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This fanfiction article, Stories from the Sigmaverse/Oath's End, was written by Brodie-001. Please do not edit this fiction without the writer's permission. |
In the comfortable confines of the ancient keep's guest quarters, Rora 'Marak knelt before his mask of six years, and offered a silent prayer to the ancestors he knew despised him. Elsewhere in the keep, a celebration was being prepared. Clan elders and honoured guests were already gathering, eager to receive those who had distinguished themselves in the recent war, and to remember those who had not returned. Of these so-called heroes, Rora was to be commended above all others; a champion among champions, for his pivotal role in ending the bloody conflict and undying loyalty towards the House of 'Ranak and its Kaidon. Rora opened his eyes, and cast their wary gaze towards a wooden box atop a nearby table. Strange, he slowly exhaled. I thought I had dreamt it. Within the box lay a gift; one that had set Rora's mind adrift from its calm and straightforward quarters and into the realm of self-doubt and poisonous nostalgia. For the first time in so long, he found himself willingly thinking of the past. Of home. Of his crimes. Rora stood at a crossroads, and no direction seemed appealing. Rora got to his feet and crossed the room. With a four-fingered hand he reached out and gently unclasped the seal on the box lid, as if expecting it to bite. Inside sat the bladeless hilt of an inactive energy sword, inlaid with the silver markings of a master artisan. Until today, it had been masterless. No. Rora shut the box with a sharp snap. This was the second time he had opened it since it was presented to him a day prior, and the overwhelming feeling of trepidation had not lessened since then. For him to pick up and use a proper energy blade - the weapon of a Sangheili warrior since time immemorial - would be unforgiveable. Rora stood for a moment, teetering on the spot, and recalled the first oath he'd ever sworn in life. A kinslayer should wield no blade, for he has no honour. To do so would bring shame to all those who carry these weapons as true warriors. It had been a clumsy thought; a promise Rora made to himself in his darkest moment to keep from falling into the depths of savagery like so many other criminals. Years ago, in the faraway keep of his ancestors, a young Rora had allowed misplaced compassion and naivete to cloud his judgement, and had paid for it in the blood of his closest kin. To never wield a proper sword in battle would be his penance. And so Rora had gone out into the galaxy, half-trained and bladeless, masking himself as the 'Outrider' and abandoning his roots. No longer was he a scion of the House of 'Marak, which had stood for millennia as a family of pride and noble dedication to the ancient ways. He was a killer; a brawler and a saboteur as he seared his deeds across the stars. Perhaps he would have given in and abandoned his oath eventually. Rora had already cast aside his faith, knowing that his name would never echo across the Hall of Eternity after he breathed his last. And yet here I am, Rora reflected. A Fleet Master's house guest, and after today, his oath-sworn kindred. Rora's oath had not changed in recent years, even as he found himself remade as the cat's paw of the Swords of Sanghelios after his capture. Most warriors would have sought death after allowing themselves to be ensnared, and few commanders sought mercy nor gave it, but Felo 'Ranak was different. He had given the Outrider new direction, set him loose against the enemies of the Arbiter's new order, and kept him as a close retainer. Not once had he challenged Rora's refusal to carry a proper blade. Until today. Breaking free of his reverie, Rora crossed the room once more and opened the box. The hilt was still there, unassuming and lifeless as ever. He reached out, but his trembling fingers curled into a fist before they came close to its grip. Rora felt his blood rise as anger flashed through him, but against what? Felo 'Ranak knew his story, partly through Rora's words and partly through his own research, but would he have presented him with a sword to mock Rora? Unlikely. Perhaps it was Rora's own body that resisted him, bound tighter by his oath to never carry a sword than Rora's own mind. He could not tolerate such disobedience. Recalling the earliest lessons of his boyhood, where focus and control had been taught to stamp out childish impulses, Rora opened his hand and reached into the box. He felt the smooth grip of the hilt as his fingers curled around it, and was surprised at the weapon's lightness. Rora held his breath as he lifted it up, waiting for something terrible to occur. Nothing happened. No divine retribution struck him down, nor did he fling the hilt aside. Rora sighed, feeling something great and heavy vanish from within him. Nothing felt broken. Not his oath, nor his spirit. He was free. Holding the hilt aloft, Rora thumbed the activation switch. A pair of dazzling white blades hissed into being, and he felt the heat and energy emanating from them at once. Rora gave his sword an experimental swing, slashing diagonally across the air. It felt strange, but he would acclimatise to such a weapon. The blades shrank and vanished as he switched the weapon off, and Rora placed it down carefully on the table, thoughts racing through him. My penance is not over. This much he knew. It had taken years to fulfil this oath; to earn the right to call himself a warrior. His service to the Swords, and to Felo 'Ranak, had only been the start. Though he would likely never fully redeem himself, Rora 'Marak, now of the House of 'Ranak, could now follow the path of honour. Honour, he realised, demanded much more than his private oath. It demanded recompense for his house of birth, and vengeance against the one he had unwittingly assisted in carrying out a massacre, long ago on that terrible night. All this would be achieved in time. Rora had sworn a new oath.
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