Chapter Text
Sona
For three days the rescue party eked out a meagre, frozen existence huddled in their tiny cavern. During the first night Aloy began to burn with a fever and to move her in this condition was to kill her. All knew it. The flame haired girl was not long for this world, but all felt honour bound to comfort the dying outcast who had saved so many braves.
“Not that we could trudge down the mountain in this snowstorm” thought Sona. “To make my braves climb in this would be sentencing them to death”.
She could not do that to them. To Varl. The war chief spat the bitterness from her thoughts into the snow.
The second day was spent scouting as far as their courage, vision and warm skins would allow to collect precious resources. There were no hunting parties. Instead, each group was expected to bring back only what they could find and carry. One party used their hiking poles to tirelessly dig at frozen roots that could be used as firewood. Another found a few precious berries that they guarded like tiny red gemstones as they trundled back through the thick snowfall, their breath steaming with effort as they did so. Against all odds two small parties successfully brought down a mountain goat each. Neither party bothered to field dress their prey despite knowing it would make the journey back to their shelter far more troublesome. The bears were still too deep in their slumber to be attracted by the smell of blood, and offal would find it hard to turn bitter at such low temperatures.
Sona left soon after sending out each party. No-one had asked why she had stayed behind.
“They know I will do my part. Even if they believe keeping that headstrong girl alive is folly”.
The girl was weak, but Sona would not lose another brave without a fight. The battle-hardened woman had barely grieved for her daughter. Knew that now was not the time for such thoughts.
“If I stumble now, I shall not rise again”.
Sona placed a cold hand onto a scolding brow and swore deeply. The fever that wracked Aloy’s body did not seem to have come from putrefaction, but from some inner turmoil. Perhaps her exhaustive efforts and wounds had combined with the loss of her fa…of Rost and had begun to eat their way at her. She had certainly seen others die of less.
With a final look towards Aloy, Sona grabbed her pack and set out into the blinding snow.
“Thank the Mother the snow is not wet” the war chief prayed. Wet snow, she knew, would have leached warmth from the party’s bones and greatly reduced their chance of survival. Still, the cold blew across the mountain side in swathes of howling torment that bit at Sona’s face and crisped her hair in whisps of white. Thankfully Sona did not need to travel far to reach her destination. The outcrop where her scouts had first gasped out the location of the grotto was littered with stones. At least she remembered it was. Now it was covered with thick snowdrifts that erupted white powder into the sky with every frozen gust.
Sona lowered her pack onto grey exposed rock, then set about with her hiking pole, poking and prodding the snow until she found an area shallow enough to work with. There she dug at the snow, collecting large stones as she did so. Sona filled her pack to capacity then lumbered back to the shelter, each step burdensome with the weight of her load.
Sona clambered through the entrance of the grotto, her hand clinging to the frozen, craggy sides with pained effort. Sona, though well muscled, still strained with the effort of lowering her pack. Her muscles stinging as the stones were stacked atop the embers of the precious fire she dared not let out. With a grunt of effort the weary fighter positioned her sack upon her screaming muscles and immediately exited her shelter. Three times Sona harvested and trudged her load back to shelter. Each time also collecting what precious sticks she could find. Each time stopping only to collect the hot rocks from the small fire.
Sona used two sturdy poles to carefully remove the stones from the embers – hands moving deftly with years of experience – and placed them in a basket lined with thick leather. Each heating stone was placed strategically inside bedrolls in preparation for the return of icy, weather worn bodies. Sona could have no clue as to weather any of the parties would be successful in their search for resources. Only that they would be in dire need of warmth. 1 The final stack of rocks – the largest – was placed beneath Aloy’s make-shift cot. While Sona made the rescue party her priority in terms of who would need warmth first, she was painfully aware that Aloy would need it the most, and so her ration of hot rocks went to the once outcast girl.
“Not that I need them at present. Today’s effort still has me sweating and there is a fire in my back that will not be quenched”.
