Work Text:
The snow in the Cut is relentless.
Thick sheets fall from the sky in torrents, blanketing the landscape in glittering white. The Embrace sees its share of snowfall in the winter, but it’s nothing like this. Aloy can scarcely believe the sheer amount of the stuff—it seems to her the sky should have exhausted its supply of moisture long before now. But flakes as fat as bread loaves continue to pile around everything faster than Aloy can clear them.
After spending so much time in Carja territory Aloy’s almost forgotten how it feels to be cold. Well, there’s cold, then there’s whatever this is. A chill that cuts straight to the bone. The air hurts to breathe. She has to filter every breath through a cloth raised up over her nose and mouth, otherwise she can practically feel the ice crystals forming in her throat.
She’s nestled herself into an alcove, high up on a rocky hill beyond the prowling track of the Scorchers. It’s well-hidden enough to allow a small fire. Aloy leans back against the wall. She taps her Focus, and cycles through the recently acquired data points. Ourea’s Retreat had a trove of information and she hasn’t had time to sift through it yet. It doesn't take long to find one with minimal corruption.
Voice Log | 00:27
Data Corruption: Minimal
KENNY CHAU: Another email from my sister. I haven’t got time to think, let alone reply. That photo of the girls she sent didn’t do much for my conscience.
Jenny looks pretty proud of her Pilgrim costume. Crap. I’ve never missed Thanksgiving before. And chances for Christmas? Near zero.
I can’t even tell them that all the work I’m doing is to keep them safe.
“Thanksgiving,” Aloy repeats aloud. She's often wondered about the kinds of celebrations the Old Ones held. So much of the data she's uncovered is about the Faro plague; glimpses of the Old World all tempered by fear, by Elisabet's desperation. Not much about what the world was like back then when it was normal. Before everything went wrong.
This Thanksgiving seems self-explanatory enough—an occasion for giving thanks. Aloy isn’t sure what a Pilgrim is or why a girl would dress as one, but she assumes it’s some kind of Old Ones ritual. Like the Naming, or the Proving. Christmas though…Aloy tries to parse out what that could mean. She rubs her arms and stares into the fire.
Maybe it's the cold, or the claustrophobic sense of being walled-in by snow, but in this moment Aloy feels well and truly alone in a way she hasn't since after the Proving.
“Are you sure it’s wise to risk a fire so close to Scorcher territory?”
Aloy grimaces at the familiar voice in her ear and kicks a tuft of snow towards the flames.
“And a good evening to you too, Sylens,” Aloy mutters.
Sylens responds with a sound halfway between a laugh and a scoff. "Well, be careful up there. The snow can entomb you with surprising speed."
"Hence the fire."
“Oh, I see. You’ve spent all of a week's time in the Cut and now you’re the expert. I’m sure I can’t be of any help to you at all.” The sarcasm clings to every word as closely as the cold on Aloy's skin.
Aloy rolls her eyes. “I've seen snow before, Sylens. And a week is enough time spent around the Scorchers to know how to avoid them.”
"And what of these other new machines?"
"You sound worried. Careful, I might start to think you care."
"You're my eyes and ears out there in the world, Aloy. Of course I care. It'd be a lot harder to get information without you."
It's hard to tell when he's joking; and even his obvious jokes always have an unpleasant truth at their core.
“Listen, I really appreciate all the unsolicited advice," Aloy says. "But I should get some sleep."
"Try not to freeze to death."
Aloy briefly considers doing just that, if only to annoy him. Then another thought seizes her.
“Sylens—wait.”
A heavy pause, through which Aloy is keenly aware of his growing irritation. “Yes?”
“Do you...know anything about Christmas?”
Another moment of silence, then finally a low chuckle. “Where did you hear about that?”
“One of the data points I picked up in Ourea’s Retreat. It sounds like some kind of Old Ones tradition.”
“Yes. It was one of the major annual celebrations for the dominant religious group of their time.”
“You've studied it, then?"
“Studied is quite an overstatement. There isn’t much information left, but I've come across a few scraps."
