Chapter Text
She’s just another girl, at first.
Remarkably pretty, of course, and embodying that sort of tough and spark-bright spirit that is so very much his type, but just another girl. He’s been around the more far-flung parts of the Sundom, met plenty of girls like that, even girls who flirt back when he launches into his usual volley of ale-fueled innuendos. He’ll put on his most winning smile, puff out his chest, and pretend for a few moments that he’s worldly and smart and shiny.
And it works. He knows that Ersa frowns on him sleeping around when he’s on these diplomatic missions—he can’t completely ignore the part of him that crumbles at her disappointment—but what’s he to do? She knows how much he hates being taken away from Meridian for weeks at a time. Might as well make the most of it in the ways he can, right?
Well, she doesn’t flirt back, which is his first clue. She doesn’t even seem to realize, and something about her nonplussed reaction is so endearing he isn’t wounded by the rejection. He’s not sure why she’s so interested in Olin of all people, but fair enough. He knows when the game is over.
Still, he finds himself watching her walk away after the Blessing, her fire-red hair tossing in the breeze. He probably won’t see her again. Just like all the other girls.
Up on the mountain, there’s an explosion so loud he can hear it all the way from Mother’s Heart.
The Nora are frantic, naturally. No one seems to want to tell him or Irid anything about what the hell’s going on, but he can hear the whispers. All of the Proving contestants are dead. A band of Shadow Carja ambushed them on the mountain and unleashed a massacre. All those young lives, tragically lost. It isn’t long before one of the Matriarchs, hard-eyed and frowning, comes to fetch them. “You should leave,” is all she says, turning right back around through the door before Irid can sputter up a response.
He has no complaints. Nora land is too cold and he hates the way the villagers glower at him. He thinks about Aloy, the girl with the red hair, and offers a few silent words in her memory.
Ersa is dead, and he has absolutely no fucking idea what to do.
The Carja captain speaks to him with uncharacteristic sympathy given their history, but it all just sounds like a bunch of noises. Red Ridge Pass. There was an ambush, or something, and Ersa and all of her men, slaughtered. He feels sick, wants to puke, but he keeps downing ale anyway because why does it even matter? The tears and vomit all begin to blend together at some point.
He stumbles through the day in a shell shocked haze until he finds himself sitting across from Avad in his chambers, and he learns that he’s the new Vanguard Captain.
Nonsense. This has to be some kind of cruel joke. There’s about three, four—hell, the whole Vanguard’s worth of men who are more qualified than he is. Never mind that the absolute last thing he wants right now is to have actual responsibility.
He glares at Avad, ready to tell him to fuck off in a burst of drunken audacity, but then he sees the look in his eyes and just can’t.
It’s not a joke, though. He’s the Captain.
Fuck.
Drunk as he is, about three flagons deep into his favorite brew, he almost doesn’t believe his ears when he hears her voice float over from the main gate.
He’s hearing things, he has to be. Dead women just don’t up and appear out of the blue. He knows that for certain.
The color of her hair is unmistakable though, so he barrages his way past the guard on duty and puts on his best approximation of a charming grin.
Ersa is dead, then not dead, then dead again. At least this time he can give her the burial she deserves.
It’s all thanks to Aloy. If it wasn’t for her, for the magic jewel on the side of her head… fire and spit, he doesn’t even want to think about it. He’d never have found Ersa, that’s for sure. There’s no way his drunken, stupid ass could have puzzled out that Dervahl had hidden her all the way up in Pitchcliff.
And he’d thought she was just some pretty girl.
She’s still pretty, of course, maybe even prettier now that he knows just how much she’s capable of. Out here, the bright desert sun illuminates her hair and gleams over the contours of her muscles. He thinks of the way she moves when she’s in battle, fluid and lethal, downing Sawtooths with pinpoint shots before he can even swing his hammer twice, and feels something flutter in his chest.
There’s not much reason he needs to be at her side now that they’ve found Ersa, but he’s good at making excuses. (He goes with being her guide around the city.) Sure, he can’t tell if she actually likes having him around or is simply tolerating his presence, but she won’t be in Meridian for much longer, so he’ll take what he can get. He wishes it could be longer. He wants to spend more time soaking in the intoxicating warmth of her presence, catching glimpses of her smile.
He expects the farewell, when it comes, but not the ache. He knows he has no claim over her time, having used up way more than he’d ever deserve on his personal favor. Yet as she waves good-bye and walks through the gate, a hole in his chest suddenly opens, and his stomach drops right through it.
He strides promptly to his favorite tavern and orders a round.
They save the damn world, somehow.
