Twin Blades

Twin Blades

Chapter the Third: Shame

Time Setting: The day after Chapter 2 (prior to the events in the Halo 2 level Sacred Icon)


Rtas ‘Vadumee wondered if he had gone completely mad. If he knew the Arbiter was coming to “thank” him—and he had no doubts what that would mean—why was he still sitting around his quarters waiting?

The Sangheili day was traditionally divided into seven segments: waking, fighting, hunting, eating, relaxing, first sleep, and second sleep. Even now, Sangheili installations kept time based on these segments, though the Prophets had instituted a system of twenty-eight hours upon the creation of the Covenant. On a built installation such as High Charity or a Covenant cruiser—a vessel that traversed space on its own power rather than orbiting a sun—there was no natural way of marking time. All the Covenant fleets, therefore, kept the same hours as High Charity.

He’d had a miserable day, too. The Demon had successfully assassinated the Prophet of Regret. For a moment he’d almost been happy about it, because hunting the Demon around the Halo would be a perfect excuse to not come back here. But then the Prophets had suddenly, inexplicably, ordered a withdrawl and so by the time the fighting cycle ended, he’d turned over the watch to his new Subcommander and returned to his quarters.

The clock on ‘Vadumee’s wall read that it was the fourth hour of the traditional hunting cycle. Soon the Elite mess would begin serving meals—Sangheili ate only once a day, then spent their rest hours digesting the food they’d swallowed. ‘Vadumee would go down later and get leftovers from the kitchens to shred.

He pondered hiding out in the kitchens. Or perhaps he could invent an excuse to visit Stores and talk to Storamee. Surely anything would be better than sitting around waiting for the Arbiter to make good on the previous day’s threat.

‘Vadumee straightened himself, telling himself that Sangheili did not hide and if he had any sense, he’d be turning his mind to the question of the Brutes’ increasing power and responsibility in the ranks of the Covenant. The Sangheili were the Guardians of the Prophets and he intended to keep it that way; he would not let his species lose their power and influence to a pack of smelly barbarians.

But of course he wasn’t actually making any real progress on that project. He’d been mostly pushing a writing tool aimlessly around a datascreen and thinking about how the Arbiter had slashed through Flood with a lethal grace, his armour gleaming like his eyes…

By the Rings, did he want the Arbiter to find him?

No, he told himself, he didn’t. Even before Kusovai, he had not been the type for one-night stands. In both his professional and personal life, Rtas ‘Vadumee had no use for unreliable people. He surrounded himself with those he could trust unconditionally to be there for him, every time, just as he was there for them…

He still felt that he’d failed Kusovai.

How much worse a failure if he did something foolish with a Sangheili absolutely infamous for his parade of lovers? Was there any amount of pleasure that was worth feeling abandoned and discarded the next morning? Why would he ever want to follow his dear, devoted Kusovai with something cheap and tawdry?

‘Vadumee and Kusovai had made a standing arrangement long ago. They both knew there was a high likelihood that sooner or later one of them would die in battle. Kusovai had told him, back near the beginning, that if it was his time to fall, he would not want Rtas to spend the rest of his life alone. No, it wasn’t the idea of moving on that was the problem—in time he would have to.

The problem was the Arbiter. The Arbiter was definitely not the person to do it with. If he hadn’t been so upset about the Flood and the Demon and the Brutes—if Kusovai’s death wasn’t still so raw—there would be no way he’d ever consider the Arbiter anything more than a brilliant soldier to be admired from afar.

The kind of brilliant soldier you liked to stare at when he wasn’t looking.

‘Vadumee clicked his mandibles together, at least on one side. On the other side his stumps churned empty air.

He was a commander known for making smart decisions. It was time to make a smart decision now.

He would tell the Arbiter that he was very busy with important work—which he ought to be—and that would be the end of it.

He sat back in his chair, feeling satisfied.

There was a knock on the door, and ‘Vadumee’s brief moment of confident security came to an abrupt end. All of a sudden his heart was thundering and his palms were sweaty, like a new recruit just before his first battle.

Just tell him you’re busy and you have no time for nonsense.

‘Vadumee opened the door, hoping he looked commanding and important and very, very busy.

