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Chapter Text

Seyka often jokes about that day. How she had initially set out to hunt Widemaws to repair her skiff, but had ended up capturing the heart of a Nora warrior instead.

It had begun inconspicuously enough, on an unremarkable afternoon punctuated with just another task that needed finishing, another malfunction that needed mending. If anything, it would give Seyka a chance to clear her head after what had been a long year. She had certainly had her fair share of surprises following the expedition, where, among other things, she had sailed the strange, unfamiliar waters beyond the Great Delta; had survived a ferocious typhoon that had separated the other half of the Quen fleet; and had finally made landfall on a hostile shore populated by rivers of fire and otherworldly machines.

All this before mentioning any of the perils that had awaited them upon setting up camp: the disappearance of her sister, the discovery of Diviner Vai’s broken and battered body on the shore, her decision to don his focus and, in doing so, incurring the wrath of Compliance . . .

After all that, she thought she had seen it all.

That is, until she looked up.

Aloy’s face crinkles up in a combination of amusement and embarrassment when she reminisces.

In her words, she had fallen hard -- first from the Sunwing (literally) -- and then from within (foolishly). It had been a strange stroke of luck, that of all the people she would practically crash-land into, it had been Seyka standing there on that beach. But when she lets herself think about that luck, and then how she, an outcast Nora girl, and Seyka, a Quen marine -- two young women from opposite sides of the world -- had managed to find their way to each other, her smile fades, and is replaced with something else.

Disbelief.

Awe.

The two feelings blur together, spurred on by a few words from a certain Sunhawk that she recalls more and more each day now.

“One day you’ll know what I mean.” Talanah’s voice echoes in her mind, as does the memory of Aloy’s own skeptical reaction. For the past two years, and her entire life before that, her whole world had been defined by moving from one goal to the next: first the Proving, then restoring Gaia, dealing with the Zeniths, and now Nemesis.

Cultivating a relationship had seemed so incredibly impossible that she had practically shoved aside the thought, buried it deep below a commitment to her personal mission. Yet despite all her convictions, she could not help but feel a small pill of longing when she thought of Talanah and Amadis, Varl and Zo, and all of the other young couples she had met on her journey. Each had found their way to the other. She feels foolish to admit that she had had her doubts, to admit that she ever cared in the first place. Still, she remembers the questions that had wormed in her mind: would she ever understand? Could she?

Aloy allows herself a soft smile now as she recalls even that uncertainty, that belief that she would always walk alone. But now, as her thoughts drift to a certain marine with long black hair inlaid with mother-of-pearl, as she feels her breath hitch in her throat, her pulse quicken, her palms dampen . . . 

She finds she can hardly recognize herself.

Oh, Talanah. Never thought that day would come so soon, huh?

Chapter Text

Seyka is no stranger to feeling alien to even herself.

In the weeks following the disappearance of her sister, she feels like a woman possessed. She wakes up later than she wants to, finds it more difficult to fall asleep each night, spends hours gazing into the distance. The simple joys that she had appreciated before: the taste of a certain dish, the crackle in the air after discharging a plasma blast, the sound of the gulls at dawn -- all of these seem to have lost their edge. She paces.

A small part of her is acutely aware of the fact that she must look insane. She can practically hear the whispers about her behind her back, the long stares -- some pitying, others curious, and still others disdainful. It’s no secret to her why the others draw away when she is near, practically scuttling off to their tents like crabs beneath the sand. 

She’s stifled. Has to get out of the camp, away from all the whispering, the staring.

Her feet carry her to the shore, the source of an ancient comfort. She can take to the water as gracefully as a Waterwing, diving above and below the waves, but now, in the dying sunlight, she chooses to ruminate, her elbows and chin tucked above her knees as she settles atop a rock overlooking the sea.

She knows that Compliance isn’t far behind -- Officer Rheng and his toadies are probably spying on her from the ruins or the bushes at this very moment -- but she doesn’t care. Can’t bring herself to care. 

Instead, she stares into the water.

The woman staring back at her is a stranger. 

For one, she’s gaunt. Her eyes are cast in shadow, tired and restless. She’s frowning, the spirited marine she once was sunken deep below the waves.

And she’s wearing a focus.

Seyka’s hands reach up self-consciously to brush against the device, half disbelieving, half ashamed that it is somehow on her head. It feels wrong somehow, deeply profane, and seeing her own reflection in the water only reinforces that fact.

Diviner Vai’s face flashes in her mind’s eye, his broken and bloodied body splayed out across the sand, and she curls her lip in disgust at herself. It should be him, alive, guiding her people, not her. 

She rips the focus off her head, clutching it in one hand, and pulls back her arm to toss it into the sea. 

But something stops her. 

Kina. Her sister’s bright eyes replace the image of Diviner Vai, and she is flooded with memories of their youth, when they would splash together in the sea beyond the Great Delta. A stronger swimmer, Seyka would dive deep to gather seashells for their mother, while Kina would sit atop the skiff with a basket, content to sit back and gaze at the stars. 

Even as children, it was clear who they would become in the future.

Seyka falters, trembling, her initial anger replaced by a profound sense of fear. 

She hugs the focus to her chest, scrambling away from the edge of the rock, away from the treacherous surf. There’s no way she can lose it now -- not when it’s her only hope of reuniting with her sister.

“I’m not letting you go,” she whispers, half pleading, half reassuring herself. “I’m not letting you go.”

Aloy had thought much the same the day before the Proving, watching Rost lumber off into the distance, his raven-feather cape billowing in the wind.

She can recall the cold feel of the amulet in her hand, now a clenched fist, fighting back the tears and the cry of grief that threatens to release from her throat. Part of her is tempted to throw it to the ground as well -- cut Rost from within just as deeply as he had her. 

