Archive of Our Own

《_______________________》

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐚𝐭.
𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭, for just a moment, had seen the world go blank during that rhythm of flow.

It mixes sharp inhales, controlled through the training drumming in the muscle memory, with blood pounding in one's ears.

It becomes hard to balance the instinct of survival; the pure berserk needs to win the battle against the machine and the levelled head that a hunter requires. The hot blood in his ears provides the drive for the first, a hunter's training for the second. The pressure behind his eyes grows irritated with the dark unease. He hears the struggling bending and growling of metallic limbs. The oil seeping into the ground mixes with the taste of the blood in the night air.

A group of machines had approached from the south side of GAIA's mountain, stalking around the edges of the strayed camps and ridges. That is where they walked right into the traps a certain Tenakth had placed.

The Nora's senses are beaten back to the moment. He feels the hold of 𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰'𝘴 hand underneath his arm, strong enough to drag him up and out of the sand. They had not come to die but to collect. They struggle not to topple over the limb, broken pieces of the Burrowers that had already fallen prey to their traps. The warrior's shouts heave with difficult breaths, and the other's grip is ripping at 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭'𝘴 shoulder. The ground is an earthquake created by a 𝐑𝐚𝐯𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫'𝐬 onslaught. 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭'𝘴 feet stumble more than they walk.

The air is crushed out of 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭'𝘴 lungs as the machine crashes into his side. He spits blood and sand. His skin prickles with a searing blaze. The adrenaline surges into his muscles.
The hunter's body becomes alight with the fire, with the electricity.
The wind whipped around his head and yanked his body back into the lush grass and greenery at the lake's shore. He can feel the sand mix with blood in his mouth. 𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰 shouts- roars like a Thunderjaw just a few feet away, with the hooked, sharp end of his weapon lodged inside the electrical cables of the 𝐑𝐚𝐯𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫 hovering above him. 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 felt his legs trembling until they found enough footing to shuffle him away from the grasp of becoming prey. His tongue catches onto the electrical whizzing of the air, his hair standing up like that of a frightened squirrel.

He reaches one hand up into the bare, broken armour and cable pieces along its throat where the warrior's last attacks had laid bare the vulnerable spots. The world turns crimson with the fierce roars of the machine's pain and the light radiating off its body.
With enough force and even with the deadly machine howling and attempting to throw him off, he pulls himself up as if trying to ride a Charger. The Tenakth whistles something inaudibly, with the pike still lodged in one of the canisters that look ready to bust. The grip holds the 𝐑𝐚𝐯𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫 in place, just enough to keep him off this stubborn prey.

𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 takes a knife. It is such a familiar move, one he recognises in the depth of his muscles to return with old voices and teachings. There was no toying or fighting to the death with the machines. 𝘛𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘕𝘰𝘳𝘢 - 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘷𝘦 - 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 - 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘭𝘺.

𝐓𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐭.

He whipped around on the back of the beast, grabbing deep into the hot, whirring machinery. It took the slice of a knife, the cut of a tongue in the air sharp with electricity. Its antennas break apart.

"LET GO!" He shouts against the rush of wind. 𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰 does not listen at first. He keeps on holding until the edge of his hooked spear dislodges itself.

𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 takes hold of the daring canister; the force of 𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰'𝘴 withdrawal rips open the equipment. The electrical antennas, clipped and broken, send out a shock enough to hurl 𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰 to the ground. 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 slides over the back, roughly, painfully, until the 𝐑𝐚𝐯𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫'𝐬 gun stops the forceful retreat and fall. The canister's insides drip onto his hands, sizzling against his skin and the leather armour. 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 winces. He lifts the piece high. Then brings it down, crashing it over the 𝐑𝐚𝐯𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫'𝐬 metallic skull. Armour plates break apart, wires short-circuit, and little flickers shoot through the air. The canister's fluid does the rest. It catches fire. First, a small flame. Barely a sparkle. 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 hurls forward over the creature's head until he plunges. The machine falls, folding in on itself. The head catches fire, and the antennas whirr, giving no more electrical waves.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐳𝐞𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞.

Hunter and prey look upon one another. With a delicate touch of the blade and the hand, the Nora dislodges one of the glowing, red orbs from the skull. At the back, the other canister piece explodes just in time.

…

"𝐈 𝐆𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐓!" 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭'𝘴 arm pierces the air along with his triumphant call. He holds the flickering orb that was once the 𝐑𝐚𝐯𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫'𝐬 eye. It collapses before him, fire spreading around the wires and the parts stripped off the usually resistant armour.

