she/her

The Sangheili call you Jaen ‘Kelossai. A name that was destined for you. It’s meaning chosen by the gods themselves. The soul who lights the prophecy of the sword. It’s a rough translation.

The humans call you Lavernius Tucker Jr. It’s meaning doesn’t work the same way. Not a thief and a tormenter, nor a soft cloth in the spring. But instead it holds the weight of your father. A meaning just as heavy as one chosen by gods.

You just go by Junior.

You are the child of a failed prophecy. The savior of a dead religion. This makes a lot of people want you dead. You’re used to that, though. People have wanted you dead since you were born.

It makes a lot of other people want to use you. You’re used to that, too. You get paraded around for one political reason or another. One day you’ll learn what these all mean. One day you’ll make an amazing ambassador. Or so they tell you. Today you just want to outside and play.

You’re too alien, the humans say. You want to play with the other kids but you are larger than them. You have too many teeth. They’re just jealous, your father says. You don’t know if that’s true.

There are kids your size you can play with. But your father spends all the time he can with humans. And you do too.

You’re too human, the Sangheili say. They never should have let your father stay around. Never should have let him get his fingerprints on you. But they were in there from the beginning. Baked into your DNA.

And though the old gods may be dead, no one can deny that he is the sword bearer. It may just be an ancient relic. But ancient relics hold importance.

Many want to kill him for it. He doesn’t deserve something as important as that, they say. He’s human. Others respect him for it, but even they hold their breath for the day he dies. To scavenge it from his corpse.

That key was your birthright. You can use it, but it’s not yours. It holds no connection to you. It should have.

One day you’ll learn that you were supposed to kill him. To rip from his stomach and feast on his flesh. To take the key to your birthright by force.

You’re glad this didn’t happen. You don’t know if he knows. You hope he never finds out.

You’ve never met your other father. The one who’s genetic material makes up your own. He died before you were born. It makes you a little sad. But not very.

One day you’ll learn how he died. You’ll know what he did to make you. You’ll want to find his grave and spit on it. Today you hold your true father’s hand as you tell him about your schooling.

You need to go on a mission. You need to be paraded around again. It’s hot, but you have fun in the sand. They bring you home before your father; negotiations are getting more tense, and he needs to stay, and you need to leave. You need to be protected. Why doesn’t he need to be protected?

As you go, you tell him you love him. He laughs and ruffles your nonexistent hair.

You don’t hear from him for months. You ask why no one has gone to help him. No one tells you the answer.

You know the answer.

…

It’s almost a year before you hear from him. About him. He’s a fugitive now. You thought he was dead. From the way they speak, you wonder if that might have been better.

He’s stealing technology. Betraying the UNSC. Betraying the Sangheili. Betraying you. That’s what they tell you.

You don’t know if you feel betrayed.

You follow the news. Closely. Closer than any of the other kids your age. But you’re bigger than them. You have more teeth. And you wonder if you should even be with them. Your father was the one who wanted you to go to this school, wasn’t he?

News comes.

He’s not a fugitive anymore. He’s a war hero, now.

They tell you you should be proud.

You don’t know if you feel proud.

He contacts you. You feel his warmth. You missed him. He says he misses you. He tells you about his journeys. You tell him about your team. He tells you about his friends. You don’t tell him about your lack.

He’s going to come see you soon. You’re excited. You missed him.

You tell him you love him. He tells you he loves you, too.

He never comes.

…

It’s another year until you get news.

He’s a war hero again.

You thought he was dead.

You feel. Proud.

You’re supposed to feel proud, right?

You’re a great ambassador now, they tell you. You’ll tell him that, when he calls again.

You’ll wait for him to visit.

He’ll come, this time.

You’ll look at the key that was your birthright.

He’ll tell you he loves you.

You’ll think about tearing him apart with your teeth.