Instead, she stands, rooted to the ground, watching him leave.

Completely helpless.

How could he do this? Aloy wails internally. Her mind reels. She can’t go through this again, can’t be abandoned by the one person who was there for her from the moment she first opened her eyes. How could he?  Bitter anger wells up within her. Of all people, he should know how much pain it had caused her to be shunned by the Nora -- to do the same to her feels nothing short of a betrayal. 

She whirls around toward the swirling river behind her, envisioning herself dropping the amulet into the tumbling water, letting her own grief be swept away by the current. For a few precarious seconds the amulet dangles by its string from her fingertips, mere meters above the churning surface. 

Aloy loosens her grip, trembling, watching as it slips from her grasp . . .

A single snowflake flutters onto her hand. 

For a moment she is transfixed, utterly frozen. 

But then another lands after the first. And then another, and another, falling from the sky in a sudden flurry of powder, gaining speed, kicked up by wind, until Aloy is engulfed in it, and the world is swallowed up by darkness.

All she can hear is the howling wind, and the sting of snow slicing against her cheeks.

She lifts her arms to cover her face, still clutching the amulet, then lifts her feet and finds she is ankle-deep in snow. 

For a while all Aloy can do is walk. Put one foot in front of the other, even as she is whipped by wind, stumbling blind in the darkness, and freezing from the inside out.

A light beams through the dark. Aloy blinks rapidly to clear her eyes of snow -- it’s clinging to her eyelashes now -- and she knows she is not mistaken. Beyond the trees, a cabin is silhouetted darker against the storm. A rattling knell sounds through the air as dry branches clatter against its eaves, but Aloy’s attention is drawn to the source of the light.

She can see through the cabin’s window. 

It’s candlelit, and in the soft glow she can make out an old, bearded man, with hair pulled back in braids and blue warpaint adorning his face. He’s puffing a pipe and turning a block of wood in his weathered hands, skillfully peeling back bark with an old knife.

A redheaded child is there, too, at his feet -- lying on her stomach, feet dangling in the air, before the roaring fireplace. He nudges her, and she turns up to look at her father -- for he is her father, even if she doesn’t know it yet -- a smile splitting her face as she is presented with the finished product: a wooden strider. 

She can’t hear what they’re saying, but she knows they’re laughing, can see it in the man’s crinkled eyes, in the girl’s beaming grin. 

It hits Aloy like a rampaging Charger, knocking the wind from her. 

In that moment she knows she was loved, had felt it as deeply and as surely as the mighty oaks within the Sacred Valley, had felt it flowing through her veins like the rivers in the spring snowmelt, had known it so intimately and had breathed it in so deeply that she had hardly ever known it was there. 

The sensation of water dribbling down her hand rouses her, and her eyes fly open.

She’s standing back on the cliff overlooking the river, just outside Mother’s Heart, the memory receding now, though still raw with fresh pain. The snowflake is melting on her hand, and with it Aloy allows the tears to fall, streaming down her cheeks in a liberating rush of grief. 

Choked sobs are yanked from her chest now, her legs buckling as the air is snatched from her lungs in ragged gulps.

How could I have been so foolish? She chastises herself. My whole life I’ve been searching for answers, searching for love, from a people who can’t even call me their own. But Rost . . .

She clutches the amulet, blinking through streaming eyes to reassure herself that it’s still there in her hand, desperately clinging to it and her last words to him:

“Wherever you go, I can follow.” 

Aloy forces herself to believe her own words now, despite her crumbling conviction. She wipes her eyes, draws in a few deep, shaky breaths, and rises to her feet.

All this can wait for our reunion, she thinks, a weak glimmer of hope blossoming in her chest. A chance to thank him, really thank him. A chance to go home. But first . . . 

She pockets the amulet, this time with an added air of caution, reverence, then double checks to make sure it is stowed safely in her pouch. Only then does she turn to face the gates of Mother’s Heart. 

She squares her shoulders.

I have the Proving to win. 

It shouldn’t bother her as much as it does. 

Still, Seyka can’t shake the burning ache in her heart as she trudges back to Fleet’s End,  dragging the carcass of an Apex Burrower after her. She hadn’t needed to kill it, in truth, but returning to camp empty-handed would certainly raise far more suspicions by Compliance; it was better to pretend that she had been productive, instead of spending the morning training with Diviner Vai’s focus. 

Her thoughts drift back to just a few hours earlier, when she had been playing with the device’s interface. She would be lying if she were to say she wasn’t a little confused. For all its perceived uses, fundamentally the focus is a glowing mess of unintelligible lights, with even stranger and more foreign runes. 

How did I ever even get it to work in the first place? She wonders, not for the first time. It had fallen into her possession not long after Diviner Vai had breathed his last, his crumpled body sinking limply in her arms. She had been half overcome with shock and grief to properly understand what was going on when the focus began to project his last moments, like a charlatan might materialize any number of things from thin air.

In fact, the focus had pulled the same trick earlier that day, sending projections of those strange, spider-like machines Diviner Vai had faced rushing toward her. The vision had startled Seyka so badly, that, in a moment of panic, she had practically thrown her blade, chipping its serrated edge against a boulder.

Hence: her current situation. Though an admittedly weaker machine, the Apex Burrower's heart, circulator, and metal exterior should yield enough shards to arrange for a specialist to repair her blade. That is, if she can even make it back to camp.

The sensation of the Burrower snagging against a rock snaps her back to the present. Seyka whirls around, yanking on its tail, but it holds fast, only sending up a spray of sand. She sighs and releases it, then stalks around its flank to try to pull it out the other way instead. Still, it refuses to give.

Seyka sets her jaw and gets down on her knees to try and find exactly where it is snagged. She spots it quickly: a leg is hooked under the rock, and she’s forced to go prone as she fishes it out. 

