#my drifter

The candle flames flickered as a draft wound through the crypt-like chamber. La Cathédrale was beautiful in its way—a replica of something ancient and sacred, filled with the smell of old stone, dust, and the faint metallic tang of Void energy that permeated everything in the Sanctum Anatomica, bleeding through the portal.  

Roathe was waiting for him at the altar.

 He turned to look at Drifter, his expression carved from stone. His Warframe-form—Uriel's shell—gleamed with the polished gold of the Orokin aesthetic but the effect was marred by the twisted form of armor-turned-flesh that was the rest of his Infestation-corrupted body. What skin remained was the same Orokin blue Drifter expected, though Roathe had apparently not engineered the same mutated affectations the rest of his peers favored—his arms were the same length and his eyes were now dark with silver irises and lashes, not gold. His hair was dark and cut to his ears, woven through with gold beads like a lattice. He was an extremely handsome creature despite the mutation of the serum, and Drifter hated how that fact was always in the back of his mind every time they met.

If only he wasn’t such an asshole.

The Vice Regent Grand Carnus Admiral watched Drifter like a predator who had grown bored of the hunt and was simply waiting for his prey to stop running. His presence filled the space, his ancient Orokin arrogance radiating from every line of his posture. His devilish tail flicked with a note of irritation behind him.

"Usurper. You survived," Roathe said, his voice flat with the same detachment one might use to note the weather.

Drifter straightened his back, despite the protest of his aching muscles, and started to walk to meet him.  "Barely. It was a pretty rough—"

"And you failed again." The interruption was sharp, dismissive.

Drifter stopped walking. His boots scraped against the stone floor, and the sound was louder than it should have been in the oppressive silence of the Cathedral. "I died," he said flatly. "Again. Your inner self is remarkably inventive with the ways it kills people."

Roath’s eyes narrowed, and Drifter saw the flash of something—annoyance? Frustration?—in the Protoframe's dark gaze. "And? I am told you're used to death. That it has been your constant companion for most of your life."

"Used to it and fond of it are different things." Drifter's jaw tightened. "Your memory-self doesn't just kill me. It savors it. I can feel—" He stopped, unwilling to give voice to the sensation of being taken apart piece by piece by a man who wasn't even consciously doing the dismantling. "The last one was creative. I'll give you that. The spike through the heart was almost artistic."

Roathe didn’t respond, though he did give Drifter the courtesy of averting his gaze. Drifter glared at him for a moment and then closed his eyes and sighed, slowly. "Look, it’s not that bad. I’ve managed to retrieve three fragments so far, haven’t I?"

"Out of how many? Out of the dozens locked in the Infernum? Hundreds? I have no idea what Entrati stole from me. But as you say, we’ve won a grand total of three! We have made such profound progress." Roathe's voice dripped with sarcasm. "At this rate, I shall recover my memories in approximately...two centuries. Assuming you do not keep dying like a startled Grineer."

Something hot and sharp flared in Drifter's chest. "Then stop fighting me!"

Roathe's expression didn't shift, but something in his posture changed; a subtle tension that might have been discomfort at Drifter’s words…or simply annoyance at them. It was impossible to tell with him. "I am not responsible for what my fragmented self chooses to do in its defense. I have told you this."

"You're not listening to me!" Drifter stepped forward angrily, and the candles on either side of the aisle flickered violently, their flames bending toward him as if drawn by the Void energy that thrummed beneath his skin. He forced himself to still, forced the arm to quiet.

"I'm not blaming you for the defenses. I'm telling you that every time I descend, I have to kill you—your id, your ghost, whatever that thing is—just to get a few scraps of what you forgot. And I have to kill you because if I don’t, you kill me. Surely there’s a better way—"

“Again,” Roathe's expression flickered, interrupting Drifter. "I tell you—and? You should be accustomed to suffering by now, surely. The repetition of death is no novelty to you. Why whine about it now?"

The words hit like a physical blow. Drifter felt something inside him he'd been carefully holding together through the endless cycle of descent and failure and brief victory, snap.

"Whine?" His voice dropped, sharp and tight as his eyes flashed a warning. "You think this is whining?"