As expected, his visitor was the Arbiter. The other Sangheili looked even better than ‘Vadumee remembered—strong, lean muscles under a snug-fitting bodysuit, with that ornate armour shining like lightning given form…

He’d polished it. Undoubtedly.

‘Vadumee did not want to be the kind of Elite who was impressed by shiny armour. This desire did not stop him from finding both the armour and the Sangheili wearing it very impressive indeed. It also did not help him stop remembering what the Arbiter had looked like tearing through the Heretics with that armour on, proving that he had the battle skills to go with his martial appearance.

The Arbiter was grinning at him and holding a large bowl with a heating unit clamped on the bottom and a big lid on the top. Whatever was in it, it smelled exceptionally good—particularly to ‘Vadumee, who’d been eating gruel from the medical bays until the past few days, when he’d upgraded to cold, greasy, shredded leftovers.

“I brought you dinner,” the Arbiter said simply.

The tantilizing smell was soured by the fact that he didn’t want anyone—particularly not the Arbiter—watching him mince his food and then pick at it with little sticks like a San ‘Shyuum, instead of clamping it in his mandibles and flaying it apart the way a Sangheili ought to eat. Clearly he should tell the Arbiter that he was too busy to eat anything right now, except that the food smelled downright amazing and with no mandibles on his left side he couldn’t hide the fact that he was drooling all over his chest armour.

The Arbiter lifted the lid—smugly, ‘Vadumee thought.

Inside was an array of different types of meat, and every single one of them was already shredded. Some of them floated in sauces, while others had been lightly spiced and…

It was the perfect meal for him. How had the Arbiter known when ‘Vadumee never ate outside his quarters? Rtas could not believe the Arbiter had gone to so much effort—and he could not say no. Instead, he stepped back and held the door wide for the Arbiter to enter.

The Arbiter set the bowl down on a small table while ‘Vadumee closed the door—closed, but didn’t lock. He didn’t want the Arbiter getting the wrong idea. Food, yes, food was perfectly safe. Nothing wrong with sharing a meal together. In fact, Vadumee admitted he’d soundly missed eating in company. Except…

“I hope you’re aware that I make a terrible mess when I eat,” he said tightly.

If nothing else, the sight would probably put the Arbiter off flirting with him. That was a good thing, right?

The Arbiter tilted his head. That strange, arcane helm—a relic of some bygone age—blended with the features he remembered looking at him from under the purple headdress of the Supreme Commander, making the Arbiter look both young and ancient at the same time. Power and wisdom together…

‘Vadumee shivered. Something about that mix was just grabbing him by the heart and not letting go…

“Are you ashamed?” the Arbiter said.

‘Vadumee bristled, not wanting to admit that he ate in hiding so his soldiers wouldn’t see their intrepid leader slobbering all over himself like a greedy Grunt at the teat. He was opening his mouth to deny it when the Arbiter took off his chestplate.

“What are you doing?” ‘Vadumee demanded, staring all the while as the Arbiter’s shoulder plates and arm guards followed the chestplate onto the cabin floor. What about the food? What about the dinner? By the Rings, he’s a magnificent sight…Should I stop him?

What if I don’t want to stop him?

But the Arbiter stopped after he’d gotten rid of his upper body armour. He left his thigh guards and greaves on. He unfastened his jumpsuit, only to the waist.

“I don’t think you’re the one who has the most to be ashamed of,” he said as he pulled his arms out of the sleeves and tied them around his waist, securing his suit in a “half mast” position that left his upper torso bare, but the bottom half of him covered. He raised his arm and gestured towards the now-wholly-visible Mark of Shame.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” ‘Vadumee admitted, and suddenly regretted it because it was heresy to say so, blasphemy to call the High Council into question…but it was true, and he could not take it back, so he pressed on. “I ran the scenarios myself,” he murmured, confessing his sins. “I would have done the same.”

The Arbiter tilted his head. “And what shame is there in your wound? Were it not for you, the Parasite would have contaminated the entire Fleet of Particular Justice. Anyone who wishes to criticize if you drop an occasional bit of meat should ask himself which he would prefer: to ask a Grunt to sweep the floor when you are done, or to become a Flood host.” He lifted the pot.

