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Chapter Text

Kotallo

The view was truly spectacular. The journey had been long and arduous but the view from the hill to the great Salt Lake below had been worth it. Standing atop the red-brown rock was a man surprised at how the late spring sunset had turned the lake an almost matching colour. He had seen sunsets over water before of course but nothing quite like this occurred in the west. He had seen this view several times over the years, but it never ceased to surprise him. A salty warm breeze brushed over his face and through his beaded dreadlocks and he closed his large onyx eyes and sighed prayer of relief into the wind.

The journey had lasted almost the length of a full moon cycle during a season of unpredictable weather. There were many occasions where the terrain had become difficult or even impassable due to heavy downpours and often it felt as if they had spent more time camping than walking. It was probably true. Thankfully few dangerous animals had been encountered, and those that were soon fell under the arrows loosed by his companions or himself. The pelts of which added to the precious cargo they carried.

He stood a fearsome figure. Standing among the tallest of his tribe with musculature matching his varied martial prowess. Bare Chested save for strings of beads and shells about his neck and painted patterns of white and black which contrasted with his umber skin. The white almost was pink where the sun’s fading light touched him. However, despite his appearance and reputation as a warrior, his mind was contemplative, curious, and focused on strategy. Honourable and just, but no less ruthless when he had to be. As he gazed out across the lake he relished in this calm solitude. With eyes still closed he focused on breathing deeply with the breeze and imagined, as he often did, soaring the sky like the great eagle spirit. He was bone tired and dusty. As was predicted the weather had shifted immediately upon entering Lakeside territory, and they had spent the last few days travelling across the dry red earth.

"No matter." he thought. "Nothing bathing and a fresh coat of pigment cannot heal".

The white pigment he wore was a symbol of his position of marshal for his tribe. This rank was given only to warriors who were both fearsome and wise, and only after surviving a trial by combat.

While the chalk-based paint must be replenished frequently to maintain its effect the black markings were permanently etched into his skin. Each tattoo had been created by piercing the skin with needles made of antler, before rubbing the open wound with bone char. He knew each pattern by heart. Each tribe member would be marked by the the artist Marallo and his partner. Marallo would design and pierce the patterns, leaving Sosekk to complete the process. Kotallo knew the men well. He ran his hand across a large tattoo on his left upper arm, felt the raised skin and smiled. The process of tattooing hurt. I was meant to, and the risk for fever was always present. It acted as a deterrent for getting unworthy deeds etched. Each time a warrior was marked it exhibited their endurance. He recalled the duo. Professional in their work while exchanging sarcastic but loving banter with each other and their model. He smiled again. Once he returned, he would have this journey etched. By now he had several of these marks. One line on his left wrist for each time he had completed such a journey.

After some time had passed in quiet contemplation a hand appeared on his shoulder. He was not startled. No matter how quietly his friend thought he crept, he had never once been surprised by him.

“Kota. I thought I would find you here”. His friend’s voice was soft, as if loathing to disturb him. They were kindred spirits, especially when it came to the desire for solitude.

Kotallo didn’t stir but continued to gaze upon the sunset.

“Forgive me Fashav. I could not resist the temptation”.

The two men stood in a companionable silence until the sun kissed the horizon.

“I assumed as much. You always did enjoy that view." He huffed in a way that said "Likewise". "Time to eat”. Fashav’s tone was still soft. “I’d like to make the most of tonight”.

“And here I thought you were happy to be rid of us” Kotallo’s voice was impassive, but his Fashav was a match for his dry humour.

“Escaping you at last. I bless the Ten for his mercy daily”. Fashav’s broad smile did what it could to hide the hint of sadness that touched his eyes. He was going to miss this.

Representatives of the Eagle tribe had taken their bi-seasonal journey to the east to trade furs and pitch for salt, shells, and ochre. Negotiations over the course of several of these journeys had resulted in the chief of Eagle Tribe deciding to send a marshal to live with the lakeside tribe to foster closer relations. As a wise and charismatic warrior praised for his level-headed thinking there was no surprise that Fashav had been chosen. Fashav would do his duty. We would leave his home behind for the sake of his can and his chief, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy his final night among friends.

The camp had been set up further back on the hill. High enough that lookouts could keep a keen watch, while close enough to the lake that they had an easy journey to their rendezvous. Word had been sent ahead and the party anticipated the meeting of the tribe to take place sometime the next day.

Twilight set across the landscape. Fires glowed red among the camp and the smell of cooking meat and fish tore a rumble from Kotallo’s gut. The last meal they had eaten was a morsel of dried boar and a handful of stale nuts at midday. Late spring was still a time of reduced rations for the tribe, particularly while travelling, but a few days spent catching and preserving the abundance the lake offered had more than amply restocked their supplies.

Similar blazes hovered across the water. A Clear indication the representatives of the lakeside tribe would appear upon the morrow.

Fashav wrapped his arm across Kotallo’s shoulder and smiling directed him towards a fire.

“Come. There will be ample time for me to become sick of fish. For now, we feast on the rabbits we caught today. We have spring greens aplenty to accompany them.”

Kotallo grinned.

“A feast truly worthy of your departure. I found some mint today. I shall make us tea.”

Fashav smiled at his friend. He hated mint tea but understood it to be a favourite of Kotallo’s, and the offer of sharing the small sample of carefully plucked, barely sprung leaves was appreciated for what it was, no matter the taste.

Fashav staked the rabbits that had been shot and cleaned earlier that day and placed them close enough to the fire to gently cook while Kotallo took out his boiling leather and poured water from his beaver skin bladder. Using two forked sticks he carefully selected a large stone that had been placed by the fire to heat and placed it in the water. The water instantly hissed and bubbled and Kotallo waited for it to reduce to a simmer before removing the stone and adding the mint leaves. After a few moments he filled two small leather beakers. He looked across to Fashav who had been turning the rabbits and passed him a beaker with a smile.

“I tried to find elderflowers, but they don’t seem to grow here”.

This gained him a smile from Fashav who was totally unsurprised that his friend was aware which drink he preferred.

They reminisced as they drank their tea, then ate their meal in companionable silence which lasted until they cleared away. The noise of the camp filtered over and eventually so did many from their party. They joined the merriment of long-established friendships formed and maintained through taxing years and arduous trials. These were among the Eagle Tribe's most trusted warriors and marshals to the chief. Loyal to both him and to each other.

It was a night for revelry. Of honouring Fashav and celebrating the end of one journey, and the beginning of another. Among the firelight Kotallo shared in many jokes and stories, while Fashav sang in his strong melodious voice. Among the tribe both had the reputation of being impassive and stoic in nature but among these faces they were known as having a cutting wit and a mirthful smile. Each saw each other as a brother, though in truth they shared no relation.

Eventually the fires and hustle faded. The moon was setting and those that had been dancing had long since ceased. Fashav sat silently by Kotallo as they sat gazing at the fire.

"They call themselves 'Carja'" Said Fashav at last.

"Who? The Lakside Clan? I have never heard of this".

"I spoke to the chief in order to properly prepare for the mission at hand. He provided details including what they call themselves."

Kotallo was totally unsurprised that his friend had sought out as much information as he could. It is precisely what he would have done.

"I suppose I should not find it strange that we have different names for each other. After all, I have heard them call us "Eagle Clan" rather than "Tenakth” and refer to The Great Eagle as opposed to "The Ten". He pondered a moment while Fashav nodded. "Tell me more of these...Carja".

Kotallo listened in awe as Fashav described the nearby settlements.

"Their dwellings made from what?" he asked incredulously.

"Something called brick. Apparently, they shape blocks from that red mud of theirs, then allow them to harden under this dry air. Unlike us they don't apply wet mud directly onto a wooden lattice but stack these 'bricks' on top of each other. They don't thatch domed roofs either but form a hard layer of clay across a wooden platform. According to the Chief there is rumour of a settlement to the east unlike anything he has ever known."

Kotallo pondered on these rumours. Perhaps they came from the occasional scouting party that entered Tenakth territory from East. Or from the Carja trading party that last visited the Grove. From what Fashav had told him the Caja called their territory the "Sundom". Could they truly live in a way so different than that of the Tenakth?

"We all look upon the Sun with reverence of course, but it seems the Carja look to it as their greatest deity. They believe it is a woman that gave birth to the Earth." Fashav spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, as he always did when knowledge was to be shared, no matter the subject. "It seems they also worship bulls".

"What is so special about bulls?"

"I suppose I'll find out soon enough".

They were quiet for a moment then. Both remembering the reason they were there.

Kotallo could tell his friend was ruminating on something. After a sigh Fashav finally answered.

"I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised I was chosen. I have traded tribes before, after all".

"of course,". How could Kotallo have forgotten? But he supposed. Five winters was a long enough time to forget such things.

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Five winters earlier a scouting party had appeared in northern Tenakth territory. These were hard men. Much paler than the Tenakth, though not as fair as the Carja. Their oddly coloured eyes burned with malice. These men raided a small settlement and heavy fighting ensued. They attacked everyone including the elderly and defenceless children. All that is, except for one man who attempted to stop the rest of his party from doing that unthinkable deed. The Tenakth managed to defeat their attackers and killed all in retribution except for the one who had done his best to hold off the slaughter. His bravery and honour was rewarded. He was captured, though his life was spared, and he was brought to the Tenakth chief for appropriate justice. During the journey the Tenakth warriors spoke among themselves of a trial by combat that would result in acceptance to the tribe. Fashav listened intently, astute enough to know that these warriors were bringing this option to his attention, albeit indirectly.

Chief Hekkaro had been as equally impressed by Fashav's sense of honour and bravery, thus immediately accepting his request to be tried. Unknown to Fashav, however, this trial, known as a Kulrut, was the very trial required to become a Marshal. In large pit, circled with a short palisade Fashav fought against large hounds trained for this purpose. The trial was designed to pitch one warrior against multiple enemies, and using hounds meant that no person was injured except for the one on trial. Fashav had fought bravely while Tenakth cheered into the pit below. He had won his freedom at the cost of becoming a Marshal, but it was a small price to pay for the chance of a new life away from the fearful one he had lived among his ruthless people. After Hekkaro had congratulated him, he had asked him to stay by his side to watch the next combatant. This man was much younger than him but fought with a tenacity that Fashav couldn't help but admire. He was oddly swift for one of such large build. Three hounds were released but the warrior did not flinch. Within seconds he had drawn and loosed his bow, felling the first beast with an arrow between the temples. Dropping the bow, he rolled just in time to escape the claws of both beasts. Before they had time to react, he threw his spear. It hit its mark and the beast howled horribly as it bled out, pinned to the earth by a spear through the belly. The crowd roared with impressed cheers as the warrior circled the final hound. It lunged, but he was quicker and took his axe from his waist as he rolled. The beast turned but the axe was already swinging towards its rump.

"a perfect calculation" Fashav thought. "Aiming for where the beast was going to be, not where it was".

The hound was down. The whole fight lasting mere moments. "I can see why you were chosen. You'll be one to watch out for”.

The chief tuned to Fashav, who was stood straight backed and stern faced behind him. The feeling of awe hidden from his face.

"Come".

Hekkaro motioned Fashav to follow, then entered the pit with both hands raised towards the heavens. He waited for the crowed to silence, then took a hand from each warrior, raising them high. His deep voice boomed so that all could hear.

"Today we have seen two great battles of courage and wit. It was a true honour to watch such tenacity. Learn from what you have watched today!" He paused until the cheers

had once again died down. "The outlander Fashav and Kotallo of the Sky Clan have proven their worth. Behold your new Marshals!"

Another cheer erupted from the crowd. Hekkaro did not wait for it to stop before lowering their arms and speaking softly in his deep voice.

"Come. Let us eat while I tell you of your duty”.

Fashav had been shocked to discover the extent of his marshal duties. He was to be judge, jury, and if times executioner to maintain peace throughout the entire tribe.

That night they settled into the hut designated for new marshals. Fashav lit a fire and Kotallo had explained how the Tenakth were divided into three separate clans lead by clan commanders. Though they had spent many generations at war Hekkaro had fought for unification. After many moons and far more deaths he eventually succeeded and rallied the entire tribe under his leadership.

"He is a wise man" Kotallo spoke with obvious admiration. "His unification of the clans has sprouted good fortune to us. We flourish under his rule and live longer than we ever did. Prior to his leadership I do not think I would have lived to be your age".

