgiveness, or even condemnation. But there was none.

Olah ‘Seroumee died in his arms without a sound.

——

The Three Trials were over. Through Knowledge, Faith, and Combat, Oriné ‘Fulsamee had proven himself worthy of continued service and shown that he still held the Lords’ favor: he had captured a vile prisoner, heard the speech of the Forerunners in his mind, and bested a superior officer in lethal combat. His Lineage was returned its honor. He would return to combat knowing that by hunting down a prisoner, lying to a holy practitioner about a vision, and murdering his friend, he had irreversibly bound himself to the will of the Hierarchs and of the Holy Covenant.

Any action otherwise would be a cosmic hypocrisy.

——

Oriné stood in the massive loading spike, watching as supplies were ferried onto the waiting cruiser Triumphant Declaration. Flanking him on either side was Rtas ‘Vadumee and Yarna ‘Orgalmee. They stood with him as he contemplated his latest assignment. Though still a member of S’gor Legion, Oriné was to be transferred to another battalion, one that primarily served as a guardian force for Inquisitors deployed to conquered worlds.

Magister ‘Alsakee would be pleased, in a way, he told himself, recalling his uncle and teacher of Knowledge from so long ago who had wished for him to become an Inquisitor, as he himself had been. At the time Oriné had declined, but wondered if perhaps he had been too hasty. I suppose now is when I may find out.

He turned to his friends. “So where shall you two go?”

“I will return to Faithful Unit,” Yarna said, sounding perhaps more sullen than he intended. “There are still a few days left of leave that I may enjoy. That saitarelé will miss your company, however.” He laid a hand on his shoulder. “She had expressed such a desire to meet so compassionate an individual.” Grinning, the other Elite Minor gave Yarna a light punch in the arm, then grew silent.

“Do you know...” Oriné trailed off, uncertain how to phrase his question. “Do you know who shall take command of Faithful now that Olah has been...?” The subject, though several days old, was still tender to him. Recent memories were enough to drag him into a prolonged state of sleepless depression; the Healers had prescribed him several types of herbs to ease his nights, but the feeling of hollowness persisted despite their efforts.

He knew it would never leave.

Yarna nodded. “I believe Toro ‘Bodnolee is being transferred back to become our leader. I am sure he will be disappointed that your presence will no longer be available to calm the Unggoy.”

In spite of himself, Oriné felt the ghost of a smile pull at his mandibles. It made him feel weary. He turned next to the black-clad Operative beside him. “And you, Rtas? I have heard nothing from you for so long. I wish our first reunion had been kinder than this.”

“The next one certainly will be,” the green-eyed Sangheili said, a knowing grin forming. “I am accepting a position as a member of the Special Operations detachment assigned to the exclusive command of one Supreme Commander Orna ‘Fulsamee.”

Oriné felt like he had just been run down by a Yorahii beast. “My brother has become a Supreme Commander?” For so long he had gone without word of his older sibling; apparently, Orna had been busy ascending the naval ranks with unprecedented speed.

The rank of Supreme Commander held incredible social and military weight. Higher than even a Fleet Master, a Supreme Commander held under his authority entire armadas capable of eliminating entire star systems. The Council would respect the decision of a Supreme Commander in equality with that of the Hierarchs. Clad in ornate purple armor with a sweeping robe of virility, they were the symbols of ultimate power within the navy.

If Orna had been able to return for Fulsa’s trial, would his influence have saved her? And in so doing prevented my murder of Olah? Perhaps, Oriné reasoned, his input would be discounted due to his familial attachment. He decided not to dwell too much on it, but knew the thought would eat at him for months to come.

Recovering from the shock, Oriné regarded Rtas with an intense gaze. “If you see him, tell him that our mother and father would like word from him as soon as possible. As a Supreme Commander he should easily have clearance to send a personal message from wherever he is, and learning of his status would bring a light to both in this dark time. And pass on my own greetings and congratulations.”

“I shall,” said Rtas.

Oriné touched foreheads with them both, and after saluting stepped into the gravity lift that would take him down to the personnel loading level for the Declaration. He would return to the battlefield, more a warrior of the Covenant in despair than he had ever been in pride.

Description
Chapter 13: Three Trials

When Oriné ‘Fulsamee awoke, he knew Fulsa was already dead.

He knew it by the way his hearts felt at once heavy and light, weighed down by sorrow but deprived of some crucial part. Every breath was a labor, a reluctant motion made against a world in which he would rather be dead, a phantom with his sister. Even as he opened his eyes and found himself lying in a medical bed, his parents sitting somberly nearby, the fact that the elegance he had secretly admired in the Covenant architecture was gone indicated his twin had left the mortal coil and her soul had been cast into Hell.

Rolling his eye, Oriné recognized the inside of a healing room when he saw it, a private one; likewise he took notice of his two parents, once vibrant with life and love, now looking like two faded reeds about to be plucked from the soil by the wind. He remembered that look; Hada ‘Sobotee’s parents had that same look after Oriné’s visit.

He sat up, the motion catching his parents’ eyes. They rose swiftly and came to him, his mother clasping his hand and his father standing somberly over him. They were all weeping silently.

Where do we go from here? Oriné tried to find an answer within himself, but he couldn’t.

As they mourned together, the door chimed and slid open. All three looked up to see a grim Sangheili messenger, clad in cobalt armor, standing in the doorframe. “The Hierarchs request your presence,” he said. “If you will dress and follow me.”

It took Oriné only a few moments to don his own armor, and once that was completed the three members of the ‘Fulsam Lineage were led from the healing room. From the smooth and well-kept walls Oriné knew he was still on High Charity, which wasn’t that much of a surprise; moving him would not have been necessary. But why did the Hierarchs wish to speak with his family? Didn’t their shame run deep enough?

Wasn’t his sister’s life enough to sate them?

The Elite Minor shook his head in an attempt to rid himself of the bitter thoughts boiling up within him. His sister had been executed for her heresy, for his heresy. Perhaps if he had not held doubts before, Fulsa would not have wavered either. Had the Gods sensed his misgivings and, through this action, punished him for it? The shame threatened to tear him apart all over again.