Stupid Burrower! Her hair comes undone from its ponytail as the machine is finally yanked free, sending her sprawling backwards across the sand. For a moment she’s left panting, her hair sticking up wildly, her face covered in sand and sweat. 

The situation would almost be laughable if it wasn’t so humiliating. I must look like a barbarian, Seyka finds herself thinking, getting to her feet. An image of red hair and bright green eyes flashes in her mind’s eye, and she freezes, momentarily caught off guard. Not that barbarian, she amends quickly, fighting back a surge of embarrassment. Suddenly feeling very hot, she grabs the Burrower by the tail once again and sets off toward Fleet’s End.

As she approaches the main gate, a pair of soldiers spot her and quickly avert their eyes. She clamps her mouth shut, killing the greeting on her tongue before she has a chance to vocalize it. These were her comrades -- by the Ancestors, they had sailed the ocean together, survived the typhoon and dwindling supplies, worked side by side to land on this foreign shore -- and they can’t even look her in the eyes.

So much for loyalty. A bitter taste wells up in Seyka’s mouth. After fighting together, bleeding together, she had always assumed her ties to her people and her comrades had been forged in blood. Not so.

Seyka lifts her chin as she marches past the soldiers, refusing to give them the satisfaction of diminishing her. Neither moves a muscle to help her with the carcass, prolonging the awkward moment, but she refuses to let herself be humiliated. Beyond the gate, the camp is a bustling hub of activity: guards patrol the beach, laborers carry crates of kelp and fruits, and cooks hover over roaring fires.

She scans the crowd, hoping to spy a familiar face -- and spots him, hunched over his workshop. He’s an older man, his gray hair thinning atop a gourd-like head, and his hands are stained with machine oils. 

“Jori,” Seyka calls, hailing him as she approaches. 

Jori practically jumps out of his skin at the sound of her voice. “Seyka!” He says, then cuts himself off, glancing around nervously. “W-what are you doing here?” His voice projects loudly, stiffly. 

Seyka rolls her eyes. “Jori. I just need your help scrapping this Burrower. Okay? It shouldn’t take long at all for you.” She drops its carcass at his feet, nudging it in his direction.

Jori’s eyes gleam with interest for a moment, but he quickly resumes his air of caution. “I -- I’m afraid I can’t help you,” he says, louder. A couple of Quen glance his way but otherwise ignore him. “N-new business hours. Shop’s closed.”

“Jori, I can see you working on that Widemaw back there.”

Jori squirms, his expression torn, then drops his voice. “Seyka, I really shouldn’t be talking to you,” he hisses. “It’s bad enough that we were friends before. Compliance is itching for a chance to shut down my shop, lock me up.” He casts another nervous glance around him. “They’re probably watching us right now.”

Seyka scoffs. “Lock you up? For what -- doing your job? Come on, Jori, this will be quick. I just need the heart --”

“I’m sorry, Seyka.” Jori shakes his head, his gaze pleading. “But I can’t afford to lose my business.”

The tent flap behind him opens, and a child peeks out, no older than seven. Seyka recognizes her: Jori’s granddaughter. Her heart twists. They used to skip rocks along the shore together in the early days of the expedition, a futile bid to distract against their circumstances.

“Veera,” Jori hisses. “Back inside. Now.”

“But I want to say hi to Seyka,” the child protests.

“Not right now,” Jori begins. “We’re very busy--”

“Do as your grandfather says,Veera,” Seyka cuts in, her voice gentle. 

Veera meets Seyka’s gaze. “Will we be able to play again soon?” She asks, hopefully, her gaze darting between the marine and her grandfather.

“I’m sure we will,” Seyka replies. She crouches down so that they are at eye level. “I still have to show you how to get five skips out of a rock, remember?”

“Yeah!” Veera beams, shuffling forward. “I got three the other day -- you should have seen it!”

“That’s great. Next time you’ll have to show me, okay?” Seyka reaches forward and tucks a loose lock of hair behind Veera’s ear. “But for now, your grandfather and I have much to talk about.”

“Ok,” Veera breathes, a little deflated. Then, cautiously: “See you soon?”

“See you soon.”

The pair exchange smiles and Veera darts away, ducking behind the tent flap.

Jori lets out a deep sigh after a few moments. “She misses you, you know.”

Seyka doesn’t meet his gaze, rising to her feet. “I know.”

“Listen, Seyka . . .” Jori begins, his voice trailing off.

“Before you ask me why I did it, Jori, you know,” Seyka grits out. She turns around to meet his eyes, her own blurring over with tears. “I would have done the same for her.” She nods her head toward the tent and, without a backwards glance, marches away. 

By all accounts she should have frozen to death.

Part of Aloy can’t begin to understand how the Banuk do it -- survive here, in the Cut, where the wind howls, the snow rages, and temperatures plummet; let alone further north, in the depths of Ban-Ur. Even as a child raised in the Embrace, where snow is no stranger, she has her limits.

Still, seated comfortably inside Ikrie’s tent, covered in enormous fur blankets and with a roaring fire just a few paces away, she can see the appeal. 

“Try this,” Ikrie says, passing her a bowl of steaming soup. “It’ll keep you warm out here.” The Banuk huntress’ face is red, shining from their last hunt together. She looks better than when Aloy had left her last, following her decision to leave her tribe and wander the wilderness alone.

“Thanks,” Aloy takes the bowl, savoring the feel of the warmth seeping into her hands. She takes a sip cautiously, then smiles. “This tastes amazing.”

Ikrie smiles. “An old recipe from my former werak,” she explains. “With a few extra things, namely spices from the Carja traders down south.”

“So you’ve been exploring!” 