Fashav wondered at this. The Tenakth were fierce warriors, true. Men and women fought and trained equally with training starting at a young age. This was different from his tribe. There women were barely treated as human and while both his people and the Tenakth were warriors, only the Tenakth seemed to fight with honour. There must have been a reason beyond territorial disputes for the fighting to have started, though he assumed it had happened so long ago that no one was alive to remember it. He thought for a moment more before asking:

"Tell me of these clans. Hekkaro mentioned you were of the Sky Clan?"

Kotallo nodded.

"Indeed. Mine is....was.. the clan that dwells in the frozen mountains" A pained look crossed his face, and he gave Fashav a sad one-sided smile.

"You say was. May I ask what happened?"

Kotallo was staring into the fire and did not look up as he spoke. "A long story. But to be brief a Marshal is required to put aside the loyalty to his clan to better serve the tribe as a whole. It is.. exile. Disguised as honour." Then he raised his head and smiled at Fashav. "A sad and long tale. I shall tell you of it one day. But not tonight".

Fashav smiled at his companion. "I shall hold you to that. ..Marshal."

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Kotallo looked at his friend with fond recollection. That night so many moons ago they had put aside both of their past lives. They took up the mantle of Marshal with equal determination and resilience. They had served the Hekkaro well enough that chief looked at them as sons (though he would never have told them such) and in the process had become brothers. Now Kotallo looked at this man who had once been an outsider. Who had been looked upon with curiosity and distrust long after joining the tribe. Fashav had earned the right to call himself Tenakth in every conceivable way until the only indication he was not born to the tribe was his paler complexion and hazel eyes.

He turned to see those eyes smiling at him.

"I have a gift for you".

Kotallo was surprised by this.

"A..gift? Why?"

"Because you will like it".

They both chuckled as Fashav opened his satchel. "Here".

He held out his hand to display whelk shell the size of a large fist. The Tenakth came from a land with no seashells. Fashav must have either collected it today or traded for it the last time the Carja had come to the Grove. This was a rare gift.

Kotallo held out a tentative hand and picked up the shell. The look of astonishment on his face was enough to make Fashav grin.

"Why did you...?"

Fashav took the shall back and spoke gently.

"To remind you of the lake you love." "To remind you of me" he thought

Kotallo looked at him with a quizzical brow.

"These shells carry the spirit of the sea with them. It will allow you to hear the shore even when at the Grove. Listen".

He raised the shell to Kotallo's battle beaten ear and smiled at his friend's clear delight.

Kotallo was speechless, but words were not needed. They had never been one for words and yet always perfectly understood each other.

Fashav watched approvingly as Kotallo delicately wrapped the shall and placed it in his satchel. They sat longer in quiet conversation until at last they could barely refrain from closing their eyes. Each unwrapped their bedroll and continued their chatter until they fell into contented sleep below the stars.

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Kotallo woke long before dawn. He wiped the tiredness from his face, then smiled at the still sleeping Fashav.

"Your gift honoured me as your friendship honours me. I shall treasure it always".

He collected his satchel, bow, and quiver, and silently crept through the camp towards the lake. He relished the chance to bathe in the cool, quiet water. Passing into Lakeside territory had meant entering a land far hotter than his homeland. Subsequently he had cropped his deer hide trousers short beneath his belts. He removed these shorts along with foot wraps and performed disciplined stretches in the cool darkness. At the first blueing of the sky, he took his supply of dried soapwort from his satchel and slowly walked into the lake until the refreshingly cool water hugged his waist.

He bathed with care. Dust, tiredness and chalk pigment seeped over his skin into the water below. On a day such as this he knew his appearance must do his tribe proud. He pondered a moment as to whether to drench his dreads, then decided if he rung them enough, there was fair chance they would dry in time. He untied the loop of leather that kept them in place then plunged his head into the water. This was always his favourite time of day to bathe, and favourite way to douse his hair. The feeling of cold water on his face always energised him. The pre-dawn twilight was darting across the water, highlighting luminescent droplets on his chest. Kotallo shivered.

He exited the lake and allowed the gentle breeze to dry his skin while he diligently wrung and tidied his dreads. Once dry he opened his satchel and removed a small leather pouch and a beaker. He used the latter to collect water and used it to moisten the pigment. With great care he coated his skin with the mark of position. The white paint contrasted strikingly against the black tattoos that covered his limbs and torso. Each tattoo marked achievements he had made, and each member of the tribe wore them with pride. The type of animals used to create the bone char varied depending on the type of achievement it praised. Wolf for wisdom or cooperation, buck for agility, bull for strength, lion for ferocity. Bear was for the greatest of feats, while the bones of lesser animals were combined for minor achievements. Kotallo's skin contained the souls of many animals. Of the great beasts only, bear was yet to mark him. Each calf was decorated with the face of a fierce hound. It had been created using the combined bones of the ones he slew to become marshal. From memories of his first hunt to passing his trial to become a warrior of the Ten, and ascension to tribe marshal were among those painted with the most pride, though there once was a time he would have scoffed at the thought of becoming a marshal.

"That was long ago". He thought to himself. "A life and a home since passed".

He left his face until last to ensure his hair was dry enough not to ruin his handiwork. He covered his face and neck in white, which always acted to highlight his scarred upper lip. Then he used the palm of his left hand as a bowl to mix chalk pigment with a little bone char. With the grace of someone accustomed to applying the mask without a visual aid he traced the marks of teeth across his jaw, forehead, and temples. Years ago, he had proven himself among the tribe as the youngest warrior to slay a lion and the mask he chose to wear was to honour that achievement. The tattoo covering the centre of his chest was a great tooth biting down from his head and flanked each side with a zig-zag pattern. This, too, honoured that memory and contained the soul of the lion he slew.

By the time he had packed his satchel the first true light of dawn was breaking.

"Time to catch breakfast"

With notched bow in hand, he stalked across the sand with as much skill and deadly knowledge as that lion.

He found an ideal spot nestled among some reeds which grew beneath a hill adjacent to the one that held the camp. The telltale signs of animal watering were all around him. He crept into the reeds and waited.

It wasn't long until he was rewarded for his efforts. A small doe crept tentatively towards the water. Kotallo smiled. It was just enough meat to give the camp a hearty breakfast and at this distance, with his skill he could not miss.

Still, he waited until the ideal moment. The deer lowered her head and began to drink. Even then he waited until he was certain of a killing blow. He fired. His arrow shot true straight into her heart. With a single whelp the deer was no more. He did not smile. In keeping with his tribe's belief, he saw the taking of any life with the reverence he deserved. He stooped above the body with his head bent low.

"I thank you for your service. May your spirit fly high on the wings of the Ten".

He chose not to field dress the deer. The camp was close enough and he was certain someone who had yet to touch-up their paint would be happy to do it in payment for some rich meat.

Kotallo was right, of course. By the time he returned the camp was stirring. The deer was gladly accepted, butchered, and distributed among the now blazing campfires.

"I hope there will come a day where I see you sleep past sunup" Fashav was walking towards him, smiling.

They clasped forearms happily.

"That would be as likely as you rising before it" Kotallo replied in his 'official' stoic tone. The merriment of the previous night seemingly forgotten.

"True. Still, perhaps if I return to the tribe, we could exchange habits”.

Kotallo made a slight frown. "I would be happy to train you. Perhaps then someone else could do the hunting".

Fashav laughed heartily. "Do remind me who caught those rabbits yesterday".

"A man cannot live off rabbit alone, Fashav as you well know". A hint of a smile lightened his face. "Besides it is not 'if' you return. I am certain it is 'when'. Once the tribes have allied, I am certain the chief will ask for your exchange. That is unless you decide you prefer the life of a fisherman".

Fashav laughed again. "Never fear, brother. There is less chance of that than of my rising earlier than you".

"I shall hold you to that".

The morning was spent preparing for the coming engagement. Some cooked while others bathed and painted their skin. By mid-morning all wore their paint as proudly as any Tenakth could. Kotallo wished their chief were here to witness the sight. It would surely make him beam with pride, as it did himself.

Both Fashav and Kotallo were quiet while they ate. Unspoken words crystal clear in each other's ears.

Fashav stroked the memories of his achievements that were written on his own arm and then spoke.

"I have made a decision."

Kotallo looked up at him, wooden bowl in hand. He had not found himself hungry and was still picking at his doe.

Fashav raised his tattooed arm.

"...I feel that my life, like my markings, is only half complete. This side shows my martial deeds. Before I die, I'd like to see the other half marked with the laurels of peace."

Kotallo knew that Fashav must have spent the night ruminating on how his life had changed since joining the Tenakth. From everything Fashav had told him about his tribe he could understand why someone with Fashav's decency and loyalty would have loathed to be part of their ruthlessness. He gave Fashav a serious look, though his eyes displayed the fondness he felt for his friend. He spoke with a distinct pang of sadness.

"You would honour Hekkaro by doing so. His desire for peace is a noble one. Even if an alliance comes at the cost of your presence".

Fashav returned a sad smile.

"Take it from someone who aspires to be a diplomat. Allies are essential."

"Indeed."

Fashav gave Kotallo a sly smile.

"Besides. It means I don't have to put up with you knapping your blades loudly at the crack of dawn".

"If you were an early riser, it would not be a problem."

They both laughed heartily.

By the time the sun was at its zenith the group could see the Carja party approaching. They gathered their wares and waited by the shore, leaving a few warriors and their healer to guard the camp and their satchels. Fashav observed his companions, eager at the chance of one final memory of them all. As always Kotallo's lively, confident walk was a true manifestation of the powerful warrior he was. Fashav couldn't help but admire his friend. If there ever was a true embodiment of what it meant to be a warrior of the Ten and a marshal to their chief, it was Kotallo. His heart panged at the thought of the loss of his company.

"I will miss you, brother."

The two tribes greeted each other under the scorching heat of the sun. The centre of the lake steamed as they exchanged their goods and pleasantries. All members of both sides had met each other at least once before since both chiefs sent their most trusted and experienced warriors to complete these exchanges. They spoke of people they had known and lost, of the plentiful game to be found in the area, and eventually, to the matter of Fashav. This last matter had begun with levity on the side of the Carja when a horn sounded.

In instant weapons were raised and both tribe looked at each other suspiciously. A cry sounded, but from which side no one knew.

"By the Ancestors! There!"

Everyone turned to look the direction the arm was raised.

On an adjacent hill were warriors from an unknown tribe. Despite the heat they were covered in thick, protective leathers and donned red paint and feathered headdresses. To the horror and astonishment of all below they were on the backs of horses! The like had never been seen by either tribe. All were aware of how fast horses were. Of how they bit and kicked when hunted. Many a hunter returned without a quarry, baring several broken ribs. To tame such a beast? Impossible!

In the centre of the line of horses was a woman, arm raised with long spear pointing towards the heavens. She snarled viciously and cried out as she lowered her spear.

Kotallo gazed upon her incredulously. "It cannot be" He looked towards Fashav, who had also made the recollection. They yelled in unison.

"Regalla!"

Regalla. Previously High Marshal of the Tenakth. A highly competent and fearless warrior who had been exiled by Hekkaro for attempting to raise hostility between the Carja and the Tenakth. Her conniving had almost worked until Hekkaro saw through his fatherly love for her and saw the truth. He could not bring himself to kill her and so exiled her. Exile, however, was seen as more of a dishonour than death.

"Archers, Draw!" Her face was almost neutral as she ordered those with bows to fire down upon her former tribe. Her former friends.

Those below scrambled but there was no cover on this shoreline. No quarter to be found.

"Fire!"

A volley of arrows rained down on that pitiless coast. Many were wounded instantly. Kotallo watched as Shivva, one of the tribe's bravest warriors, young and known for her beauty, was thrown down in the same way he felled the doe that morning. He shivered. He was battle heartened and brave but that did not stop his stomach from rising into his chest. He called a great battle cry in one great display of anger then turned his attention to the woman commanding the enemy. She directed her spear towards those on horseback and signalled them to charge.

There was an eruption of thunderous noise and red dust as hoof after hoof pounded down the hill in a whirlwind of noise and sand. Kotallo could see the horse's mouths, each panting a terrible grimace, while atop them rode fearsome warriors, each wielding spears tipped with large razor-edged flints. He watched as those spears were flung from their spear throwers. Many hit their targets. Screaming sounded all around him. Many of the Carja broke and ran, and several of the riders broke off to follow them. There had been no time to rally and throw their own spears, but Kotallo recognised that their axes and knives would have a hard time piercing that leather. "the tip of a spear, then. We do this with brute force "Standing proud and ready among the carnage was Fashav. He snarled at the coming horses and let out a cry from the depths of his lungs.