Suddenly he realized that, as he was pondering the deeper meaning of recent events, they had proceeded to the primary gravity lift in the Council Chambers that led to the Sanctum of the Hierarchs. All together the group of four ascended, passing through intricate designs displayed on curved screens along the inside of the shaft. Oriné watched as lattices of multi-colored lights flashed past his eyes, and he was briefly mesmerized into amnesia. By the time they stopped, however, the effect had worn off.

The antechamber was composed of six hovering pillars bordering a lit walkway leading up to a grandiose door. Honor Guards were visible everywhere, lining the walk and the walls and even standing at the ready behind them along the gravity lift. Though they looked passive enough, Oriné knew both from experience and hearsay that in an instant they could spring into action. The Honor Guard was heralded as a largely ceremonial unit, but many of the most skilled and prudent warriors were part of its ranks.

Following the lead of the guide, the three walked along the path in silence, coming up to the door in due time. It gave a chime, much louder and tonal than the standard admittance sound, and split apart to slide into the walls and ceiling. Inside waited the three Hierarchs, clustered around a central pillar of light, heads bowed, lips moving in silent prayer. For a moment Oriné was afraid to enter, lest his presence disturb their sacred meditations. But the insistence of their guide drew him and his family into the room, the door sliding closed behind. The ‘Fulsam Lineage were bade to draw near the Prophets, which they did so, dropping to their knees at an appropriate distance. Close as they were, the Elite Minor could hear hushed whispers; they weren’t calling upon the Gods, they were speaking to one another.

After a moment’s pause they turned their attention to Oriné and his family.

“I thank you for coming,” the High Prophet of Truth intoned. He spared a moment to look at their guide. “You may take your leave.”

Bowing low, the other Elite Minor made his exit.

The Prophet’s attention returned to the remaining Sangheili, specifically Oriné’s father. “We understand your sorrow at the loss of a child, but heresy in any form may not be allowed to propagate. Your daughter’s words were offenses most vile and could not be permitted to taint others.”

“We understand well, Excellency,” Orita replied, though his eyes never left the floor. Oriné could almost taste the venom in his voice, and it was clear that the Hierarchs had caught the edge of his words as well.

“Quite.” Truth allowed his gravity throne to sway him a little to the side. “Do you know why you are here?”

“You give us the chance to regain our honor,” the elder ‘Fulsamee said at length.

In his chair, Mercy nodded. “The Three Trials.”

Oriné didn’t dare glance up, but he felt his own ignorance weigh in his mind. He hadn’t ever heard of these trials, but it was apparent that they were a method with which a Lineage could regain its honor. He didn’t hold much hope, however.

His father seemed to share his sentiment. “With respect, Highest Excellencies, my bones are too old to undergo these trials. I may still have the heart of a warrior, but my body fails me a little more every day.”

The Hierarchs hovered in silence broken only by the tapping of Regret’s impatient fingers on the arm of his throne. Truth pulled at his jowls in contemplation. Mercy looked to be on the verge of sleep. Clearing his throat, Orita continued, “But perhaps my oldest son, Orna, would be able to return from duty to complete this test.”

“No,” Mercy replied immediately, seeming to startle himself out of his stupor. “Your son is currently engaged in operations vital to this Covenant’s crusade against the human vermin. He cannot be recalled at this crucial juncture.”

A beat passed. “Indeed,” answered Truth; if the tone of his voice was any indicator, he had been mildly annoyed by this statement. Why? Oriné wondered if maybe he and his family were suddenly witness to a strain between the Hierarchs, but that was impossible. They remained united through faith in the Forerunners. Nothing of this life could possibly be worth diverting attention inward, away from the Great Journey.

He was so involved with this thought that he hardly felt when all the eyes in the room fell upon him. Glancing up, he saw the Hierarchs watching him intensely and his parents casting him sidelong glances from their own humble positions. Oriné resisted the urge to click his mandibles in the presence of such holy figures.

“I know nothing of these trials,” he said, “but if it will restore honor to my Lineage, I will undertake them immediately and with all my strength.”

“Well said, young warrior,” said Truth. “Should you pass the Three Trials, your Lineage will be absolved of all its shortcomings and allowed to once more bask in the warm conviction of the Holy Covenant.”

Mercy floated forward. “The trials shall begin tomorrow. Take the rest of the day to collect yourself, as tomorrow your life shall be laid at the feet of the Gods in order to judge your worthiness.”

This is nothing new to me, thought Oriné in reply, but said nothing. He and his parents were dismissed and ushered from the Sanctum, and indeed from the entire tower, with haste.

——

Oriné should have been sleeping. But how could he? After they returned to the suite he had pressed his father for information on these Three Trials.

“The harshest test of recalcitrance and redemption,” the older Sangheili had said. Once he had an edge to his voice, a hidden desire of his to impart his wisdom and the wisdom of the world on others, but with his daughter’s death it had fled him. Now he was only an old man. “In some ways you will have the advantage: the structure of the trials closely follows that of a war college curriculum. Your more recent experiences at Institution should prepare you well.

“You must be cautious, however. This will not be like the Proofs. Instead your life itself will be tested, and failure means death.” After that, his father and mother had retired for the night, and Oriné had hoped to do the same.

Rest was not forthcoming.

Instead he stared out through the window into the harsh evening light of High Charity. The crowds were dwindling but were far from distinguished; from his vantage point he could hear the distant bustle of a nearby bazaar, but it was fading. Even with the onset of night, nothing was getting darker.

He inspected his hand. Once it had been soft with thin fingers, a child’s hand, but now it was harsher. Stronger. Muscle collected around the joints, rough skin swallowed chords of fiber running from the back of his hand all the way down his arm.

Motion caught his eye and drew it up. In the street a cloaked figure was passing. Her form was well concealed, but Oriné recognized that graceful neck anywhere and at any angle. His once-gentle hand curled itself into a vicious fist. He willed her to walk on.

She didn’t. She stopped and turned her eyes to scan the building.

She cannot see me, he told himself. She cannot find me.