It was a good argument. ‘Vadumee picked up his end table, dumped the contents onto the foot of his bunk, and set it up so that one end of it was facing his bunk, and the other was facing the room. As the Arbiter placed the pot on the table, ‘Vadumee set his desk chair against the other end. He sat in his bed, opened the drawer in the end table and pulled out a pair of eating sticks acquired from the Prophets’ mess. After a pause, he pulled out a second pair.

“I, for one,” said the Arbiter, as he reached for the second set of sticks, “would prefer to let you spill all the food you please. Particularly since I have no concept of how to use these, and am liable to spill even more.”

‘Vadumee grinned—sincerely this time—and showed the Arbiter how to hold one stick still against one of his thumbs and set the other against his finger like a pincer. They dove into the meal together. The Arbiter managed to get exactly one pice of meat into his mouth before he dropped the second onto the rug. They both stared….and then ‘Vadumee started laughing.

By the Rings. He hadn’t laughed in Forerunners-knew how long. “A fine guest you are,” he cried, “making a mess on your host’s carpet.”

Soon they were both laughing themselves silly at each other’s attempts to eat. ‘Vadumee hoped to the Ancestors that the soundproofing held so no one in the hall could hear them. What would his soldiers say if they discovered the two of them cackling like jeuvenile Jackals, dropping food everywhere?

“A fine host you are,” the Arbiter retorted as soon as he could get a word in edgewise, “not even providing your guest with anything to drink.”

“Let me rectify that,” “Vadumee said as his unspeakable giggles finally faded—though first he staggered to the door to lock it, because if someone could hear them in the hall, he didn’t want to take any chances. He had a small dispenser mounted on the wall, keeping drink pouches warm to a pleasant temperature. By the time he selected two, the Arbiter had gotten up from the table and moved to ‘Vadumee’s couch, still holding the bowl.

Couch. Couch was fine. Couch was much more innocent than bunk, right? ‘Vadumee took a seat on the other side of the couch, passed the Arbiter one of the drink pouches, and started a conversation about a rumour he’d heard that one of the weapons developers was trying to invent a Covenant-style flamethrower. It was a safe topic. He didn’t want to bring up anything that reminded him of the Infinite Succor mission, anything that reminded the Arbiter of his fall from grace, and definitely not anything that reminded either of them of anything remotely sexual.

As the conversation continued, ‘Vadumee gradually relaxed. The Arbiter was right – it was nice to be eating in company again, and as it turned out, the Arbiter was actually a very pleasant dining companion. Their previous interaction had been one of business acquaintances; the difference in their rank had made friendship an awkward prospect, and the nature of the SpecOps unit gave SpecOps personnel little opportunity to socialize outside their own group. The Arbiter’s new role put him in much closer cooperation with SpecOps, and on a more equal footing.

‘Vadumee admitted to himself that during his relationship with Kusovai, he’d neglected many of his old friends, to the extent of finding himself almost entirely alone after Kusovai died. And it was beyond inappropriate for a leader to burden the junior members of his squad with his personal problems when they looked to him for inspiration and leadership. If they lost their faith in him, it could get them killed. He would not see them come to harm, not any of them. Being friends with the Arbiter would probably be a good thing for him, as long as he kept a firm line drawn between friendship and flirtation to make certain that things didn’t get out of hand.

And then things started getting out of hand.

It was the Arbiter’s fault. ‘Vadumee understood that the half-off jumpsuit was really the only way to display the Mark of Shame to its full extent, but it also gave him a very nice view of the Arbiter’s muscular shoulders and torso. It was hard not to stare, and he was putting so much effort into not staring (or, rather, not being caught staring—having just averted disaster, there was no way he wanted the Arbiter to see him checking him out and get the wrong idea all over again) that he didn’t devote enough attention to eating, and dropped a shred of curried meat out through the stubs of his missing mandibles.

The Arbiter got a rogush grin as he snatched the escaped tidbit off Vadumee’s armour with his dining sticks, but instead of having the good graces to throw it away—or even eat it himself—didn’t the bastard hold it up to ‘Vadumee’s mandibles. It smelled so absolutely delicious that before he knew what he was doing, ‘Vadumee had plucked it off the Arbiter’s sticks and inhaled it.

The Arbiter promptly fished a second morsel out of the bowl and held it up for ‘Vadumee to eat.