"Tenakth! Stand!"

There were precious few still standing but all knew their duty. They would fight and die here among the sand and blood to honour their tribe, their chiefs, and their fighting spirit. Those spirits would be sent soaring into the sky to live among the clouds and shine down with the stars. It would be a good death worthy of title of Marshal of the Tenakth. But by the Ten first they would fight.

Each roared their own cry as the horses crashed among them. The air was thick with the smell of salt, blood, sweat, the musk of horse and the stench of fear. Kotallo saw one horseman charge straight for Fashav. He roared as sprinted towards him and threw him out of the way then threw his spear into the chest of the horse. It reared violently and felled its rider before galloping away in the throes of fear and agony. The rider rose and Fashav fought him spear against axe. Kotallo roared. In his effort to join his friend he failed to see the rider that had approached on his left side.

"Kotallo! Move!"

Fashav screamed at him in warning and Kotallo looked up in time to see Regalla lift her spear, eyes ablaze with disdain and the joy of her kill. She threw her spear and swore when she realised her aim was slightly off. That was unlike her. The spear crashed through his left arm, severing muscle and bone alike. Kotallo's very being erupted in blinding agony. It consumed his very being and he let out a blood curdling scream. Fashav screamed in anger and finished his opponent with an axe to the head. He sprinted towards them, axe raised, and the last thing Kotallo saw was Regalla calmly raise a dagger from her belt and push it to the hilt into her former companion's stomach.

He did not know that Fashav was the last to fall. He heard Regalla's. He heard the hoofs pounding as they rode away in victory, or to chase down what was left of the Carja warriors. He heard the moans of the wounded. His own screams, though he was too delirious to know they erupted from his own chest.

Darkness. Absolute darkness.

An all-consuming pain that flooded him so completely. Blinded him. He knew Fashav was dead, and he sobbed. Sobbed through the pain and anger. Through the sheer loss her felt. Fashav was gone. His soul released into the sky to fly with the Ten, and all that was left was pain.

He heard voices, though he could not rise above his agony to recognise them or what they said.

Those guarding the hill had seen what had happened. Had grabbed their weapons and run towards the fighting, but it had all happened so quickly. The horses were already gone before they reached the shoreline.

Among them there was only one survivor. Though even he was soon to leave this world. The healer would tend his wound, but he would die. Fever or lack of blood would take him. It would have been better for him to die in battle than in this ignoble agony.

"A pity" he thought. "Still, a healer must do what he was placed here to do. Not that he will never thank me for it."

He tied the arm tightly above the shattered bone to stop the blood from pooling further and pulled out the spear. A slight moan left Kotallo in a sigh though he was thankfully not conscious enough to feel the pain that racked him. The healer looked for the most senior ranking survivor and called.

"Commander! Search the packs that are left and light a fire. We will need all the pitch we can spare!"

Chapter Text

Aloy

The hut was invitingly dark and warm. Outside the pre-dawn twilight was casting long dancing shadows across the snow laden ground. The mountains that circled the valley stood mottled in hues of white, blue, and grey. The fire that stood in the centre of the living space had long since turned to cinders, but warmth still percolated the air with hints of pine smoke. It was a comforting, familiar experience.

It was tempting to stay curled beneath the rabbit fur lined bedroll, warm and safe. But there were far too many tasks that needed completing. One day there may be time to rest, but certainly not today.

The young huntress stood apart from most of the Nora tribe in both appearance and personality. Red hair was a rarity, and hers was an auburn that glowed like flame in when hit by sunlight. She kept it long with intricate braids descending from her scalp, falling into loose waves that flowed over the length of her back. Each braid was adorned with beads carved from bone, antler, and wood. The process of reforming such intricate braids was a lengthy one, but one deemed worthwhile for the aesthetic it created. Besides, each braid held their form for at least two days, and braiding them by the evening fire had become a kind of relaxation ritual. The methodical routine of untying, combing, re-plaiting and finally beading each braid in order from left to right becoming form of mediation all its own.

Tired limbs began to motion into drawn out stretches. Delicate, calloused hands wiped the tiredness from eyes the colour of spring leaves ringed with vibrant gold. The youth dressed herself in her usual attire of deer hide leggings and shirt. Durable, flexible, and surprisingly warm for the thickness of material. She donned her beaded moccasins and was ready to face the day.

Eighteen years ago, the name of a yearling had been called to All Mother Mountain, as Nora tradition required. All Mother had called the name back, though it was no matter. The child was an outcast, destined to live a life of silence with only her guardian granted permission to speak to her. No one would remember the name Aloy of the Nora.

Aloy donned her beaded moccasins, exhaled deeply, and was ready to face the day.

“Okay. Time to talk to Rost”.

The door closed on the wooden hut behind her. The roof was covered in a foot of snow and icicles hung from every edge. It was small, but it was the only home that Aloy had ever known, and she was fond of it. A palisade encircled a courtyard that was surrounded by pines and loomed over by the mountains that edged the valley known as the Embrace. To the left were wood stacks and drying racks for skins - joints of meat hung curing above them. To the right were training dummies of various sizes depending on the animal they represented. Directly in front if the hut was the large fireplace used to provide warmth while outside tasks were completed. Flint knapping, arrow fletching, gutting and sewing were all done here throughout the day. It was where Aloy expected to find Rost hard at work, but the tree stump stools lay empty.

“Rost?”

No answer.

“Rost?!”

There was no sign that the man who raised her had been working, and the gate of the palisade was open.

Aloy muttered to herself.

“I wonder where he has gotten to. It’s unlike him not to tell me where he was going, especially since he said we’d go hunting this morning”.

Aloy exited the courtyard. Snow was falling softly as dawn glowed pink across the mountains highlighting the snow topping the pine branches. The only sound was the crunching of Aloy’s feet through the crisp snow and frozen grass. A faint pine scented breeze wafted through her braids, motioning the beads until they clattered together.

“The world’s gone white. The colour of bone.”

She shook her head at the thought.

“Well, that got dark”.

The natural path through the mountains sat adjacent to a gently flowing stream which now flowed as pink as salmon flesh. A small distance later the stream disappeared down a fissure cut into the mountainside.

Aloy had seen this view every day for the eighteen years of her life. It never failed to take her breath away.

The fissure was crossed via a wooden bridge built and maintained by Rost. Aloy stopped on the bridge to gaze upon the valley below. Stony outcrops dotted with beech trees, grasses, and wildflowers. Off-white Silver-Brush contrasted with the scarlet of Wild Ember and yellow of Glaze Root. Aloy made a mental note to restock her herb supplies, then ascended the handholds on the mountainside that she knew lead to a small plateau, and with any luck, to Rost.

She found him gazing out across the valley to the great All Mother Mountain. Rost stood steady as the stone of the mountain. Covered in furs to protect from the cold, and a bow settled across his right shoulder.

Rost turned, beads and dreadlocks swinging. He always did have an instinctual sense for her presence.

“Aloy, you’re here”. He spoke in a soft, deep voice. Rost was a man of few words, and each word spoken echoed with deliberate phrasing.

“We must speak. I fear there is a lesson I failed to teach you. Will you learn it now?”

Aloy noticed sadness in Rost’s eyes. Furrows of concern etched across his forehead, wrinkling some of the blue markings he always wore, a frown semi-hidden by his braided beard. Rost had always been stoic, and these emotions were only noticeable to someone who had spent their life interpreting them.

Aloy agreed to learn any lesson left for Rost to teach, knowing that if Rost had chosen to teach it to her this close to the Proving then it must be important.

“It will be dangerous. Spend the day tending to your weapons and arrows. I shall meet you at the Northern Gate at dusk”.

This confused Aloy greatly.

“The Northern Gate? As in, a gate that leads out of the Embrace. Surely not.”

Rost looked at her with one of his all-knowing gazes.

“I will explain tonight I assure you”.

Aloy knew better than to question the man who raised her, especially when he was in such an obviously contemplative mood. Instead, she asked if there was anything else she could do to help him.

“Go and visit Grata. Her stores of meat have surely run low by now.”

Aloy huffed. “Maybe this time the old woman will even thank me”.

Rost gave her another of his knowing looks. Tired. She thought. He looks tired.

“Grata follows Nora rules loyally, as well you know Aloy. It is not for us to speak to her, or she to us.”

Aloy shook her head, a clear expression of distaste crossing her face. “It may be Nora law Rost, but that doesn’t make it right”.

Both sighed. It was an argument each were extremely familiar with, and one both knew neither would yield to.

“Fine. I’ll go and see if Grata needs anything. I’ll see you tonight”.

Aloy spun to leave, then hesitated and turned back.

“Rost. After the Proving…”

“What happens is clear. You will be accepted by the tribe, and I will remain an outcast” Rost signed. Sadness evident. “To remain…shunned”.

Anger began to well in Aloy’s chest. As it always did when they discussed their life as outcasts of the Nora tribe.

“If I am made a brave, I won’t abandon you. Surely you must know I won’t shun you. I will find a way to…”.

Rost interjected. His voice was just as steady, but he couldn’t look at her face.

“We shall talk about this later, Aloy. For now, see Grata, and prepare for this evening”.

Aloy knew better than to question him further.

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Aloy rappelled down into the fragrant valley below. Snow still darted the landscape, interspersed with a cacophony of sweetly scented herbs and flowers. Rocky trails threaded through meadow and thin woodland. The dawn chorus had just begun their melodious routine and Aloy signed contentedly at the sound of blackbird song. In a few more months every inch of those meadows would erupt with butterflies and would buzz with bees. The young outcast could not have imagined she wouldn’t be there to see it, though she would often smell and heard it in her dreams for years to come.

“The Embrace.” She sighed. “My entire life I’ve never been beyond this valley. That will change after the proving”.

Stony game trails meandered up and down rolling hillocks. Three rabbits had been easy shooting, and by the zenith Aloy reached an outcrop occupied by a small lean-to shelter, a tiny fire, a beech tree adorned with decoration hanging from each branch, and of course, the ever-prayerful Grata.

“All Mother! I am weak and I falter! The season grows lean and white”.

Grata’s low bent, braided head had long since turned white with apparent wisdom. She did not look up from her prayer beads. Her face was, as always, transacted with brown perpendicular lines in honour of the All Mother she adored so ardently. The old woman had wrapped a fur blanket around herself. Evidently age brought a heightened sensitivity to cold.

“Your prayers are answered Grata. The All mother has granted you…. rabbits”.

Despite the years of silence, the staring, the harsh exclamations and stoning she had received as a child Aloy still held out hope that someone would talk to her. I was never going to be Grata. At least not directly.

“Oh Mother, I thank you for the bounty you have provided. I am unworthy of such attention.”

Aloy’s green eyes flashed with indignation.

“I’m right here, Grata. Feel free to thank me anytime.”

Grata rose her hands to the heavens.

“All Mother, forgive the indiscretions of the young! Only with the wisdom of age do we truly come to appreciate all that you do for us!”

Aloy sighed and wiped her face.

“Grata, I know you won’t reply but I must tell you I won’t be here for a while. I’ll be running in the Proving. I’ll come back occasionally to make sure you don’t go hungry.”

Grata never turned from the direction of the mountain.

“Oh, blessed All Mother! Watch over those who face their trails bravely and with honour. Let them find the answers they seek!”

Aloy took it for what it was. Well-wishing disguised as prayer.

“Thanks Grata. I’ll see you soon.”

As Aloy descended the hill she pondered how best to fill her time until her rendezvous with Rost. Her equipment and weapons were well tended, as Rost was fully aware of. She strolled through the cool, boreal landscape, heading west. Large painted milestones stood at junctions, pointing in the direction of important settlements. Aloy paid them no mind. They weren’t for her to follow. She crossed occasional bridges and passed isolated huts along the way. The few people she came across purposely avoided her gaze, but she was used to that. The stares and the silence. She didn’t mind the isolation. Aloy often thought the conversations she had with herself were far more riveting than the mindless prattle she overheard among the Nora. No journey she walked was ever completed absentmindedly or in complete silence. Her mind was far too active for that. Always thinking, always assessing. Even her tracking skills had become augmented. Aloy could vividly imagine the animals or people walking along the trails she tracked, like phantom projections of spirits showing her how to find them.

Aloy reached a hut surrounded by a wooden palisade. Within the grounds lay goods and wares tended by a tall middle-aged man. Aloy smiled.

“Hello Karst”.