"Thank you for accompanying me in this," 𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰 says, getting up from the spot where the explosion of the 𝐑𝐚𝐯𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫 must have taken him. He grunts a bit. Dust, dirt, washed specks of paint and blood are splattered on him, painting him with the battle.
The Nora does not look much different. He feels the bruises blossoming on his skin, the blood painting his limbs and teeth, and acidic canister fluids burning on his clothes.

𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰 shuffles over to 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭, his arm hooking around the side that had been bluntly hit by the 𝐑𝐚𝐯𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫'𝐬 onslaught.
"Let's go back," he wheezes, barely audible, slurred, with tiredness creeping in his tone.

《_______________________》

An ominously familiar taste of blood lingers on the Nora hunter's tongue. He has been chewing on the inner side of his cheek for the past five minutes. He finds himself pacing in front of the door to Zo's and his room. A new kind of routine awaits him there. But she has not come to rest yet, and the night's chase had been drawn longer than necessary.

During the night within metal-ringed rooms, 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 misses the sound-filled huts of the Nora settlement, just hiding in the shadow of the peaks of Mother's Watch. The usual bummed-out hunters of his tribe that filled the sleeping halls with a nightly atmosphere were now replaced with a kind of echoing, soft metallic voice originating from Zo once in a while. She paces around their room with no end in sight. It was a sing-song by now, which could send him into a slumber. But it missed the slithering of the underwood of the forest, swaying of wind and trees, the sound of trembling machines in the farthest reaches of the lands that were too careful to approach the settlement by night.

𝘚𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵'𝘴 𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘭𝘺 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵. He wanders through the hushed base and can hear the humming of 'servers' that GAIA utilises for the time being. But it is nothing that could sway him into slumber.

𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 hears faint clicking and cluttering within the mechanical whirring among the otherwise nightly quietness. He takes cautious steps around the bar and common area with the soft lights illuminating the various ringed doors. It felt like he approached a goat grazing in the meadows, ready to shoot the next dinner. However, 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 finds himself looking at the Tenakth that had just returned from the hunt with him in the game room. 𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰 has taken to sitting in a nest of bowls of paints, brushes, blankets and cushions. He holds a fragile brush against a crude wooden figure that 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 recognises as the figures used for Machine Strike in his hand. If he was not mistaken, it was no other than a figure of a 𝐑𝐚𝐯𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫.

When he looks up, his face is as dark as the blood oozing from a machine's belly.
𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 straightens his back in response as if he expects the soldier to drop the brush to come and jump at him in response to being met with another face in the dark of the night. He had stalked upon him too quietly.

"Good night, I did not want to intrude."
"You do not intrude. The door is open at all times. But instead of resting, you are out for another pursuit? You were not sneaking, you know?" 𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰'𝘴 face softens slightly as if amused by the other's bad attempt at approaching the room with care.

"I am too tired to sneak and not tired enough to sleep. What about you? Are you painting your Strike figures?"
"𝘔𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘛𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘬𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐧, 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳𝘴."
And 𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰'𝘴 hand motions over to the stump of an arm.
"I had to take a break from working on fixing my weapon."
A short silence follows.

"I have not thanked you properly for the help on our successful hunt. Your tracking skills are quite impressive. Much more than the risk you took to get the 𝐑𝐚𝐯𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫'𝐬 eye."

"Your traps did quite the damage."

"I wanted to try to use alternatives. And it was a good strategy for the place you spotted."

"But you are not resting now? After that success?"

"You are neither," and despite 𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰'𝘴 stoic voice beforehand, it slipped into teasing, a kind of way of accusing 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 of not taking his own advice. However, the glance that he gave left 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 rooted to the spot. His eyes ran from 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭'𝘴 face, down to his throat and shoulders, to his torso, hands, and arms, scanning him with a trained eye. He weighed the options of jumping to his throat between the direct kill through the heart. Without the armour pieces, 𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰 could trace the bruises and marks of the fight with just a glance.

"I- I have been worrying too much about Zo. She, in turn, is pacing wide awake because of the problem with the Landgods. And I cannot help her with them..."

"Right after almost being eaten by a 𝐑𝐚𝐯𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫 because you helped me, you want to go to help the next person? Somehow you are very alike and yet so different from Aloy."

"Nora are not known for their helpfulness, I suppose, but they cannot dare refuse family. Aloy, however, is different when it comes to helping. She makes it a challenge - in every way."

"𝘈𝘤𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘺. 𝘐𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘥𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭. 𝘖𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦𝘥." 𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰 mutters through gritted teeth.

