Twin Blades

Chapter the First: Shattered

Time Setting: Halo 2, cinematic prior to level "The Arbiter"

The newly-minted Arbiter stared out the Phantom's portal, over the heads of the pilots, not really seeing the light of the distant stars. Instead he saw a ghost, a shade of a battle past. In his mind's eye he watched helplessly as the Halo ring cracked and broke apart, one piece spinning across the diameter of the ring to smash through the other side, until shattered fragments were all that remained.

His fault, the Council had said.

He had reviewed the mission in his head countless times, starting when the Pillar of Autumn fled Reach, ending with the destruction of the ring. Based on the knowledge he'd had at the time, he didn't know what else he could have done. He'd conducted himself according to the same blend of time-honoured tradition and quick, creative thinking that had earned him promotion after promotion and landed him in the position of Supreme Commander of the Fleet of Particular Justice.

And now, here he stood in the armour of the Arbiter, with the Mark of Shame still burning on his chest.

The only thing worse than the knowledge that he'd failed the Covenant was the bitter sting of being labelled a heretic…as if his failure had been intentional. And the Prophets, though they knew his loyalty had never faltered, still allowed that accursed Brute Tartarus to brand him with the Mark of Shame. No, the only respite they'd offered him was the Armour of the Arbiter, which was a condemnation as much as an escape. The rest of his life was destined to be brief and filled with one impossible battle after another until his inexorable end caught up with him. This was the price of regaining the honour he never should have lost in the first place.

He wanted to survive this coming fight against the heretic Sesa 'Refumee, if only because sooner or later the Prophets would have to send him against the Demon. Nobody else had shown any signs of being able to stop the Demon, so of course they would send him. It was the nature of his new office.

And perhaps he would have some revenge before he died.

The Arbiter shook off these dark thoughts – he needed something to see him through this current mission, and the prospect of returning to his darkened cabin to pray for a future encounter with the Demon was hardly a reward. For the time being he had to forget the Demon. Instead, after this mission was finished, he would find a willing companion and…

His train of thought screeched to an abrupt, unpleasant, crashing halt.

As the Supreme Commander of the Covenant Fleet of Particular Justice, he'd never been lacking for individuals interested in a little one-on-one attention. Power had always been an aphrodesiac for Elites, military prowess in particular, and he'd had his pick of consorts ever since the Academy, from a pool that had only gotten larger as he'd made his way up the ranks.

Bisexuality was the norm for Sangheili. The mentality made sense, considering that the expeditionary fleet was composed almost entirely of males and the Home Guard, almost wholly females. Elites therefore spent most of their time in the company of the same sex as themselves. Heterosexual encounters were required by law in order to produce offspring—a duty of all Sangheili capable of the task—but the Covenant did not care what Sangheili did for affection and entertainment, as long as the military machine ran without interruption.

The only female Sangheili in the Fleet were those in support positions whose unique skills made them irreplaceable by other species: for example, all the fleet medical personnel, most of the priestesses, half the cooks, and one exceptionally surly Chief Quartermaster, Fil Storamee, whose weapons skills were Swordsman-level and devoted to ensuring that none of the fleet's supplies were wasted. The prospect of being carved up by Stormaee deterred many a would-be filcher and inspired all the warriors to take very good care of their gear; she had the skills to slice up almost anyone and the bad attitude to use those skills without remorse. Even the officers would tread carefully around Storamee's stockrooms. As Supreme Commander, the Arbiter had appreciated the way she'd kept the fleet operating so efficiently—but he hadn't wanted her anywhere near his personal quarters.

So if the males in the Fleet wanted a female, they had to compete among very limited numbers, and woe betide them if they put key personnel out of operation due to unplanned pregnancy. Many of the Sangheili, fearing unwanted offspring, frustrated by the degree of competition, or just plain scared off by the prospect of a night with the likes of Storamee, turned to their battle brothers instead.

The situation on Sangheilios was similar, except in reverse. Back home, the only males were the very young, the very old, the infirm, and a handful of those with irreplaceable skills: the Home Defence commander, some merchants, some factory production managers. Females who didn't want to compete for the available males—or didn't find the available males worth competing for—naturally developed relationships with one another.