Her eyes came to rest on the window he leaned against. Instinctively he moved back and then cursed himself; she had surely seen the motion. Now he was zeroed, she continued to stare, waiting for some response. Scowling he moved away from the window to lie on the bed, but his legs betrayed him and carried him to the door. In a few moments he was outside, standing beneath the eaves of the apartment building. It wasn’t cold at all, nor was there any wind: the advantages of a perfectly maintained artificial atmosphere.

From her position across the street, Ekla stared back.

Oriné held his ground, standing off against the urge to cross over to her. It was a battle of wills, which he eventually won. She cracked and came to him, taking long strides with recognizably slender legs.

“You have done enough damage,” Oriné hissed once she was close. “Why do you feel like you must continue to torment me?”

As she drew nearer Oriné had seen an odd expression on her face. Now it was level with his neck, and he realized it resembled what he had imagined remorse would look like on her face, had she ever shown any. Her eyes were wide, pinched at the edges, and very tired. In fact, upon examining the conservative profile offered by the cloak, her shoulders had sagged from their once proud bearing.

“You are the one who torments me,” she said quietly. “You and your sister.”

Oriné cocked his head but did not let his expression of rage waver.

“I cannot shake her from my mind!” Ekla exploded. Her emotion washed over the Elite Minor in a wave, but he stood firm. “She continues to run up to me, urging me aside with those deftly spoken heresies, but whenever I turn away from her I see her tortured form being burned, branded, draw and quartered in the square...”

With great fortitude, Oriné squeezed his eyes shut and fought to keep that mental image from his conscious mind. It was true that he had fainted before he saw the full extent of Fulsa’s punishment, and he had been glad of that. He knew it would come to him in nightmares, but the last thing he could stand was facing such a grotesque image waking as well as sleeping.

Ekla continued on. “Amidst it all, though, is a horrific doubt. I wonder if there was not a knell of truth to her predictions. What if she was right and we have just extinguished some insight that would otherwise have been valuable?”

“Enough!” Oriné roared. His voice reverberated down the now-empty street, but he didn’t care. “You continue to tease and torment me! Would that these doubts have come soon enough to save my sister, but now I think they come at an hour too late!” He leaned in, lowering his voice to a dangerous rumble. He let his anger consume him, felt the hate and rage course through his veins, pumping his hearts and powering his limbs. Though pain was its intent, the Elite Minor was intelligent enough to know that physical damage could heal with time.

There was another kind of injury that could last the length of a life.

“No matter what you think of faith or of supposed heresies, know this: you killed her. You betrayed her confidence; you committed her to this fate.” He backed off, but did not raise his voice. “Now be buried under your burdens and trouble me no more.”

He turned and walked back inside. Behind him he thought he heard sobbing, but when he ascended the gravity lift and returned to his room she was no longer in the streets. A moment passed while he made sure she hadn’t followed him, and then he fell back into the bed.

And rest was still not forthcoming.

——

In his dreams, he was in that strange place again. Featureless Sangheili stood around him in the circular arena, muttering their nonsense. This time, however, Oriné ignored them all and proceeded straight to the golden shape. As before it looked up at him and spoke in a detached, ethereal voice:

“Oriné? Is that you?”

Who are you, said Oriné, but without words. Was this Fulsa? Was this place Paradise, the limbo before the Great Journey? But she wouldn’t be here; for her heresy, she would be in the Hells, freezing and burning and drowning and starving for all eternity. The only way this place felt cold was its distance, its vagueness.

As before, Oriné could only reach out his hand and take the outstretched arm of the one before him. Grasping the hand, Oriné felt a bond, but it was not one shared between siblings. It was one shared between brothers-in-arms, comrades of the battlefield. He remembered the sensation from when he pulled his fellow warriors out of the mud of Coppice, when he embraced the arms of Yarna and Rtas and Rabu. It was a familiar feeling. It was a comforting feeling.

And as he pulled his unknown comrade up, he felt the two of them ascending, embracing each other. Light enveloped them, vaporizing the arena around them. Suddenly his golden comrade let go.

“I see now,” he spoke, voice echoing infinitely. “My role is done, my friend. But your part has not yet been played out.”

Oriné tried to ask, but his mandibles, if they were his, did not respond. Instead he heard another voice, one he had known from his very first breath:

“I will watch over your friend, dear brother,” she said. “You remain unfulfilled, and you must save your Brothers from my fate.” The light faded.

When he awoke, Oriné found his eyes filled with tears. Even as the memory of the dream faded into the false night of High Charity, no amount of nictitating could clear them away.

——

“The trials alone will not be enough to save your Lineage’s honor,” the Lesser Prophet said, standing in the doorway of the apartment. “I am sorry to deliver this news so early, but upon reflection it has been decided more must be offered for the Gods to forgive such dire sins as your family suffers.”

Orita suppressed the urge to slam his fist against the wall. His mate and son were both still sleeping, having missed the quiet and insistent chiming of a visitor. However, this news was hardly welcome.

He took a deep breath. “And what more do the Hierarchs demand of my family?”

“You will be returned to active service,” said the Prophet. He was a small and spindly thing, grey robes flowing over what Orita knew was a slight body with poor bone and muscle density. The Prophets, since their homeworld was allegedly destroyed, had spent many eons in space as a nomadic tribe. It was how they had stumbled across the then-independent Sangheilian Empire so long ago, and their divergent beliefs of Forerunner artifacts had triggered the War of Fortune. Such time in weightless vacuum had not been forgiving to their physiology. Most required gravimetric aids, such as belts or thrones, to move about.

But that was ancient history of a hundred light years away. Here, today, he was being recalled to duty. “You understand I am old, correct? I can no longer bear the burdens of a youthful warrior, can no longer trek across a battlefield alive with fire...”

“Your age has been taken into account, as well as your experience,” the Lesser Prophet assured him. “The Hierarchs, in their divine wisdom, understand that to throw away your years of sacrifice would be an empty and futile gesture. They are willing to restore your old post and promote you to Ship Master after a brief time, during which you must appropriately show your duty to the Covenant.”

