Chapter Text
From the moment he found Savathûn’s body lying on the cliff, Immaru knew: she was the one he was waiting for.
Not long after her High Coven had fully manifested, Immaru knew again: this was what he was meant to do. Rule the Hive as their General, aid Savathûn as her advisor and partner in crime, and administer his skill the only way he knew how: flawlessly.
And when the Vanguard sprang into action against the Hive once again, Immaru knew for certain: he hated everything humanity stood for.
Everything he ever hated about the Vanguard and the Guardians, humans and the Last City turned out to be non-existent under Savathûn's rule. Here, she was the ruler he could truly look up to, and here his never-utilized skills of leadership and warfare finally bloomed into something tangible and real, dangerous and deadly. Almost he had succumbed to the notion that he was simply not meant to achieve what he craved in this lifetime; that despite all his potential, everything he felt he would someday be able to use for something great, this was not his time. Almost.
So when the body of the Witch Queen itself had called out to him, Immaru had an epiphany: he was waiting for so long not because he wasn't meant for something great but because he was meant for someone great. Greatness takes time and patience, suffering and toil. To have finally found his place alongside the Witch Queen was exhilarating, instilled in him pride and vanity. He admitted it openly: it was the greatest stroke of ego he could have possibly received and he didn't run away from the fact that it changed him in ways not many would consider positive, but he knew better; he knew this confidence couldn't be a bad thing. The things he did with such confidence were another matter entirely.
However, he would hardly let anyone know that, having realized he wasn't born in vain, Immaru found his situation uplifting. Comforting even. There was something to be said about this foreign feeling. Despite the terrors that humans perceived the Hive to be, past the violence and the horrors they committed, Immaru saw a strange sense of comfort simply because he knew this was where he belonged all this time. Though he would admit none of it out loud, least of all to himself, despite the bitterness and desire for vengeance, a sort of comforting happiness he seldom acknowledged stirred inside of him. Ultimately, he never thought there was anything that could make him feel happier than that. But just like he didn't know belonging until he found it, he didn't know other things. Things that were ultimately brought into his life when he least expected them to be.
Not long after Savathûn's High Coven had manifested, a hunter who would bring these things had entered the Throne World for the first time.
The hunter arrived in the company of a fellow warlock, an experienced Exo whom Immaru had recognized as one of the very first Guardians who explored the mysteries of the High Coven. Immaru remembered him because he was, for the lack of a better description, an absolute weirdo, obsessed with the fungi that manifested in the Throne World. It was not the weirdest thing he had ever heard of, but he could not grasp an Exo Guardian not seeking to bash some skulls in, who spent his hours sketching the flora instead. Still, he spent a lot of time here, more than most, which made him a prime target for spy work. And it was spying on him that eventually introduced Immaru to the hunter.
The hunter, having never been to the High Coven before, observed this new world with wide-eyed wonder, and the Exo seemed almost proud about it, as if he himself personally were responsible for the beauty of Savathûn's creation. She too, seemed to have instantly grown fascinated with some of the aspects of it all - specifically, moths. Man, did the hunter enjoy moths. The two were insufferably annoying in their joy, and more than once Immaru felt like killing them himself. Their behavior was ridiculous, like children on a field trip, and not soldiers on enemy territory. Had Immaru known back then how much the two would love moths and the fungi, he would have personally made sure to obliterate their favourite specimens out of existence out of sheer spite.
Still, spywork and all. So he let the two gush, happy to have received valuable snippets of Vanguard intel in exchange.
He overheard her name when the Exo guardian had called out for her excitedly, pointing out a flutter of little bugs.
“Come take a look at this, Isla! They look splendid in the phosphorus light of the spores! Follow the patterns of their flight - I’m sure there is a language hidden in there somewhere-”
Isla. Isla, Isla, Isla. A gentle name with a gentle soul, if her affinity for moths said anything. Immaru, having hated her enough to start plotting against her, found her to be perfect material for playing a cruel game with.