So the greatest issue with relationships in Sangheili culture was not what gender your partner was so much as ensuring that your relationship did not get in the way of the smooth operation of society. This was where things got challenging for those in positions of authority. Fights between rivals for another's affections, allegations of favouritism for a particular unit because one of its members was the lover of a high-ranking officer, soldiers of all ranks with their minds not on their jobs due to affairs of the heart—these things were problems for all Sangheili warriors, and the higher up the chain of command one advanced, the worse they got. During his life, the Arbiter had seen too many good soldiers lose their careers, their honour, even their lives due to foolish choices inspired by love, or lust, and he had come up with three simple rules to avoid himself from ever facing these issues.

Rule #1: No long-term relationships. By the end of his first year out of the Academy he'd added "and make this clear from the beginning" when he found himself pursued by ex-lovers who didn't seem to understand what "over" meant. From then on, those Elites who'd fancied themselves possible exceptions to his rule had been, if not happy about being dumped, at least forced to suck it up because they couldn't claim they didn't know the situation before getting themselves involved.

Rule #2: Willing partners only. He'd known a few commanders in the fleet who liked to use their rank to coerce subordinates to warm their bunks, but the last thing he wanted was a pack of angry, resentful Elites—the men he was counting on to carry out vital missions—deciding they wanted him dead, even at the cost of their own lives. It was a recipe for mutiny. And it had always been his practice to severely discipline those soldiers who thought raw strength gave them the right to force their comrades. It caused dissention in the ranks, which could be deadly among individuals who had to rely on one another to survive. Furthermore, he'd never seen the appeal of forcing someone to keep him company. Brutality was reserved for enemies and occasionally for necessary discipline—romance was a personal matter, for private pleasure, and violence had no place in it. He had sufficient violence in his professional life.

Rule #3: No bonded partners. Like Rule #2, beyond the fact that he did not need the grief of wronged bondmates seeking vengeance, he simply took no pleasure in coercing another to break vows. Though Sangheili marriage was not a sacred rite, and breaking those vows was not a heresy, the Arbiter felt strongly enough about honour that he found the idea of a bonded partner distasteful.

Those three rules had served him very well during his years in command, but now things were different.

His new position was outside the Sangheili military structure, and while his armour made him a figure of reverence, the Mark of Shame made him a pariah. He would no longer have his pick of interested partners. He might have to take what he could get and be grateful for it.

The Arbiter thought about this for a while. Rule #1 was going to enforce itself regardless, because he was unlikely to live long enough to have a long-term relationship. In the meantime, though, if he could only find one interested partner, he might have no choice. He refused to discard Rule #2—the very idea offended his sense of morality. Rule #3…well…Rule #3 might be negotiable depending on who was interested in him.

How had he come to this?

Before he let himself sink into a paralyzing depression, he decided to join the special ops team in the troop bay of the Phantom. Maybe someone there would catch his eye. He steeled himself before stepping through the door; being in the company of others was difficult for him now. He could see the doubt in the eyes of the other Elites as they secretly wondered whether he was an incompetant bungler or a traitor. He could see the shadows of scornful expressions hidden behind the Grunts' masks. Looked down on by Grunts…

But he kept his head high, and would not give them the satisfaction of seeing him break. They would respect his position even if they did not respect him as a person, and he would prove himself worthy of it.

It had been years since he'd set foot on a battlefield himself; one of the problems with being in the higher ranks of command was that his days were taken up with managing the movements, capabilities, and needs of the fleet as a whole, and as a consequence he spent less time with the troops on the ground. He prided himself that he had not forgotten what it was like to be a Minor, and that he had kept his combat skills sharp in dueling matches and other forms of training…but by the Rings, the Special Ops Elites looked so young. They were strong, and handsome, and brave, but to his tired eyes they all looked like hatchlings now, their experience eons away from that of a dishonoured Supreme Commander who'd lost everything when the Halo shattered.