Roathe sniffed, looked away. "Your protests are tiresome. You’re dying in service of a goal you have chosen to pursue. I fail to see why this warrants complaint. You were—"

Roathe's next words were lost in the sudden roar of blood in Drifter's ears. His left arm screamed beneath its bindings, the Void energy surging in response to his fury, and he was moving before he could stop himself, crossing the distance between them, his still-human fist drawing back with every intention of shattering Roathe's perfect, arrogant face.

"DRIFTER!"

A gentle voice, accented with genteel French, cut through the haze of Drifter’s rage like a blade. Marie Leroux was suddenly there, impossibly fast, her Protoframe's lithe form interposing itself between him and Roathe. Her hands, slender and still human, pressed against his chest, pushing him back with surprising strength.

“Non, non, non!” she said firmly, her accent thickened with concern. "This is not the way. Both of you. Calmez-vous! Enough." Marie’s lovely blue eyes glanced down and she leaned towards him, whispering. “Drifter, your arm—“

He looked down. His left arm was bleeding Void energy through the edges of his bandages. Black-green tendrils writhed against the fabric. He could see the shape of it now, the twisted flesh pressing against its confines like a thing trying to escape.

He wrenched his arm up, clutching it to his chest, hiding it in the folds of his cloak. His heart was pounding, his breath coming in ragged gasps, and he could feel Roathe's eyes on him, calculating, assessing.

"You—" Drifter started, but stopped as a tall silhouette stirred from the shadows. Behind Marie, Lyon Allard emerged near the altar, his expression troubled. He didn't speak, but his presence was a reminder that La Cathédrale was not just a place of memory, but a sanctuary. A home.

Drifter's fist trembled. The corrupted arm screamed beneath his wrappings, hungry, hungry—

He forced himself to breathe, to calm. To step back.

"Marie," he said, his voice rough. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

"To what? To punch our devil through a pillar?" Marie's words were reproachful, but her eyes glittered with amusement. "You would not be the first to have that idea, I’m sure. But still, Drifter, do not let him goad you into losing yourself. You are better than that.”

Roathe's gaze flicked from Drifter's concealed arm to his face, and something new entered his expression. Curiosity. Calculation.

"Your arm," Roathe said slowly. "That is not a normal wound. That is—"

"Nothing," Drifter snapped. "It's nothing."

"Roathe, please," Lyon said, his voice calm but carrying an edge of warning. "This is not productive. We are all on the same side, even if we do not always remember it."

Roathe sneered at the man, but said no more, crossing his arms.

"Drifter." Marie's voice was softer now, her hands still resting on his chest, steadying him. "You need to breathe, to calm. Regardez-moi." She met his eyes. “Breathe. Please.”

He looked at Marie. Her face was kind, her eyes filled with genuine concern.  Drifter dragged a hand over his face, feeling the stubble on his jaw, the scars that traced patterns across his skin. He let out a breath, long and slow, and forced the tension from his shoulders.

"I'm fine," he said, his voice rough. "I'm fine, I just—"

"You just died," Lyon said gently. "Again. And you are tired. And perhaps," he glanced at Roathe, and something in his expression sharpened, "you are not wrong to be angry."

Roathe's eyes widened. "You cannot possibly be—"

"I can be whatever I wish to be." Lyon's voice was calm but firm. "You were cruel, Roathe. Perhaps not intentionally, but cruelty does not require intention to wound. Drifter has been dying for you. The least you can do is offer him some semblance of gratitude."

Roathe's jaw tightened. For a long moment, he said nothing, his silver eyes fixed on some point in the middle distance. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, less certain.

"I am... not accustomed to being grateful," he said at last. "In the Orokin Empire, gratitude was merely a tool to be wielded against the naïve and unwary. I learned to dispense with it. It is... difficult to remember how to use it in a different way."

Drifter stared at him. The admission was small, almost insignificant, but it was the closest thing to an apology he was likely to get. He could feel the anger draining out of him, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion that made his legs tremble.