Orita considered this. There were older Sangheili in the Navy than he, though not by much; most of his peers from his previous wars had moved on to political or religious arenas by now, or had simply retired to take care of their families. The old ‘Fulsamee had become one of the latter, not thirsting for further societal or political advancement. He had accepted a modest but fair flat in the capital even though his dream had been a homestead by one of the many seas of Sanghelios, with a small white beach flanked on either side by dense forest, and an open plain in which his children could play and he could watch, vigilant and subdued.

Now he seemed to be pulled even further from that dream.

“Very well,” he sighed. He conceded fate’s victory here. As the patriarch of the family he would have no peace, but even if it were to kill him, he would earn peace for his sons, so that they may live out his dream. “When am I to be deployed?”

“At the end of your son’s Trials,” the Lesser Prophet; the two bowed, said meaningless partings, and Orita watched the weak creature hobble down the hallway towards his waiting escort. Once the Prophet was safely gone from sight, the old Sangheili withdrew from the hallway and returned to his room. He slipped into bed next to his mate; she did not stir.

All the fatigue of age crushed him, but he had been deprived of the desire to sleep. Instead he just watched the steady rise and fall of Alsa’s body, listened to the soft hum of her breathing. In her dreams, maybe, there was a happier place.

He closed his eyes and tried to think of what it might be.

——

“I am to do what?”

Standing at the high edge of the garden below him, Oriné could see that it was more like an arboretum. It was thick with foliage, so much so that the Elite Minor couldn’t see through to the floor below the canopy. Small birds would shoot up through the leaves, allowing the sun to shine on their silvery wings, and then plummet back down. If legend was to be believed, they were native to the Prophets’ home world. He certainly hadn’t seen them on any world he had visited.

Beside him hovered a Lesser Prophet. For a while Oriné had thought that perhaps these trials were important enough to warrant the Hierarchs’ undivided attention. Apparently he had been wrong, and instead a Councilor was to see him off.

“Within this forest,” repeated the Councilor, “is a Jiralhanae convict. He has been promised his freedom if he should evade or kill you before you can capture him. In order to pass this Trial of Knowledge, you must capture him alive and bring him to the Honor Guards located at the far end, whereupon you will be sent immediately to your next labor.”

Oriné tried to pierce the obstructing flora with his gaze, but it failed. “I must capture him, but he may kill me?”

“Yes.” When the Prophet Councilor nodded, his entire body bobbed, supported only by the anti-gravity belt around his waist. “Such are the conditions of the trial.”

The Elite Minor ran a final check on his armor. He was permitted full shields and his motion tracker, good to up to fifteen meters, but he doubted its effectiveness if the forest was as bristling with life as it seemed. But he was not allowed any weapons; his energy sword was attached to his hip, but he had been forbidden to use it. That having been said, he wondered why he should carry it, but when he asked the Prophet had remained silent.

This is ludicrous, he thought, but it wasn’t just for himself that he did this. It was for his father and mother, so they may at least live with one less burden. It was for Orna, lost on some distant front and silent for so long. It was for Fulsa, to perhaps earn back some of her Honor. It was for him.

“Very well,” Oriné said. “When shall I begin?”

“Immediately.”

Nodding, Oriné took two steps forward and slid down the steep edge of the ravine. The normal path down on this side had been blocked off; by entering the chosen arena, there would be no going back. To succeed or die were his options.

As he dropped below the canopy he felt a solid impact on his face. Instinctively his training took over and the war-oriented part of his brain analyzed the situation: an enemy was impossible to fight on this steep of an incline, so he lashed out to grab whatever it was and fell backwards, sliding the rest of the way on his back.

When he came to a rest his eyes finally focused and he realized he was holding a vine. His face burned. He had been caught off-guard by a plant? Glancing up, he saw that the Prophet was gone; at least he didn’t have to suffer that embarrassment.

Tugging at it, he found it to be quite elastic, and a moment later it revealed itself to be quite musky. Oriné tried not to gag on the overpowering stench. With a mighty pull it snapped from its tree of origin, and Oriné was left with a length of creeping plant; he wrapped it around his body like a bandolier, securing it with a loose knot close to his waist so it would be easily accessible.

He took a moment to take in his surroundings. At a glance, his anticipation about the state of his motion tracker seemed to be correct: it was obscured by the comings and goings of all the fauna just large enough to trigger it. Of course it made sense: clearly it could not be so easy for him if it were to be any sort of Trial. Still, if his motion tracker was designed to be useless, why taunt him with it?

Slowly he began wading through the waist-deep brush around the edge towards the thicker and larger copses in the middle. Small animals and insects chirped and buzzed around him, making his motion tracker go mad. It seemed like his eyes and hands were the only tools he could rely on.

Once amidst the taller scrub Oriné ducked down low. He watched and listened to the activity around him, engaging his active camouflage and settling into an observational position. Around him life disturbed by his passage slowly and cautiously returned to its former activities.

The more time passed, the more life around him returned to its normal state. Eventually the creatures strayed closer and closer, drawing nearer and nearer but somehow knowing where he was, despite the light-bending abilities of his camouflage. Perhaps it was an instinct of the baser animals, he wondered, that they were acutely aware of all the changes in their surroundings, changes that higher, more evolved minds would pass over as routine. He hoped that the Jiralhanae, while certainly primal, would pass over his hiding spot as well.

Patience proved ever the virtue, as several minutes later there was an unnatural sound throughout the wooded arena: flora moving suddenly and roughly against the wind, fauna fleeing from an unrecognized force. Oriné moved his head only slightly, mostly rotating on his eyes in order to observe the environment around him.

There. A dark and shaggy figure was pushing its way through the forest, moving as cautiously as it could manage; its head was extended in order to smell its prey, doubtlessly the Elite Minor, as it moved. For a moment the Sangheili was afraid, realizing he had forgotten to disguise his scent, but remembered the vine. Its aroma had nearly knocked him over on its own, and it pervaded the canopy. Indeed the Brute passed within a meter of Oriné and did not detect him.

Relief quickly gave way to panic. The Jiralhanae was slowly making its way towards the slope that led out of the forest. If he were to evade, the Trial would be over, and Oriné’s family would be dishonored without hope of redemption.