The man swung round. A topknot of dreadlocks flailing as he did so. A frown dug deep furrows across his clay painted forehead.

“Hush, Aloy! Someone will hear you!”

Aloy rolled her eyes”. “Who will? She pointed towards the brook that gently bubbled opposite the trader’s hut. “The fish maybe? Pretty sure they don’t have good hearing, Karst”.

“Yes, well, you never know who could be listening. I could get in a lot of trouble trading with you, as you well know Outcast.”

Even from Karst the name stung. As always, however, Aloy used it to feed her wit.

“You say that like you’ll stop trading with us outcasts. We both know you make too much of a profit for that to happen”.

The merchant sighed and relented as Aloy knew he would. This routine was over two winters old. The fire-haired huntress traded some beads and pendants she had whittled for some dried travel supplies. Aloy knew It was an unfair trade. Far too many pendants for far too little pemican¹, but she knew the combination of dried meat, fat and berries was an essential addition to any well stocked travel pack, and Aloy perpetually prepared to spend days on end on remote hunting trails.

Once the transaction had been made both parted ways, and the young outcast continued her journey until she came across the milestone that pointed towards Mother’s Cradle. Aloy stood for some time, gazing sullenly at the small hill that overlooked the trail. The hill itself had remained unchanged for twelve years. Still covered in herbs and short grasses, still an indifferent monument to the moment that drove her to prove her worth in the trials that still lay ahead. Aloy clasped the triangular shape that hung around her neck and remembered.

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It had been a hot summer’s day when, at the age of six Aloy learned what it truly meant to be an outcast. She knew she was motherless. Knew that the man who raised her was not her real father. Knew that people were not permitted to speak to them. What she didn’t know was why, or the cruel extent that full members of the tribe would go to, to remind her of her lack of worth.

Even at such a young age Aloy valued her independence and Rost had already trained her well enough to know she would be safe to explore the valley while he took care of whatever business he needed. Aloy had spent the day wandering meadow and woodland, testing herself on the botanical knowledge Rost had so far taught her including the toxicity or medicinal and culinary properties of each plant. Not long past the sun’s zenith her stomach began to grumble, and so she found herself walking along the trail that led to Mother’s Cradle which also happened to be the quickest route home from the meadows.

Without warning a sharp piece of flint struck Aloy in the centre of her forehead, cutting a small but deep gouge. Blood began to trickle down her nose, but the piercing pain that shot behind her eyes stung less than the laughter that followed. Looking up to the source of the impact Aloy found three children of similar age to her sat atop a small hill. Each looked down on her. While two sat silently watching, the boy positioned in the centre of the trio laughed with a malicious glee that haunted her mind for years. At first it fuelled her waking moments. Years later it would return to her during times of stressful sleep, when doubts crept to the forefront of her mind.

The boy called down to Aloy with a voice of sheer condescension and distaste.

“Hey! Outcast! Where’s your mother, eh?”

The child to his right, a girl with straight black hair, began pulling the boy’s arm to signal it was time to leave, but he shook her off.

“I hear she ran off as soon as she saw your cursed face!” He picked up another stone. “This should teach you to stay away from our settlements!”

The boy threw another stone, and then another. Aloy sheltered her face with her hands and began to run away from the onslaught. As she did so she heard a girl’s voice.

“Enough Bast. She can’t help being cursed”.

Aloy turned as she ran. The girl had continued her tugging of the boy’s… Bast’s arm.

Bast. She would remember that name. It was burned into her memory. It would fester there and scar like her wounded forehead.

Aloy continued to run. She ran past her home, past woodland, and rambling streams until at last she found herself within an unfamiliar meadow darted with boulders. In her agitated state Aloy didn’t notice how the ground underfoot had changed in feel until it was too late. It gave way. She tumbled downward. A tangled mess of tiny body, leathers, furs and auburn hair. By some miracle she avoided serious injury. The sink hole opened into a large deeply flooded cavern. The water cushioned her impact and gave her just enough time to alter her course to avoid hitting jagged rocks or being pierced by stalagmites.

As Aloy surfaced she inhaled deeply, arching her body and throwing back her head to take in as much air as possible. As she took in her surroundings Aloy found herself drawn to an opening on the far side of the cavern. Other children would have feared not being found deep below the ground where the darker spirits dwelled but not Aloy. She wasn’t even convinced such spirits existed. Besides, as Bast and the girl had pointed out she was cursed anyway, so she might as well explore.

Aloy swam towards the cave entrance. As she passed through the water became increasingly shallow until soon she was able to walk with barely a puddle underfoot. Aloy paused to allow her eyes to adjust to the increasing darkness. At some point a large family of bats flew past her in a cacophony of squeaks and flapping wings, though there was no telling how long had passed or how deep she was within the tunnel.

Eventually the tunnel opened into a cavern lit by a fissure that ran the length of the ceiling. Soft rays of sun shone down into the depths, reflecting off glinting stalactites and stalagmites. Luminescent fungi dotted the walls and each ray of sunlight glinted with dust. In the centre lay a long-forgotten skeleton, arm upstretched towards the source of light as if longing to feel the warmth of its embrace. Moss clung to bone and a perimeter of flowers had taken advantage of the light that penetrated through to the ground. In that moment Aloy thought she had never seen anything so strikingly beautiful in her short life. With some trepidation she approached the skeleton. She was reverent in her actions, kneeling beside the ancient bones to pay her respects. It was there she saw it. A triangle carved in ivory², with a central line cut as a deep groove. It had clearly been worn as a pendant and Aloy assumed it must have belonged to the poor soul that had perished here so many winters before. She took the pendent in her hand and rose. It was only then that her gaze fell upon the walls of the cavern. It was bowl-shaped. A great underworld cauldron³, and all around her were depictions of great beasts in hues of browns, reds and yellows. White handprints stood out against black spheres. Horses galloped across one wall onto another as depictions of hunters threw their spears at.. what were they? Aloy had never seen such creatures. Like deer, but with antlers larger and more elaborate than she had ever seen⁴. A long time passed where green eyes that shone with golden rings under fissures of sunlight darted from one wall to another in dazed reverence. They sought wisdom of ancestors long forgotten and relished in the tiniest detail. Eventually, however Aloy’s long forgotten hunger returned with a pang, and it led her to seek a way out of the Cauldron. Gazing again at the walls of the cave, though now with a clear purpose in mind, she soon focussed enough to visualise the route she had to take. Aloy took one more glance at the skeleton that lay pointing towards her escape, and gave it a silent thanks. She stared at the pendant in her hand and claimed it as the source of her focus. An ancestral relic that would drive Aloy forward and help her centre her mind when needed. In that moment Aloy promised herself that whenever she felt alone, she would clasp her Focus and know the Ancestors were with her.

Aloy ascended the Cauldron with the ease of a child already well practiced at climbing rock and existed into the blinding light of the upperworld. The journey through the tunnel had taken her a long-distance underground, and it took a moment to formulate her bearings. Aloy had apparently travelled back towards her hut and had exited close to the river. It was there, among the gentle flow of water and rustle of breeze through the reeds that she heard a scream.

It was the scream of a fellow child, that much she knew. The small huntress turned her head towards the source of the sound. Aloy clutched the Focus she had placed in her pocket and concentrated. Small, barely visible footprints ran through crushed grasses and snapped flower stems. Aloy’s mind’s eye visualised a child running towards a solitary tree. Running behind, were the clear signs of a wolf.

Somehow Aloy had reached the tree, though all she recalled was skidding into the tall red grass, stilling her mind, and calming her breath. She did not remember throwing the distracting rock or notching her training bow. She did not recall how, by some All Mother – no – Ancestor given miracle the arrow had struck with enough force to result in the beast to yap a cry of pain and fear before skulking away. She did remember a tall, lanky boy, slightly older than her jumping from the tree with a thump. With a look of utter shock, joy and even awe on his face the boy began to walk forwards. He tried to speak, but the voice that carried was a man’s thick with anger.

“Get away from the Outcast!”

The boy looked past Aloy, fear flashing in his eyes.

“Father! This girl saved me! She…”

His reply was cut short. The boy’s father rushed past Aloy and loomed over her in front of his son. His anger was clear across his stern face as he turned.

“You dare to answer back, Boy? To question me?”

The child bowed his head. His voice was meek.

“…no father”

Aloy flashed with anger. Had this Nora not seen? She had rescued his son! Had faced a wolf and won! How could his anger be directed towards her? She opened her mouth to argue the point, but the Nora had already turned and, upon seeing her attempt to speak, raised his hand to strike her. Aloy cowered.

“Aloy!”

The voice that boomed behind her was familiar. It was Rost.

The hand that loomed overhead faltered. The hunter turned and commanded the boy to follow, though not before the child had given one quick look of apologetic sympathy.

Aloy remained still as Rost’s footsteps approached. She expected anger. A disappointed frown and a few carefully chosen words that would chill her to the core as they often did when Rost was displeased with his ward.

Instead Rost knelt beside her. Gently tried to wipe away the dried blood that had encrusted her forehead and nose. He picked her up in his strong, steady arms and carried her home.

They had remained in silence for the journey and a considerable time after. Rost prepared a meal, though Aloy’s lay sat untouched beside her.

Eventually Aloy spoke. She talked about the boy, Bast, of the girl that led him away, of being called cursed and motherless, of the Cauldron and of the wolf. She unclasped her hand to display her Focus and described how she could almost see the route out of the cavern and to the tree by the riverbank.

Rost was silent throughout. When Aloy had finished she looked at him imploringly. Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“Rost, why was I cursed? Why did my mother not want me?”

Rost took her tiny hand in his. The sun had long since set, and the fire shone ripples across his face.

“Aloy” he spoke softly. “Your mother chose a path separate from that of motherhood. For the Nora mother to disown their offspring is to curse that child. It is a sign among our people that the child will grow up…tainted. Evil.”

Aloy inhaled a small gasp, lowering her head. “oh. I.. I’m sorry Rost. I don’t mean to be bad”.

A large, callused finger pressed Aloy’s chin to raise her eyes to his. A rare, barely-there smile crossed his lips and Rost’s eyes were full of tenderness.

“Aloy, I do not believe you are evil, and neither does Matriarch Teersa. She believes a child should not be punished for the sins of their mother. Sadly, her sentiment was not shared among the other matriarchs or most of the tribe. Our tribe has many good, noble traditions and has bred good, noble people, but we follow the ways of the All Mother. For that reason, children abandoned by their mothers are cast out.”

Aloy closed her eyes, pushing silent tears down her cheeks.

Rost continued. “It is the one law I could not and will not follow.” He signed softly. He could not tell her why. That was for him alone to bare. “Aloy, should you want it, there is a way for you to discard the name of Outcast. To become a Nora brave”.

Aloy looked up then, eyes bright with questions. Rost raised a hand to stop them.

“Make no mistake Aloy, the trial ahead will be difficult. It will require years of hard training. Only the most focussed pass the trial offered in their eighteenth year. They must prove their worth to secure their position as a brave for the tribe. It is why it is called The Proving.”

Aloy looked down at the pendant in her hand and felt the weight of it. Somehow it felt heavier in this moment. She spoke without moving her gaze.

“I will be focussed Rost. I will become a brave. I will win the Proving.”

If only Aloy knew then what that decision would cost her.

Aloy took her hand away from the Focus at her neck and shook the memories from her mind.

“The sun’s in the west. Better get moving”.

With that Aloy turned and headed towards the northern gate of the Embrace.

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Aloy contemplated hunting something for her evening meal while on route but if the past eighteen years had taught her anything about her guardian it was that he was always prepared. Besides, on the off chance something wasn’t already roasting beside the campfire they could always heat part of her newly traded rations.

The campfire drew near as the first signs of dusk highlighted the western horizon. The slight breeze wafted the delicious scent of roasting meat and herbs. Aloy smiled. Aloy’s heart was filled with tenderness for her adoptive father who sat silently turning a spit that pierced a small boar. Of course he had provided enough food for the braves that guarded the gate. They may never thank him for it, but that would never stop him from doing a kind deed. Aloy stopped just short of the fire, committing to memory the way the fire darted across Rost’s face. It was not yet twilight, but he was already sat in shadow. The scent of herb crusted boar combined with wood smoke, binding it into a smell of familiar comfort. A sad smile crossed her lips as Rost rose his head to face her. She was going to miss this. Miss him terribly.

Aloy broke their silence.

“I had a nice talk with Grata today”.

Rost’s eyes rolled, but he couldn’t help the minute smile that formed for the length of a heartbeat.