He stepped forward, gently patting Marie’s hand when she protested, showing her it was alright. She sighed and floated aside, allowing him to close the distance between Roathe and himself until he was close enough to see the minute flinch in the Orokin’s obsidian eyes. "I've died six times in your head. Six. Times. And all you’ve done is berate me, looking at me like I'm the one who's wasting your time. If you'd just let me in, if you'd just stop fighting—"

"Stop fighting?" Roathe's said incredulously. "You once again speak as though I have a choice. As though I am the architect of my own destruction, standing by while you tear down the walls I have built." He shook his head, a bitter smile twisting his lips. "You think I enjoy what’s happening? That I relish this farce?"

"Then explain it to me." Drifter's voice was quieter now, but no less intense. "Make me understand why you're so desperate to keep me out."

Roathe laughed. It was a hollow, brittle sound, devoid of humor. "Are you truly so ignorant, Usurper? The day Albrecht Entrati took everything from me, the day he destroyed me, violated my mind, turned me into this—" He gestured at his own form, the Helminth-touched flesh that marked him as something other than human, "—this abomination, was the day Vice Regent Grand Carnus Admiral Roathe died. And now you want me to relive that death? To open myself to the pain of it all over again?"

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to something almost gentle, and that was somehow worse than the anger. "You are so accustomed to death that you do not even feel it anymore, so I should not be surprised you don’t understand. You die, and you return, and you die again, and it means nothing to you. But to me—" He pressed a hand to his chest, over the place where a heart still beat beneath its Helminth-crafted shell. "To me, every echo of that death is a fresh wound. Every memory you uncover is a knife in my back. And you want to know why I fight you?"

Drifter's good eye had gone cold, the violet in it flattening to something hard and unyielding. His void-scarred arm ached, a dull, pulsing throb that matched the rhythm of his heartbeat. He could feel the tendrils beneath his wrappings stirring, responding to the spike of adrenaline that flooded his system, and he forced them still with an act of will that left him trembling.

"You don't know anything about me," Drifter said, and his voice was quiet, almost too quiet to hear. "You don't know what I've survived. You don't know what I've lost. And you sure as Sol don't get to stand there and pretend you have any idea what death means to me."

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken things. Roathe’s lips parted, as if he was going to say something, but then they tightened into a grimace and he looked away.

Marie cleared her throat softly. "I think perhaps we should all rest. Drifter, you have been through more than any of us can imagine." she paused, considering her words and turned to glare at Roathe. "And you, devil—you should consider what it means to ask someone to die for you."

Drifter snorted. "For him?" He looked at Marie and jerked a thumb at Roathe. "I'm not doing this for him," he emphasized. "I'm doing it for the kid. For the both of you." He stopped, a flicker of something vulnerable crossing his face before he forced it stoic again and looked at Roathe. "You should be grateful I care about the kid enough to bother, frankly. He thinks that if we help you recover your memories, you might...I don't know. Help us. Help him.” He glanced back at the swirling orange portal.

“At the very least, he wants the people he cares about to have some peace of mind. And they—" He glanced at Marie and Lyon, these strange people from a time long before his, that he’d come to think of as friends. A kind of family, no less family than the one he left behind in 1999. “They have the stubborn belief you may be redeemed through this, somehow.”

Lyon scoffed. “I do not.” Marie shushed him, scolding. Roathe chose to ignore it in that moment.

"And you?" Roathe asked quietly. "Do you too, believe in my redemption?"

Drifter's laugh was caustic and he didn’t see the minute flinch from Roathe as he turned away. His words were shaped to wound, feeling suddenly angry though he didn't know why. “No. You're useful, Roathe, that's all. Your memories are useful. And if helping you recover them means Loid will finally go upstairs and tell the Entrati family the truth about what Albrecht did to them, then I'll do it." He looked back, met Roathe's gaze. "That's what I want. Peace for the people Entrati hurt. Some small measure of justice."

Roathe cocked a cold eyebrow. "And revenge for yourself."

"And revenge for myself," Drifter agreed quietly. "Yes. That too."

Roathe was quiet then, his expression hard to read. “And what of my peace?” he asked, then, softly. “My revenge?”

Drifter opened his mouth to answer, but then closed it. He looked away.