He’s not sure if he should even be surprised anymore, but she comes out of it almost completely unscathed, raising her bow to the cheers of an entire city with a huge grin on her face. It’s all he can do to not pick her up and spin her around, but he’s seen the way she reacts to people touching her, so he makes do with an awkward pat on her shoulder. Leave it to Aloy to bring down a machine the size of the damn Sun Palace and make it seem like an afternoon stroll.
Definitely not just another girl.
His gaze follows her as they make their way down from the Spire. Talanah elbows him with a knowing grin.
All of Meridian wants to see their hero, but he sees the discomfort in her face, so he decides to lend her a hand. He doesn’t want to take her to his home, even though it’s closer—something about that feels too personal, too undeserved—so he shepherds her through the crowds back to Olin’s house. Or rather her house, now that Avad has gifted it to her, though the way she sits stiffly on the couch tells him that it doesn’t quite feel that way to her.
He stands at the doorway, not wanting to impose, and turns to leave as soon as she looks settled. He doesn’t expect her to call out and ask him if he can bring her some food, but what kind of gentleman doesn’t oblige when a girl is hungry? Especially after said girl spent all day saving the world?
As luck would have it, his favorite pork bun stall is pretty close, so he buys as many as his remaining shards can afford, and takes them back to her. He turns to leave as she takes a bite, but he feels her hand grip his sleeve, and she asks him to stay through a mouthful of pork.
Dinner with a pretty girl? Well, he’d have to be a real fool to turn that down. He plops down next to her on the couch and reaches for a bun.
Aloy isn’t much of a talker when she eats. She’s as focused in eating as she is doing everything else, and part of him wonders if she was just being polite, asking him to stay. Though Aloy, concerned about etiquette—there’s a funny thought. He swallows down his pork bun and tries not to stare too much at her. There’s just something magnetic about her freckles. They cover her cheeks like stars, and they’re beyond adorable.
Five pork buns later, and her eyes are drooping. She retreats to the bedroom upstairs, but he lingers a while on the couch, staring at the wreckage of the basement door.
He isn’t good for much, but he is strong, so he makes himself useful picking up the shattered planks. He doubts Aloy will spend much time in this house, judging by the uncomfortable way she carries herself within it, but he’ll at least make sure it isn’t a complete mess if she does. He gathers the steel parts, completely bent out of shape by the pallet she dropped on them. Oseram steel—completely indestructible, or so he’d thought.
Never thought he’d feel kinship with a door.
Turns out she’d been hiding her injuries, and the next day he just so happens to sees her at the medic. She gives him a sheepish look as the healer wraps her arm, like he caught her doing something criminal.
He’s just glad it wasn’t bad enough that she couldn’t hide it.
She shows up at the barracks the day after that, escorted in by a pair of Vanguardsmen who are definitely giggling like children underneath their helmets. She’s leaving already—something important, something personal, she says—and it might be weeks, even months. He knows his face is falling. All he can do is grab a sack of potions from the supplies and push them into her hands.
She smiles, says thank you. And then she’s gone.
The Vanguardsmen rib him about not kissing her, snickering and elbowing him until he’s red in the face. Graveyard shifts for all of them, the bungs.
He can’t let himself think about kissing her. He just can’t. He’s not a particularly smart man, but he knows that if a woman turns him down, he respects that. If Ersa was still here, she would’ve said, no sense in dwelling on the impossible. It’s smart advice. He knows all too well where it leads.
He keeps thinking about it though, wondering about the feel of her in his arms, so much that he can barely pay attention during his shifts.
Well, luckily he has a fix for that, he thinks as he slams some shards down at the tavern that night.
It’s been a few months since she left, and when he’s not on duty, he keeps himself busy helping with the reconstruction efforts. The village was razed to the ground in the attack, and it needs every able body it can get. He has that, at least. So he lifts lumber and transports supplies down from the city storerooms, helps lay foundations in place and nail in supports. It makes him feel better to do some good. Helps him not think about the giant hole yawning in his chest.
She eventually reappears, silent as a shadow, and he doesn’t even know until a Vanguardsman casually mentions spotting her at the markets. He wastes no time in running down there, too excited to feel too hurt that she didn’t seek him out. It’s easy to find her even in the thick swell of the midday crowds—her hair blazes like a bonfire, and the moment he catches sight of her his heart starts to throw itself against his ribs.
When she turns to smile at him he feels like he’s floating on air. He can’t help the grin that spreads across his face, his heart feels like it’s growing ten sizes, and the golden glow of her eyes is so beautiful it makes him ache, and it all hits him so suddenly that for just a second, his slagged-up mess of a brain pulls itself together to a single, undeniable conclusion.
Shit.
He’s in love.