It was not often that Immaru would infiltrate a specific guardian comms for sheer fun of it, but when he did, he was merciless. New Lights were easier to spook and demoralize for sure, but nothing gave him greater joy than to make a veteran, so set in their principles, question what they were fighting for and whom were they fighting against. It took so little to find out so much, to find out what made them tick: did they hate taking lives? Did they have to confront the reality of other alien races not being as villainous as they thought? Some of them downright hated being brought back, being reborn into such a terrible world, surviving for survivals' sake, to which Immaru would always have a line ready: 'you're not so different from the Hive.' Once or twice, his words made sure that a guardian would not step into the Throne World again.
These 'victories' were of no consequence. Guardians were like roaches: where one left, where one fell, three more appeared. But a long history of hatred and bitterness towards them made these victories the sweetest kinds of petty acts he could imagine.
Isla, in her apparent innocence and joy, seemed to him a perfect target for his pety cravings, and Immaru looked forward to the way in which he would break her morale. Such was his plan, yet eventually, the name of Isla learned to haunt him because she was not only not the New Light he thought she was, Isla was also the most insufferably kind and calm guardian he had ever met.
On the surface there was nothing infuriating about her. She was unexpectedly level-headed and a bit too quiet for a hunter, which unnerved. She spoke confidently with none of that childish devil-may-care attitude hunters had a tendency of displaying. Her competence annoyed him about as much as her enthusiasm about the Throne World did. But all that was nothing compared to when Immaru learned what she was all about: a brief moment of spying on hed, during which he found out she would take a moment to put a hand lightly over her chest, and respectfully bow her head whenever someone would die by her hand, be it a seasoned warrior or a mere screeb.
He would not humiliate himself by asking how that made a lick of sense, but luckily for him another guardian grew curious about her ways- and probably annoyed, given their tone - and popped the question.
"What's all that about? Think a little ritual like that might save you from your conscience? You're just a killer like the rest of us."
Isla didn't even blink.
“It is what it is. I cannot change what I have been born into. And neither can my enemy.”
It was what he hated the most. He saw many guardians with softness to them, many guardians unwilling to kill, sympathetic and emphatic and pathetic. And then there was Isla, the most enraging one of them all, who had no conceived logic beyond her little mantra. ‘It is what it is’, she kept saying, like some damn monk while she both killed without mercy and took a moment to mentally send her victims off into whatever afterlife she might've have imagined them going towards.
What drove Immaru helpless in his initial plan to goad her was the fact she seemed to genuinely, one hundred percent believe her own words, to believe there was a role for her to play in this dead shell of a world, and believe that there was a purpose to her merciful slaughter and her silent prayers.
After initial surprise and no small amount of disgust for her monastic attitude, he first considered it to be a sick, perverted sort of fun. He took it as a challenge to listen in to her Fireateam's comms in an attempt to find a way to provoke her into anger sorrow or doubt, to find what makes her tick. To find weaknesses he could use to draw out the tears or rage, a reaction that was not calm nor collected, to one day finally speak to her and draw out the real murderer and sinner beneath the calm, serene facade.
Eventually, he decided it had largely proved to be not worth his time. From the things he had heard her discussing with fellow guardians, she seemed to have an answer and opinion about everything, delivering the most macabre of thoughts with the most calm of attitudes.
“I may not have been brought back for a reason, but I can create one.”
“Just because the Traveler made me into a weapon, it doesn't mean that's all I am.”
“Death is but a part of a cycle for all of us, right? It is what it is.”
“Why would I not pray for them? I respect Hive's dead as much as I respect mine. We're all killing machines, really.”
“He calls us ‘Neon Nerds?’ Heh, that’s kinda cute!”
She believed every word of her deadpan, straightforward crap, neither here nor there, not cynical nor empathic, simply accepting that all there was is now, and all that was necessary was to pay due respects to the new life she had been given and lives she was taking. It drove him absolutely enraged, partly because he came to begrudgingly respect her outlook as much as he disagreed with it.
