[ It's a smart offer on her part, because he doesn't know how to fully explain what it is to be a Titan in words. Because it's a thing made up so much of Light and physicality and honor and other concepts for which there really are not words. ]
I can try.
[ He tries to unearth for her the things that have most shaped him. Because once, there were no Titans or Warlocks or Hunters; there were only Risen, and they made themselves into what they are now. Titans exist because of Saint, and Saladin, and Zavala, and him, and many others now lost shaping their understanding of the duty that came with their power and passing the lessons on.
He remembers facing down a Fallen Walker with only his fists and his Light, dying and dying and dying in fire until he finds its blind spot and charges it, tearing through armor plating with bare hands crackling with Arc. At close quarters, a fist beats a gun.
He remembers finding the abandoned keep, slowly rebuilding it into a place that could shelter the terrified, starving people he found. Holding its shattered gates against the assault of another Warlord while his people hid inside. Holding a Ward of Dawn all night to keep out a howling blizzard that had come before he could make repairs, his people huddling at his feet. Holding against bullets, against fire, against waves of Fallen. Holding. Holding. Holding.
My body is my greatest weapon, unbreakable, stronger than a gun that can jam or a knife that can dull. I know no fear. I am the lightning, the crash of thunder, and I cannot be stopped.
He remembers taking the assault to another Warlord, coming to earth like a falling star and shaking her keep to ashes and dust. Capturing the woman's ghost as it tries to flee and crushing it in his hand. A devastating offense is the best defense.
He remembers Six Fronts, a five mile-long dive into the fray past the edge of the City, Arc singing joy through his veins. The crash that made the ground ripple like water around him. The one survivor of his assault, a badly wounded Captain, surprising him and plunging a knife through his back. Moments later, him flinging the grenade that ends her. Celebrating later with Saint-14 and the other Titans, drunk on the joy of battle and victory and the Light still echoing through them.
He remembers Twilight Gap, Saladin shouting for retreat as the Fallen close on the City. The helpless rage in knowing that the City behind him will fall, and so will humanity. Seeing the gap in the surging Fallen, piled high with the dead. Calling to his fireteam. Cutting off the feed as Saladin rages at him, accuses him of chasing glory. Surrendering himself wholly to his Light, uncaring if it burns him to a husk, and in so doing trascending battle and into divinity. The Light pools on the ground and burns around him and his fireteam, and he burns with it as they take the wall.
They are the wall that the wave of Fallen breaks on, and they hold. ]
no subject
I can try.
[ He tries to unearth for her the things that have most shaped him. Because once, there were no Titans or Warlocks or Hunters; there were only Risen, and they made themselves into what they are now. Titans exist because of Saint, and Saladin, and Zavala, and him, and many others now lost shaping their understanding of the duty that came with their power and passing the lessons on.
He remembers facing down a Fallen Walker with only his fists and his Light, dying and dying and dying in fire until he finds its blind spot and charges it, tearing through armor plating with bare hands crackling with Arc. At close quarters, a fist beats a gun.
He remembers finding the abandoned keep, slowly rebuilding it into a place that could shelter the terrified, starving people he found. Holding its shattered gates against the assault of another Warlord while his people hid inside. Holding a Ward of Dawn all night to keep out a howling blizzard that had come before he could make repairs, his people huddling at his feet. Holding against bullets, against fire, against waves of Fallen. Holding. Holding. Holding.
My body is my greatest weapon, unbreakable, stronger than a gun that can jam or a knife that can dull. I know no fear. I am the lightning, the crash of thunder, and I cannot be stopped.
He remembers taking the assault to another Warlord, coming to earth like a falling star and shaking her keep to ashes and dust. Capturing the woman's ghost as it tries to flee and crushing it in his hand. A devastating offense is the best defense.
He remembers Six Fronts, a five mile-long dive into the fray past the edge of the City, Arc singing joy through his veins. The crash that made the ground ripple like water around him. The one survivor of his assault, a badly wounded Captain, surprising him and plunging a knife through his back. Moments later, him flinging the grenade that ends her. Celebrating later with Saint-14 and the other Titans, drunk on the joy of battle and victory and the Light still echoing through them.
He remembers Twilight Gap, Saladin shouting for retreat as the Fallen close on the City. The helpless rage in knowing that the City behind him will fall, and so will humanity. Seeing the gap in the surging Fallen, piled high with the dead. Calling to his fireteam. Cutting off the feed as Saladin rages at him, accuses him of chasing glory. Surrendering himself wholly to his Light, uncaring if it burns him to a husk, and in so doing trascending battle and into divinity. The Light pools on the ground and burns around him and his fireteam, and he burns with it as they take the wall.
They are the wall that the wave of Fallen breaks on, and they hold. ]