“I have,” Ikrie’s voice is tinged with a touch of pride. “Being a snow-ghost has its own benefits, as I’m sure you know. No responsibilities, no stiff tribal laws, no fear of being rejected or judged. Plus,” she says, lifting her bowl, “better cooking. Growing up in Ban-Ur, everything was either frozen solid or boiled.”

Aloy lets out a laugh. “It wasn’t much better in the Embrace, either,” she says good-naturedly. “I hadn’t realized how different food could be until I traveled to Meridian. But I got lucky. I --” Her voice falters for a minute, her thoughts cast back to Rost. “I knew someone who cooked really well, actually.”

“Do you miss it at all?” Ikrie asks.

“What -- his cooking?”

“Well, that. And the Embrace. Where you grew up.”

Aloy cocks an eyebrow. “Do you ?”

“Here and there.” Ikrie leans back, her gaze thoughtful. “I don’t miss the people so much. Not that there is much to miss with them. But there is one thing . . .”

“What’s that?” Aloy leans forward, her ears pricking up in interest. Out of all the tribal homelands, Ban-Ur seemed the most swathed in mystery. Maybe I’ll be able to see it, someday. 

Ikrie smiles and taps a finger to the side of her temple. “Memories.” She lets out a gusty sigh. “Every tree, river, and boulder had a memory that I could recall just by looking at it. Scraped knees, chipped arrowheads, machine accidents. Even the smell of the air was different. The scent of the first blossom after the snowmelt. The way the sun cast its light against the snow.” Her voice is wistful, but her gaze is troubled. 

“You want to go back,” Aloy realizes.

Ikrie shakes her head. “There’s nothing for it now. I left that part of my life behind.” She meets Aloy’s gaze. “I’m sure you feel that way about the Embrace.”

“I --” Aloy opens her mouth to protest, but Ikrie interrupts her.

“I can tell.” The edge of her lips quirks up in a small smile. “You never speak of it.”

“What’s there to say?” Aloy can’t help but feel a little defensive. “I had a tribe there, but they didn’t want me. I was abandoned by the people I trusted. Like you, I didn’t look back.”

“But you still returned to save them when they needed you,” Ikrie reminds her.

“Anyone would have done the same.”

Ikrie shrugs. “I wouldn’t be so optimistic. I can’t say that I would.”

“But you did. For Mailen.”

Ikrie blinks in surprise. “That was different. We grew up together.” She lowers her gaze, shifting in her seat.

Aloy doesn’t push the subject. Ikrie has never said it out loud, but she can recognize the longing in her voice, the raw ache disguised just beneath the surface whenever the topic of Mailen is brought up. It’s clear to her that Ikrie was in love with her former friend.

The thought flares a sudden surge of anger. After everything they’ve been through, saving her life, Mailen just . . . walks away. The obvious is staring her in the face, too. Even after a whole year, she still hasn’t been able to fully talk about Rost. Not without remembering their painful last words, and how she had failed to express her gratitude toward him while he was still alive. He died thinking I resented him. Regret clutches at her chest, deeper than any wound by a Frostclaw or Scorcher. 

“I’d do it again, though.” Ikrie says, suddenly. When Aloy doesn’t respond, she elaborates, lifting her head. Her gaze is wistful, but there’s an air of pride in her voice now, a sense of conviction born without regrets. “I’d do it all over again.” 

Her words hang in the air for a few beats.

Aloy lets out a small exhale. 

“Me too.”

Outside, the wind howls on.

Seyka knows that she should feel triumphant, but she doesn’t.

There’s relief, to be sure -- deep, aching relief, but also rage, confusion, and fear.

Most of all there’s emptiness.

She’s standing in a lush field of greens and flowers in Walter’s base, the dead Slaughterspine still sparking in a crumpled heap nearby. Something heavy rests in her hand -- her sword, still chipped, covered in machine oils and shards. There’s a ringing in her ears, and as she slowly comes to her senses she realizes that she’s covered in blood, sweat, and the stench of smoke.

But none of that matters now. 

Not when her sister is huddling beneath an overhang mere meters away.

She can hardly believe it.

Kina’s alive. She’s alive and she’s safe. Seyka lets in a deep breath, feeling her heart slow and the rush of adrenaline finally begin to recede. I did it. I made it just in time. 

All those weeks spent worrying, repairing her skiff, testing the blast radius of the tower, searching, digging, fighting, hunting . . . All those weeks spent persecuted by Compliance, shut out by her allies . . . After all that, her efforts had finally borne fruit, and she had saved her sister.

Still, she can hardly bring herself to move. 

She can’t stop reliving the moment in her head, back in the Park, the words that had come out of Kina’s mouth.

“Just do as Walter says. Clear your mind. Forget everything: your Ancestors, your past, even your family.” Kina’s eyes had been shining, her face practically alight with the strength of her newfound devotion to that . . . monster. 

She had been so willing to forget me. So ready. 

Seyka’s eyes burn with that now-familiar feeling: the realization that all she had grown to love and to trust in her tribe, especially in these strange new lands, were abandoning her, one by one. 

She’s once again hit by that sense of despair she had felt when Aloy had told her the truth of what was coming to earth. 

What was all this for? What was the point? 

“Seyka.” The voice comes from somewhere behind her, low and soft. “Are you okay?”

“I . . .” Seyka can hardly find her words. 

“Hey,” Aloy says, moving into her field of vision. The Nora huntress’ eyes are wide with concern. She gently reaches forward to peel the sword out of her grasp -- how long have I been holding that? -- then produces a flask of water. “You’re bleeding.”

“What?” Seyka’s still in a daze, but she can still register just how close Aloy is, the way her hands reach forward to casually assess her wounds, grazing feather-light across her skin. “Oh.” Aloy gently pours the water over one of the gashes across her forearm -- where the Slaughterspine had blasted her with one of its plasma cannons -- before gently rubbing a poultice of crushed berries across the wound. 

