Halo - Of scars and wounds

Ch 1

John started awake, drinking in the sounds of the forest in microseconds. Dry twigs strained to the point of snapping under his armor as he shifted with only the barest of movements to get his bearings. Trigger finger ready, pistol still deceptively holstered.

Danger?

No, his mind evaluated. There were no Covenant forces lurking around their temporary camp. Their unfortunate minds still deluded by expired hierarchs and dead prophets.

Then what-

Arbiter.

The Sangheili looked like he had just jolted awake, tearing at the top of his ornately decorated silver armor like it was engulfed in flames.

Silently, Master Chief watched as the darker skinned warrior continued like a man possessed until his upper body lay exposed to the night air, hands clamping over his chest. Upon closer inspection, the Spartan noted a pattern engraved into his very skin. Too symmetrical to be the various ridges or scales lining his alien form.

A brand?

That alien chest heaved as though the Arbiter had just run a marathon, or perhaps finished disposing an entire Covenant fleet, as they had the other day.

The Spartan debated feigning sleep, to give the Sanghelli privacy. But concern won over the prospect of keeping his comrade's pride intact.

Still, the Chief hesitated, "...Arbiter?"

Those amber eyes snapped open, before alarm settled into familiarity, a strained voice rattling in the night, "Demon."

The Chief refused to move from where he lay, an arms-length away from the Arbiter who sat propped against a trunk. He allowed the tendrils of sleep a chance to escape, not making any sudden shifts. He wasn't too fond of recieving unecessary sword wounds so early in the night.

When he heard the breath of his companion steady itself, the Spartan turned his head towards the other. He couldn't help noticing that hand curl protectively over the brand, like a wound he did not want the Spartan to see.

"I'm here." The green armored Spartan offered, the 'if you need me' lingering unsaid in the air between them.

A winged creature chittered in the tree nearby.

The breeze drifted through the branches, their leaves singing barely above a whisper, though still louder than their silent audience.

Time ticked by.

And the Sangheili remained unmoving.

So much time passed John thought his offer refused.

Then that deep voice, haunted, began its slow roll into the dark, "There was a time... this mark shamed me to the depths of my very soul. The heirarchs forbid me from the journey, publicly announced my heresy would stay my feet... leave me behind. Back when I had been blinded, there were no words to encompass the clawing despair that rendered me so... hollow."

With much effort, the Chief watched as that large hand moved away, exposing the wound to his observant gaze.

The Spartan found an instant dislike to the brand, wishing he could erase it from the Elite's body and mind entirely. He tipped his head to meet those amber orbs through his gold visor, "And now...?"

A slanted grin made its home on those mandibles, teeth flashing in the night, "Now... now it reminds me how you helped start me on the path to the truth, and to freedom for my people."

Guilt struck the Spartan so suddenly, he jerked his head away, "That was because of me?"

He could hear the Sangheili nod, "The first ring. When you destroyed it. It was my fleet that ultimately failed in the eyes of the Covenant."