But as quickly as she got his attention, she evaporated from his mind. He would soon forget about the hunter Isla - or ‘the Monk’ as he liked to think of her - in favour of infiltrating the Young Wolfs' comms and ultimately, spent his time managing the important plans for the Lucent Brood and the Throne World…
… and she would have remained nothing but an annoying memory
had his own hubris,
and Savathûn's untimely death,
not led him right back to her,
years later.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
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˜*˜*˜*˜*˜
Checking his reflection out on the surface of the murky pool, Immaru grumbles. The crack is thin, noticeable to him even when it isn't to anyone else. The eyes of moths around the cave, staring curiously at him, feel more like judgement and less like bugs checking out the curious guest in their home. Saint’s Void still permeated through him like a parasite. If he were to be honest, it stings like living hell. Though he knows his body would eventually cast it out, and the damage would heal, he is more preoccupied with the damage to his pride. Pain, he can handle. Humiliation, less so… but in that regard, he has little choice right now than to wait it out. For now, he will be forced to live with it, put up with it even as Saint and Ghepetto take him back to the Tower, and he's determined not to show how it affects him.
If only it didn't feel like such an annoying itch.
He hears footsteps behind him and turns to see a guardian, not Saint but just as unwelcome. Both of them freeze up and stare, both of them having not expected another sapient being here, least of all each other. For a moment, he doesn't recognize the guardian, but then she speaks.
“Immaru?” He recognizes Isla’s treacherously kind tone. “You are Immaru, right?”
“What gave it away?” Immaru dryly asks, and then Isla beams.
“That death-stare of yours is hard not to recognize. Also, the shell." She says, clearly aiming to be funny. He doesn't dignify it with an answer and she walks further into the cave, clearly not taking notice of the fact he'd prefer to not have her there - or maybe just not caring. She’s carrying a metal crate. “Funny that I should find you here: I thought you were not allowed off the Tower.”
Not willing to disclose the nature of his meeting with Saint, and too tired and distressed to banter, Immaru replies simply.
“If you must know, a guardian had business with me. I’m waiting for him and his dolt ghost to bring the ship into the transmat zone.” Immaru pauses, wondering if they had left him here as a weird joke: it’s been a while since Saint told him to stay put. He wouldn't put such a stupid prank past Saint's old, slow mind.
“I see.” Isla pauses. “I hope you don’t mind me.”
Immaru does mind - he minds every single guardian in the High Coven - but he’s very much not in the mood to let this conversation continue. Isla takes that as an encouraging gesture rather than an indifferent one, and opens the crate only to start pulling out packets of what seems to be dirt, or seeds. He has absolutely no idea what she’s doing, but he can only guess it’s another biology project between her and her Exo friend. He doesn’t care enough to think about it for long, let alone to ask.
The void stings at him, and he barely suppresses a hiss, but a forlorn whirr of a sound alerts Isla.
“That sounded painful.”
“So does your voice.”
The annoyed tone is lost on her.
"Are you hurt?"
“I’ll live, monk.”
"'Monk?'"
Not in the mood.
"Just beat it already, won't ya?"
“But-” Isla reaches out, and Immaru instinctively jerks away from her. “I am not going to hurt you! You have no reason to fear me.”
“Psh! I fear no guardian."
As if to remind him, the image of Saint flashes through his mind, the sensation of being slowly, painfully crushed in his hand, the second in which the thin crack had formed and the high pitched sound of his body breaking, the sound only he could hear, rendering him momentarily terrified for his life. He gathers his wits.
"Plus, somehow I still don’t trust y'all. Must be something to do with seeing so many Ghosts under my command get crushed by guardian fists.”
He expects Isla to be hurt, to retort she didn’t mean to commit to the massacre: even to apologize. Ultimately, he hopes that his words would turn her away. Some guardians easily caved under the weight of their own sins. Instead, Isla bows her head.
“Their warriors were worthy opponents. Their death stings at me. My own death would, I suspect, sting worse.”
“Kill or be killed, huh?” Immaru expects her to deny his own mantra.
“Isn’t that what we all do?”
The way she accepts it is eerie, even though he, to an extent, agrees with her. Few guardians walked the line of being a murder machine and a human with such ease.
“That doesn’t mean, however,” Isla says, pointing, “that I can’t help you.” As if to eagerly respond to her words, the crack only burns stronger, the itch turning into pain. He twitches, bothered to no end.
“I don’t need help.” He sneers. “Help someone who is actually asking for it.”