In the back of the shuttle, the SpecOps commander, Rtas 'Vadumee, slammed his datapad shut. The Arbiter guessed he had been reviewing the details of the mission one last time. Now he rose to his feet and roared the stand-to command while dramatically drawing and igniting his energy sword. All the Elites and Grunts leapt to their feet and formed up in even lines, weapons held in the present-arms position.

The Arbiter stood in the shadows for a moment, watching the SpecOps commander psych his troops up for battle. The Commander's pale white armour, the colour of death, gleamed like polished bone in the light of his blade. His movements were a combination of power and grace, speed and strength, iron will given form and expression.

Rtas 'Vadumee was a striking figure, even among Sangheili. He'd been offered promotions in the past, but he'd turned them down, and he had never been punished for his choices—every time he had made a convincing argument that none of his successors could lead the highly specialized commando SpecOps unit like he could. The SpecOps unit had proven itself absolutely indispensible, and so 'Vadumee ended up with authority beyond his rank, authority earned through a long record of battlefield success. His subordinates followed him with an unshakeable loyalty, and to the Arbiter's mind, 'Vadumee's greatest danger lay in the fact that if the Prophets ever decided 'Vadumee's men were more loyal to their commander than to the Covenant, they'd purge the entire lot of them.

Watching 'Vadumee now, the Arbiter felt a sudden quick spark flare inside him. 'Vadumee was a magnificent leader, a prime example of a fighting Elite, and the Arbiter racked his brain now to try to remember why he had never pursued Rtas 'Vadumee during his tenure as Supreme Commander. Did he have any chance now, he wondered? He was not a Supreme Commander any longer…

…but 'Vadumee had also changed since the Fleet of Particular Justice's arrival at Halo, the Arbiter realized, as the SpecOps commander turned his head and a terrible change to his features was revealed in the harsh lights of the troop bay.

At the Arbiter's trial, he had been faulted for not setting 'Vadumee's SpecOps unit after the Demon straightaway. Had he known then what he knew now…but of course, he could not have known at the time. He had made the decision that an attack on the Fleet of Particular Justice while the ships' crews were down on Halo would severely damage the Covenant's ability to wage war, and rather than hold large percentages of the crews in reserve, he had given the job to the smaller but extremely capable SpecOps unit.

He still did not believe the decision had been wrong. Had the contaiminated supply ship Infinite Succor escaped into space with Flood aboard, far more than he would have paid a terrible price. As it was, that mission had cost all of 'Vadumee's Alpha squad save 'Vadumee himself. The troops before him in the bay were 'Vadumee's Beta squad, the former trainees, now inheriting the role of their predecessors.

And 'Vadumee himself had not emerged unscathed.

Sometime during the battle on Infinite Succor, 'Vadumee must have suffered a terrible injury. Something had severed both mandibles on the left side of his face. The wound was still pinkish, barely healed.

And here he was now, not only out of the medbay, not only still commanding the Special Operations Unit, but heading into battle with his new set of troops. It said a lot for 'Vadumee's fighting spirit.

The Arbiter watched as Rtas 'Vadumee stalked through the ranks of Elites and Grunts, examining his troops and exhorting them to prepare for battle. The Arbiter had the sense that the SpecOps personnel had heard this litany before, because when 'Vadumee paused, his men finished his sentences. The end result was inspiring, and it was only partly to do with the words. The other part was in the sheer power and presence and certainty of the SpecOps commander, and the Arbiter could not help but find himself reacting to 'Vadumee's proximity.

It was a fine time to be playing out of his league, and if he really wanted company after the mission, he ought to be turning his attention to the young Elites assembled in front of him…

…but he could not take his eyes off 'Vadumee.

The Arbiter realized with a start that 'Vadumee had noticed his attention and was walking towards him. Quickly the Arbiter forced himself to think about the situation at hand. The realization that the Prophets were sending him on the first of many suicide missions—assuming he didn't get himself killed on this one, of course—immediately brought his mood back down. He'd much rather be trying to imagine what 'Vadumee looked like without the armour.

'Vadumee looked him up and down as he dectivated his sword and hung the hitl on his hip. The Arbiter wondered—hoped—he liked what he saw.

