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Spring comes to Meridian subtly.
The mesa is largely impervious to the turn of the seasons, scorched by a constant dusty heat, while the jungle below stews in unwavering humidity. Spring is no more than a shift in the wind, imperceptible to all but those who’ve spent their entire lives in the Carja capital. It’s a fickle thing, this vernal zephyr. It seems, always, to arrive at precisely the wrong time—scattering scrolls left carelessly untended, toppling wine glasses held too loosely. Most simply sigh and move on, fastening their shutters and gripping their glasses a little tighter.
But not Sun-King Avad.
When that first wayward breeze gusts through the Palace of the Sun, Avad stands from his desk and turns his face to the window. He shuts his eyes and lets the wind pass over him, welcoming it. He sniffs the air—a hint of wild ember, swept across the plains and into Avad's study, almost as if to taunt him. He looks to the city sprawling before him. Avad loves Meridian, loves the Sundom and its people, but there’s something in the spring air that pulls at him, stirs his blood to restlessness.
He knows it's because of her. He doesn't blame her for it, isn't upset—it's simply a part of him now. He caught a bit of her transitory nature like a contagion. But he's grateful for it, because it means he can always hold a piece of her close to his soul. Avad looks down to the terraced garden just below his window, at the first blooms of fire kiln root, their burnished orange petals reaching for the sun. The flower always reminds him of her.
It has been three years since the Battle of Meridian. Three years since he asked her, again, if she would consider staying. Three years since she turned him down. Still, every spring since, Avad hopes, recklessly, that Aloy will return. That the springtime wind will carry her back to Meridian, like a tuft of dandelion seed. Twice he has been disappointed.
Avad sighs, preparing himself to be disappointed again. He decides to walk, to feel the sun on his skin before they both retire for the evening.
Outside the air is warm and fragrant. Avad walks the sandstone parapet, relishing the heat on his bare arms, until he reaches a certain balcony set off from the main thoroughfare. He rests his hands on the rail, inhaling the sweet scent of the early seasonal blooms. The sun dips lower, casting a shimmering golden light over his beloved city. He smiles. Meridian has known peace these past years. Though guiltily, he half-hopes for another catastrophe to draw Aloy back here. Back to him.
"Avad. I thought I might find you here."
Avad turns suddenly. It's been three years since he heard that voice, but it's never left his head. He didn't hear her approach, but he's not surprised—the silent footsteps of a seasoned huntress. Aloy stands before him, bathed in the sun's glow, her red mane of hair gone golden around the edges, as if set ablaze. Avad doesn't breathe, afraid to banish this mirage he's conjured.
"Aloy! I-I can't believe it. You're here."
Aloy smiles in a way that sets his heart racing. "I'm on my way back to the Sacred Lands," she says. "I couldn't pass by Meridian without coming to say hello."
Avad's stomach lurches. Of course she's just passing through. She's like the spring breeze: mercurial, impossible to hold. But he's already allowed himself to hope this will be the time she decides to stay.
He takes a step closer to her. Her skin is bronzed, kissed by the sun, with a delicate spray of freckles spanning her nose and cheeks. She's leaner, harder than Avad remembers. But possessed of the same wild beauty that struck him from the moment he met her. She’s a summer storm, raw and fierce. She’s the sunrise and the sunset.
Aloy looks at him inquiringly, a smirk tugging at her lips. Avad realizes she's waiting for him to speak. "Meridian hasn't been nearly as interesting without you these past few years," he says, when he means I've thought of you every day you've been away. It's as bold as he dares to be.
"Isn't that a good thing?" she asks.
“I suppose it is,” Avad admits with a chuckle. They regard each other for a moment, Avad unable to take his eyes from hers. “So... where have you been?”
Aloy casts her gaze out beyond the mesa, towards the west. "I've been...so many places..." she practically whispers. There's a faraway look in her eyes, a tightness around her mouth. Avad can see the stories written there, but he knows better than to press her for information she isn't yet ready to share. The moment passes, like a cloud across the sun, and when she looks back to him her expression is softer, her eyes warm.
"Ask me again someday," she says with a grin. "When there's more time."
Avad smiles sadly. With Aloy, it's always the promise of someday. "I will," he says. And he means it.
"It's good to see you, Avad," Aloy says seriously. She takes a step towards him, and it takes all of Avad's self-control not to take her in his arms, to draw her close. He wants nothing more than to know how she feels pressed to his chest, how her body fits against his. He wants to bury his face in her hair, to breathe in her scent—ochrebloom and woodsmoke.
Instead, Avad reaches out his hand, tentatively, like a newborn fawn taking its first steps. His fingers brush the back of Aloy's hand. He watches a shiver ripple up her arm, down her spine. But she doesn't pull back. She meets his eyes and Avad sucks in a breath at all he sees there: strength, determination, and that fire that caused him to love her in the first place. But there's something else too, behind it all. Sadness, perhaps even regret. Avad recognizes it because he's seen it so often in the mirror.
He twines his fingers around hers. Her eyes widen slightly, but she still doesn't pull away. It's the longest she's ever let him hold onto her.
"Aloy," he begins softly. "I know I have no right to ask, to want, but I—"
"Avad, don't." Her voice is quiet but commanding, steel wrapped in silk.
"I'm sorry," Avad says, dipping his head. He shouldn't, he knows. He can't bear another rejection, but he also can't let her walk away again without trying.
"No, don't be sorry," Aloy says firmly. She doesn't release his hand, and with her other reaches out to lift his chin. Avad raises his eyes to meet hers again, his breath coming in shallow bursts to match the fluttering of his heart. Her hand moves to cup his jaw, her thumb tracing a path across his cheek. If he could stop time he would do it now, to savor the feel of her gentle touch.
"Don't," she repeats, tenderly this time. "Because the next time you ask me that question, I want to be able to say yes."
Avad's heart soars and he suddenly feels that anything is possible. Her words lift his spirits to such heights he's certain he'll float up over the mesa, touch the sun itself. He squeezes her hand tightly. "Until next time, then."
***
Aloy leaves Meridian as suddenly as she appeared, as if a manifestation of the wind itself. Avad watches her ride out atop a Strider, her hair trailing behind her like a rippling flame. His eyes follow her until she disappears into the jungle verge. He could almost convince himself their whole conversation was a dream, if not for the ghost of her touch lingering on his cheek. If not for her words, etched on his soul like a prayer.
Spring comes to Meridian subtly, but for Sun-King Avad it changes everything.