#ciro-4

The Festival of the Lost has taken on different meanings for Ciro over the years. Whether it’s remembering the loss of those she cared about, celebrating life, or the good fun of collecting candy. 

Whatever it might be, the holiday was always something the Exo looked forward to, and this year was no exception.

“I know my old masks are here somewhere.” Ciro mused aloud as she balanced upon two stacked crates. Even then, she was struggling to peer into the overhead compartment on her ship.

Erint hovered above to shine a light into the storage area. “Your hoarding knows no bounds.” The Ghost said sarcastically, which got her a swat with the stick end of the broom.

It takes the Guardian a few more tries until the broom hooks around the edge of the box. A harsh tug brought the box tittering off the edge. Ignoring the strain in her legs and shoulders, she reached up to grab it. 

The noise of Ciro dropping the box down onto the floor startles Selene awake. The War Beast gives the room a once over before curling back asleep as if nothing happened.

“You could have asked me to grab that for you,” Erint comments as her shell retracts to her core - the light fading. 

The Exo ignores the statement, rolling her eyes as she jumps down off the crates. Yet as her hands reach the latches. Something in her chest tightens with an emotion she can’t quite place. It’s quickly pushed aside with a click and the slide of the lid. 

Inside the box were her Festival of the Lost decorations accumulated over the years. Engram lanterns, purple candles, and all the paper-mâché and cardboard masks. All of them were flattened for better storage.

“You have a lot more than I remember,” Erint asks as Ciro digs in. “Do you have any idea what you want to wear? Oryx? Or is that too fresh in people’s minds?” The rest of her statement trails off as Ciro pulls something out from the bottom of the pile.

The air stills as both of their attention draws to it.

It was in the shape of Calus’ face. Not his haunted form, or as a Disciple, but one that was made in the same image as his decoys once used.

“I remember the year you made that,” Erint floats closer as Ciro turns the mask over in her hands. “You walked proudly onto his ship with your best imitation of him, even mimicking the summoning clap.”

“He said he found it charming,” Ciro replied, eyes downcast. “Praised me for the craftsmanship, and we both had a good laugh about it.” The phantom taste of wine and a kiss flood the Exo’s system. Warmth tangles with the icy dread.

“Let’s see if there are any others in here.” The Ghost doesn’t try to hide behind the mask of being subtle. Pushing herself into the box for examination.

“No, I want to wear this one.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Erint bobs back up to look at Ciro.

“I’ll be fine,” The Ghost has known her guardian long enough to know that ‘I’m fine’ is code for ‘Please don’t ask me about it right now.’