The fire had been restoked with the sticks collected throughout the day and by the time her braves had started to return water had been boiled and portable soup added. Regardless of what was collected Sona ensured there was something warm and nutritious to be had.
Sona could not maintain her usual stoic manner when two groups arrived almost simultaneously. Both were cheering whoops of joy, and both dragged a mountain goat behind them. Having been bogged down by their efforts they had been the last to return and while those who had returned had rested in their warm bedrolls Sona had worryingly kept watch at the entrance to the grotto – fear distracting her from the cold that now wracked her body where sweat had leached into her furs.
Those who had rested had all happily leapt into action to skin, dress and butcher the animals while the hunters fell into their beds. By the time the smell of hot food roused them from their slumber night had fallen and a steaming pot of blood soup 2was being shared out among tired, aching bodies that had become welcomingly warm in a grotto whose entrance was guarded from the howling wind by two draping goat skins.
During the previous night all had wrapped themselves in their furs to stave off cold but now the cave was comfortably warm many had stripped to their leathers. Experience told them that leaving their outer furs outside in the snow was the best way to keep them dry. 3 Stones had been re-heated and placed in their boots to dry out the leather and while voices merged with the crackle of fire and the hiss of stone meeting wet hide Sona crept from light into shadow, bowl in hand.
Patterns of orange haze darted across the solemn corner as tired hands cradled Aloy’s head, forcing as much soup down as she could without choking her. Only then, when her tasks of the day were done and all were safe, the weary war chief crept between the goat skins and stripped. The sudden change of temperature stabbed and clutched at her lungs, but she was well versed in how to survive the cold. Knew what must be done. Sona cupped snow in her hands, almost instantly sucking the heat from her fingers. Swiftly she used the snow to wipe off the day’s sweat before redressing in her leathers. When she returned, Sona was surprised to find rocks laid on embers. Sona nodded her appreciated towards Varl as she pulled off her sodden boots and sat on her warm bed roll. He must have spoken to the braves about sharing their stone portion while she had fed the girl. She valued Varl greatly as a son, a brave, and a negotiator.
“One day”, thought Sona. “One day I shall tell him so”.
The air was acrid with smoke and drying goat flesh, but the group had hot soup and meat in their bellies and so snacked on berries and sang tales of braves that had survived much worse. Tales of beasts, of times of starvation, and of endurance. Endure they would. Sona was as certain of it as she was on the ability of her braves. She could not have been more proud. Even Resh had seen the sense in remaining quiet, though Sona sensed his bitter, callous mind was racing with venom he did not feel safe to spit. Tella, her oldest brave, had carved a flute from one of the goat bones and was sweetly playing.
Aloy
Shivers in the dark. Shivers of hot, then cold, then of everything all at once. Over and over Helis’ menacing grin entwined with Rost’s agony. How could she tear herself from this prison if she did not no where she was, or how, or why? Was the Ancestor punishing her for trying to impress the tribe that shunned her? For rejecting Rost? For rejecting them? Was it the All Mother, for daring to join a tribe that so clearly did not belong to her? The temptation to give in to the darkness was overpowering. Afterall, what awaited her in the light besides loneliness and hardship? Rost was gone. Everything she knew blown away on the wind. She couldn’t return to live in the home he had built for them. It wasn’t home anymore. Not without Rost.
“Survive”.
The voice was not her father’s. Deep, though clearly a woman’s. A woman she did not know.
“Mother?”
“Survive, girl. You owe him that much”.
Her mind was swirling into oblivion. Seething hot like rocks fresh from the fire. Like a thousand open wounds screaming to closed. Like the burn of ice and the touch of late season nettles. Blessed, empty oblivion.
The taste of hot blood poured down Aloy’s mouth and into her guts. Was this how it was to end? A Bitter taste of her own life source drowning her in hot fury? Aloy tried to clutch at the focus around her neck, but her arms would not raise for her. Hammered down by the weight of the Ancestor’s will as if trapped beneath a thousand furs. Her weakened body too wracked with pain and guilt to fight the burden.