After that second one, that’s when Vadumee started thinking it was entirely inappropriate for him to sit here like a Grunt in line at the nipple, waiting for the Arbiter to feed him, so he put his sticks into the bowl and speared a bite for the Arbiter.

Somewhere along the line the dining sticks went missing in action and they’d ended up feeding one another out of each other’s hands.

He also blamed the Arbiter for slowly shrinking his reach until Vadumee was practically in his lap to get the next bite.

Yes, this was all the Arbiter’s doing. ‘Vadumee certainly couldn’t be blamed for enjoying the sensation of the Arbiter delicately nibbling treats out of his hand. Or for rubbing the stumps of his mandibles against the Arbiter’s wrist to get a brief forbidden taste of the Arbiter’s skin...

He might, however, share a bit of the blame for the fact that he finally lost his balance trying to reach those treats without actually climbing into the Arbiter’s lap, and ended up sprawled up against the Arbiter’s chest. The other Sangheili’s skin was velvet smooth, while the muscles underneath were hard and firm, and he smelled so very good. And although it had not been that long since ‘Vadumee had been held, the stress and trauma of the Infinite Succor mission and the destruction of the Halo and taking Beta Squad into battle against the heretics....he was battle-weary, and it felt as though he’d been alone forever. Was it that wrong to steal a moment of comfort?

‘Vadumee was certain he wasn’t the one who started nibbling on the Arbiter’s neck. It was definitely the Arbiter who started that, slipping his mandibles under the lip of ‘Vadumee’s headdress and ever so lightly caressing him there... The sensation made ‘Vadumee go weak; fortunately the Arbiter’s naked chest was right there to lean against, and all he had to do was curve his hands around the strong muscles of the Arbiter’s shoulder blades and hold on, with the rough scar tissue of the Mark of Shame against his cheek... He wasn’t sure how long it went on, only that eventually he realized he shouldn’t be lying there submissively like a new recruit. But somehow the realization didn’t translate into sitting up and telling the Arbiter to stop it. It translated into getting a little of his own, and the next thing he knew he was ever so lightly grazing the Arbiter’s shoulder with his remaining fangs.

He could feel the Arbiter tugging at his back armour, and when the fourth pull got more insistent, 'Vadumee finally got his wakeup call. If he didn’t stop this now, the next thing he knew they’d both be minus armour and jumpsuits and everything, and then it would be far too late to extract himself from this situation. He had red lights in his brain informing him that mating with the Arbiter was bad news, even if he couldn’t remember why, but although the Arbiter’s every touch was making a persuasive argument for him to reconsider, he hadn’t survived this long as SpecOps commander by ignoring his instincts. And if his instincts said eject, eject, eject, then it was time to extricate himself while he still could.

But still he waited. Something in him held his breath, thinking that the Arbiter was just teasing him, that surely things wouldn’t go that far. Another part of him actually hoped he’d lose his armour, and was waiting in quivering anticipation to feel the Arbiter’s hands on his jumpsuit, caressing him through the thin fabric...

It wasn’t until ‘Vadumee’s back plate came off in the Arbiter’s hands that ‘Vadumee was galvanized into action—because the way the other Sangheili ran his left hand over ‘Vadumee’s shoulder blades, stroking him through his jumpsuit, while his right hand put the plate on the floor between them reminded Rtas so very strongly of Kusovai. And this was the Arbiter… Too much, too soon, with someone who would be gone tomorrow. 'Vadumee instinctively jerked his body backwards, breaking the hypnotic contact that had held him in thrall.

The Arbiter was left holding 'Vadumee’s back plate and gazing at him, saying nothing.

'Vadumee felt suddenly ashamed. He’d had no business being complicit in these...these shenanigans. He should have stopped it at the outset. Now the Arbiter would be disgusted, call him a tease, throw down his armour and stalk out, and he would lose all possibility of a friendship with him, all because he hadn’t known where to draw the line.

*

For a few moments the Arbiter had been sure he’d changed ‘Vadumee’s mind.

He’d had the SpecOps Elite in his lap, practically purring as he ran his mandibles over his skin, teasing him as his fangs traced that fine line between pain and pleasure, nipping one moment, soothing the next with his tongue, while ‘Vadumee clung to him, eyes squinted shut in pleasure. And then ‘Vadumee had started responding in kind with a hunger equal to his own. All the Arbiter needed to do was help Rtas out of that armour and jumpsuit, then...

