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The smell of herbs and spices wafts through the air, steam rising off the bubbling soup she’s spent the last two hours toiling over. She remembers Rost’s instructions very clearly, leaving the pot simmering for too long will melt your meat to nothing but an unpleasant mush, but not long enough and you won’t have made it as easily digestible as needed. Maybe 8 years old and battling her first bout of a chest aching flu was when she was first given this soup, warmth having done well to soothe the pain that had built in her body, though now she wonders if that was really the soup’s doing, and not instead having her usually so rigid father be so tender by her side as he’d lifted the wooden spoon to her dry lips.
And now she stands over the pot, looking down at the now dying down bubbles as she removes it from the fire below, wearily setting it down on the already stained steel countertop after months of use by not just her, but her compatriots. A second pot already sits on the counter, boiled herbs trapped in a cloth bag steeping in the now cooled liquid, reaching for a cup and careful as she fills it with the sweet scented tea, a spoonful of honey doing well to curve the sharpness of the ginger — a remedy suggested by Zo, the root commonly used in soothing that incessant scratch in a sick mans throat. The cup is set on a tray before ladling soup into a bowl, taking care not to spill even a drop of nutrition, though in truth that has more to do with her having no interest in cleaning not just these pots, but the countertop too.
When she pokes her head into the dimly lit room, she’s met with nothing but the soft snores from under the blankets and carefully, she sets the tray down besides the bed roll. The soft thud is enough for Kotallo to stir, heap of blankets moving before he’s lifting his head blearily, nose tinged with red sniffing as his stomach grumbles loudly, “You didn’t have to do this for me.”
“Hm?” Aloy cocks her head at him curiously, “Would you rather I let you starve?”
The look he sends her is deadly, dark eyes boring into hers before he finds his head spins just a moment too long for him to fire back with as much gusto, instead falling back against the wall with a huff, “You know what I meant.”
“You’ll feel much better with something in your stomach,” he’s gone two days without food, struggling to find the appetite to even try keep more than just tea down, and she hopes that his body’s very loud pleas are a sign of his slow recovery. Her eyes scan over him critically, before she frowns, “Kotallo, you have to eat.”
This time when he looks at her, it’s with misery written all over his face. He’s headstrong and proud, never one to admit when he’s in pain but even he can’t maintain a façade of strength with how worn down he feels, skull too heavy on his shoulders and a deep seated ache that refuses to leave his very bones. Aloy regards him in silence before she sits down besides him, not unlike how Rost once did with her, feeling the feverish warmth radiating off his body as she reaches for the bowl of soup, looking up at him expectantly. Despite his illness, he can’t help the way his mouth waters and slowly, reluctantly, he tilts his head just a fraction lower.
He concedes a battle that was never truly taking place, nothing but care and worry in Aloy’s movements as she lifts the spoon to his lips, sitting close enough to him that he can drink in not just the warm soup, but the comfort of her body next to his, having stayed silent on how much he wishes she would just lie down with him for fear of inadvertently coercing her into sacrificing her duties for his sake. Spoonful by spoonful, she sits with him patiently until the she scrapes against drying wood, not even a shred of meat left behind and upon a second inspection, she’s pleased to see just a little more colour in his usually painted face. She’s also surprised to find his gaze once more trained on her, not quite so grouchy now.
“Something on my face?” she quips, only to be met with a soft, albeit tired, smile.
“Thank you,” he says, leaning in to press his forehead to hers, “You don’t owe me such patience.”
The silence from Aloy is weighted, brows knitting together once more before her lips graze his cheek, lifting one hand to cup his jaw and pulling back mere milimeters to hold his eye contact, “No, I don’t. I’m doing this because I want to help you,” her words are soft, like honey soothing his sore throat as she presses a soft kiss to his forehead, “I don’t like seeing you so unwell. If me sitting next to you and spoonfeeding you a bowl of goddamn soup is what it’ll take to get you to eat, then I’ll do it any day of the week.”
“Wow, any day?” but his smile is brighter than she’s seen from him in days, leaning against her and resting his head against the crook of her neck with his arm curling over her waist and she almost marvels at how easily he fits against her, bowl set down on the tray before she runs fingers through his locs, “Still, thank you, Aloy.”
Before she has the chance to assure him that she’s done nothing worth being thankful for, she feels his grip over her tighten a fraction before he lies heavier against her, flu doing well to send the marshal back to dreamland and all she can do is smile softly, shuffling just enough to get comfortable before resting her chin on his head. She presses one last kiss to his head, bringing her arms over his shoulders in a comforting hug and for a moment, she’s not so sure it’s to comfort him, finding security in the weight of his body on top of hers, the sturdiness of now relaxed muscle under her touch, quelling the worry that had been brewing across the last days.
It seems it wasn't just Kotallo in desperate need of comfort, finding that for the first time in days, she's being tempted by the promise of a restful slumber and this time, she can't find it in herself to turn it down. Her eyelids grow heavy of their own volition and she only turns her head to blow out the nearest candle, shrouding them in shadow and giving her mind just that last signal it needed to finally succumb to the darkness that beckons, joining her marshal in his blissful dreams.