Seyka knows she can take care of herself; she has her mariner’s kit somewhere in one of her pouches, containing food and medicine, but she’s frozen to the spot. She decides to let herself be taken care of, just this one time. 

It feels nice. 

“Here -- drink some of this,” Aloy presses the flask into her hands, not meeting her gaze. “You need to keep your strength up.”

The gesture is small, yet it reminds Seyka all too well of the casual intimacy she had once shared with her comrades, passing the bottle and swapping stories after a long day of manning the ship. Before she knows it, she’s choked up, the well in her eyes releasing at last.

“Seyka?” Aloy is staring at her now, her mouth slightly agape.

“I --” Seyka begins. Growing horror forms in the pit of her stomach. I can’t be seen like this! Instead, she sputters, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? For what?”

“For -- for this.” Seyka shakes her head, frustrated with herself for not being able to find the right words. “You didn’t have to come out here to help. You didn’t have to do this for me, or her. But you did. And now . . .” The tears are really coming down now. 

Oh, Ancestors. Why is this so hard?

“Of course, Seyka. I would always help.”

Aloy’s voice is firm, and Seyka is startled for a moment with its intensity. Her surprise doesn’t last long though -- how could it, not after Aloy had shown up for her time and time again?

“Yes,” Seyka draws in a ragged breath. “But that’s just it. We came all this way to find her, save her, but this entire time she didn’t need saving. She wanted to be here. After all this -- losing my rank, the respect of my people, their love , and now her . . .” Her voice is coming out in breathless, quiet sobs now. “What was the point?”

Something in Aloy’s gaze changes. It contorts, and for a second, Seyka sees -- recognition? Pain? -- reflected back at her. Before she can register that, however, Aloy is already moving. The red-haired huntress carefully takes the flask from Seyka’s hands, sets it aside, then pulls her into her arms.

For a moment Seyka is stunned, but she quickly sinks into Aloy’s embrace, burying her face into her shoulder as more sobs are wracked from her body. There’s a small pill of self-consciousness at just how close they are, with the added fact that she is a bloody, sweaty, crying mess, but Seyka shoves it down.

She’s gotten used to having her dignity compromised by now.

Aloy’s breath stirs the side of her hair. “You asked me who I am, back when we first met,” she says softly. “I’m the girl who was casted out by her tribe. Who was abandoned by her father, shut out by the people who should have cared for me.” Her voice is shaky now, and Seyka realizes that Aloy is crying, too. Then, barely above a whisper, she says, “Seyka, I understand.”

Seyka’s crying harder now, too, but with the added realization that Aloy has felt everything she now feels. Somehow that hurts more, to know that this warm, capable, compassionate warrior had to endure this pain, too. She squeezes Aloy harder, screwing her eyes shut. 

They didn’t deserve you. Something stirs in Seyka’s chest -- an all-too familiar sensation in Aloy’s presence, but this time it’s shadowed by an overwhelming sense of gratitude.

Understanding. 

They stay like that for a few moments, until Seyka’s sobbing subsides.

Then, gently, Aloy carefully extricates her from her arms. There’s a beat of sheepish silence as the pair wipe their eyes. 

“Aloy,” Seyka breaks the silence. Her voice sounds raw. “Thank you.” She means it.

“Of course.” Aloy smiles shyly. 

She’s modest. Warmth blossoms in Seyka’s chest. Just another thing she loved about her. 

“I should probably check in on her,” Seyka decides.

Aloy nods. “Yes. I’ll head on to Londra’s bunker, then.” 

Seyka feels a flash of alarm. “I’ll be there. I promise.” Aloy opens her mouth to protest, but she cuts her off, placing a hand against the Nora’s arm. “It’s the least I can do, after . . .” Her voice falters, and she casts a glance back at Kina.

“Hey,” Aloy reassures her. “We found her together.”

Together. That word has a nice ring to it. Seyka’s heart flutters, but she forces herself to focus as she watches Aloy depart, then makes her way back to her sister.

I’ll revisit that thought later, though. 

Chapter Text

The reactivated Horus crumbles around her and she’s stumbling, tossed around in the midst of its death throes. Water pours down from leaks in the titan’s hull, while the sparking electrical monstrosity attached to the now-dead Londra swiftly engulfs the chamber in flames.

“Seyka, I’m inside this thing’s head!” Aloy calls. “Gonna need a quick exit!”

“On my way!” Seyka’s response is immediate, and Aloy feels a momentary wash of relief. 

She’s okay. 

It doesn’t last long, however. As if on cue, parts of the ceiling come crashing down, sending up a spray of sparks, just inches from where she’s standing. “Dammit!” Aloy leaps backwards, her hands shooting up to cover her head from the falling debris. 

Suddenly, an ear-splitting groan sounds from deep within the Horus. 

Oh no. That can’t be good. 

The floor tips beneath her feet, and before she knows it she’s off balance, slipping and sliding across its slick metal surface. It must be sinking! 

A ripping sound causes her head to shoot upward. Seyka is bathed in light, perched atop the Waterwing across an enormous hole torn through the side of the Metal Devil. The Waterwing scrambles precariously as the Horus tips ever more, its wings flapping to maintain balance. Sunlight streams just beyond her: a way out.

“Come on!” The marine calls, her hand reaching out to grab Aloy’s. 

Aloy leaps to her feet, moving to meet her, but a sudden jolt sends her all three of them -- the Waterwing, Seyka, and Aloy -- flying forward, out of the hole and into the open air. A scream is ripped from Seyka’s throat as she is knocked off her mount, her fingers slipping from the blue wires around its neck. But she doesn’t seem to care -- her hands are reaching for Aloy, even as the Nora flings past her, toward the sea below.

“ALOY!”