Roathe's lips curved into something that was almost a smile, but not quite. “Finally," he murmured. "An honest answer."

Drifter didn’t reply.

Roathe smirked and inclined his head, saying nothing. He turned away. "Rest then, as you like, Usurper. The next descent will come soon enough."

He walked away, his footsteps echoing through the Cathedral's empty nave. Marie and Lyon exchanged a glance, and then Marie stepped closer to Drifter, her hand resting on his shoulder.

"Are you alright?" she asked softly. "Not just the 'I am fine' that you give everyone, but actually?"

Drifter looked down at his arm and felt the Void energy pulse against his skin, utterly foreign, and utterly familiar as his own heartbeat.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I honestly don't know anymore."

-----------------

In a private room within the Sanctum Loid had set aside for his use, Drifter sat on the edge of a cot, his gloved hand resting on his knee. The bandages beneath were soaked through with something that wasn't quite blood—a viscous, silver-black fluid that pulsed faintly with energy.

He peeled back the glove, revealing the wrappings beneath. Slowly, carefully, he began to unwind them.

The arm that emerged was no longer human.

Swirling silver flesh like living mercury met his bleary gaze, black-green void energy coiling around the twisted amalgamation of what had once been flesh and bone. Tendrils of silver wound to form the shape of it, delicate and alien, constantly moving and reaching for something he couldn't see. His fingers ended in points that seemed to shimmer with the void, blurring at the edges.

It was beautiful, in a horrifying way.

And it was hungry.

He remembered the angel's touch, on the Zariman. He remembered the moment it had almost consumed him, the moment he had clawed his way back from the brink with nothing but sheer, stubborn rage. He had saved himself, but at a cost. His arm was no longer entirely his own. It was a reminder of how close he had come to losing everything.

He wrapped it again, carefully, methodically, until every trace of the corruption was hidden beneath clean white bandages. Then he pulled on the glove and the armor, the layers of concealment that kept his secret safe.

No one knew about the arm except Arthur, and even then he had only shown it once, and spoke a very brief, truncated version of events, leaving out most of the details. It was his burden to carry. His shame. His proof that he was more Void than man now, the ancient fear from his centuries in Duviri finally manifest.

Finally true.

He lay back on the cot, staring at the stone ceiling above him, and tried to pretend he was still human.

The walk through the corridors of Sanctum Anatomica to the main chamber was usually a quick walk, but tonight the path felt longer, the air thinner, the weight of his limbs heavier than stone. Each step was a negotiation with his own exhaustion, his body screaming for rest while his mind churned with the echoes of Roathe's accusations and the phantom sensation of his own death still clinging to his bones.

He reached the entrance and found Loid waiting for him. The ancient caretaker of the Entrati household stood rigid, his hands clasped behind his back in that formal posture he adopted when delivering news he knew would not be well received.

"Drifter. I must speak with you."

Drifter paused, one hand braced against the wall. His violet eye fixed on Loid with the dull resignation of a man who had long since run out of surprises. "Is it the kid? How is he?"

Loid's expression softened, just slightly. "He is...managing. The memories of the Perita Rebellion are difficult for him, as you might imagine. To witness his own forgotten past, to see the choices that led to suffering he no longer remembered—" He shook his head. "Lotus is with him. She guides him through the reflection pool, helps him navigate the currents of his own history. But it takes its toll. On both of them."

Drifter nodded slowly, his gaze dropping to the floor. He could picture it vividly—the Operator, that younger mirror version of himself, submerged in the ethereal waters of the pool, reliving every moment of the Perita Rebellion, every loss, every betrayal. It was the same torment Drifter was enduring, just in reverse. One of them plumbing the depths of his own past. The other plumbing the depths of a stranger's.

"I wish I could help him," Drifter said, and his voice was hoarse. "I wish I could take some of that weight off his shoulders."

"You are helping him," Loid replied. "The work you do with Roathe, the memories you recover—it all serves a greater purpose. The truth of what broke the peace accord, the secrets of Tau, how it may tie into the Indifference, these are the keys to everything that comes next. The Operator understands this. He would not want you to abandon your task."