“I am certain she was grateful for your assistance. As am I Aloy.”

Aloy huffed. “Well, she certainly thanked All Mother”.

Rost gave his ward a knowing look. This was a conversation they were both well versed in.

“It was All Mother working through you to bring Grata much needed supplies”.

It was the tern of Aloy’s eyes to roll.

“You always say that, but I was there , and I hunted alone ”.

Rost’s voice was soft, as if the huntress that stood before him was six again.

“And you always say that, and therefore make yourself alone”.

Aloy sighed and sat beside her guardian, who began slicing cuts of meat for each of them. They ate in awkward silence.

The silence carried into the onset of darkness, both keping their head bowed, deep in thought. At last, Aloy spoke softly.

“Are you worrying about what happens after the Proving?”

Rost’s head rose. Firelight shone in tired eyes.

“We will talk about this later”.

Aloy didn’t speak. She simply gazed into those eyes, longing for any answer other than the one she knew he would speak. When it did not come, she considered her next words.

“I have it all thought out, Rost. If I come to see you then I will be the one breaking the rules. You never have to talk to me. I’ll talk to you. Bring you supplies like we do Grata”.

Rost breathed out an exhausted sigh.

“You will be a brave, and I will remain an outcast. You will have the tribe to think about”.

Aloy clasped her Focus as her eyes flashed in anger.

“The tribe? The one that shunned me, you mean. I don’t need them!”

Rost closed his eyes in resignation and quietly agreed.

“That is true. Let us speak of this no further Aloy”.

Another awkward silence fell around them. Again, it was Aloy who broke it. She and Rost would often happily sit in contemplative silence for hours but tonight it seemed like an unbearable weight pressing against her chest.

“I saw Karst today”.

“That man breaks tribal law every time he trades with you”.

“And I’m glad he does”. Aloy had risen her voice slightly. “Otherwise, we’d never be able to trade for goods and you know how long it takes to prepare pemican.” Aloy slumped and tilted her head to the ground. “Besides, it was you who taught me to prepare for any eventuality, and it might come in handy for or after the Proving”.

A steady hand pressed on Aloy’s shoulder. She hadn’t heard him rise or approach her, though that wasn’t surprising. He was the best hunter in the Sacred Lands.

“Rest, Aloy. Sleep for a while. I shall wake you when the time is ready”.

Surprisingly, sleep came. When Rost woke her, the moon was high in the sky and the boar had long since been collected.

They gathered their gear and walked in silence towards the towering palisade and ominous gate separating the Embrace from the rest of the Nora Sacred Lands.

“Opening the gate for an outcast?” Aloy didn’t try to hide the shock in her voice.

“Some who are outcast reaped honour before they were shunned”.

Aloy had always assumed Rost had been a respected member of the tribe before his shunning, why else would high matriarch Teersa trust him? But she was unsure how to react to such a casual confirmation. In the end she thought it best not to mention it at all.

“So much for tribal law”

“I spoke to no one. And now we must stay silent. We are hunting tonight”.

Rost guided Aloy along a well-used trail that was abutted on either side by tall, red grass. The pale light of the full moon illuminated the flora and brought an eery calm to the blackened meadows and snow-capped peaks of the blue-grey mountains. Fireflies danced through the crowded stems of the grass, their bioluminescence never failing to amaze Aloy. The sweet smell of mountain thyme filled her nostrils. The silence was deafening, heightening each sense and instinct, though neither reacted to the howls of foxes or hoots of owls. Both were far too accustomed to those for the affect to be unsettling. Eventually the duo reached an outcrop overlooking what Aloy realised was a recently abandoned settlement.

The hunter crouched behind a boulder and silently signalled for his ward to do the same. Time passed, though Aloy could not have said how long when an elongated growl erupted from one of the abandoned huts and sent a shiver down her spine. She dared not move as she witnessed a large beast with fur the colour of ochre skulk from the open doorway. It’s paws alone were massive, with a ring of thick fur around its neck. The large body was sleek and muscular and obviously extremely powerful.

“Wh…” Aloy hesitated, then swallowed down the bile that rose to the back of her throat. “What is it”?

Rost was steadfast as ever. He whispered back as if explaining the most mundane information.

“A lion. A solitary male the like of which has not been seen in the Sacred Lands for many decades. He’s killed three braves already”.

Aloy understood immediately.

“This beast will be my kill”.

“Or your death, if you’re not careful”.

She knew Rost would not help her. Not tonight. This was his final lesson and she meant to learn it well and pass his final test before the Proving.

The lion was prowling through the village, evidently looking for an easy meal. Moonlight shone down, turning the macabre evidence of hurried escape into a serene landscape. It could have been any other settlement. The lion yawned lazily. Aloy observed her prey until she was confident in her ability to target its weaknesses. A callused hand clutched her Focus, and she breathed deep, calming breaths to steady her heartbeat.

Aloy closed her eyes for a heartbeat, and when she opened them, hand moving towards her quiver, she focussed on four vulnerable areas, visualised blood red in her mind’s eye.

The arrow was notched. The large, leaf shaped point⁵ had been knapped from razor sharp obsidian and the ridge wood shaft had been fletched with goose feathers. This was not a shot to be attempted by any but the best hunters. Wounded beasts were always the most dangerous; but Aloy knew the force from her yew and sinew sharpshot bow would easily propel the point with deadly accuracy at this distance. The apparent brute strength of the lion alone would have sent most hunters second guessing, let alone the knowledge that this beast had already bested three braves and sent a whole settlement running for better shelter. But Aloy was not the average huntress. She had been trained by the best archer in the Embrace, and Rost had no qualms when it came to admitting the pupil had long since surpassed the teacher.

An overconfident archer would have tried for a headshot. Tried and failed. The wind was slight but was enough to drive an arrow just enough to miss its target at this range. An underconfident archer would have aimed for the abdomen. It provided a larger target, but often resulted in a wound rather than a kill shot, and with a beast this powerful that could easily become a deadly mistake. That left two options. One was to sever the spine, but that required a clear shot from above and the lion simply refused to come close enough to the overlook for that to be a certainty.

Aloy waited for the lion to position itself into the opportune angle, then a fraction longer to ensure the lion was not moving. She aimed, pulling back the sinew and raising the bow until her right hand rested against her cheek. The aim was adjusted slightly higher and further to the left to account for the breeze and distance. One deep breath in. A deeper breath out. Then the arrow was loosed. It hit true, piercing deep in the gap between the spine and scapula, rupturing windpipe and lung tissue until finally wedging itself deep into the chest of the dying animal.

Adrenaline expectedly pushed it forward, and caution had driven Aloy to already have notched a secondary arrow, but a tortured gargle escaped the failing brute’s mouth along with spurts of blood as legs crumpled. A final flail as the lion’s spirit left it, and then silence.

Aloy had jumped down from her position and was by the lion’s side for his final attempt at a breath. Instinct told her Rost was already by her side. Both knelt to honour the animal’s spirit, sending him to All Mother Mountain in honour. Aloy watched in silence as her guardian reverently extended his arm and drew three fingers across the lion’s mouth. Turning to the young huntress he pressed the fingers to her forehead and drew down into her right brow. Aloy stood perfectly still as he curved the central line round her eye and down her cheek. Finally, he drew a horizontal line below her left eye. Aloy had seen that marking every day of her young life. They were his markings. She took in an involuntary gasp.

“No matter what happens at the Proving Aloy, you proved yourself today. You have the soul of a brave and I will always view you as such.” He placed a strong hand on Aloy’s shoulder. She shuddered at the rare touch. “Always remember that the strength to stand is the strength to serve a greater purpose than yourself.”

Aloy choked back her deeply felt emotions. Rost had taught her that survival required perfection, and that meant not allowing emotions to dominate while in the wilds. There where so many words she wished so say. Words of love and thanks that had gone too long unspoken but now was not the time. Instead, she spoke what she assumed the man would want to hear along with an addition all her own.

“I understand the lesson, Rost”. Her face turned hard with promise. “But if I stand, it will be for something I believe in”.

Rost smiled.

“I would expect no less from you. I am certain that when you stand, it will be with your entire soul. Do not lose yourself to it.” He patted the huntress on the back.

“Come. You must rest before you leave tomorrow”.

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The world was spinning. Sharp stones fell like thick snow as Aloy tried in vain to protect her head and face from the onslaught. Curling up on the grass she tucked her knees below her chin and used her arms to cover her head. The blows were coming hard and fast, and each one felt like a hot arrow piercing her. There was laughter. So much malicious laughter. A chorus of jeers and cries of “Outcast” and “Motherless”. The ground gave out beneath her crumpled body and suddenly Aloy was falling. Falling fast into the underworld to live alone where the cursed belonged. There would be no escape this time. White light blinded her eyes and then she was stood still, gazing at the rays of sun that illuminated the Ancestor’s skeletal, outstretched hand. Aloy bent down and claimed her focus, but the world went dark, and she was spinning again. Shaking. In the dark she heard his voice.

“Aloy”

Her heart calmed from the sound. He had her. He would always have her.

“Aloy!”

The shaking increased and Aloy opened her eyes. Rost was clasping her shoulder, a look of worry covering her face. Aloy shot upright, pinching the bridge of her nose, and closing her eyes to will the images out of her mind. She looked up at her guardian’s face and gave him a reassuring smile.

“I’m ok.” She let out a deep sigh. “Breakfast?”

Aloy didn’t want to think about how the Nora would react to her nightmares, or who would stir her from them after today.

“Just focus on winning the Proving” she thought. “Anything else must come after”.

Dawn had long since passed before Aloy had risen, which was unsurprising given how late they returned from their hunt. Before turning back towards the Embrace Aloy had hammered at the jaw and claimed two canines as her prize. One for herself, the other as a memento for Rost. She sat cross legged, knotting each onto their own length of cord as the older hunter cooked breakfast. It was a simple dish of smoked trout, rehydrated berries, and roots that were roasted among the fire’s embers. Herb infusion accompanied the meal eaten in comfortable silence.

Later, after packing her few possessions into her boar skin sack Aloy gifted Rost his pendant. Though a man of few words and stoic demeanour, Aloy understood the thanks in her guardian’s eyes. She had long since learned to read the minute expressions and feel if not hear the words left unspoken. His words were scarce, but rarely lacked meaning. He nodded his head in thanks as he took the canine from her grasp.

“I shall treasure it always”.

“As I your lessons”.

Rost interjected her before Aloy could say all that was on her mind, particularly about what would happen after the Proving.

“Come. We must make our way to Mother’s Heart”.

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If there was one thing more oppressive than the looming palisades and imposing watchtowers it was the clamorous noise that emanated from behind them.

“It’s so…loud!”

Aloy had to raise her voice to speak, despite standing some distance from the gate to Mother’s Heart, over a bridge that crossed a fissure in the natural platform that raised the settlement significantly above the rest of The Embrace.

“You have never been so close before. Especially during a celebration. You will become accustomed in time”.

A flash of sadness cross Rost’s face as he halted at the bridge.

“Aloy. We must speak”.

Aloy turned, beaded braids clanking as she did so. A frown crossed her brows the instant she saw Rost’s face.

“There are many things that you will become accustomed to, Aloy. The complexities of Nora life, the sights and sounds of larger settlements, the…. joys of companionship.” Aloy tried to interject but Rost rose a hand to stop her.

“When you enter, seek out High Matriarch Teersa. She will guide you. Remember that all are free to join the trials in their eighteenth year, regardless of their status in or… out of the tribe.”

The furrows across Aloy’s brow grew deeper, but she remained still and quiet. Slowly Rost raised his hands and took a loop of cord from about his neck. Attached was the pendant he had worn her entire life. As he motioned towards her Aloy took in a sharp breath. Rost extended his arms and positioned the pendant over Aloy’s head. The leather strap mingled with those of her lion’s tooth and her Focus. Aloy knew instantly what it meant.

“You’re saying goodbye, aren’t you”.

“My wish is for you to fully integrate into the tribe, Aloy. You have lived in isolation long enough”.

Aloy choked down bile, then spoke softly.

“Not until now I didn’t”.

Rost gave her a sad smile, then took her shoulder with his hand. It was as close to an embrace as he would allow.

“There is more to life and to true companionship than you realise, Aloy. You have always been independent so will not believe me now, but there will come a time when you will burn to spend every moment with another, and they for you. I will not jeopardise the chance of your future happiness. If I stay you will find me, and thus remain apart from the others.”