He had his hand gently resting at the stump as if cradling it. The soldier attempts to ease his scrunched-up face; it distorts into a grimace of clenched teeth and shut eyes. When he opens them again, his cool gaze wanders away; he turns his head to the side and catches a breath or two, trying again and holding eye contact with the one that had disturbed him this late.
"Did you take care of your wounds?"
𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭'𝘴 gaze hovered over the stump. He felt as if the slightest stare may hurt as much as if he were to take hold of it. He does not offer help, not this time. The soldier will not ask for it, but it does not stop him from providing his. The hunter shook his head. The answer was obvious enough, with his armour gone and his bare chest covered in bruises, blood drying along with various cuts and burns. Zo could not take care of that for the time being.

"The tattoos of the Tenakth," 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 began with pursed lips as if chewing a bit more on the question as his gaze ran along some of the more delicate lines, along with the warrior's biceps, throat, downwards past what little of his chest was visible and towards the canvas of his stomach. The Nora looked naked in comparison. "How do you decide when to get one, when to eradicate old ones?"
His own body was painted with more painful options to remember a fight by.

𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰 put the brush down beside the 𝐑𝐚𝐯𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫 figure, shuffling on his spot among the blankets and pillows to look at his nightly visitor. 𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰 stirs from his place. 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 comes to sit in the cosy heap the other had collected, not resting much until he returns with pieces of fabric and a bowl of water.

"How do you?" The question was not asked mockingly, it was something of honest curiosity, and a shine in the warrior's eyes told 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 that perhaps there were more questions he wanted to ask but settled on the easiest one.

𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 could not tell whether the Tenakth was a raging river that ripped apart any who dared to venture into its menacing depths or a calm sea appearing like a threat because it was deep enough to swallow you whole.

"𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘴 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘺𝘮𝘣𝘰𝘭𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺."

The blue paint adorning his skin mirrored that of his sister and mother. But 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 had trouble speaking of it. Their marks, their fights, marked his skin. It was not his own deeds etched on him like a canvas of his life - not the same pride painted on the soldier.

"I paint them again every day to remember who my mother is, who my sister was."

Relationships in life don't really end, even if he never sees the person again. Every person he's been close to lives somewhere inside him. His sister, mother, Aloy, and people, both alive and dead, evoke memories, conscious or not.
The Tenakth refused to leave the memories as pictures in their minds. They manifested them upon their skin, their being.

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬.

𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰 raised his hand to gently run his fingertips along some symbols etched into the skin on the right side of his stomach.

"The Tenakth have to own their place and right by the tattoos marking their skin over their life. The Nora mark their skin with the honour of those that came before them." Then the same hand came up to draw a line around the blue paint adorning 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭'𝘴 right eye. "Your mother and sister. How are … were they?" When it is gone, 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 feels a weird ghost of the touch still lingering along the edges, and he can feel the hair on the back of his neck standing. He can see a piece of fabric dunked into the water that looked endless in the small bowl because of the darkness. The artificial lights of the room reflected on its uneven surface.

"My mother is a war chief among the Nora. You and Hekarro would probably get along with her. A ruthless woman. But a mother. Holds a lot of love for her people but does not like anyone to know. She expresses it by demanding that everyone be a warrior that can keep up with her. It is a necessity to keep the tribe and everyone safe."
𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 shivers with the sudden cold touch on the sensitive wounds. Crumbs of dried blood along his shoulder wash away, and the irritated blossoms of bruises welcome the cold.

"Your mother wanted you and your sister to follow in her footsteps?" 𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰 flinched, eyes wide, mouth open, as expressive as 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 had possibly never seen him. The rhythmic touch of the wet cloth on his dark skin came to a halt.

"My mother wanted me to be a big, tall tree. One that spends shadow in the heat and shelter in the rain. My mother made me a big, tall tree to stand firm. But in her wake of teaching, I also became the hawk sitting atop the crown of the tree to watch for the threats and those who find themselves safe underneath. Sometimes, she could not decide whether to keep me safe or let me fight. She has split apart that way: between a war chief and a mother." 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 rambles on for the moment and finds himself in the memories of what it meant to be in the snowy, high-layered lands of the Nora. No metal adorned the landscape beside the machines and the hovering shadow of the colossus atop All Mother's Mountain. He imagines the chilly touch of the cloth to be snow or water sprinkling from a melting waterfall. It continues along his upper arm, and 𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰'𝘴 entire focus radiates between 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭'𝘴 words and the scattered wounds of the nightly hunt.

"Perhaps she had the same problem with my sister. She needed to teach her to be a mother and a warrior. For her, it was difficult to choose. My sister died during her Proving to become a Nora Brave. She died a hero at the hands of the Eclipse. Aloy and Vala would have gotten along great…."