"That armour suits you," 'Vadumee said, and the Arbiter hoped he wasn't reading too much into that statement when he wished that 'Vadumee was not just being professionally polite.

"…but it cannot hide that mark," 'Vadumee continued.

"Nothing ever will," the Arbiter muttered, feeling his mood crash. It didn't matter how good he looked in filigree—nobody wanted a heretic.

"You are the Arbiter, the will of the Prophets—" 'Vadumee glanced meaningfully towards his troops, "but these are my Elites. Their lives matter to me. Yours does not."

The Arbiter should have been angry, but instead he simply felt stung. There was no way 'Vadumee would have spoken to him that way when he was Supreme Commander, but he was not Supreme Commander any more, and he never would be again. 'Vadumee was laying out the ground rules. He was willing to order his SpecOps soldiers to assist the Arbiter, but he was not willing to let the Arbiter send them to their deaths to save his own skin. It was a clear reminder that the Arbiter's job made him disposable.

The Arbiter had not had any intention of using 'Vadumee's soldiers as a meat shield at any rate. He was the one with the suicide sentence, not them, and it would be dishonourable to shirk it. Having the Mark of Shame did not make it acceptable to act shamefully.

And it was becoming abundantly clear that he had very little left to live for.

"That makes two of us," the Arbiter replied.

'Vadumee tilted his head, studying him. "Hm," he said, thoughtfully, and then turned on his heel, never bothering to elaborate.

*

Rtas 'Vadumee walked up to the cockpit, forcing himself to pay attention to the pilot reporting on the storm outside. The last thing he needed to do now was to think about anything to do with the Infinite Succor mission. Dwelling on the past would not only get him killed, it would get all his young soldiers killed as well, and though he was not entirely sure he would mind going to join Kusovai, he would not allow his weakness to harm his men. He could not, would not, lose his second squad the way he lost his first.

It seemed he'd managed to make his sentiments clear to the new Arbiter. What a mess, to have his former Supreme Commander made the Arbiter in this manner. Instead of seeing the position as an honourable retirement, it was being used as the last possible avenue of redemption for a convicted heretic.

Privately, 'Vadumee was not convinced that the Arbiter was truly a heretic. He had run the battle scenarios using the Halo mission data himself, and unless there was some large factor that he did not know about, he could not imagine what error the Supreme Commander had made that deserved this sort of punishment.

But if the Prophets said it, then it must be so—or perhaps they used the term to describe anyone who harmed the Covenant, intentionally or otherwise.

Was it really possible to sin with the best of intent?

Regardless, 'Vadumee felt a measure of sympathy for the Arbiter, who had been an exemplary kind of Supreme Commander, the sort who respected his men, who balanced the need for decisive leadership with the knowledge of when to step back and let his soldiers do their jobs. He was the type who surrounded himself with competant, capable warriors, not toadies who would make him look good by comparison. They had seen eye-to-eye on many things, but 'Vadumee had become accustomed to looking at the Arbiter as a superior, and trusting him to lead. Seeing him in his new position, outside the formal military rank structure and stamped with the brand that called his every decision into question, had left 'Vadumee shaken.

But he did look good in the filigree armour.

'Vadumee immediately felt guilty for even thinking the thought. Kusovai was barely cold in his grave and…

…and it wasn't as though he never noticed other people before, was it? Of course not—it was only wrong if you took action to cheat on your bondmate behind his back. And that was something he had never done. Even to fulfill his religious obligation to reproduce with females, he had always sought Kusovai's approval beforehand.

So why did he feel as though he was betraying Kusovai now?

He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping none of his soldiers noticed his only outward sign of distress as he forced his thoughts into order. He could mourn Kusovai tonight. Now, he had a mission to conduct, and if he wasn't thinking straight, more young warriors would die.

Rtas 'Vadumee pushed all his emotions down into a dark place deep inside him where he kept his sorrow for his dead squad, his frustration at his inability to save them, his fear of the Flood, and his deep abiding grief over Kusovai's fate. To that mix he added "whatever the hell he felt about the Arbiter" and slammed the lid closed.