Aloy closed her eyes and allowed the few hot tears to fall down her face. When at last she opened them her chartreuse irises were ringed with pink. They burned fiercely as he looked into the eyes of her adoptive father. All at once she understood that he did this not to hurt her, but for the love he showed in so many little ways, but never once spoke of. Rost. The man who was entrusted with her care, had raised her. Had loved her in his own way, had listened to the tears of a six-year-old girl. Had dried her tears and promised her a way to find a home among the people that shunned her. He had trained her hard every day since that moment, had been relentless in his desire for perfection. If Aloy backed down now, if she chose to stay by his side in his isolation, it would be a slap in the face of every moment, every sacrifice they had both made to lead her to this point. She could not do that to him, though it didn’t mean she couldn’t track him later. He had taught her far too well not to leave some mark her focussed mind’s eye could envision. So, she would let him go and find him later. She spoke reassuringly. Emphasising all the emotion she felt for the man who had become her father.

“I understand Rost. I thank you for all you have done for me and hope you find peace.”

He placed a hand on both shoulders.

“May All Mother bless you, Aloy”. He turned and slowly walked away.

She let him. Watched him fade into the landscape of the Embrace. When she returned to the hut, she knew it would be as a brave as surely as she knew he would be gone. But no matter. She would find him.

Aloy trudged solemnly across the bridge towards the guarded gate and was dismayed to find that the guards refused her entry. Anger was rising, and she was just deciding if it were better to try negotiation first, or simply swipe their legs in one fluid movement of her spear when the gate opened. An old woman with long grey dreadlocks strolled through with the wisdom of her years projected into the confidence of her gait. The dreadlocks fell loosely over a cacophony of beads of various sizes, and on her head had a headdress lined with rabbit fur and topped with something akin to downturned antlers carved with wood and intricately engraved. The mark of a high matriarch. Teersa.

“Do forgive the ignorance of these men, Aloy. I assure you not every Nora is as absent minded as to forget their own laws”.

Teersa stared at the two guards whose heads were bowed. Though whether out of respect for Teersa, or due to their own shame at being caught breaking the laws they were meant to uphold, Aloy could not guess.

Teersa turned to Aloy and ushered her through the palisade gate with some enthusiastic waves of her hand.

“Come, come! I have been waiting a long time for this, child. You are welcome here!”

Teersa spoke with such conviction and with particular emphasis on being welcome that Aloy could almost believe she would be welcome by all at Mother’s Heart. Almost.

The sound inside the walls was deafening. A cacophony of drums, voices, instruments, singing, all mingled with the day-to-day sounds of life. Mundanity clashing with celebration.

The settlement was a truly awesome sight. There were more log huts than Aloy had ever seen at one time. Well worn paths all led to a clearing in the centre of the village where a stage had been erected. Long benches stretched adjacent to the stage, and a multitude of people ate, drank, and talked as they watched the intricate dance display. Each dancer sang as part of a call and response, and Aloy stood transfixed until the dance was complete. She had completely forgotten that Teersa was standing beside her. The alderwoman smiled joyfully at the flame haired huntress.

“Forgive me, Aloy. There is much I must do before the main event at twilight. You will find me there when we begin” The matriarch pointed a bony finger towards a bridge that led to another large clearing. “But for now there is someone who wishes to see you!”

Aloy was stunned. As far as she knew, there was no one who knew of her within the confines of Mother’s Heart besides the woman beside her, let alone anyone that may be pleased to greet her. Aloy’s shock must have been written plainly across her face, for Teersa gave her directions along a trail towards what the old woman called the Trader’s Sector. Aloy found herself ambling down a path lined either side with huts, each surrounded and adorned with wares. The ever-present drums were dampened here, though their rhythm never completely disappeared. The young outcast had never seen so many different goods! Hides, tools, carved ornaments made from bone, wood and antler, and the most intricate clothing. Aloy could not imagine how much she would have to trade to have any of these wares. The delicate combs alone must be worth her entire collection of beads. She began to wonder if Teersa had sent her here to mock her, but the matriarch seemed sincere, and memories of Rost’s respect for her kept the darkest thoughts from Aloy’s mind. To her shock, as she stepped towards the end of the path Aloy heard her name.

“Aloy! It is you, isn’t it? I remembered your name correctly?”

Aloy stood dumbfounded. Before her stood a lanky youth, perhaps a few years older than her. He wore a well fitted leather vest and hide trousers. The stitching on the vest was incredibly intricate and painted bone facings had been sown into the lengths of each side and around the neck. The sides of his head were shaven, though the rest was dreadlocked in Nora fashion. His left eye was circled with an ornate display of umber. He looked precisely like the type of man Aloy thought would always shun her and yet he knew her name and spoke kindly.

“I’m sorry, do…do I know you?”

The man chuckled.

“I admit, it has been a few years since you saw me last”.

Aloy frowned in thought.

“Forgive me. When did we?”

Another light chuckle. There was no malice or annoyance present in it or the young man’s hazel eyes.

“Allow me to explain. Many years ago, a brave girl rescued me from the clutches of a wolf. I was unable to say my thanks then, to my shame. I would like to do so now.”

Recognition flashed across Aloy’s face as memories of that day resurfaced.

“You’re the boy from the riverbank? The one that hid in the tree?”

He smiled at her.

“Indeed. As you can see, I never did make it as a hunter. I earn my keep as a stitcher. It’s why I asked Teersa to direct you here. I have something for you”.

Aloy was truly shocked by this.

“For…me?”

The stitcher collected a bundle tied with cord from behind a workbench and presented it to Aloy.

“Here”.

Aloy’s eyes grew wide as she untied the loop of leather. She had never seen such clothes! It didn’t end with the cropped hide top and skirts, but included bracers and fur lined greaves. There was no way that Aloy could ever afford to trade for such items.

“These are.” Words failed her. “…what are you trading for them?”

The light chuckle turned into a full mirthful grin.

“Nothing Aloy! They are yours! Consider it the thanks I tried to give you years ago”.

Aloy expressed her sincerest thanks. It was only then she realised she didn’t even know the kind stitcher’s name.

“Teb. I hope they fit well. I designed them to fit over the type of gear I know... err. Forgive me but outlanders wear this time of year. It will offer extra protection while remaining light”.

Aloy found to her delight that they fitted perfectly. Firm bracers to protect her arms from the brunt of the force exuded by her bow’s sinew, fur greaves to warm her shins and protect her leggings from the worst of the mud and melting snow. Pocketed hide skirts, and a cropped top made of hide which would provide additional warmth. To say that Aloy was stunned would be a supreme understatement. She feared her lack of social experience would hinder her attempt at appropriate thanks, but she need not have. Her appreciation was etched across her face in a way that spoke louder than words ever could, and Teb was grateful that he could finally express the thanks his father had prevented twelve years prior. They parted with promise of further conversation after the proving, and with dusk darkening the sky Aloy set off for the clearing Teersa had directed her to.

By this time fires glowed all around the settlement. Firepits and torches illuminated the way across the bridge that to Aloy’s surprise crossed the same fissure she had seen from outside the settlement. It had been cut by a small waterfall that flowed under the bridge and into the bubbling stream within the fissure that trickled down into the valley below.

There was certainly a noticeable difference in the tone emanating from Mother’s Heart in the absence of Teersa. While the drums, song and cheer remained the same, undercurrents of whispered “outcast”, “motherless” and “why is she here?” permeated through. Aloy assumed those thoughts had remained unspoken out of respect for the matriarch’s presence. The words did not bother her. Instead, they fuelled her determination to win. Aloy would make them regret their words in the best way she knew how. Through action at the opportune moment. After all, wasn’t one of Rost’s first lessons when to strike?

Rost. Aloy wished he was here with her. To take in the sights and sounds of his beloved Mother’s Heart not seen since…he’d never actually told her when or why he had been exiled but her life was testimony to the fact it had been at least seventeen winters.

Aloy stood on the bridge for some time, resting her elbows on its railing and clasping her hands together. She stood so deep in thought the waterfall faded into memories of her childhood. Celebratory sounds and derogatory whispers mingling with the lessons of her father. He was her father, she thought at last. The only family she knew, and the only person that truly mattered. She cared not whether he had sired her. He had raised her and that was enough. Aloy determined that the first words spoken from her lips upon finding Rost again would be to tell him. To call him father for the first time.

Aloy crossed the threshold just as twilight began. Numerous Nora stood, hands aloft, chanting prayers to their goddess. On a platform stood Teersa, illuminated by torches, below her kneeled approximately a dozen people Aloy’s age. A lantern stood by each. These, Aloy thought, must be the aspirants to the trial. Aloy stood, confused as to where to kneel, or even what to do once she had, but Teersa whispered to her to kneel beside the lantern that had no one beside it.

“That prayer lantern is yours. I made it for you”.

Aloy bowed her head in thanks and walked towards the lantern. Along the way she overheard gasps and whispers of “Blasphemy” that seemed to come from a blond headed male.

Upon reaching the lantern Aloy was taken aback at the intricacy of the design. A framework of ribs surrounded a tiny clay bowl filled with rendered tallow which fuelled the small red flame. Thin leather straps tied large, thin strips of silver birch bark to the frame⁶. Each had been pierced by tooth and jaw to allow for light to escape through intricate designs. Aloy remembered how Rost had once told her about prayer lamps, and how each design was pierced into bark that had been stripped from birch trees and separated into thin layers. She remembered attempting it the next time she came across a birch tree. It had worked, to some extent, but Aloy never could have believed that anything so elaborate as these designs could be made by pressing teeth into bark. They were astoundingly beautiful, and Aloy noticed with a pride that surprised her, that the light emanating from hers did so from the most complex of any of the designs. Teersa must have spent decades honing her craft, and Aloy couldn’t quite believe the matriarch had used such talents to craft a prayer lantern for her of all people. She wondered who had made the others. It was clear that each one had been made with a different level of skill. The answer came in the form of Teersa’s speech that began the ceremony.

“Aspirants! Beside you lay lanterns crafted by your mothers…”

Oh … If Teersa hadn’t have made this lantern, then Aloy wouldn’t have had one at all. The thought made her swallow hard to choke back her emotions. “No matter what”, she thought, “I will not allow them to see how I feel”.

“….this stream flows small, but combines with others in the valley to form a great river. By working together, the tribe achieves greatness…”

Aloy huffed. She wondered how many outcasts would disagree with that statement. Including herself. She had, after all, killed a great beast on what counted as a solo hunt not a day before. Aloy was certain the news must have spread to Mother’s Heart by now, though no one had mentioned it, and probably never would.

“…In your mother’s honour, send the lantern flowing…”

The other prospective braves rose from their knees, their hands clasped about the base of their lanterns. They began walking in single file towards the bridge where Aloy had contemplated the memories of her father. Aloy followed.

When their turn arrived, each person who held a lantern moved to the centre of the bridge and mouthed a prayer before gently placing their light atop of the water. By the time Aloy reached the bridge the stream was illuminated by gently flickering flame flowing gently into the valley below. Aloy couldn’t help but think it was a beautiful sight. She thought about who the light should represent. Her mother, wherever she may be? Teersa, who was seen as a mother to the tribe, and who had crafted the lamp for Aloy? Perhaps the goddess, who was All Mother to every living thing. Or even to the Ancestor who had gifted Aloy her Focus? No. There was only one person worthy of this honour.

“For Rost. For everything you have taught me”.

Her words were barely above a whisper but were spoken with the greatest conviction. A pang of sadness and guilt wretched at Aloy’s heart. She would not have made it in the world without Rost’s guidance, and certainly would not have been here tonight without his training. Aloy hoped that by choosing to compete in the proving, Rost had not thought Aloy had shunned him, as the tribe had shunned him. She shivered at the thought. No matter. First the Proving, to express with her actions why it was wrong of the Nora to shun either of them. Then to find Rost and what then? Leave the Embrace? Would Rost wish that? These were thoughts to be pushed aside until they could be acted upon. All they served as now was as a distraction.

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After the ceremony Teersa directed Aloy to the acolyte’s sleeping quarters. This was surprising, since Aloy had expected to sleep beneath the stars. She often did so and did not mind. She had never wondered what sharing a room with more than one person would be like. Would it be noisy? Would they share a comfortable silence as she did with Rost? She signed and motioned towards the cabin.

“Time to find out”.

At the door Aloy, who’s exhaustion was starting to make her impatient, encountered a stone-faced guard who attempted to berate her. Aloy used her supremely un-Nora like wit to silence him.

“Oh, is this the sleeping cabin? With you guarding, I thought it was the latrine!”