"I know." Drifter dragged a hand through his hair, wincing as his fingers caught on a tangle. "I know he wouldn't. It's just... it's hard, Loid. Every descent costs me something. I die, and I come back, and I die again. And Roathe—" He let out a bitter laugh. "Roathe is impossible."

"Roathe is afraid," Loid said, quiet and sure. "Whatever he may project, whatever cruelty he may wield as a weapon, he is terrified. His memories are all he has left of who he was, and you are tearing through them like a storm. He fights because he doesn’t know what might remain at the end."

Drifter looked up, his eye searching Loid's face. "How do you know that?"

"Because…I have seen it before," Loid said quietly. "I have seen the Orokin destroy everything—themselves, their loved ones, their world, all in the name of some illusion of control, but one thing ever remained sacrosanct. Their memories. The one constant they allowed. Roathe is no different. He clings to the idea of preserving what little remains because it is the only thing he knows to be real. If you can show him that there is something beyond that, something worth the risk..." He trailed off, shrugging slightly. "Perhaps he will stop fighting you."

Drifter was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded. "I'll try. But I can't promise anything."

"No one is demanding promises," Loid said. "Only the attempt."

Drifter pushed off from the wall, his muscles protesting the movement. "I need to rest. I need to—" He gestured vaguely, unable to articulate the depth of his exhaustion. "I need to not be here for a while."

"Of course." Loid inclined his head. "Take whatever time you need. The descent will wait."

Drifter did not respond. He simply turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridors, carrying him toward the one place he had come to think of as home.

-----------------

The Backroom was warm.

That was the first thing Drifter noticed as he stepped through the threshold of the Hollvania Mall's hidden sanctuary. The air was thick with the smell of coffee and the sweet rot of Helminth, and something faintly metallic—the lingering trace of Arthur's gun oil, no doubt, applied to his weapons that he cleaned and stored after another day of fighting Scaldra. The room was cluttered with the detritus of their shared existence, the maps spread across tables, the weapons disassembled for maintenance, a half-empty bottle of something amber-colored sitting beside a stack of reports.

And Arthur. Arthur was there, standing by the dinette table with a cup of coffee in his hand, his silhouette outlined against the golden glow of the lamp. He turned at the sound of the door, and his expression shifted from mild alertness to something warmer, softer, as his gaze found Drifter's face.

"You look like hell," Arthur said, and there was no judgment in the words, only concern.

Drifter managed a weak smile. "Feel like it, too."

Arthur crossed the room, his hands finding Drifter's shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the knots of tension that had taken up permanent residence there. He was solid and warm and real, and Drifter let himself lean into the contact, let himself be held up by the strength of his lover's presence.

"Bad day?" Arthur asked, his voice low.

"Bad week," Drifter corrected. "Bad month. Bad—" He laughed, a broken, breathless sound. "Bad everything, really."

Arthur's hands moved from his shoulders to his face, cupping his jaw, tilting his head up so their eyes could meet. Drifter's violet eye met Arthur's steady gaze, and for a moment, the world fell away—the descents, the deaths, the endless weight of responsibility—and there was only this. Only Arthur.

"I missed you love," Arthur said.

Drifter closed his eye, let the words wash over him like a balm. "I know. I missed you, too."

Arthur guided him to the worn couch in the corner, settling them both into its embrace with the ease of long practice. Drifter curled into him, his head resting on Arthur's shoulder, his void-scarred arm carefully tucked against his own body so the telltale shape of it would not press against Arthur's skin. The bandages rustled softly as he shifted, and he felt Arthur's hand come to rest atop his head, a grounding weight.

"Tell me about your day," Drifter murmured, the words slurring with exhaustion. "Tell me about the team. How everyone’s doing."

Arthur's hand began to comb slowly through his hair, a soothing sensation that made Drifter's eyes grow heavy. "My day was fine. It was routine, mostly. Scaldra tried to push into the eastern sector, but we held them back. Aoi's working on some new tech that might make things easier. Amir's been running comms, keeping us updated on troop movements. Lettie and Eleanor are coordinating with the survivors in the western safe zone."