A few moments pass with nothing but the crackle of the fire and the whisper of snowfall.
"Will you tell me what you know?" Her voice is soft, tentative.
He sighs, but maybe it's just the wind. “From what I've gathered, Christmas was a celebration of the birth of their savior figure. They worshipped a god not unlike the Carja worship the sun. The data I've recovered indicates that this god was known as Santa Claus."
"Santa Claus?"
"Yes. It was traditional for children of the Old Ones to leave offerings out for him the night before, in exchange for gifts on Christmas day."
Aloy recalls her time in Sunfall with a shudder that isn't entirely to do with the cold. “Like... a sacrifice?”
“Nothing quite so brutal.”
"What kinds of offerings, then?"
"Food and drink. Sweet treats."
Aloy hums thoughtfully. "This Santa Claus...he gave every child a gift? Every child in the world?"
"That is what the data suggests, Aloy. I cannot speak to its veracity."
"Sounds pretty unlikely to me."
"I agree."
The fire pops, sending a spray of orange sparks into the air. They quickly fizzle and die under the onslaught of snow. Aloy clears her throat. If Sylens' impulse is to mock her for all these silly questions, he's graciously keeping it to himself. Whatever spirit moves him to indulge her, she appreciates it. But she keeps that bit to herself.
"Is there anything else you know? About Christmas?"
"Not much else. There were apparently many traditional Christmas songs, however. I've come across a few in my research."
"Songs?" She's afraid to ask the specific question. Afraid that will be the end of his patience.
But he asks it for her.
"Would you like to hear one?"
A fragile warmth bubbles to life in Aloy's chest. "Yes."
She holds her breath, straining against the silence until crackling, not unlike the fire, overlays a plaintive melody in her ear. A woman’s voice, rich with emotion, rises above the tune:
“Have yourself a merry little Christmas. Let your heart be light. Next year all our troubles will be out of sight. Have yourself a merry little Christmas. Make the yuletide gay. Next year all our troubles will be miles away.”
Aloy swallows thickly. She isn’t sure if this song is meant to be uplifting. It certainly doesn't feel celebratory. She’s left with a kind of ache in her heart—sweet, but heavy—as she listens on.
“Once again as in olden days, happy golden days of yore, faithful friends who are dear to us will be near to us once more.”
It makes her think of Rost. How they’d always mark the arrival of winter by tossing balls of snow at one another, trading blows until they were red-cheeked and breathless with laughter.
"Someday soon we all will be together, if the fates allow. Until then we'll have to muddle through somehow. So have yourself a merry little Christmas now.”
Memories of Rost are joined by thoughts of Erend, of Talanah, of Avad, of Petra, even of Nil. She hopes she'll see them all again. But it’s impossible to say with certainty.
The Focus goes quiet. Whatever Christmas was to the Old Ones, it seems to Aloy a confusing mix of joy and melancholy that she doesn't quite understand. If the intention of this song is to stir up reminders of people you've lost, people you're missing... it's definitely effective. And Aloy suddenly wishes she hadn't heard it at all.
“Is all Old Ones Christmas music like that?” she asks.
“Like what?”
“Sad.”
“Not many others have survived. But there are some more... upbeat ones. ”
“And that’s the one you chose to send me? Thanks a lot, Sylens.” Aloy hopes he can feel her eyes rolling from wherever he is.
"I thought you might appreciate the irony in the lyrics about your troubles being out of sight and miles away."
Aloy can't help but to laugh. "Out of sight, maybe. But never out of my ear."
It occurs to her that maybe Sylens isn't a friend, exactly, but at least with him in her head, she isn't really alone. For good or ill, wherever she goes, Sylens is there, just a tap of her Focus away. And right now, that's more of a comfort than not.
Silence. He must have disconnected. Aloy sighs and draws her arms around herself, settling in for some sleep. But just before she shuts her eyes, Sylens' voice echoes in her head again.
“Merry Christmas, Aloy.”
Aloy smiles.
“Merry Christmas, Sylens.”