The pain in her heart ached the most. Why had she chosen to compete in the proving and by such shun the only person who had ever cared for her? Would he be alive if she hadn’t? Would she? Had those she saved made it and at what cost? Was it worth the loss of Rost? Who was she to decide if one’s person’s fate was worth more or less than another’s? Perhaps this was why she was being punished. Perhaps both the All Mother and the Ancestor had looked into her heart and found it lacking.
What form of penance must be paid to rise from this purgatory? Could she rise? Should she?
“Survive”
“Ro…..Rost?”
A gentle hand caressed Aloy’s cheek. Then her brow. Calloused and rough, but gentle. The hand of someone who cared.
“He’s gone girl. He’s with the All Mother”
“Mo..ther?”
“That’s right Aloy. Mother”.
Mother. Aloy dreamed of what she may look like. Hair ablaze like hers, and a face as stoic as Rost’s. Her hands were gentle, but her voice was sad. Already mourning for the loss of her daughter.
Aloy slept.
Sona
Sona raised her hand from Aloy’s temple. Still warm, but the fever was breaking. There was hope for the girl yet if only she let herself live. Sighing she sat opposite her son and took an offered skin of steaming pine needle tea. Varl noticed the worry etched across his mother’s face and asked if the girl would live.
“It is complex, Varl. Her wounds are healing cleanly, even the gash on her neck, though her body is wracked with pain and fever as if she is trying to decide her own fate. The stress may yet kill her.” Sona shook her head. “The fever is breaking. I think we shall know by sunset tomorrow if she will live”.
Varl’s thoughts were written across his face as he spoke.
“She keeps asking for her mother”.
“The All Mother, yes”.
“I don’t think so…” Varl raised his eyes to the level of his war chief’s. “Its all we ever truly want when we’re lost. To find our way home to our mothers”.
Sona, war chief of the Nora. Mother to Varl and mourner for Vala stood up and walked across to her son. She clasped his knee for the briefest of moments then retreated to her bedroll.
Varl smiled and did the same.
The next morning the storm had passed. Sona rose early as ever and walked out beneath a gloriously blue sky. The decision had been made for her, by All Mother or by fate, she could not tell but they would descend the mountain today. Sona raised he head to the heavens and prayed a silent prayer of thanks that all she took up the mountain survived. All she had to do was get them back down again.
“Rise, braves. Today we return to Mother’s Heart. Gather all supplies. We take all we can carry”.
Resh grinned an evil smile.
“So we leave the Outcast then. Get home within a few hours”.
Sona smiled back.
“No Resh. You and I shall carry her”. She pointed to the goat hide. “On those”.
An hour later everything that could be taken had been packed. The majority of the goat had been smoked and jerkied during the previous few nights and could be evenly distributed among the Nora in case the bad weather returned to cut anyone off from the rest of the party. Among the firepits and bones lay a flute left in offering to the spirits who had protected them. The hides, however, had been latched to Resh and Sona’s hiking poles. The hike was slow. Painfully so. Sona frequently called to the group to go ahead but each time they refused to leave her. She couldn’t be sure, but Sona believed they were fearful of what Resh might do if left alone with her and the girl. Varl frequently offered to take her place, but each time she refused. Aloy was her burden and if anyone was going to share it then let it be the man that slighted her despite all the girl had done for her tribe.
The search party reached the border of Mother’s Heart at sunset. Cries of joy erupted throughout the village and mingled with the howling despair of those who had hoped for a miracle. The matriarchs huddled around Sona who repeated what she had been told three nights prior.
Tearsa acted quickly with only one matriarch in disagreement. Aloy had earned the right to live or die with honour bestowed on only the most heroic of braves.
“Take her to the Womb of the Mountain!”