With a cry he catapulted from his spot, running straight at his target. The Jiralhanae turned, snarling its own challenge. For a moment, Oriné chided his opponent for turning away from certain victory, no matter how devoid of valor; if he had simply run for the exit, he would have made it and the Trial would be finished. And he thinks to engage an invisible opponent in unarmed combat! This would be over quickly, despite the Brute’s apparent size and strength.

However, the Elite Minor had overlooked one deadly complication. Though blind to his location, the Jiralhanae was not helpless. In a quick motion it drew something from its tattered belt and swung. Oriné was barely able to halt his rushed advance in time, and despite the fact that falling backwards hadn’t been part of the plan, it likely saved his life. The detached bayonet the Brute carried would have passed through his neck, shields and flesh be damned, if he hadn’t suddenly and accidentally changed altitude.

Lying on the forest floor, his body shape stood out like a sore thumb among the grass and moss, and the Sangheili had to react quickly in order to avoid being skewered by a downward thrust. Up on his feet the Jiralhanae continued to track him, despite his active camouflage. As he dodged swings and kicks, Oriné realized that the vine’s scent, which had so well covered his own, was now acting as a targeting device.

Growling, the Elite Minor disengaged his camouflage and activated his shields. He couldn’t get rid of the vine; not yet. He had a plan.

Upon his appearance, the Jiralhanae halted its attack and grinned devilishly. “Ah, a Sangheili. I should have known by your slipperiness.” It lowered its stance but did not lunge. “Are you simply here to impede my progress, warrior, or is there something in it for you if you bring me back? I figured the terms of my freedom to be a little... suspicious.”

Oriné dropped into his own martial stance. “Upon your capture, I am one step closer to regaining my family’s honor,” he said. The Jiralhanae showed its mouthful of teeth, lips upturned into a cruel smile.

“The Three Trials, then,” it rumbled. “You must be of the family of that Priestess who was recently executed. You have undertaken a grave and fatal path.”

“So they say.” Digging his hoof into the dirt, Oriné lunged, going for the neck of the beast. His own strength could not match that of the Brute, so instead he had to focus on the strategic pressure points where he could cripple the creature with the least energy possible. It would make his fight difficult, which was for certain.

The Brute suffered no such limitation. It allowed the Sangheili to come at him and began swinging its massive fists, one still clutching the blade, putting up a powerful defense. Oriné ducked one blow and let his shields absorb the impact of the bayonet, metal sliding over the field around him. He was physically unharmed, but his shields screamed in protest at him. Another such attack too soon would be stopped only by his armor and the flesh and bone underneath.

He slid under the next barrage and struck upward at the creature’s central plexus. His fist hit home, but the blow was softened by layers of muscle. The Jiralhanae grumbled its discomfort and began kicking, catching the Elite in the side of the head and sending him tumbling through the grass. It pressed on, jumping on the incapacitated Sangheili, but Oriné took the impact and rolled, ignoring the shrill alarm in his helmet and the lack of air in his lungs. As he tried to get to his feet, his fingers almost grasped the plasma sword at his hip, but at the last moment he stayed his hand.

I will win with honor.

The convict pressed the assault. Oriné modified his strategy, switching almost entirely to defense unless his opponent was overextended, at which point he struck with savage fury of his own. Such lapses in combat ability did not come often; the Brute was clearly highly educated in his martial abilities, likely having at one point also been a soldier.

“You have fought on the battlefield before,” Oriné grunted as he sidestepped a fist. The Jiralhanae brought it back to a defense position too quickly for a counterattack, however.

“Yes,” it replied. “I was part of the force deployed to Harvest. I was one of the first combatants in this war, unlike your filthy species.” The remark was meant to sting, but Oriné did not let his racial pride cloud his judgment.

“So you say. But that was the first deployment of Jiralhanae soldiers on the front line, and following your dismal failures to properly deal with all the humans in the system, the last deployment of Jiralhanae soldiers on the front line. After that you were relegated to temple guardians and political muscle.” The Brute struck with a blind fury, driven to rage by his comments, and Oriné saw an opening. He struck with extended fingers, plowing them straight into his opponent’s windpipe. The creature gagged and staggered back. “Something tells me you were not pleased with the transition.” He leaped forward, sensing his chance. Planting one foot firmly in the Brute’s face, knocking him onto his back; regaining his balance, Oriné struck again, further dazing the ex-warrior at his feet.

Using his adrenaline to his advantage, the Elite Minor rolled the Jiralhanae over, seized its arms, and quickly bound them using the vine. There was enough left over that, using its stretchiness and the Brute’s knees he was able to bind all four limbs together. In addition he dislocated the creature’s arms, just for safety’s sake.

“Our time will come again,” the Jiralhanae growled as Oriné struggled to get it on its feet. “You shall be disgraced, we will prove our greater worth to the Hierarchs, and you will become lowlier than the Grunts.” It spat a tooth at him, but the object just bounced off his shields.

“March,” he commanded, and began pushing the Jiralhanae towards the distant slope.

Climbing out of the arena, Oriné saw the two Honor Guards to whom he was supposed to report standing on either side of a door. Coercing his prisoner forward, he straightened up and stood before the sentinels, muddy but proud. “Here is my target, apprehended and alive.”

“Very well, young one,” one of the Honor Guards said. “You have passed the Trial of Knowledge.” He keyed a code into the door behind him and it slid open. “You may proceed. The Trial of Faith awaits you.”

As he stepped through, Oriné looked behind him. The other Honor Guard drew his plasma sword, and just before the door closed, the Elite Minor was treated to the sight of the Brute being skewered right through the chest.

——

No Prophet waited to brief him, but as soon as he stepped into the room, ellipsoid and bland and large, Oriné wished there had been some warning.

“Ekla,” he hissed.

The priestess turned calmly. “Hello, warrior,” she said, voice perfectly level. “Welcome to the Trial of Faith.”

He balled his hands into fists. “So your torment will last?”

She gestured to a plain cushion located in the middle of the floor. “Sit and be prepared.”

For a minute Oriné continued to glare, but Ekla remained impassive, standing in her flowing priestess robes. She is staying calm, he thought, somewhat surprised and also hurt. The idea that she could keep her cool while he lost his temper irked him. Out of spite he forced his own rage to an internal simmer and knelt on the pillow.