The world tilts on its axis. For a dazed moment Aloy thinks she’s flying upward, with the sky rushing to greet her. But this sky is churning, a tumultuous expanse of green and white instead of blue. The wind whips her face, causing her eyes to water.

Snap out of it! Aloy’s mind shoots to her Shieldwing, and she activates it, both her hands clinging tight to steer it properly. But a sudden explosion of pain in her side knocks the air out of her lungs. Instinctively, she drops one of her arms, and the Shieldwing shorts, sending her once more into free fall.

Walter must have gotten a lucky hit, she feels more than thinks, as the wind whistles in her ears. There’s a warm trickle on the side of her ribs, and she doesn’t have to look to confirm that blood is blossoming there, a crimson flower in the early-morning sunlight.

Her eyes flutter shut.

As she plunges into the sea, she’s dimly aware of the sound of flapping.

She’s dreaming again. 

Or is she dead?

Either way, she knows that whatever realm she’s in, it is certainly not reality, because she would never elect to return here, at least not in her waking moments.

She’s standing in a clearing. A brook babbles nearby, willows and spruces sway in the wind, warm sunlight dances across her skin.

The Embrace. Aloy is in awe, turning around to take in her surroundings. I never thought I’d come back here.

Time has made her hyper aware of just how much she’s missed out on. The way the sunlight dapples across the grass, there . . . The rich, deep mountain air, suffused with the scent of a thousand different things, all she can identify by heart: moss, clovers, pollen, earth, dew . . . She takes a deep breath, relishing it all.

So different from the scent of ash and smoke. 

Aloy allows herself a half-smile. Ikrie was right. 

“There you are.”

She freezes. Her ears recognize it before her mind has the chance to register it. 

Could that be . . . ? The thought is almost painfully cruel, and she’s tempted to bury it -- doesn’t dare entertain it. 

No. No, it can’t be. 

But Aloy’s never been one to lie, not even to herself. She doesn’t have to look up to know who it is; she’d recognize his footsteps anywhere, even after all this time, the deep rumble of his voice. 

It’s all she can do not to run right into his arms. 

Rost lumbers into view in the corner of her vision, lowering a bundle of wood onto the ground. He lays them across each other, swiftly, like he’s laying the foundations to the cabin they share, then gradually builds up a fire.

Aloy moves cautiously, circling around him, afraid to break the spell. She searches his gaze -- he looks a little younger than when she had seen him last, slightly less gray and weathered, which tells her it’s only a few years before the Proving. But it’s definitely him.

He’s younger . . . And so am I. I must be -- sixteen? Fifteen? 

There’s a soft thud as Rost places something on the ground before her: her hunting bow. 

“You didn’t show up to this morning’s hunt,” He grunts, not looking up. 

 Aloy takes a seat across from him. “Sorry. I was--”

“ ‘Sorry’ doesn’t fill empty bellies.”

Something about his tone tells Aloy she’s about to get lectured. “I was busy.”

“Doing what?” 

When she doesn’t respond right away, Rost lets out a deep sigh. “That Lancehorn herd only came through today, girl. We’re going to have to wait two more months for another one like it.” He fixes her with a stern gaze. “We could have used those parts to trade for new gear, supplies, even meat for the winter. There’d have been enough for Odd Grata, too.”

Aloy feels a surge of guilt. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise,” she says. “I can take down more machines in the valley. I’ll do it myself.”

“You can make it up to me with an explanation.”

Silence. 

Then:

“I snuck off to the village again.”

Rost’s gaze darkens. “Aloy--”

“I know!” Aloy bursts out. She gets to her feet, pacing to the edge of the clearing. “I know, Rost. I kept my distance, I swear. I didn’t try to talk to anyone. I just . . .” She wrings the front of her shirt, looking away. “I was just curious, that’s all.” She casts a glance back at him. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

Rost’s eyes are closed. He takes a deep breath, then opens them and meets Aloy’s gaze. “What--”

“What was I thinking? I don’t know. Maybe I wanted to spy on them to drop a blaze bomb over their heads. Or maybe I was gathering information for outlanders. Is that what you want to hear?” 

Rost shakes his head, raising a hand to cut her off. “No,” he says softly. There’s a rare gleam in his eye. “What did you see?”

What? 

Aloy pauses, dumbfounded. Then she resumes her pacing. “I think . . . It must have been a funeral.” The memory sends a shiver down her spine. Though she is no stranger to the perilous nature of survival in the wilds, she is still a young girl, isolated in the mountains. 

She’s never seen death, not yet.

“There were a lot of people,” she continues. “And they sang.” She closes her eyes, the memory flooding her mind. The village had been alive with activity; she had almost mistaken it for a celebration, if not for the mourners in attendance. The body had been placed across a slab of rock in the center of the camp, bundled in furs and hides and beautiful blue rope, and all around it were crowds of people, feasting and drinking. “They told stories, too. Stories of hunts and battles.” Her breath catches in her throat. There had even been children there, clinging to the robes of an elderly woman. Their faces had been shining with fresh tears. “Whoever it was, . . . they were missed.”

Rost nods slowly. “And the villagers. They chanted, did they not?”

“They did,” Aloy recalls. She can still hear their voices. “ ‘I will stay here, and sleep --’ ”

“ ‘--And remember all of you’,” Rost finishes. 

Aloy’s eyes widen. “You know it.”

“I do.” He’s gazing somewhere in the distance. “When you get to be my age . . . well.”

They lapse into silence. 

“Is it scary? To . . . lose someone?”

“It is, girl. But it’s a fact of life.”

“And one day . . .”

“Yes. Sooner or later, all of us are returned to the earth. To be one with All-Mother.”

Aloy nods. Her eyes are cast down to the now flickering fire, pensive. “I don’t think I want to go to the Proving anymore.”