“You’re a stubborn guy.” Isla says. “I would tell you to let me know if you change your mind, but I know you would never tell me if you did. So I think I’m just going to have to insist.”
Immaru can see how this will end: he has overheard enough of her to know she is not going to let this go, and if he wants to get rid of her quickly, he should probably go along with whatever she has in mind. He is too tired to fight. It has been a long week.
“Fine."
“Thank you.” She even has the gall to say. “You will not regret it, I promise.”
As if approaching a wounded bird rather than a ghost, Isla gingerly lifts her hand towards him. Once Immaru finally manages to stay still, the tip of her finger gently brushes along the thin crack. The touch does not hurt in the real sense of the word but it’s annoying, bothersome, frustrating and altogether a different kind of pain he wouldn't mind gone.
“There are traces of Void Light here.” Isla notes, voice low. “Did a guardian hur-”
“Are you gonna help or not?!”
Isla briefly raises her hands. “Forgive me: I forget myself. Just relax, and we should be done in a sec."
Immaru half expects Isla to hurt him further, while the other half remains certain his pain will not be alleviated no matter her effort. Though she’s shown no sadistic tendencies, he doesn’t believe she’d go out of her way to help him in any way, shape or form. When he feels her light gathering in her fingertips, he jerks away nearly violently.
“You trying to kill me, monk?” He growls. Isla does not look perturbed by this question, but perhaps a bit surprised.
“Guardians can use their Light in many ways.” She elaborates. “Allow me to use mine to help you.”
He so badly wants to tell her to get lost. The crack, however, screams for assistance, as if responding to her touch, to the benevolent Light behind her fingertips. He nears closer to her again, tries to relax, fighting against an impulse to summon his Hive warriors and do away with her.
“In my hands, at least,” Isla says, and somehow, her words sound both like a poem and a joke he doesn't know the punchline to, “there is no reason to be tense.”
Her Light engulfs him, and the panic washes away along with the pain. When Isla moves her hand away, he barely catches sight or void particles dissipating into nothing. He checks his reflection. Good as new.
To say he is shocked is an understatement.
“You healed me.” He says.
“You say it like it’s a bad thing.”
In a way, it is: if she’s trying to unnerve him, she succeeded. He briefly wonders whether he could successfully drive his shell through her throat. It would no doubt be a temporary measure, but at least it would send a message. He didn’t like to be toyed with, didn’t like her easygoing attitude and calm smile. Didn’t like whatever she planned because surely, she didn’t do this for no reason.
Luckily for her - or perhaps, for him - Saint’s Ghost informs him that the jumpship is ready. Without another word, Immaru transmats, forgetting all about Isla once more. The last thought of her is that of hope he never has to cross paths with her again.
˜*˜*˜*˜*˜
The thing called "Festival of the Lost" is about to come to the Tower, and Immaru is one of the few who do not, in fact, look forward to it.
His time here, prisoner though he is, is that of bored leisure, spent largely in confines of Morn's study. When Morn is not trying to confine him within such ridiculous spaces as a cardboard box in the storage rooms of the Tower - though he suspects this was more of a humiliating Festival of the Lost ‘trick’ on her part rather than a genuine prison - Immaru spends the days tagging along the Young Wolf or their fellow guardians to the Throne World, pretty much doing the same thing he did before, only with a bit more of gleeful gusto whenever one of them gets torn to shreds. The violence of the Crucible turns out to lose its charm when he indulges it too much - after all, what point is there in experiencing such bloodshed when only moments later, the guardians would be back on their feet, friends and foes high-fiving each other, and performing ridiculous victory dances? The charm of it was lost without the intended, proper, genuine desire to hurt something. So when an especially vicious group of Scorn would succeed in tearing a Guardian to pieces, giving them a slow, gruesome death, there is usually a certain high, a vengeful exhilaration Immaru was able to get from it.
Once or twice, Morn non-subtly inquired about his whereabouts and intentions in the Throne World, suspicious as always. Immaru did what any self respecting Ghost would do - or at least should do. Told her the whole truth of his reason, with every gruesome detail of every guardians’ death he saw, and every single time he laughed at their incompetence. He was not sure whether his increasing taste for guardians’ innards had finally turned her away, or if she simply grew bored with him, but after that she finally stopped asking, and went a little easier on his proverbial leash, only threatening to lock him away once every few days.