“What is this Trial?” he asked, though not kindly.

“In the Trial of Faith, you shall be left to meditate and commune with the Gods, in order to beg their forgiveness and prove to the Hierarchs that you still hold their favor. A warrior without the Forerunners’ eternal blessing is useless to the Covenant.” From a small satchel she withdrew incense sticks and a holder. “You must allow the presence of the Divine into your mind and soul. For that, you must have a vision.”

Oriné scowled. “It is that simple, then? Have a vision and move on?”

“Nothing of Faith is ever simple,” Ekla replied, the first flickers of emotion playing on her face. She placed the holder directly in front of Oriné, inserting the two sticks. “I doubt your Lineage can even remember the names of the Great Ones for all the heresy that has come from your line.” Gripping a small tab at the top of each stick she pulled, the phosphorus strip igniting the tip and sending twin tails of smoke flicking into the air.

As the Elite Minor opened his mouth to retort the fumes hit him. He blinked, suddenly feeling the floor tip and dive beneath him. He grabbed for the cushion and the floor, hoping to steady himself against the unforeseen change, but found that neither were there. He could see the room plain as day, as he could his limbs and the pillow on which he knelt, but they were untouchable. He watched as his fingers probed against the metal floor, feeling nothing. What is happening? Looking up he searched for Ekla, suspecting it was one of her tricks, but even though he saw her he couldn’t recognize her.

To him, it felt like a vital component of his brain had been disconnected.

Images flashed by, hazy and vague, but the emotions he felt from each were real. Though he could not figure out what he was seeing, he felt pain and triumph, grief and absolution. He wrestled with his mind, trying to get it under control, but control seemed just beyond his capability. Internally he reeled.

After a time, though, some semblance of calm returned to him. Images still flashed before him, but now he was beginning to understand: they were simply his memories, jumbled and distorted, but still his own.

But what did this have to do with a vision of divinity?

Nothing, his rational brain argued. You are drugged. Disorientation and hallucination accompany your current state. These images are merely stock from your mind. There is no significance, only randomness.

But the scriptures said that, in beginning of their Great Journey, the Forerunners had begun a calculated chain reaction which would end in a Second for the Covenant. What seemed hapless and random was in truth carefully plotted and occurring in a pre-ordained order. Nothing deviated from the Plan.

What cruel Plan would have scorned Fulsa so, a female of wit, beauty, and intelligence. Surely the Plan requires interpreters, and in its course it may have eliminated one such individual. How would such a Plan justify itself?

It needs no justification. It is divine. It is the Word and Rule, as spoken through the Voice, as dwelled upon by the Mind, as acted upon by the Hand.

Three frail creatures that likely ascended to the position by blind luck, not a celestial guiding hand.

Do not all things live and move in a Cycle? Birth, growth, age, death. This wheel, ever turning forward, is what drives the Covenant towards salvation, driven by the Will of the Forerunners.

The wheel does exist, and it does turn, but the motion has no direction, no destination. It merely goes until it no longer can.

The wheel must have started somehow, and whoever began its journey must have had a destination in mind. The wheel turns and the Cycle spins.

The Cycle spins, it is infinity.

Infinity linked together forever.

A wheel of infinity.

A Cycle of the Divine.

A sacred ring.

“The Cycle,” Oriné murmured. Slowly he began to feel again, sensation coming to his limbs, returning to his mind. The images cleared, his thoughts settled, and he felt...

He felt cramped.

With a groan he struggled to stand, knees stiff and cracking in protest, muscles feeling like lead. Clearly it had been a long time since he last moved. Nearby, Ekla rose from a sitting position of her own and crossed over to him, staying close but maintaining a minimum distance. She might have feared physical retribution.

Oriné shook his head. “How long have I been in a trance?”

“Three hours,” Ekla replied. “Have you had your vision, or shall I prepare more incense?”

The thought of undergoing that again was enough to turn the Elite Minor’s stomach. “No, I have seen things,” he said, still feeling groggy.

“What did you see?”

He wracked his brain, trying to piece together everything that had happened? What had he seen? Nothing. It had been a dialogue among himself. But in that dialogue, he felt, there had been something significant. Even as he heard himself saying the words, “A Cycle that defines all life, that is guided by the Will of the Forerunners, that rolls ever towards the Great Journey,” he wondered if that was truly the meaning of his experience.

Was it the future he saw? The past? Or was it something independent of time itself?

In the present, however, he faced a Trial. Focusing his thoughts again, he realized that Ekla was considering him, scrutinizing his face. Finally, after an eternity, she nodded. “Very well, warrior. You have seen the Cycle of Divinity, the momentum of our Holy Covenant. The Gods do indeed show you favor, even after your family’s grave misdeeds. You must now move on to the next Trial, the Trial of Combat.” She bowed. “Go with the Gods, Oriné ‘Fulsamee.”

Surprising her, and even himself, he bowed in return before turning for the next door. If she were somebody else, he thought, he would not have passed this trial. His so-called vision was strange and vague, clearly not what had been expected of him. Another priestess would have seen through it and denounced him for it.

But as she had been speaking, he saw in her eyes a spark, a remnant of a passion they had once shared, no matter how much she had tried to keep herself removed from it. Their affair had affected her, too, even if not as much as it had him. Her coating of ice had ablated a little, and he had seen into her soul.

She did not love him. Not truly.

But despite that, he felt his own heart mend itself a little more.

——

The next room matched the previous one detail for detail: a rounded ellipsoid shape, bare of any decoration or feature. The floor was deep purple, the walls a steel blue, and there were two doors. The only difference was that this room held not one occupant, but two.

Oriné stood, mandibles parted in a blatant gape. “Yarna?” he said, staring at the first figure to which his eyes had locked on. The Elite Minor stood in his polished combat harness, matching Oriné’s own in hue, upright in a casual posture. The other was equally surprising, clad in void-black armor harshly at odds with his green eyes, but equally recognizable. “Rtas?”

The two came forward and embraced him, touching foreheads with him in turn. “I am sorry to hear of Fulsa,” Rtas said, voice full of regret. “She had been a beauty and a charm, but clearly not meant for this time.”