The door made a satisfactory slam before the guard had time to react with anything other than an angry snort.

The interior of the cabin glowed with orange flame. Seven bunks stood on either side of a central walkway, with bedrolls on each one. The walls were adorned with skulls, and charms made of bone and shell hung from the ceiling. The loud chatter that had been taking place halted immediately. All that befell Aloy was silence and judgemental eyes. Someone spoke. It was the blond boy who Aloy was certain had declared her presence as blasphemous.

He spoke with spiteful phrasing, doing his best to make Aloy feel uncomfortable, perhaps enough for her to flee and declare herself unworthy of the trials. This included predictable insults regarding her presence at the prayer ceremony. Aloy’s mind was blocking out his speech almost as soon as the words existed the chuff’s mouth, but she caught enough of the last sentence to get the gist.

“…. nobody answers your prayers”.

A girl with long, straight black hair kept tight to her head by a thick headband came alongside the aggressor. She took his arm and spoke his name in warning.

“Bast…”

Bast.

Aloy’s mind flashed back to the confrontation all those years ago. She placed a hand instinctively over the faded scar on her forehead. This triggered another spiteful tangent, and again Aloy’s wit erupted. Her patience had long since worn off.

“Are you going to shut your mouth? Because that would be a surprise!”

The room erupted in laughter and Bast gave her a wicked look of indignation. The girl gave a charming smile and slapped her on the shoulder.

“Looks like you grew up to be more than a match for us. Out...” She Hesitated, then held out a hand in greeting.

“The name’s Vala. I’m afraid I didn’t catch yours.”

The rivals clasped arms in solidarity.

“Aloy”.

“Well Aloy, we have a long day ahead, and your bunk is next to mine”.

Vala directed them to their bed rolls and Aloy was grateful. They chatted a while, Vala praising her wit and cooly stating the competition for winning the Proving would be between them and Bast. Aloy knew it would only fuel her further.

Sleep did not come easy. The whole situation had become an overstimulation, and Aloy hoped the lack of sleep would not affect her too greatly during the trial. At last, she took her own bed roll from her sack and walked outside into the cool air. The fires had long since died away, and Aloy halted to allow her eyes to adjust to the darkness. The young huntress walked through the now silent settlement and lay her bedroll in the clearing that hours earlier held the prayer ceremony. She laid down, closed her weary eyes, and slept until dawn.

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It was a glorious day atop All Mother Mountain. The cloudless blue sky contrasted beautifully with still thick snow and deep green of the pines growing up the base of the mountain. Aloy supposed the climb itself had been part of the trial since two people had dropped out about halfway up, but as someone who had trained in the wilds climbing came as second nature to her. Aloy allowed herself a moment to gaze down at the beauty of the valley far below and to the horizon that edged the sky far from the borders of the Sacred Lands. She breathed in the cold, fresh air and felt content.

The procession found the start of the Proving trail approximately two thirds up the mountain. They were greeted by the brave that had guarded the sleeping cabin the night previously. Aloy was surprised that his stony look had managed to become even more serious, and the look he gave her was one of utter distain.

Before them stood a wooden arch that symbolised the start of the trail. A way through it lay a row of short clubs. Each had been carved, and Aloy wondered if these, too had been made by the mothers of the would-be braves. Their fathers, perhaps? Could Rost have carved one?

“Hunters!” yelled the stone faced warrior.

“Your task is to face the trials of the mountain. Remember, to pass the trial you must place your club at the foot of the brave who greets you at the Proving’s end. All that do so can call yourselves braves, though the winner can name themselves a champion of our people!”.

The hunters lined up at their starting position. The brave raised his spear, hesitated a moment then thrust it downward. The group sprinted. In terms of running speed, they were mostly equally matched, though Aloy understood that stamina was what counted in such a race.

Aloy, hair flailing wildly, reached the row of clubs a fraction too late. The stone-faced guard grabbed her quarry and hurtled it as far as he could, then gave her an ominous sneer. Bast turned and snickered at the sight before continuing.

Aloy dashed towards where she saw the club fall. It had buried itself in the snow and valuable seconds were lost in the hunt for it. By the time she reached the first check point the others were some ways ahead of her.

“Might as well walk from here, girl” She heard a voice say.

Aloy took in her surroundings, and hope sprang when she saw the second trail. Aloy assessed the situation and placed a cold hand to her focus. She breathed deep, eyes closed. When they opened her mind’s eye detected that the second would lead her to the summit faster, all be it along a far more precarious route.

The brave guarding the checkpoint saw the smirk that crossed Aloy’s face.

“Don’t do it, Outcast. Better dead last than dead.”

He should not have bothered. The wind was blowing in a direction that carried his words away from her already sprinting body.

Aloy flung herself along the old, crumbling obstacle course at break-neck speed. The course had obviously been closed in favour of the route taken by the rest of the aspirants. She would not give up.

“They had the tribe. But I had the wilds!”

She climbed hard and fast, reaching the summit just as the others did. The end was in sight. She thought of every cruel word, every oppressive moment of silence. Of the pain that stung her forehead and of the man who raised her. It spurned her on as she sprinted past Vala and Bast to stab her club into the snow at the foot of the brave that marked the end of the Proving.

Hot breaths escaped her lungs in fits of steam as Aloy struggled to calm the beating of her heart. She had done it. She had proven every single Nora wrong. Her mother wrong. He was worthy. Vala turned to her and gave a warm, proud smile.

“The outlander cheated!”

The voice was incredulous. Bast. The brave replied loud and clear.

“An outcast? Win the proving? Never!” Aloy’s heart sank, but the woman continued.

“For she is a brave now! Not only a brave, but champion!”

Pride filled Aloy’s heart as her mind began to sing with the thoughts of what being champion would mean for her and for Rost, but that brief spark of joy was taken away almost as soon as it had begun.

An arrow hurtled past Aloy’s head and landed deep into the heart of the brave. She died instantly.

“Run!” The voice was Vala’s.

A blizzard of arrows fell around them, killing many in an instant. Vala and Bast had led a few others to shelter behind a large boulder and Aloy skidded through the snow, taking up the fallen brave’s bow in her hand. It was a standard hunting bow, but it would have to do. There was no time to unhook the quiver that wrapped around the already cooling body. Aloy grabbed the arrows up into her hand and ran full pelt behind another boulder.

Aloy stabbed the arrows into the snow, then knocked one onto the sinew of the unfamiliar bow. She rarely prayed to the Goddess but in this moment, she cried out a silent plea that the bow was accurate. All Mother answered.

The first arrow spun through the air and straight between the eyes of an attacker. Aloy took in a deep breath, knocked another, and the next heartbeat saw the arrowhead pierce a belly.

The man screamed a cry of sheer agony. Aloy had never heard such a cry. Had never fired a bow in anger towards another human, but she could not faulter. There would be time for comprehending her actions if she survived.

Aloy turned to the boulder sheltering the others and her eyes met Vala. A look of pure terror had crossed her face. Aloy shook her head and pleaded once more.

“No!”

The All Mother did not hear, and the Ancestor remained silent.

Vala cried out for them all to run. To fight or to flee, Aloy could not tell, but the instant the new braves rose they fell to another maelstrom of arrows black against the blue sky.

“Is that all of them?” The voice was male. Calm, as if merely counting fish he had caught that day.

“I shall check. Head back to camp and wait for the others”.

“Yes Helis. You heard him! Go!”

Others. A thought struck through Aloy’s panic. The settlements.

Aloy looked down. One arrow left. She wasn’t sure when during the frenzy of the skirmish she had fired the rest. Could only recall the first two. Had there really been more than a moment between her second arrow and the other braves falling? Instinct had taken over, but now the true weight of anxiety began to crush her. One arrow. Aloy breathed out. She could do this.

Aloy leaped from behind her shelter and aimed at the man’s chest. He was massive. Brute muscle. She noticed fine braids collected in a top knot at the apex of his skull. A malicious face circled by a neckpiece made of bone. Thick vambraces, tassets and greaves stood out among his leathers. Aloy breathed and fired. The arrow shot wide. Aloy hadn’t realised her hands had begun shaking terribly.

The man laughed callously.

He did not run towards her. His strides were almost casual. There was nowhere for this petulant girl to go, and nowhere to hide. So, he took his time and revelled in her fear. He would enjoy this.

Aloy screamed. The cry erupting from the depths of her belly, eyes wide in fear, but the scream was muffled by a large hand grabbing her throat, raising her above the ground. Legs flailed desperately as he walked her towards the edge of the mountain. Arms fought and fingernails clawed at him, but it was no use. Aloy was going to die.

A flash of a knife raised towards her throat. The maliciousness of his grin burned itself into her memory. Then she was crumpled on the ground as the huge brute fought off an attacker.

“Rost!”

He had come. He must have been watching the Proving. It was the only way he could have reached her in time.

The two men fought together, wrestling in the snow. Rost’s cloak flapping in the breeze. Aloy was frozen in fear. Then she heard it.

The others had returned and were shouting to their leader as they raised their bows. Rost shoved the man aside and grabbed Aloy as arrows hurtled towards them. She felt the thud of each arrow that hit home in her father’s back. He stumbled towards an edge of the mountain. Painful breaths heaved through gritted teeth. Rost looked down at his daughter.

“Survive”.

Aloy was falling, then all was black and still.

Chapter Text

Pettah

The patient was thankfully quiet. Pettoh Signed in relief in the knowledge that unconsciousness would make his patient unaware of the sheer agony he was about to inflict, and it always seemed strange to him that saving a person should come at the cost of hurting them so badly.

Blood ran into the sand below, staining it red as far as the eye could see, but the healer could not allow himself to dwell on those he could not save. The friends already gone. After calling or pitch¹ to be melted Pettah ordered that the Carja baggage be searched until he found what he was looking for. The salt supply. Kotallo lay drained of colour as the razor-sharp flint cut through the remaining flaps of meat and crushed bone create a suitable stump to work with ² . The tourniquet had thankfully quelled the blood loss and the experienced healer was adept at acting quickly. Now he packed salt into and around the wound to dry the area and draw out the evil that could cause it to fester. ^{3 <.sup>}

The Carja baggage had also thankfully included a few precious clay cooking vessels and now these sat by the hastily built fire, full of jet-black pine pitch that bubbled as it melted. Next to them sat heated rocks ready to boil a leather of water at a moment’s notice. He would need it soon.

Pettah rummaged through his own sack with a calmness only healers experienced with the smell of battle carnage could muster. He laid out everything he would need from his delicate suturing needles ⁴ and fine thread made by separating tendon fibres, to ointments, soap of tallow and pine, herbs, and a thick loop of leather he placed between Kotallo’s teeth. Unconscious or not, his body would writhe under the pain, and the last thing Pettah wanted was for the crippled warrior to choke on his own tongue.

Or was it? What future could possibly face this man besides agony, resentment, and loneliness? To lose a limb would mean becoming a burden on the Tenakth. To be lesser than he was. Pettah was piecing a man together only so that he could return home to face his fate. To reclaim his honour in a battle in the pit. He was patching him up to die, but that was the point. No matter how much Kotallo would inevitably resent him for it, in preventing the marshal from bleeding out he would allow him to die with dignity at a time of his chief’s choosing. Where a Kulrut determined who should become marshals of the clan, this tournament of cripple against beast was known as a Kundrat. Almost all the combatants died, but to do so was to die in honour. To reclaim a place on the wings of the Ten. Despite the heat of the day and the fire beside him Kotallo was clammy and cool to the touch, his normally dark skin now almost grey. Chances were he’d never reach his Kundrat.

“What a waste.” Thought Pettah “They were all... He… was the best of our tribe”.

Pettah raised the salt encrusted stump onto a log, raising it from the sand below. A faint grunt emanated from Kotallo’s lips. If he was stirring the on coming pain would soon drive him back under.

A few small rocks were chosen from the pile heating in the fire and were added, one at a time, to the leather skein of water until it was sufficiently heated. Hot, but not boiling. Pettah had found over the many winters working with wounds that hot water resulted in less wounds festering, though he didn’t quite understand why. He had thought it was due to the heat acting to seal the wound and draw out the evil in the same way meat constricted when plunged into a boiling pot. ⁵

Kotallo’s body writhed as water was poured over what remained of his arm, washing away the salt. Pettah acted quickly to stich together what was left. White to white, red to red, and yellow to yellow. ⁶ At last, he folded over the flap of skin he had left when he had tidied the flesh with his flint and sutured it neatly with long strands of tendon fibres. Kotallo may die regardless of his efforts, but that made him no less deserving of Pettah’s bet stitching.