“Why is that?” Rost is incredulous. “You’ve wanted it since you were a little girl.”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s because -- because that’s when everything changes.” She thinks of Varl and Vala, hunting somewhere in the woods now, under the watchful eyes of Sona. Of Ourea, deep in her retreat in the northern reaches of the Cut, putting pigment to stone. Of Rost, sitting across from her, alive and well. “A lot of things will happen. Bad things. Things I’m not ready for.” 

Things you wouldn’t understand. 

Rost relaxes. “Are you worried about your duties? Or fitting in with the tribe? You’ll fall into it, Aloy. Provided you can remember your responsibilities.” His weak attempt at humor doesn’t go unnoticed, but Aloy can’t bring herself to smile.

That’s not it. She sighs. “If only it were that simple.”

“Things seldom are, girl. But still -- you can’t force two sunrises in one day. Best not to worry over things yet to come.” As he speaks, he produces his pipe from his cloak, lights it, and puffs thoughtfully. Then: “I’ve taught you many lessons over the years, Aloy, just as I was taught by my own father. You have much more to learn. But there is one lesson I have withheld.”

Aloy can’t fight off her own curiosity. “Really?”

“Really.” He draws in another puff. “How to overcome your fear.”

Oh. 

“I never felt the need,” Rost confesses. “Even as a child, you had courage in abundance. That is why I knew -- by All-Mother, you were given a drive to win, no matter the cost.” There’s fondness, a touch of pride, in his voice, but his face turns troubled. “Perhaps that was a mistake. I failed to think about just how much you may have been forced to bear, at such a young age. You were always a fighter.”

Aloy! She hears Rost’s voice in her mind, breathless with the strain of his last words. Survive! 

Then Aratak’s. Survive. Prevail. What else matters?

Her own. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to save this world. 

“I never had a choice,” Aloy breathes. 

“No. Perhaps not.” 

They’re silent for a few moments. 

“Rost.” Aloy’s the first to break it, and she can’t betray the way her voice cracks. “I’m tired.” She feels like a little girl again, when Rost would tend to her wounds after a long day of training, only now she’s carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. “I’ve had to fight so much.”

Rost nods. “I know. I cannot pretend to understand . . .” He takes a deep breath. “But perhaps I can help you.” He turns to face her dead-on, his gaze serious. “Aloy. Listen to me. If this is truly your wish . . . if you no longer wish to compete in the Proving, I will not stop you.”

What? Aloy can hardly believe her ears. 

“Just say the word and we can put it all behind us. And if you do wish to continue -- do so only because you want to. Not because of what I -- or what the tribe -- will think, or expect of you. It’s your choice.”

Aloy hesitates. She stares at the bow, laid out across the grass. My choice. 

Her mind wanders again -- to things yet to come, things that have already happened.

Varl, twining fingers with Zo, the pair sitting side-by-side on the cliff by the falls, outside the Base-- 

Ourea, bathed in blue light, at peace with the knowledge that she had saved her tribe and the Spirit-- 

Erend, standing proud and at attention beside Avad, following the defeat of Dervahl--

Talanah, her voice lifting in solemn prayer for her fallen brother and father, taking her rightful place as the new Sunhawk--

Kotallo, removing his prosthetic, the shyest of smiles on his face, finally content--

Alva, practically jumping up with joy after the discovery of new, readable data, fresh off the success of finally recovering salvation for the Quen--  

Beta, her petite frame warm in Aloy’s arms, overcome with the joy of liberation from her tormentors, at last-- 

Seyka, the feel of her hand in Aloy’s, the sound of her laughter in the ruins below the earth, the way her face twisted in rage in the heat of battle--

It happens without thinking. Because she knows she doesn’t have to think about it, not even for a moment. The bow feels familiar in her hands, an extension of herself, more intimate than an old friend. She turns it over, marveling at the smooth machine metal, the woven string, the inlaid feathers and beads. Her focus projects a familiar graphic: BOW. 

“I will fight,” she says. “For myself.”

Rost nods. There’s approval in his eyes, unmistakable. “And so her word is blessed.”

The fire is dying, now, and he rises to his feet. 

“Where are you going?” Aloy asks, getting up to follow him.

“Home.” He moves over to where she’s standing, places a hand on her shoulder, gently halting her in her tracks. “I’ll be waiting for you. And -- Aloy, one last request.”

“Of course,” Aloy says, her throat constricting with unexpressed gratitude. “Anything.” 

Rost’s eyes crinkle. “Take your time.”

With that, the old man lumbers off into the forest, disappearing around a bend in the trail, leaving Aloy alone by the crackling embers.

Goodbye. 

Chapter Text

“ALOY!”

The terrible scream that reverberates through the air doesn’t sound like her own. It’s raw, shot through with so much fear and panic that for a moment Seyka refuses to believe that it’s coming from her, that this is really happening. 

A split second later the Waterwing buckles beneath her, and her fingers slip uselessly against its smooth metallic side. Shit, shit! Now it’s her turn to panic for herself, as mount and rider fall toward the sea below, perilously spinning through the air.

Seyka twists, grasping onto the edges of her wing-like cloak and spreading it out behind her, momentarily slowing her fall -- until she spots Aloy, plunging below her, whereupon she snaps her cloak shut, shooting down like an arrow after her. 

Two things would be nice right about now: Aloy’s Shieldwing, and her diving mask. Still, there’s no use for it now. But why hasn’t she activated it? Seyka squints, then realizes that Aloy’s eyes are closed, her head tilted back, the wind whipping her hair. Something’s wrong. 

Suddenly, she’s yanked upward, and both sky and sea pitch above and below her. Before she knows it she’s back in the driver’s seat -- the Waterwing has arrived just in time, grabbing her with its talons and throwing her onto its back, all while still maintaining her dive. 