“Faithful Unit grieves with you,” Yarna said, “as do the many dancers we have courted and won over. One of them waits to comfort you, my friend.”

Despite everything that had happened, Oriné felt a semblance of who he had been returning, a contentedness he had missed since leaving the Transcendent Voyager on this hellish errand. Now the sensation threatened to overwhelm him, made him feel like collapsing to the deck and sobbing, but his mind was painfully aware of what was expected of him, why he had come this far.

He turned to Rtas. “Where have you been?”

“After my first deployment,” the green-eyed Sangheili said, “I was selected for service among the Prophet Blessed as an Operative. I was sent back to the Yermo province on Sanghelios, to study at the top war college in Iruiru.” He clicked his mandibles. “Now I am here, before I accept my first mission in Special Operations.”

Oriné never would have believed it. Though the black armor of the Prophet Blessed was very much revered among young Sangheili warriors, he had never thought any of his friends would have qualified for such an honor. Rtas least among them; Oriné had never believed him to be a subtle individual.

Next he looked to Yarna. “How is Faithful?”

“Well enough,” the Councilor’s son replied. “We have been relaxing, but missing your company fiercely.” He gave Oriné a lopsided look. “I got an odd communiqué from my father not too long ago that I wished to discuss with you, but it can wait for another time.”

Oriné nodded. “I was told I must face the Trial of Combat here,” he said, “but instead I find two friends. What is this?”

“This is indeed the Trial,” Rtas said somberly. “We are a part of it.”

Yarna stepped forward. For the first time, Oriné noticed the energy sword on his hip, and he checked to make sure his own was still present. Rtas bore one too, but as an Operative of the Prophet Blessed, the Special Operations section of the Army, it was expected that he wield one.

Why two Elite Minors had them was beyond Oriné’s understanding.

“I am your second,” Yarna said. “If you wish to decline this duel, I must take your place.”

Now Oriné understood the significance of the sword. He turned to Rtas, full of dread. “And you?”

“I am your opponent’s second.”

“Who is my opponent?”

Rtas twitched a mandible. “Should he not arrive soon, you’ll never know.”

For a few moments they stood in awkward silence, but just as Oriné opened his mouth to ask Rtas how he had been faring (and how he had become an Operative) the far doors lid apart, and a Sangheili in crimson armor strode into the room, sword already in hand.

Oriné’s breath froze in his throat.

From his expression, Yarna was as shocked as he was, but Rtas calmly turned towards the new arrival. “Olah, it is good to see you again.”

Olah ‘Seroumee grunted a greeting, but kept his eyes trained perfectly on Oriné. All the Elite Minor could do himself was stare, though with far less control. He had tracked and captured a Jiralhanae and been drugged by his old flame just so he could duel one of his oldest and most trusted friends?

The Elite Major, however, did not seem to have the same compunction. His sword flashed to life, a horrendous crashing noise as the plasma spilled from the small hilt and crashed against the magnetic containment fields, shaping it into a two-pronged saber capable of inflicting grievous injury to the opponent when properly wielded, and grievous injury to the user if mishandled. They were weapons of ceremony and of death.

Olah held his like an expert. Oriné had never used one before in his life.

“Draw your blade, Oriné,” Olah said. Compelled by the authoritative tone, the Elite Minor detached the hilt from his thigh, but did not squeeze the activation triggers. The Major frowned. “If you do not consent to this duel, Yarna will fight in your place.”

The thought of his friend being forced to die for him created a sour taste in his mouth and made his hand rise higher, but still he did not turn on the blade.

This is my final Trial?! The Hierarchs demand I kill one of my friends in combat! He held no illusions about the conditions of this battle: it would be to the death, not to first blood or first recoil. To win, he would have to kill Olah ‘Seroumee, the Sangheili he remembered from Jisako, the one who drove him on through Institution, the one who saved him after the death of Hada ‘Sobotee.

He would have to strike down his friend.

But if he refused, his other friend, whom he also loved like a brother, would take his place, and Oriné knew that Yarna’s skill with a sword was the same as Oriné’s: nil.

Olah tensed. The Elite Minor had to make a decision. With some effort he squeezed the contacts of the hilt down and the plasma blade sprung to life. Two white-hot prongs of energy exploded into existence, and suddenly Oriné’s arm was weighed down by sixty extra pounds. He struggled to keep the blade at the ready.

He opened his mouth to try to perhaps talk Olah down, but the Elite Major was already in motion. Entering into a swinging lunge the higher-ranked Sangheili barreled towards Oriné, who was barely able to raise his sword in time to block. Tendrils of electrons flared between the blades as they collided, filling the air with sparks and an intense roaring sound. Barely able to keep his balance, Oriné stumbled back, slightly dazed from the blow, but Olah swung again. This time the Elite Minor sidestepped and brought up his own blade for a parry, swiping aside his friend’s weapon, leaving Olah vulnerable.

But Oriné did not strike.

“Fool!” Olah cried out, slashing with his blade again. Oriné tried to stay light on his feet, but after just a few minutes of combat his hooves were feeling very heavy. His arm was burning from exertion. “You had an opening! Why did you hesitate?”

“I don’t wish to harm you!” Oriné cried out in reply, falling back again but suddenly feeling the wall at his back. Panic seized him, and then an incredible pain blinded him: the entire world turned white. He came back to the sound of his own wail dying out and looked down, seeing two lengths of plasma sticking into his shoulder, impaling him. Blood sizzled against the contained energy. The pain was unbearable.

“Duty tells you to fight me,” Olah hissed. “Duty to your Covenant.”

“The Covenant that killed my sister!”

“No!” Olah twisted the blade. A new fountain of agony welled up in the Elite Minor. “You allowed the Covenant to kill your sister! Your blind faith in an institution bound you to its rules and made you complacent to its whim! When it said your sister must die, you defended her within its own limited system and didn’t dare stray beyond it!” The blade was withdrawn, and Oriné slid down the wall, leaving a purple smear as he did so. A few feet away, Yarna and Rtas stood tensely by, watching the scene with growing anxiety.

