* * * "Fleetmaster Thierr'ee, what will you do now Xatan'ee is dead?" the reporter asked, practically thrusting the camera into his blooded face. Zharn reeled back, retreating into the safety of the guards who had practically attached themselves to him as soon as he left the duelling arena. He struggled to find his voice. "Right now, sleep," he laughed uncertainly. The reporter joined in, so obviously fake. Running a hand across his face and noticing it came away sticky with blood that may not have entirely been his, Zharn straightened up. "I will endeavour to be the fleetmaster Xatan'ee should have been. This is war, yes. But it is not slaughter. I will return the humans Xatan'ee kept caged like animals to their fellows, and if one day in the future I meet them honourably on the field of battle then I will be more than happy to end their lives. Yet I will not do so whilst they are chained and defenceless." "So you will be continuing the fleet's campaign against the humans?" another reporter demanded. "I will do whatever the holy Covenant and her three... blessed hierarchs ask of me," Zharn affirmed. "As will any in my command. Now if you'll forgive me, I must rest." Breaking free of the guards surrounding him in a box, Zharn pushed his way past the fervent crowd who had followed him all the way to his quarters and crashed through the door, slamming it shut behind him and activating the energy shield on the outside. Quiet settled around him in the dark of his room, and sorely Zharn sunk to the ground, reflecting upon what had happened. "Congratulations," the voice of Ahkrin interrupted his thoughts suddenly. Zharn looked up, and saw the stealth Sangheili leaning against the wall broodingly. Orpheus wasn't around, no doubt making arrangements for Zharn's transfer to proper quarters befitting his position. "You got here quick," Zharn observed, coughing and wincing as one of his cracked ribs had pressure piled upon it as a result. Ahkrin raised a brow. "Not as quickly as your turned that duel around, fleetmaster," he smiled, walking towards Zharn and placing a hand upon his shoulder. Zharn chuckled joylessly. "You can drop the act, Ahkrin," he spoke with acid, looking up at his friend coldly. Ahkrin blinked with surprise, looking sideways guiltily. "Act?" was all he managed to say. Zharn shook his head, nursing his broken left arm as he did so. "Tell me, my friend. How exactly did you manage to drug the late-fleetmaster?" he spat out. Ahkrin stepped back a little. "I don't know what--" "Oh, enough!" Zharn shouted, standing up and taking a step towards Ahkrin angrily. "I know what you did, Ahkrin. To any other it might have looked like arrogance and shock, but I was right next to him when it happened. Xatan'ee wasn't stunned by having missed me with his blade. He was drugged." Ahkrin looked for a moment as if he were going to continue lying, before finally resigning himself to the fact that he had been discovered. "The drug I chose was very resistant to temperature. I mixed it in with the plasma in your blade. When you first cut Xatan'ee, it seeped into his bloodstream," the stealth Sangheili admitted with shame, before looking up. "You would have died otherwise, Zharn!" The new fleetmaster looked away, his eyes moist. Ahkrin had just confirmed what he had suspected since a few seconds after the duel formally concluded. "What happened will be discovered," Zharn began, almost glad of the fact. Ahkrin shook his head. "No. Xatan'ee's body will be burnt, with no autopsy performed upon it. All evidence of what happened will die in the flames. He had to die, my friend. I know this isn't ideal--" "It's the worst possible outcome!" Zharn suddenly roared, picking up a chair and smashing it against the wall angrily. "There was no honour to be had in this! I would have rather died than win like this!" "You don't mean that," Ahkrin rebutted, but he didn't sound so sure. Zharn looked at him with disgust for a few seconds, before moving towards the door. "I'm going to tell them all what really happened," was all Zharn said as he placed a hand on the door. Ahkrin smashed his own fist into it, stopping Zharn from leaving. "If you do that, then we will both be hung, drawn and quartered. And your family's name shall be dragged through the mud as surely as mine was. Would our father want that?" "He wouldn't want this!" Zharn bellowed back, pushing Ahkrin away angrily. But he knew his friend was right. To confess what had happened now would serve no purpose. "You may not have been as good with a blade as Xatan'ee," Ahkrin professed. "But you will outstrip him as fleetmaster by far." "Get out!" Zharn roared angrily, ripping open the door and pointing at the exit. "And do not return." "Zharn--" Ahkrin tried to speak, but Zharn had none of it. "Leave," was all he spoke, cold and uncaring. "You are brother of mine no longer. My father should never have taken your worthless hide in. You are as without integrity as your true father's brother was; more so, in fact. At least what he did was done out of ignorant idiocy." Ahkrin gasped at Zharn's words, and a few tears welled up in his eyes. He drew breath as if to speak, but then all he did was exhale heavily, hang his head and walk out slowly. Zharn slammed the door shut after him, feeling an urge to slam it again and again over and over. What honour he had had meant nothing now. Reaching into the folds of his armour, he drew out the medallion with the insignia of his house inscribed upon it. Given to him by his father prior to his execution. It symbolised his family's honour, going back generations. And ending with Zharn. Roughly, the fleetmaster tore it from his aching neck and held it up in the light. He did not deserve to wear it. Shutting his eyes tight, Zharn cast it down to the ground and stamped on it. It crushed beneath his boot, tiny fragments spilling across the ground. The last legacy of his father. Unable to stand up any longer, Zharn walked over to his bed and collapsed onto it. What should have been a night of celebration was now a night of sorrow, loss and shame. For the first time in years, Zharn began to openly sob. Honour had been everything to him; it defined who he was, made him proud to be both Sangheili and Thierr'ee. And now he had none.