The Arbiter had vowed to keep his self-control just long enough to evict those pillows from ‘Vadumee’s bed and show him how much better it was to replace them with a real live partner.

‘Vadumee would like the bunk best, he was sure. So he couldn’t give in to the temptation to just get him on the floor and keep him too thrilled to protest about it. ‘Vadumee had to be handled carefully, delicately, and the Arbiter would not ruin it.

Unfortunately the moment he got the first piece of armour off his comrade, ‘Vadumee had jerked away.

He’d misjudged and gone too far, too quickly...but dammit, he’d been tracing that armour for a good quarter hour. How much patience could one Elite be expected to have? That had been plenty of warning for Rtas to know what was coming.

Now the SpecOps Elite was sitting on the other side of the couch, head hanging, contrite.

It wasn’t what the Arbiter had expected. Had Rtas yelled at him, scowled at him, stared at him with disgust, that’s when the Arbiter would have thrown the white armour at him, called him a hypocrite for denying that he’d been enjoying himself, and stalked out. But 'Vadumee wasn’t pretending to be angry, or offended, or repelled. He just looked lonely and confused.

The Arbiter clicked his mandibles together and realized, too late, that he’d crossed a line. 'Vadumee was suffering not only combat fatigue but real post-traumatic stress from the absolute horror of the Infinite Succor mission, plus he was still grieving for Kusovai.

The Arbiter realized that he really was an absolute scum for taking advantage of ‘Vadumee in these circumstances. Fil Storamee had been right. He’d been so hung up about the Mark of Shame and the dangers of his new job and his own tensions that he never once thought that ‘Vadumee might be just as troubled. And ‘Vadumee, unlike himself, was the monogamous sort. Fil had told him so. Historically he had always turned to the sport-of-the-week to distract him; ‘Vadumee had always turned to Kusovai. And now Kusovai was gone, and ‘Vadumee was lost.

The Arbiter had a lot of making up to do if he was going to salvage this.

And, the Arbiter realized, he actually wanted to salvage this.

Historically, if a potential lover was showing signs of reluctance, the Arbiter usually just walked away. There were lots of others where that one came from, and most often the very next day the reluctant partner was back, having gotten over whatever issue had been in the way and ready to please.

The Arbiter told himself that it was the lack of potential partners elsewhere that kept him in ‘Vadumee’s quarters. He had to make nice tonight if he was going to have any chance ever again. He was also willing to admit that he genuinely enjoyed ‘Vadumee’s company—the SpecOps commander was intelligent, knowledgeable, clever, and not the least bit afraid to tell him what he thought, regardless of his position. And he could make the Arbiter laugh, and had no shame about laughing with him. People like ‘Vadumee were not easy to find. The Arbiter did not want to lose his new friend.

So the Arbiter reached out his hand and clasped it around ‘Vadumee’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and it wasn’t exactly a lie—he might not have been sorry about their fooling around, but he was definitely sorry he’d upset ‘Vadumee. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

Rtas raised his eyes to the Arbiter’s and the scarred Sangheili was struck by how very green they were. He nodded to accept the apology, but couldn’t seem to manage any words.

The Arbiter handed him his backplate and then pulled up his jump suit, retrieved his armour, and put it back on. By the time he turned around, ‘Vadumee’s armour was back where it belonged.

The silence stretched between them, long and awkward. Finally the Arbiter decided that a strategic retreat was necessary. The longer he stayed around, the more uncomfortable ‘Vadumee was going to get and the worse his chances were of salvaging anything from this mess.

“I’ll see you,” he mumbled, the words completely inadequate. “Take care.”

He fumbled with the lock, finally opening the door, stepping out, and closing it behind him. He waited for a moment, but he could hear nothing through the closed door. He felt guilty, horribly guilty, and the Mark of Shame burned on his chest. Maybe the Prophets had seen it before anyone else had. Maybe they had sensed how selfish and self-centered he was.

The Arbiter trudged back to his quarters, realizing there was one thing worse than sleeping alone. It was trying to fall asleep, knowing that your bed contained a fool.