“Confront your own sins rather than the Covenant’s, Oriné,” Olah said, towering over him. “In letting them put your sister to death, in following their guidelines, you have committed the ultimate act of submission.” The twin points of death hovered before Oriné’s face. “What is this one final command of amicicide?”

Somewhere inside him, Oriné’s soul acknowledged the truth in those statements. Perhaps it was for that reason that he was suddenly overcome with bloodlust. Buried rage exploded forth and consumed him, filling his limbs with power. Instantly his arm came up and deflected Olah’s blade, and he was on his feet. His mind was wiped clean by anger, an empty slate that was filled only with his training, memories of dueling maliers with Squadron Twenty-two, dueling nadier with Rtas.

Motion and thought blurred together. Suddenly Olah was on the defensive against Oriné’s emotional onslaught, forced to parry and parry without being able to strike back. The Elite Minor pressed his advantage, brutally slashing, drawing from an inner reserve of blind hatred. In his mind, he was striking at the Covenant who murdered his sister, at the white-haired Jiralhanae, at Ekla, at his own weakness and doubts. The sword could destroy it all, undo what had been done, reverse time and space and take him back to the simpler days of living, when he and his sister played in the city and went with their parents to the lagoon, when Orna was still with them, ever the watchful older brother. Before she was a priestess, before he was a soldier, before they understood the Covenant better than just a bedtime prayer. It was within reach; all he had to do was extend his hand...

An unfamiliar sensation ran up his arm that jarred him out of his fury. His eyes focused on reality and he realized that his own blade had been shoved straight into Olah’s chest. Purple blood gushed out from his friend’s two destroyed hearts. For a moment, Oriné simply stood there, morbidly fascinated with the feeling of horror in his stomachs. It felt like a void, creating a bridge between the soldier he was and the warrior he could have been.

He had killed before, but he had never felt someone die.

Instantly he released his hand, the blade snapping out of existence and the hilt falling to the floor, and he lunged and caught Olah’s body before it could drop. The Elite Minor’s mandibles worked to try and form an apology, but he couldn’t coax any sound from his own throat.

Oriné wanted to hear some final words, a last phrase of explanation or forgiveness, or even condemnation. But there was none.

Olah ‘Seroumee died in his arms without a sound.

——

The Three Trials were over. Through Knowledge, Faith, and Combat, Oriné ‘Fulsamee had proven himself worthy of continued service and shown that he still held the Lords’ favor: he had captured a vile prisoner, heard the speech of the Forerunners in his mind, and bested a superior officer in lethal combat. His Lineage was returned its honor. He would return to combat knowing that by hunting down a prisoner, lying to a holy practitioner about a vision, and murdering his friend, he had irreversibly bound himself to the will of the Hierarchs and of the Holy Covenant.

Any action otherwise would be a cosmic hypocrisy.

——

Oriné stood in the massive loading spike, watching as supplies were ferried onto the waiting cruiser Triumphant Declaration. Flanking him on either side was Rtas ‘Vadumee and Yarna ‘Orgalmee. They stood with him as he contemplated his latest assignment. Though still a member of S’gor Legion, Oriné was to be transferred to another battalion, one that primarily served as a guardian force for Inquisitors deployed to conquered worlds.

Magister ‘Alsakee would be pleased, in a way, he told himself, recalling his uncle and teacher of Knowledge from so long ago who had wished for him to become an Inquisitor, as he himself had been. At the time Oriné had declined, but wondered if perhaps he had been too hasty. I suppose now is when I may find out.

He turned to his friends. “So where shall you two go?”

“I will return to Faithful Unit,” Yarna said, sounding perhaps more sullen than he intended. “There are still a few days left of leave that I may enjoy. That saitarelé will miss your company, however.” He laid a hand on his shoulder. “She had expressed such a desire to meet so compassionate an individual.” Grinning, the other Elite Minor gave Yarna a light punch in the arm, then grew silent.

“Do you know...” Oriné trailed off, uncertain how to phrase his question. “Do you know who shall take command of Faithful now that Olah has been...?” The subject, though several days old, was still tender to him. Recent memories were enough to drag him into a prolonged state of sleepless depression; the Healers had prescribed him several types of herbs to ease his nights, but the feeling of hollowness persisted despite their efforts.

He knew it would never leave.

Yarna nodded. “I believe Toro ‘Bodnolee is being transferred back to become our leader. I am sure he will be disappointed that your presence will no longer be available to calm the Unggoy.”

In spite of himself, Oriné felt the ghost of a smile pull at his mandibles. It made him feel weary. He turned next to the black-clad Operative beside him. “And you, Rtas? I have heard nothing from you for so long. I wish our first reunion had been kinder than this.”

“The next one certainly will be,” the green-eyed Sangheili said, a knowing grin forming. “I am accepting a position as a member of the Special Operations detachment assigned to the exclusive command of one Supreme Commander Orna ‘Fulsamee.”

Oriné felt like he had just been run down by a Yorahii beast. “My brother has become a Supreme Commander?” For so long he had gone without word of his older sibling; apparently, Orna had been busy ascending the naval ranks with unprecedented speed.

The rank of Supreme Commander held incredible social and military weight. Higher than even a Fleet Master, a Supreme Commander held under his authority entire armadas capable of eliminating entire star systems. The Council would respect the decision of a Supreme Commander in equality with that of the Hierarchs. Clad in ornate purple armor with a sweeping robe of virility, they were the symbols of ultimate power within the navy.

If Orna had been able to return for Fulsa’s trial, would his influence have saved her? And in so doing prevented my murder of Olah? Perhaps, Oriné reasoned, his input would be discounted due to his familial attachment. He decided not to dwell too much on it, but knew the thought would eat at him for months to come.

Recovering from the shock, Oriné regarded Rtas with an intense gaze. “If you see him, tell him that our mother and father would like word from him as soon as possible. As a Supreme Commander he should easily have clearance to send a personal message from wherever he is, and learning of his status would bring a light to both in this dark time. And pass on my own greetings and congratulations.”

“I shall,” said Rtas.

Oriné touched foreheads with them both, and after saluting stepped into the gravity lift that would take him down to the personnel loading level for the Declaration. He would return to the battlefield, more a warrior of the Covenant in despair than he had ever been in pride.