It was a refreshing change, even though it came with its drawbacks. He had to admit few guardians had as barbed of a tongue as Morn did, which made them less fun to talk to. She also had the uncanny ability not to resort to squeezing her hand around him and threatening instant death, which, in his own way, he appreciated.
Ultimately however, he came to the conclusion that as much as he loved to watch the violence of the capable few guardians, nothing hurt as sharply as a word did, something he personally could pride himself in being a master at. He had never seen Morn as cut as when he would mention her deceased Fireteam or, even worse, her own perished Ghost. He had to learn caution not to push her over the edge… but oh what fun it was, bringing her to the brink of it! Sometimes, in the middle of the night, when all was still and asleep, the silence soothing and the solitude refreshing, even when he was at his worst, and cursed Morn, and the Young Wolf, and even Savathûn when he was angry enough, blaming them for the situation they put him in, he thought of the vastness of the cruelty and violence his capable word could unleash. More often than not it was the only thing that brought him peace, and eventually, some rest.
This peculiar taste for pain, both mental and physical, ironically and inevitably brought him back to Isla.
He heard of guardians gushing over Saint-14 and his gentle ways, but not only did Immaru witness and experience the Exo’s vengeful temper, he had plenty of time to study his violent history. He heard Eliksni and Guardian alike praising the leader of the House of Light for his softness and wisdom, even though in Immaru’s expert opinion, he was a killing machine waiting for a chance to strike. But nothing trumped that damn monk and her attitude.
He had first seen her again right there in the Crucible, and would not have recognized her at all if it weren't for her voice and the recognizable bow. She was too good in the Crucible, and her expertise was contagiously fun to watch, yet every time, she just had to ruin her triumphant victory by shaking her enemy’s hand. She was murderous and effective, yet too much so, delivering the final blow with all the efficiency of an assassin, silent as a mouse and as quick as a viper, which would leave little room for the bloodshed and brutality he enjoyed so much.
He had every reason to respect her, and every reason to hate her… in spite of having spoken to her only once, which probably frustrated him the most.
˜*˜*˜*˜*˜
On the very first day of the Festival, Immaru slips away from the Tower, annoyed by the crowd and the abundance of much too cheerful guardians dressed up like idiots, and into the Throne World, for no other reason than to get a hour of peace before Morn finds out he's gone… and there, he catches sight of the monk, slipping into one of the Throne World's many cavernous hideouts.
It gives him pause. It's none of his business, and he doesn't care. Ultimately, he's too curious, and he never shied away from being nosy.
The cave systems of the Throne World more often than not served as a campsite for Guardians: the bravest and dumbest of them were known to spend a night, set up camp, or do any number of stupid, life-endangering things… kind of like the monk did now, Immaru muses. He squeezes through the narrow opening, hidden by lichen and moss, and finds himself in a cave that blinds him for a second, because he's hovering in the middle of a moth nest, the cave absolutely aglow with the iridescent quality of their wings, shimmering against a small pool of water deeper inside. Though the mouth of the cave is narrow and concealed, the inside is tall and complex, the ceiling full of jutting rocks. The cave itself spreads out further into a series of unexplored tunnels where he can see the vast number of luminous bugs, resting.
Isla is there, sitting on a tall rock with several moths perched on her shoulders and arms, and feeding them festival candy, like a mother tending to her children.
Confronted with being alone with her for the first time, Immaru realizes that he never really spoke to her proper - the first and only time they conversed was not what any person would consider a normal conversation. But he never had the opportunity to ambush her with taunts the way he did now. It would be easy, and probably smart, to turn away. But it is oh so much more tempting to try and see who Isla is when she's alone, and which buttons of hers can he press.
He floats further inside, and when she takes notice of him, doesn’t say anything: instead, she silently bows her head, probably mindfully of her pets, feeding on treats in her hands.
“Still at it, monk?”
