Chapter Text
Kotallo breathes in the hot dry air of No Man's Land. It's warmer here than his homeland in the mountains, yet it’s completely unlike the stifling heat of the Grove. Comfortable, somehow, to his surprise.
Travelling on foot from the Bulwark took days. It gave him plenty of time to reminisce about his initial visit to Barren Light, and the even stranger circumstances bringing him here again today.
The first time, he was barely a man – Not that I would have admitted it at the time, he thinks to himself wryly – still painted with the Sky Clan’s fuchsia and celeste pigments. A delicate peace between the Tenakth clans had been held together by their common enemy: the Carja Red Raiders. Kotallo had been the one to climb into their fort at Barren Light and open its gates from within, leading to the slaughter of the outlanders stationed there, and the destruction of the fort itself. It had been a turning point for both clans: the Carja were humiliated into retreating and abandoning the Daunt, leaving them with a smaller territory than before the Raids had begun. For the Tenakth, it was the victory that had solidified Hekarro's rule, proving that a united tribe was mightier than any foe. Their victory in the Daunt was celebrated with a ten-day feast at the Grove, with a roaring bonfire, free-flowing drinks and shards constantly changing hands as bets were won and lost.
Kotallo is glad this Embassy will be a peaceful occasion, but he cannot claim to be looking forward to it: even the most patient Tenakth are no match for a Sun-Priest with a captive audience. Beyond the boredom of formality, saying farewell to Fashav will be bittersweet. He will return home, as he wishes, but Kotallo will likely never see him again. The two were made Marshals at the same Kulrut, the first one after the Battle of the Daunt and the culminating event of the festivities that followed. Fashav, a former Carja general, was a prisoner at the Grove. He demanded the rite, barely knowing what it was, and against all odds, succeeded.
Fashav had in some ways been a more natural fit for a Marshal than Kotallo. His long military career and familiarity with the Jewel in the Carja Sundom, closer in climate to the Raintrace than Kotallo’s mountain home, were boons the younger man lacked. Fashav was wiser, more patient and more ruthless, all traits that endeared him to their Chief.
In contrast, Kotallo's prowess in clambering up the faces of cliffs and forts was rarely needed, and stealth was a different game altogether in the wet and dense terrain of the Raintrace rather than the open snowy landscapes of his youth. His first season was… “humbling”, is how Fashav put it. Kotallo, never one to dance around his own faults, might have opted for “humiliating” or “disgraceful”.
But Kotallo did have some advantages over Fashav. He knew the ways of the Tenakth, the lore of the Ten and their Wings, and the history of the three Clans, and Fashav was eager to learn. They sat many long nights by a smouldering campfire, exchanging stories. Kotallo found it fascinating to hear about the lands of the East. Fashav found it eased his homesickness to share his tales. While many of the other Tenakth, even the other Marshals, remained wary of the Carja and uneasy with reminders of Fashav's past, Kotallo embraced him unreservedly. Maybe it was that Kotallo was young, or that his family had been insulated somewhat from the Red Raids in the far reaches of Sky Clan territory, or maybe that his curiosity was greater than his caution. Whatever the reason, Kotallo and Fashav were soon inseparable.
The Sky Clan squad Kotallo is bringing to the Embassy are like family to him. His bond with Fashav is closer still, like a brother. In battle, he is like another set of limbs. They have been apart for weeks, as Fashav had gone ahead to Barren Light with some of the Marshals while Kotallo went to the Bulwark. Kotallo misses him dearly, but is dreading how this meeting will be a goodbye.
Kotallo comes around the last corner before the gates at Barren Light and surveys the scene: the other Marshals are all here, catching up with old friends from the Desert and Lowland Clans, or chatting amongst themselves. A few are watching, from a respectful distance, a conversation going on near the gate itself. Kotallo follows their line of sight.
Fashav stands just inside the boundary line, but his entire attention is on the woman standing at arm's length opposite him. He stands at least a head taller than her. She's dressed like nobody Kotallo has ever seen. Certainly not Tenakth or Utaru, but she also has no Oseram leathers or Carja silks. What was the tribe beyond the Carja territory? Banuk? No, the headdress is wrong… It’s a Carja headdress, but… could she be Nora? As far as Kotallo knows, the last Nora to make it this far west was nearly two decades ago, a “Death Seeker” whose bow remains at the Arena to this day.
Suddenly – her face slips from his gaze – he finds himself staring at his own feet. Tripping on nothing, like a fumbling recruit!, he thinks, shaking his own head in embarrassment. He pays no mind to whether anyone else has seen it. His eyes are on her again, compelling him forward. Of their own volition, his feet have taken their own path, heading straight towards Fashav and the woman.
Her flame-red hair! He's never seen anything like it. The Carja headdress she is wearing is worth at least an armful of Thunderjaw hearts. The rest of her armour and kit are equally impressive. There’s a quiver at her hip, and he notices that even as her eyes never leave Fashav, she’s counting how many arrows are in it, over and over. Her fingers move quickly, like this is something she’s done countless times before. This is no ordinary traveller, but an expert hunter, that much he can see.
Fashav sees it too, he thinks, and something more. Kotallo knows him, knows that he is not a trusting man, by nature or by lived experience. Fashav must know this woman well, and trust her absolutely, as he is employing none of his typical Marshal swagger.
Kotallo is close enough now to see the emotions on the woman’s face. The Carja court prizes those who maintain a neutral expression, without giving away emotions and secrets, Fashav had told him. This woman is clearly not known to him from court then. She looks at turns relieved, impatient, amused, doubtful and in awe.
Kotallo is steps away from them now, but their conversation has them so rapt with one another that neither of them has noticed him. He sees Fashav look away from her for a moment and toward his hip, and his hand rests on the dagger he holds there, a functional one used often for stripping machine carcasses or fletching arrows. But then he stops and grabs instead the colourful dagger from the front of his armour, the one that is held just over his heart every day. He hands it, his token, to her. She takes it in both hands.
Kotallo stops dead in his tracks. He knew Fashav had had lovers in the Carja Sundom, and he knew Carja customs for pairing were not quite like the Tenakth’s, but he did not expect a proposal like this, here and now.
It must be important to him to do this as soon as possible, to know she will accept his token and wear it proudly, marking them as two soldiers pledged to one another, even before the Embassy begins. It makes sense now, the way their conversation seemed so intense, nearly frenzied, like they had a thousand things to say to one another as soon as they met again.
Then Kotallo hears a horn, followed by Regalla’s voice shouting Fashav’s name. She sits atop a Clawstrider on the crest of the cliff, surrounded by her rebel army. This will be no quiet Embassy after all.
Recovering in the Grove’s medical bay later, Kotallo can only remember glimpses from the battle, his memories distorted by the searing pain in his arm.
Fashav in a stance Kotallo had never seen, both feet planted firmly in the ground, and his voice booming, "To me!" The Carja soldiers, previously floundering like gilded parrots, have a new life breathed into them by his words, and flock to Fashav without hesitation.
Next, in a blink of an eye, he sees only the two Nora, clad in furs and indigo blue, taking position between the wounded Marshals and Regalla's forces. Why would they…? This is not their fight! He hears the voice of the Nora huntress. She's taunting Regalla, diverting her and Grudda's attention. It's so reckless that he can't help but grin at the sheer brazenness of it.
Then, a Bristleback is headed towards him, and towards High Marshal Javveh. There is no time. His hands are empty. No time to find a weapon. He digs his heels in, braces for the impact. The only thing he can hear are the machine’s grinder discs, closer and closer to his left arm. To let go would be a death sentence for him and Javveh both. To hold on is to lose his arm. He holds on.