Ascension's End

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The door pounded, and something on the other side roared. A guttural, bone-chilling roar with something behind it approaching purest rage. The locks and barricades across the three-pronged purple nanolaminate would not hold against it for long—already it was straining against the force of multiple consecutive blows.
Jeral ‘Telim cradled his head in his hands, a half-charged energy sword clinging to his thigh. There was a pounding behind his mandibles from how much he had flexed and tensed them, and the pain was worming its way up into his neck, threatening to start a debilitating migraine.
The pounding at the door didn’t help matters, and the thought of what might lay beyond was even worse. The Sangheili with him in the barricaded room had too many enemies beyond the doors, and it was his charge as Shipmaster to keep them safe.
So far, he had justly failed in those duties, leading them only into a corral to be slaughtered. Even females, huddled under their golden robes, together at the back of what once might have been a jail, would be spared no mercy.
Jeral looked up at the door when it next sounded out like a gong. Some of the females at the back whimpered in fear; he would admonish them if his own hands were not shaking around the hilt of his sword.
Beside him, another Sangheili warrior clad in red armour sat down upon the crate Jeral had chosen as his perch. His dull orange skin glinted with sweat, and he removed his helmet from the harness to wipe at his brow.
They shared a companionable silence, despite the fact that Jeral’s own shiny white armour denoted him as a much higher rate of warrior. Such trivialities mattered not when the enemy battered down the gates of their final refuge.
“Did you ever imagine that you would live through such times?” The young Officer asked.
Jeral sighed, his mandibles flexing. His neck craned to the side, beholding the other Sangheili with an unknowable glance.
“No,” he said. “I do not believe anyone would. We seek the comfort of the familiar. Only fools would wish for this turmoil.”
The door clanged, drawing both of their eyes towards it. The red lights on one of the circular door locks winked and fizzled, before winking out. One of three locks had submitted to the incessant force of the enemy, and their growling cries continued to sound. Now, they were something more than the animalistic roars, now they were tinted with something approximating hunger.
“I wished for a chance at glory,” the other warrior said. “A chance for Odam of clan ‘Ignan to prove his worth, and my clan, in the face of our enemy. Perhaps that makes me a fool.”
Jeral reached over and placed a hand on the other Sangheili’s shoulder with a firm grip. “It makes you Sangheili. No matter what fate awaits us beyond those doors,” he said, motioning towards where the second light was now flickering and about to die. “Be they Brutes or Parasite, they can not take that away from you.”
Odam looked away, shuddering in fear. “I would say that the Parasite can.”
Jeral let him go, his hands drawing back to his weaponry. He said nothing, for what could be said?
Odam kept his eyes on the floor. “Are you afraid of them, Jeral?”
“Of course I am,” Jeral answered. “Even the Brutes fear them. Rightly so.”
“I do not wish to die,” Odam wrapped his hands across his midsection and hunched over. One of his feet tapped restlessly at the purple deck plating. “But the thought of existing for eternity in agony as one of them is even worse.”
Jeral reached down to his belt, gripping his hands around a grenade latched to it. “We can deny them the privilege of our bodies.”
Shaking his head, Odam huffed in false mirth. “Not even death will prevent that. They will have their tithe of flesh.”
“So then we are to resign ourselves to that fate?” Jeral asked, letting go of the grenade and leaning forward in incredulity. Were it anyone else but a Major to suggest they give up, he would’ve taken his blade and ended the fool that dared speak it.
In any other situation, were it anyone else. But it wasn’t any other situation, and it wasn’t anyone else.
“What else is there to do?” Odam asked, turning to face Jeral with his eyes empty of all emotion; glassy and vacant.
Jeral stood up, his hands balled into fists. He leaned down, gripping the other Sangheili’s chestplate and pulling him up as well. “If you wish to cower in place waiting for the end, then so be it. But I will not.” Jeral threw the warrior back, watching as he stumbled over the crate they were just sitting on, and landed with a heavy thud.
“You fool!” Odam yelled. “You cannot fight them!”
“Wrong!” Jeral bellowed. “We cannot win against them. But what we can do is fight!” He looked around the room. All eyes were now upon them, from warrior to breeder, from minor to major. Jeral turned his eyes back to Odam, leaning down and dropping his voice low. “We can always fight, Odam.”
He turned away, bringing out his sword and plasma pistol, staring at them both in his hands. He placed the pistol down upon a crate, and kept the sword in his hand.
“All Sangheili with weapons come forth!” He called to the room. “Bear your arms here!” 
Other warriors in the room trudged forward, their weapons coming out in droves. Each Sangheili carried two, some were even frivolous and carried three, oftentimes a sword or other manner of duelist weaponry. They were all placed upon the crate, until they were a pile of destruction nested in place.
Jeral nodded at them appreciatively. Some were half charged, some were empty. He picked up the empty ones and discarded them off to the side, not caring where they ended up. After that, the pile was reduced by about a quarter. It was still enough, thank the Gods.
“Each Sangheili will take one,” he said to the gathered mass. “Deliver any spares to the females.”
There was a murmur of discontent among the ranks. 
“Females cannot fight!” a blue-armoured Minor said in a scandalous hiss. 
“They will die all the same,” Jeral said. “It falls to you whether you want them to die with a weapon in hand, or without. But I will not allow a single Sangheili here under my command, be they soldiers or otherwise, to die without first fighting.”
There were no further mutterings of dissent. Instead, weapons were lifted from the crate, and spares were sent with runners to the back of the room where the gathered females awaited their fate.
Jeral sighed, looking down at his plasma pistol as a dull-faced Ultra lifted it, inspected it, then held it close like a lifeline. 
Jeral beheld sullen, weary faces all around, and shook his head. “My brothers,” he paused, raising his voice so it carried all over the room. “My sisters of the sword!” 
The flurry of movements came to a still.
Jeral clambered up atop the crate and held himself still. “I will not lay falsehoods at your feet as our Prophets once did. We are, all of us, at the end.” He reached his hands out and circled atop the crate, motioning at everyone present. Placing his hand over his chest, he continued. 
“My only consolation to you is that we will make sure this is our end, and not merely the beginning of a fate worse even than what the Brutes have in store for us.”
His hands wandered to the door, where only one remaining lock functioned. The doors were now being pried open, bit by bit, not yet allowing anything through, but the threat of a breach was there already.
“The Parasite has come,” Jeral said. “It seeps and slithers its way over our most holy of cities. I ask you, what shall we do? In the face of such overwhelming odds—in the face of such horror—what can we do?”
He let the question hang, before balling his fists.
“We fight. We fight, and we die, and when it comes for our flesh, we deliver unto them our cleansing light,” he held a plasma grenade aloft to display it to all present. “We deprive them of that which they seek most. We deprive them of us.”
There was another clang at the door. Jeral turned to face it, and gritted his mandibles together.
“Today is the day, my brothers and sisters. Today is the day we decide what we Sangheili are. What we stand for!” 
He took out his sword, holding it aloft in the air. “For the whole of Hell is empty, and all its Devils are here!”
The blade ignited with a hiss and a blur of energy rending the air apart. A stream of vapourised air lifted off of the blue-white blade,
Jeral brought the sword down beside him, hopping down off the crate.
“Let us go and slay them!”
The Elites roared defiantly, and the last of the door locks shattered.
Category:Short stories
Category:The Weekly
Category:SilverLastname