Drifter hummed softly, the sound of Arthur's voice a lullaby that soothed the jagged edges of his nerves. "And Quincy?"

"Quincy's being Quincy," Arthur said, and there was a fond exasperation in his voice. "He's got a new scheme, something about infiltrating a Scaldra supply route. I told him to wait, but you know how he is."

"I do," Drifter said, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "He'll do it anyway."

"He will." Arthur's hand paused, then resumed its gentle circuit. "Everyone’s much the same. But that’s not really why you asked, was it?”

Drifter was quiet for a moment, his eye fixed on the wall, watching the play of shadows cast by the flickering lights. "No," he admitted. "I just...I just wanted to hear your voice. That's all."

Arthur's arm tightened around him, pulling him closer. “Of course. Any time.”

The silence that followed was comfortable, easy, the kind of silence that only existed between people who had learned to trust each other completely. Drifter felt the tension in his muscles begin to ease, felt the weight of the day slowly lifting from his shoulders. His breathing evened out, his heart rate slowed, and for the first time in what felt like hours, he allowed himself to simply exist.

But he could not shake the thought that had been nagging at him since Loid's words. Roathe was afraid. Roathe was fighting because he was terrified of what would be left when the memories were unearthed, released from his desperate grip. And that somewhere, buried deep beneath the cruelty and the arrogance, there might be something worth salvaging.

Drifter did not know if he was the right person to salvage it. He did not know if he had the strength to try. He sighed, deeply. “This is so nice. I’ve missed it.” He paused, his lips twisting, wryly. “Wish I didn’t have to go back.”

There was a beat, and Drifter could feel Arthur tense, for a moment.

"You don't…have to go back," Arthur said slowly, his voice quiet, almost hesitant. "Not—not immediately, I mean. You could stay here a few days. Stay with us. With me."

Drifter's eye opened. He did not move, did not speak, but he felt the weight of Arthur's words settle over him like a blanket.

"I'm not saying you should give up," Arthur continued, his hand still moving in that soothing rhythm. "To just hide here and let your world burn. But you've been fighting so long, love. So long. And you deserve a rest. You deserve to have something that's just yours. Something that's not about duty or sacrifice or—" He paused, and exhaled a breath. "Or dying."

Drifter was silent for a long moment. He thought about the Backroom, about the warmth of Arthur's arms, about the family he had found in the Hex. He thought about what it would be like to stay, to let someone else carry the weight for a while.

It was a beautiful dream. A beautiful, impossible dream.

"I could, I suppose," Drifter said, and his voice was rough, raw with emotion. "I could stay. I could let myself have this. Have you. Have a life that’s…that’s just mine, as you say."

He turned his head, pressing his face into the curve of Arthur's neck. The fabric of his lover's shirt was soft against his cheek, and he breathed in the familiar scent of him.

"But that's not who I am, is it?" The words came out muffled, barely audible. "I'm the one who goes back again and again and again. I'm the one who dies so other people don't have to. That's what I've always been. That's what I'll always be."

Arthur's arms tightened around him, fierce and protective. "That's not all you are. You're more than that. You're so much more than that."

"Maybe." Drifter closed his eye, let himself sink into the safety of Arthur's embrace. "But it's what I have to be. For now. Until this is over."

Arthur was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, he said, "I'm not going to let you go. You know that, right? When this is over, I'm still going to be here. I'm still going to be yours."

Drifter felt tears prick at the corner of his eye, hot and sudden. He did not try to stop them. He let them fall, let them soak into Arthur's shirt, let himself grieve for all the things he could not have.

"I know," he whispered. "I know. And that's the only reason I can keep going. Because I know you'll be here when I come back. Every time."

Arthur pressed a kiss to the top of his head, lingering and tender. "Every time," he echoed. "I'll be here every time. I promise."

Drifter did not respond. He simply lay there, in the arms of the man he loved, and let the exhaustion take him. Sleep rose up to claim him, dark and warm and merciful, and he let it pull him under.

Tomorrow, he would go back. Tomorrow, he would descend into Roathe's memories again. Tomorrow, he would die again.

But tonight, he was here. He was home. And he was alive.