"'Monk.' I still like that." She says, takes a moment to think before replying to his question. "No doubt, you know I will always be. Your remarks about the hobbies me and my friends participate in have not gone unheard during our patrols, even though you left our names out of your subtle insults.”
Though she clearly knows he was talking about her, she doesn't sound resentful. Considering the guardians often infiltrated his comms, he had often taken it upon himself to insult her and her friends, whether it was their skills, their equipment, or even something as innocent as their enthusiasm about the Throne world.
He scoffs.
“I’m only being honest with the fact you’re pursuing a dead end. Their lifespan is pathetically short, and their existence utterly useless. You might as well be watering a rock and expect an apple tree to come out of it.”
“All lives are short, in the grand scheme of things.” Isla says, hardly paying mind to his biting language. “I’m willing to bet these little fellas are making the most of it, just like I am.”
“Oh? Feeding them stale candy ‘sparks joy?’”
“It does.” She finally looks his way. Beneath the helmet, he senses a soft smile, the one she carries the vast majority of time, and the one that annoys him from the bottom of his soul. “It 'sparks joy.'"
“Well if it gives your pathetic, empty life a semblance of purpose, be my guest.”
“So nice of you to officially invite me to do so.” Isla accepts with the most gracious form of sarcasm he's ever heard, her amusement evident. She motions with her hands, and when the moths notice the food is gone, they leave the warm comfort of her body, and disappear into the depths of the cave.
“See? You’re just their feed through.” Immaru says. “Pointless.”
Isla jumps down from where she perched like a bird, and he watches carefully, ready to bolt if needed. She doesn't seem hostile, however, as she joins him at the narrow entrance of the cave, leans against it and crosses her arms at her chest.
“Surely, you have noticed all the cats by now?” She asks out of nowhere. “Quite a few of them, at the Tower.”
“Terrible things.” Immaru shivers. “Though I’d call them more effective than guardians are.”
“Indeed, you would.” Isla agrees. “The very basics of our relationship with pets is, for the most part, very simple. We keep them around for comfort, and they stick around out of necessity. It’s like that for me with these little guys. They feel like pets of my own.”
“Oh, so like the Vanguard and its guardians.” Immaru mocks.
Isla laughs softly. “Hm. Close.”
There is something unspoken being kept close to her heart in her words, and the pause is clearly supposed to make him ask. Usually, he doesn’t bite. However, since he made an effort to be here in the first place, Immaru figures - why not?
“‘Close,' huh?”
“It is more akin to…” Isla stares directly at him, nods. “Yes. More akin to what you and I share.”
The gall!
“Hah! You wish!” Immaru barks out a laugh. “Not even boss herself would call me her pet!”
“You got it wrong - I meant it to be the other way around.”
… Was she willing to humiliate herself just for the sake of avoiding an argument? Maybe she hated confrontation. It would definitely make it easier to provoke her.
“Oh? Figures you’d be dependable on me.” He agrees, cruelly adding: “You’d hardly amount up to anything without me to guide you through this place.”
“You misunderstand. It is like I said: I stick around you out of necessity.” Isla explains, her voice a very definition of serenity. “It is our job, among many others, to keep our eye on you, after all. And you, since you're here, talking to me for reasons I can't possibly hope to understand,” Immaru can hear her wide grin, “you find comfort in my company.”
Immaru hates her with his entire being.
“Ugh! You guardians grow more conceited by the day.”
“I like to think of myself as modest.” Her grin grows. “After all, I find your company to be plenty enough.”
“Yeah? I’d call that having high standards.”
“Some might call you conceited.”
“Some might call you stupid.”
Both are caught by surprise hearing such a childish retort. He finds himself speechless, angry that she got to him, instead of the other way around. She, on the other hand, bursts out laughing, which only angers him even further.
“Too bad there is no reliable scientific way to measure that!” She finally says, unexpectedly friendly, once she calms down. When she turns her head to look at him, he knows it's because he’s been uncharacteristically quiet for too long. Contemplative silence is not something he's known for. “Immaru?”
He hates the soft, correct, enunciated way she pronounced his name. It is not often anyone would pronounce it so well. Even he gave up on pronouncing it correctly for others.
