Chapter Text
It started with Saladin, his footsteps blanketing the assembly in his grief. Nobody spoke while he reverently laid this year’s memoriam upon the alter, the clink of it echoing even with the buzz of the City far below inadvertently working to drown it. He was by no means the first to place their offerings, but his presence held breath, turned heads, stopped time—this old hero with his ghosts and shells, a walking Lost Memorial in of himself.
It ends with a punch, but that comes later. What comes next after the silence is whispers, distrustful glares in some cases, and an edge that wasn’t there before. Into this stomped an Eliksni; she is tall, a bulky skitter-leaper who weaves webs of shadow and singe and, perhaps, was just a bit fed up. At first, she is paid no mind, but the closer she gets, the more people there know who Amber is and what she looks like. How important this one Guardian’s existence is. Her arrival is not all warm in welcome.
Amber found her path through the crowd unhindered—whether by chance or intent—and before even she really knew it the Warlock is before the monument to heroes and martyrs. In her hand is a charm, a looping sculpture of metal and casings in the sign of some foreign language Amber only knows on an instinctual level. With it, she bent her considerable height to kneel before the alter of their collective sorrows and joys, mask moving and wheezing in silent benediction. It is not long before the Bane of Quira rose to her feet, the charm deposited amidst the other mementos, but Amber stopped to take one long moment to stare into the carved helms of Guardians upon the statue, searching for… something.
“Hey!”
Metal clinked with metal as gauntlet crashed into pauldron, sending shockwaves up the eliksni Lightbearer’s arm and into her torso and coat. The world sucked its breath in, all eyes suddenly on this one flashpoint of history. Hands reached for weapons, present or not.
“Stop being such a damn Warlock, Amber, we’ll all be fossils by the time you’re through.” The slip-knife Hunter, Ajal, moved to make another playful attempt at shoving—if her Ghost, Pallus, had lips he’d bite them in embarrassed, abject anxiety. Amber huffed, four void-filled eyes rolling in unison at the scout’s idea of “ice-breaking” and picked up her friend by the torso. “If you insist on robbing me my pleasant-grief, Ajal my friend, then you shall have to wait for yours.” And with that, the Warlock carried the Hunter, half-heartedly kicking, back to the edge of the throng—the whole world breathed a sigh of relief so palpable it resonated on planetoid scales.
…
“So what was it Amber presented to the statue, Mithrax?” Saint-14 asked, later, of his many-armed friend.
“An old keepsake. From before the Whirlwind, perhaps, in design if nothing else. A child’s toy.”
“A toy?” The Saint rumbled, “stranger things have been given, I must admit. I am glad, though, to see her out and about. A Guardian should not hide who they truly are but stand tall and proud!”
“Yes…” is all he got in reply.