“It is time” Pettah turned to his companions who hadn’t bothered to watch the attempted healing of a cripple. “Bring the bowls of pitch”.

The bubbling tar was brought in hot pots. Their pointed bases ⁷ were driven into the sand and the new commander passed Pettah two carved wooden tools, a ladle, and a pallet for smoothing the substance. The stench was palpable when hot pitch touched raw flesh, causing even the most hardened amongst the group to wince. Not one thought this to be a better fate than death. Peetah acted quickly with the wooden pallet, smoothing, and patting the sap-based glue into shape as it hardened to form a solid black barrier over the mangled stump.

Pettah had done all he could to treat the horrific injury. Now all was left was to treat the inevitable tempest that wracked a body in the aftermath of such a wound. Worse, he thought, would be the battle of Kotallo’s spirit against itself when he awoke to find he would never be whole again.

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Kotallo

They had carried him to the hill where they had spent the last evening in merriment. The decision had been unanimous and so he lay in a tent separate from the others to die in peace, but Kotallo’s warrior spirit had never surrendered through any of his twenty-five winters, and it refused to start now. In his mind he was still waging against Regalla, blissfully unaware that his battle cries erupted in fits and sobs. His entire body was wracked with the effort of a seemingly eternal conflict. One where Fashav died countless times. The pain in his arm would break through into his dreams, personifying itself into the utter distain on Regalla’s face as she threw that spear again and again. Sometimes it would hit home in his chest where it should have landed. At those moments Kotallo’s convulsed with the effects of his fever. At times he was certain someone had thrown him into the lake, intent on drowning him. He gargled and writhed against the fluid flowing down his gullet, unsure how a blood-filled lake could taste of honey. In those moments Pettah called upon the reluctant aid of his squad to hold Kotallo down. How else was he going to pour enough of his life-keeping recipe into the marshal’s stomach?

Pettah

For five days Pettah slept in a bedroll opposite Kotallo. Each morning, he expected to pull back the pile of blankets to find a corpse. Each morning, he was surprised. He would diligently change wrappings and blankets, washing them in heated lake water, then laying them out to dry over the sun-baked red rock of the cliff. He would wipe Kotallo’s body with water steeped with herbs. By the third day Kotallo’s pallor had lessened, and the fourth, Pettah noticed the sweet smell of herbs no longer battled with the smell of squalor and impending death.

Early on the flesh above the cocoon of pitch had to be pierced to draw out the puss that had built there, but by the fifth day the stump was no longer hot to the touch. The stitched slice that rose from the sealed stump was developing into an angry pink scar against his umber skin. Pettah was pleased with his work.

Kotallo

During the night of the fourth day the Great Eagle watched the eternal battle. Hovered in the burning sky to gaze down at swirling red dust and the rippling, scarlet lake. He heard the pounding of the horses and the cries of those caused in the maelstrom of hoof and arrow. He saw a spear pierce a horse’s chest, heard a doomed marshal call out in warning to his brother-in-arms. Watched the spear of a former comrade sever that marshal’s left arm. He took the warrior up in his talons. Clawing into his shoulders. Pain seared down both arms into both hands and both sets of fingers. ⁸ Up into the marshal’s neck and round into his back. The eagle flew, carrying the maimed man away from the battle to the safety of the hill that overlooked it. He circled that hill like a vulture and called a great shriek. He let go.

Kotallo was falling. Falling as pain threatened to swallow him hole. The talons had seared into his flesh and thrown him away like he was already rotten. He fell towards the hill in a swirling rage of anger, despair, and all-encompassing pain.

On the fifth day Kotallo woke up screaming. By the Ten. The nightmare. The agony. It was real. He wished then that the Eagle had eaten him whole.

Chapter Text

Aloy

Cold. Falling through an all-encompassing cold. To be bashed by frozen rocks for all eternity. There was no sense of who, or how, or why. Only trembling cold and a decline into oblivion. All those years of nightmares. How was Aloy to know they prophesised her demise rather than replayed her past?

No.

“Survive”.

Rost’s words reverberated through her entire being. It was not a request but an order. Rost had used his final breath to command her to live. So, live she must.

There was no way to tell how much time had passed. Her rousing of consciousness was fleeting, infrequent and never lasted long enough to fully grasp to where she had fallen – or even to assess the extent of her injuries. All she felt was cold, hard, painful vertigo.

Sona

They found the girl the next day. Until then the tribe had been too busy fending off the attackers to think of sending a rescue party. In fact, most had hoped the braves would descend from the mountain once they noticed smoke rise from the village, though as the sun set on the smouldering ruins of Mother’s Heart reality began to dawn. Snow and ash fell as hard as their realisation. Something had happened to the braves.

Screams had let out when the exhausted search party finally found the dead. Bodies lay strewn across the mountain side – riddled with arrows and already frozen into hideous caricatures of the living. Sona – proud war chief of the Nora had led the party and had run a little ahead to scout the area. A few moments later she had let out a cry that no-one thought her stoic voice could produce. They all recognised what that sound meant. They had all heard it emitted from too many mothers since the assault began. The party gazed up at Sona cradling Vala in her arms. Her son Varl stood silent vigil and vowed vengeance on those that had killed his sister.

The terrain was far too treacherous to retrieve the dead. No one argued when Sona silently carried Vala to the Proving finish line and declared it to be the resting place of all Nora who had perished there, regardless of whether they had finished the test.

Snow was gently falling above the newly built stone cairn that marked the burial site. The pale, heavy sun threw rays of yellow and orange amongst the floury by the time the last stone was erected. It was only then that a call was heard.

“There’s another body over here!”

Sona raised her head in the direction of the call and instantly recognised it to be Rost’s. Before his voluntary shunning he had been a valuable and treasured member of her war party. All followed as she approached his crumpled body. Blue cloak flapping in the cold wind.

Sona loomed silently over her old friend and touched his cheek in reverence.

The bitter Nora named Resh spoke first.

“An outlander? Here?! T’was he who must have brought bad luck to the proving!”

Sona turned on her heels and struck with all the force that she could muster. As Resh fell, clasping a hand to his cheek, she called out to the stunned party with a stern, war-like expression that showed no hint of her so recent despair.

“Most of you are too young to remember the deeds this man undertook for the tribe so let me educate you.” She held her arm in the direction of the frozen body below her.

“This soul’s name was Rost. For many years he served the Nora with honour and valour. He saved my life, and the life of others on more than one occasion. After our lands were raided, he chose to follow those responsible for the deaths of many – including his wife and daughter.” Sona gulped. Then continued.

“…And of…my husband. He chose to be a Death Seeker and thus exile because no one else thought it prudent to follow. I wish I had half the courage he had. If I did, I may have gone with him, pregnant as I was with Vala.” Murmurs sounded among the search party and those old enough to remember shook their heads in agreement. Sona continued.

“I was not brave enough to act then. But I act now as War Chief and as a grieving mother. This man clearly tried to defend those attending the trials. Look around you at the bodies we ignored. At the arrows laden around you. It is my order that he is laid to rest with those he defended, and a cairn be erected at his former home”.

Resh rose in protest but was easily dissuaded by the hellish look that Sona gave him. Looking directly into his eyes she continued

“If any one present disagrees with this decision speak now so they may formally challenge my leadership. I am more than willing to defend this choice with the tip of my spear as is my right.”

No one uttered a sound and Resh lowered his head in shamed submission. He wouldn’t soon forget this dishonour.

Sona respectfully removed some effects from Rost’s body along with his spear. These would be all that could be carried down the mountain and placed on his burial cairn.

“The girl!” The voice was Varl’s and the sullen crowed turned to look at him in horror. How had no one remembered? Varl voiced their realisation.

“His adopted daughter! The precocious red head. Rost must have been here to watch her compete in the proving. Where is she? Has anyone seen her?”

Horror erupted over Sona and some of the braves. Indifference and even distaste on others.

Sona was swift in action and command. The search party was re-organised into small groups that could more easily search the harsh landscape. No calls were sounded. No one expected a reply.

The sun was setting over the mountain side when the search party decided to make for a stony outcrop that would protect them through the blustery night. By this time the snow fall had become heavy, and all knew descent would be treacherous in these conditions. Sona sent two braves on ahead to collect caribou moss and wood from one of the tiny, windswept pines that made their home on the rocky mountain side. It wasn’t long before they re-appeared hurtling over the mountain side – arms flaying and mouths gaping. Calls lost on the wind.

They reached their companions gasping for breath. Cold air filling their lungs in short, painful bursts and leaving as thick steam. Sona allowed them to catch what breath they could at such a high altitude. Lifting one up as he fell into the snow. Finally, one mustered the breath to speak.

“We…We ssaw smm…Smmoke!” The brave breathed in heavily, then continued. “Someone has set up camp in the outcrop resting site!”

The Nora, all very well accustomed to the harsh realities of living in such a harsh environment, had long since started setting up well known resting sites for hunters and all along brave trails. These provided a cache of pemmican, pelts, and dry wood for anyone that may find themselves stuck among the elements.

Sona instantly dashed the eager hope that flickered in the eyes of her party.

“We go in slow.” Sona took the shoulders of her scouts. “You two rest here for a while. Recoup. No, there is no time for protest. Catch your breath, recoup, then if it is safe I shall send someone to fetch you. There”.

Sona pointed towards an overhanging rock that provided shelter from the wind and snow, then presented her scouts with her personal stash of rations including a fire kit made from caribou moss, pine resin and ember fungus.

“This fire will not last long. Did you manage to collect anything before coming back?”

They both nodded.

“Good. If all goes well someone will fetch you within the hour. Hold on until then. Rest, but do not sleep. That is an order. “

Sona tuned to the others to present their orders. The party had no way of knowing if the camp belonged to Nora survivors or of the brutes that had killed the others. They were to approach stealthily and ready to fight no matter how exhausted they were. For they were Nora Braves. Sona, the All Mother, and honour commanded it.

All raised their spears or bows in silent recognition. Varl approached his mother and threw is fist to his heart in marshal honour of her. The rest followed. If there was to be a last stand, then the Nora would be the ones still standing.

They approached the camp with the stealth of stalkers – using what little plant life and exposed rock they could as cover. Sona used hand gestures to order the party to hang back so that she could almost enter the camp to observe her surroundings.

As the light faded into twilight Sona peered over crag from her vantage point into the grotto tucked into the overlook. There, amongst stone dancing with blazing shadows and light, she saw them. Sona let out a high-pitched scream and charged towards the grotto. Those behind her followed suit and like Sona before them dived into the stunned survivors with cheers and cradled them in delight. Five survivors. All with injuries but safe. Warm and safe. As promised, within the hour Sona’s two scouts had been lead by Varl back to the grotto and all now merrily – though wearily – ate a meal of pemmican soup bulked by rosehips and jerky. After the meal the exhausted survivors sipped pine needle tea and relayed their harrowing tale.

All had gone well with the Proving. The young outcast had more than proven her worth and won the race, but the ambush was spung just she was announced the victor. Many fell instantly to the barrage of arrows but those who weren’t were only able to escape due to the ingenuity and leadership of the girl.

“She saved us. Pointed towards the grotto and told us when to flee. She distracted them. Fought them off while we ran. Some of us stopped – tried to get to her – but there was a warrior. He came and, well. It looked ‘so he was trying to sacrifice her to the sun!”

Gasps echoed around the cavern.

“Then Rost. He appeared outta nowheres. He must have been watching the Proving. Watching her. Well, he tried stop that madman but to protect her he…pushed her over the ledge.”

“Aloy”. Varl interrupted quietly. “Her name is? Was, Aloy.”

The survivors looked to their feet. One said simply “come”.

They lead Sona and Varl to the back of the grotto where the shadows cast by a small fire had hidden a pile of clothing. It was only then that Sona noticed each survivor was missing some layer or other. Faarl, a survivor who had sustained a long gash to his face, used a tentative, delicate hand to gently remove one of the furs. There, beneath a huddle of warmth lye Aloy. Cold, clammy, unconscious, but alive.

“We heard them leave but waited until near dark. Perhaps if we hadn’t have waited so long? We approached Rost but he was already gone. Then Zara here spied over the ledge and saw that the gi…Aloy hadn’t fallen far. Those of us still able scrambled down the edge and attached a rope so the others could hoist her up. She’s in a bad shape, as you can see. But she didn’t deserve to die on that mountainside. Not after she saved us.

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!”