“I’m sure some Hive experiments can help you measure that. It might take some… tissue extraction.” He darkly suggests.
“Stupid or not Immaru, I’d rather have my mind - and brain - intact.”
“Suit yourself. No doubt, it would help you.”
The conversation falls off on a strangely amusing note, and he can't fathom why.
“Ah. More of them are coming.” Isla shows empty hands to the incoming moths, silently apologizing to them for the lack of food. Immaru wonders if the bugs can understand the tone of her words, if not the words themselves, or the gestures of her hands. Likely not. They are just insects. Still, a couple of them stick around, sit on Isla’s shoulder, and close their luminous eyes.
“Strange, that so few see the beauties of this place.” Isla says, and the fact she's trying to chat him up angers him for reasons he can't possibly hope to understand.
“Tch! Why don’t you take them with you if you like them so much!” He mumbles, annoyed, and Isla’s whole demeanor changes.
“I can?" She asks, so utterly surprised. "Really?”
“What am I, your superior? Take a whole goddamn clutch if you want to, see if I care! Don’t blame me when you find yourself dealing with an infesta-”
He had been handled before by the Guardian, by Saint-14. Slapped with a book by Eris, more than once had objects thrown at him. Had gone through so many iterations of being handled in ways always uncomfortable and violent.
But when Isla takes him into his hands, and presses him close to her chest into a hug, Immaru’s thoughts get blurred in conflict of too many things he’s not willing to remember nor feel… but these thoughts are not something he can control.
Savathûn comes to his mind. A memory, brief, of a time when she held him similarly, with what he believed to be a sense of fellowship, belonging… purpose. A purpose that Savathûn herself ripped away from him without mercy when she decided to leave him here, and as much as he hates it, as much as he knows Savathûn has a plan, and would not simply leave him here to rot, he also recognizes that, in a way, this is his punishment for being so willing, or worse, indifferent, to the idea of leaving her dead. She was grace and danger, and as far as her schemes went, the Guardian - the entire Vanguard could’ve ended up with far, far worse consequences. In a sick, twisted way, Savathûn was fair and merciful.
Himself, on the other hand… No matter how one looks at it, Immaru too is a liar and a schemer, if a far more inexperienced one than Savathûn is, but he is also gloriously good at being a bastard, and he knows it well. There was no attempt on his side to hide his cruelty, his conceit, his ego. Immaru carried it like a sheriff's badge, bragged of it and flaunted it for all to see, gave no one any reason to enjoy his company nor his words, reveled in every glare and threat he received, because it proved exactly what he needed to know: he was an enemy, and he was a threat. And yet, here he was. Pulled into a hug by someone so inherently different, in gratitude for something so dumb and miniscule as a bug, after having insulted her any which way he knew how, after actively trying to decide on how to bring her harm.
So many odd thoughts conflict in his mind in that brief embrace, and when Isla lets him go and walks back into the cave, searching for a bug willing to leave with her, he uses the opportunity to flee.
Having retreated to the safety of the Tower, Immaru rationalizes his inner confusion to himself as best as he can: there was no fun to be had with the monk. Never had a single bad word or a curse passed her lips in his direction, not even as a joke, and he wonders: why does he keep trying when it was clear the Hunter was not interested in being a part of his cruel, insulting game?
And then it hits him: she was right. He can't tell if it is her, or the conversation, or something else, but it is comforting. It is… nice, sort of, to talk to somebody for longer than a minute. Nice to not be instantly disliked and cast away. In spite of everything. Not necessarily 'liked,' but simply tolerated for who he was. He so desperately wanted to be hated, so desperately wanted everyone to know the threat of his existence, because it told him exactly what he wanted to hear - he was merciless, cruel and important, and nothing was going to stop in the way of anything he wanted to do, even if he ultimately were to fail at it.
With Isla, with her strange acceptance of him, it’s like experiencing his own personality anew. It’s sort of refreshing.
Sort of nice.
But Immaru hadn’t had ‘nice’ in years, and he isn’t about to get used to it anytime soon.
Disappointed with himself, he figures a night in Morn’s box might not be a bad way to spend his solitary hours after all.