When 𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰 brings up the cold cloth to brush along 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭'𝘴 hands that had a coat of his own blood and that of the 𝐑𝐚𝐯𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫, he puts it aside.
𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰 carefully lifts the brush to add a splotch of paint to the 𝐑𝐚𝐯𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫, faint enough to be an accessory. Its eyes are now glowing red, but one is crossed out. It is but a heartbeat until he continues soothing motions and the palms.

"𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘢 𝘥𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘵 𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘛𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘬𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘢 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘳. Our squads are our families. Loyalty and love among them is what keeps people alive. I think your mother may have been scared that she could not teach your sister enough about being a mother to make her better than herself."

"𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰," 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 barely whispers the name, and the soldier lifts his eyes upwards. "how did you become who you are today?" The Nora's blue war paint tells of who shaped him. He did not understand the markings of the Tenakth enough to know if they did too.

He sighs; he almost jolts upwards to meet 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭'𝘴 glance halfway. 𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰 always speaks truthfully. The bluntness with which he often carries sharp words had taken 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 in a storm before.

"I have recognised that my way is not the intended 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐧. My wings were clipped by others, again and again, when in truth I could already fly. And I have been shunned for it when others had taken it from me. 𝘔𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘛𝘦𝘯, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘱𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯, 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵." When the Tenakth took new water to the washcloth, the water dripping down onto his skin washed away the white paints filling gaps between tattoos.

"𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐧?"

There was no moment of hesitation; not a breath caught in the warrior's throat as if a blade had cut the words from his tongue.

"𝐈𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐝, 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐢𝐫." 𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰'𝘴 eyes are a fire now, the words carrying a flame from his chest that before had almost appeared like it was an ember telling of some forgotten world. 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 feels his breath close as he leans in with every word, every pronunciation. "One does not suffocate in battle but on their own excitement. When one spills the blood of its enemy upon the war's soil - one flies. It is meant to take the fear of falling in combat." A childlike excitement built in his heaving chest, and the edges of his lips pulled upwards. The usual stoic face glows with expression, and the waving arm underlines it. Then it cuts off and tumbles down. "It is the violence in the rain - the hurricane. Battle and flying - I imagine it feels the same. To take flight, one needs two wings."

𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰 did not mourn soldiers who had their honourable death in battle.

𝘏𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧.

And his gaze was back to being everywhere but on 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭, pain returning to a part of his body that was no longer there. 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 feels the same jolt of pain as if some kind of electric static of the 𝐑𝐚𝐯𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫 had been left between the two. The cold of the cloth had disappeared entirely.

There was more worth in loyalty grounded with reason than that of faith. Faith could be lost quickly, broken appendages of a relationship built on brittle trust. 𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰 knew that the Tenakth called deserters to be "broken 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐧". It created unseen wounds in squads not remotely comparable to the death of a squad member. One instilled a burning rage to doom the soldier, and the other honoured them. Perhaps that rage was equal to the hate Nora have for motherless children. Tenakth had their way of dooming those they believed beyond the 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐧, those who cannot return to battle.

'𝘐𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘰?'
'𝘐𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥 𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘥𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳?'
𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 never knew how his mother had accepted it. She would have been more devastated if they had let her be. There never was enough time left to be.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐤𝐭𝐡 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐝.

"I never really thought that I wanted to fly like an owl or a hawk," 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 admits. "but one day I saw Aloy riding through the Nora land's gates on a Charger. It was like being struck by lightning. Like that 𝐑𝐚𝐯𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫 throwing me to the ground. It hurt in a way because I thought I saw something I thought I had needed before but was never allowed to have. I felt like I missed something. And I think flying is like the first time Aloy let me ride a machine. Something I get and never want to lose, something I have missed without knowing I could."

In the destruction and chaos of the old world, the Nora saw a reflective metal piece, revealing what would happen to them if they dared venture too far. 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 had learned to recognise that as a form of a lesson - simply to be accepted. However, they were scared of what could not be explained. It could be defined poorly and only with effort, but it all could.

𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰 perks up in a kind of understanding. His hand returns to tending to 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭'𝘴 wounds haphazardly, remembering what it was doing before.
"𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦, 𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘣𝘪𝘨 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦."

𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰 seemed like when he was a child; he climbed the highest places, the highest mountaintops and ridges. He wanted to get just enough of that rush of wind up there to imagine he could fly. Flying meant escaping and never being bound. 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 is left wondering if that is what he wanted, even if he pledges his words to something else- there is a way with his words. There was a different one with his actions. And a different one altogether for what he must be feeling.

𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 imagines for just a moment: If they were children back in the times of the old ones. They would play and run around the fields like the young Utaru. They never could be a child playing catch and hunt or hide and seek. They always needed to fight.

"I could play as a child. I did, with my sister. But when she was gone, that time was too. I barely remember anything now. Leaving the Nora lands did not help. There are days I regret leaving."

"We all regret leaving that one place. If we did not, however, how different would we be now? You left behind your mother, the Nora - and you went with Aloy. Why?"

"𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬, 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫."

"Why did you?" 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 follows up.

𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰 ponders longer. Long enough that 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 thinks he answered too rashly.
"When I met Aloy, my days as a Tenakth were numbered. The choice I would have been given would be a death of honor in the arena. But Aloy offered an adventure worthy to fill those numbered days. It meant, perhaps, 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐧, I could still fly."
The man's face was scrunched to a grimace at first before softening again into a frown and a gaze skipping about the room. It was not all, but they did not need to say it all.

"I already know what mark will become part of my skin next. I intend to put a memory of this adventure on my skin. Along the great battles, there will be your names and faces and the story told of the defeat of our immortal enemies."

"Where would you put it?"

𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰 raises his hand to put it to his chest.

"Here. Just above my lungs and my heart, for I give this my last breath and heart beat."
They look at one another in awe, as if their minds had the same thought, and 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 had yet to speak it. He simply hums in appreciation.

"It will represent change. When I met Fashav, I knew change became inevitable. Life as a Tenakth became not only about war. A Carja soldier dared to face off against the provings of the Tenakth, barely alive in a culture he knew nothing of except the disillusion of our thirst for blood. It drove me to more, to tattoo my skin with not only machines I have slain. I was trained to kill but the same training meant I could protect. That is one of the things he taught me."

𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰 looked sheepish, with his gaze turning back to the Strike piece whose colours had now dried.

"Meeting Aloy meant another wave of change. She carries that with her. No matter who denies it, she will force it. She is an unpredictable wave of chaos among old orders and I wanted that wave to take me. I could watch people that wanted to see me drown attempting to save themselves without success."

"She has been like that since the day I met her!" 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 exclaimed, face beaming. "You could say she brings a real hurricane wherever she goes."

𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰 halts with the rhythmic probing of 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭'𝘴 wounds. He tells himself that they are not severe enough to have deserved such attention. But that may be his ego speaking: the side that wants to refuse help. When could he listen to better or bad judgement? Where did they dare draw a line?

"𝐖𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐨." The Tenakth murmured. His hand takes the brush after putting aside the watered cloth. His jaw had visibly relaxed, and so did his shoulders. He takes the blue paint for the electrical strikes of the 𝐑𝐚𝐯𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫'𝐬 wooden image up. The brush's tip tickles 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭'𝘴 shoulder and paints past the scratches and over bruises. The hunter does not dare move, once again pinned to the spot by 𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰'𝘴 focused gaze. It was like the soldier came undone from all tension, letting the exhaustion of the day wash over him. A whole dam of it must have been behind a wall built in his mind.

Neither of them said it. 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 does not assume, but his mind tells him that his body runs high on adrenaline again because a wall of his own had broken down.
Someone had gotten to know about him. His skin had no mark of purple blossoms, but instead of electrical, blue. 𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰 creates a deed, a memory of theirs, on 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭'𝘴 skin. He writes it into his flesh, and his blood absorbs the mix of fading pain, exhaustion and tickles.

𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐚 𝐛𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐧𝐨𝐰.

Affection can take many forms. Giving it a name is difficult. For now, it was friends and
family. Sometimes, two people go their whole lives without giving it a name or one for one another. Naming is a time-consuming and challenging process; it concerns essence and means power. But on the nights, who can call him home? The ones where their affection has a name.

They shuffle around the soft nest of blankets and pillows. The clear water of the bowl is a mix of blood and dust.

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦.

The shadow of 𝘒𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰 in the room lingers not too far from him. His breath sounds ragged from the day's exhaustion, but even enough to say he is sleeping. The expression he wears on his face is sleep-smoothed behind smeared paint, earnest and unreadable, radiating both a child's safe dreams and a soldier's alertness.

The long talk added a different kind of exhaustion to the hunt. 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭'𝘴 bones grow heavy. He becomes too tired to talk and tired enough to sleep. He feels his home in the ghost of gentle cold upon fiery wounds. The base metal radiates a cold that left 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘭 wondering if he was not in the winter of the Nora lands after all.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐤𝐭𝐡 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐊𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨 𝐟𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐫𝐚 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐕𝐚𝐫𝐥 𝐟𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐦.

《_______________________》