Good job, buddy, she thinks, a little woozy. She recovers quickly, wrapping her arms around its reins, just in time to see Aloy plunge into the sea, her body sinking below the waves. 

No! 

Then, at the corner of her vision, something sails through the air toward her: one of the sinking Horus’ tentacles comes crashing down, clipping the side of the Waterwing’s wing and knocking the machine off balance. Desperation causes Seyka to forgo thinking. With only a split-second to react, she leaps off its back, diving into the water after Aloy.

She’s welcomed by an exploding cascade of bubbles, the sounds of the crumbling, groaning Horus, the squawking Waterwing, and her surroundings swallowed up in silence. It would almost be peaceful, Seyka thinks, if it weren’t for the fact that Aloy is in immediate danger. But she’s in her element here. 

I can do this. I have time. 

She spins around, thrashing, scanning the dark waters for a flash of red. 

There! 

Aloy is in stasis, curled in a hanging fetal position less than a dozen meters below. The water clouds around her. Blood. Seyka feels a rush of panic, and she kicks forward, even as Aloy sinks deeper into the darkness.

Almost there . . . Despite her training, Seyka’s pounding heart is taking its toll. She feels her lungs start to strain, and knows she doesn’t have long before she blacks out, too. But Aloy is so close. 

I’m not letting you go.

I’m not letting you go. 

“I’m not letting you go!”

The voice in her head is hers, only younger -- the sea around her suddenly replaced by the waters of the Great Delta. She remembers the panic in Kina’s eyes, half submerged in the swollen, churning river, her upper body desperately clinging to a log that’s somehow wedged against the flooded riverbank. She remembers reaching for her, Kina reaching back.

“Grab onto my hand!” 

There had been several, breathless moments punctuated by fear. Then -- contact.

Kina grabs on, just as Seyka wraps her arm around Aloy’s waist. The added weight is heavy, but her relief is enough to send new strength to her limbs. She holds on tight, then kicks upward, propelling toward the surface. 

I’ve got you. It’s going to be okay. 

But her lungs are near bursting now. Just as the edges of her vision begin to darken, the water explodes once again, and the Waterwing arrows through the water toward her. Seyka doesn’t need to be told twice -- can hardly muster the energy to do anything else -- and latches onto the wires at its neck as it passes, allowing herself to be airlifted out of the sea.

They don’t have to fly far, luckily enough. Gasping, sputtering, coughing, she’s dropped onto the sand, Aloy tumbling after her, back into the world of the living. For a few, breathless moments, Seyka can only suck in air, the sound of her pounding heart subsiding. 

The sand feels warm beneath her skin. She almost savors it. After the past few weeks spent tracking down Londra, dodging Compliance, fighting off angry cultists, and now -- whatever this is, she could use a break.

When’s the next time I’ll be lying down at the beach?

The moment doesn’t last long -- not when Aloy is sprawled out beside her, eerily still. Seyka crawls over to her on her hands and knees, practically throwing herself over the Nora huntress, pressing her ear to her chest.

She’s still breathing. Good. 

But Aloy’s eyes are still closed -- and the wound on her side is an ugly one, staining the armor around it with blood. There are more bruises, all along her face and arms, and her lips are turning a pale blue. Seyka fights down her rising panic, even as the situation is unfolding in a hauntingly familiar way. 

“Diviner Vai, it’s me, Seyka. Stay -- stay with me!”

Seyka taps the side of her focus, assessing Aloy for more serious wounds. Seeing none, she rips open her mariner’s kit, not caring when her potions and berries spill out across the sand. Grabbing a cloth, she presses it to Aloy’s ribs, then shoves a handful of berries in her mouth, chews, and tilts Aloy’s head back to dribble the slurry into her mouth. 

Yes! Seyka feels an immediate rush of satisfaction as the flow of blood finally subsides. That’ll hold. But she’s lost so much already . . .

She’s uncorking a potion when the sound of footsteps causes her head to snap upward, her arms instinctively moving protectively around Aloy’s crumpled form.

Nikeri stands on a rock outcropping above her -- her eyes widening as she takes in the situation. For a heartbeat Seyka feels a flash of fear, the sting of Nikeri’s betrayal still fresh in her heart. 

“I trusted you!”

“What was I supposed to do? The focus was missing from his body -- they would have found out sooner or later!” 

Seyka shakes her head to clear it.

There’s no time.

“Nikeri, please!” She begs. “Aloy’s hurt! I need you to return to camp and fetch a healer!”

The young Quen is frozen to the spot.

Why won’t she move? 

There’s a flicker of movement just behind her, and Officer Rheng steps into view, flanked by a dozen soldiers, shouldering past Nikeri. His eyes gleam triumphantly.

“Seyka!” He calls. “We were beginning to wonder where you traipsed off to.” The soldiers fan out around him, weapons drawn.

Seyka sets her jaw, pulling Aloy into her arms, cradling the back of her head. Outrage flares within her. “Rheng. Aloy is hurt--”

“The barbarian can stay right there.” Rheng practically spits. “And you, Seyka, are under arrest. I’m sure the Board of Compliance will be glad to hear that one of our marines has resorted to treason, assisting a barbarian.” His eyes narrow. “Never mind the stolen focus.”

This isn’t the time! The ridiculousness of the situation almost makes her want to burst into tears. “You don’t understand,” Seyka cries. “She’s saved us -- all of us! She found our missing people! Defeated a Metal Devil, risen from the dead!” 

A ripple travels through the soldiers, and she knows they’ve seen the battle, at least from afar. Even Rheng looks momentarily shaken, but he quickly regains his composure. “We are generously giving you a chance to cooperate,” he retorts. “Given your previous insubordinations this is a mercy you don’t deserve.”

“No!” Seyka shakes her head violently. “Listen to me, all of you!” She meets the gaze of every soldier lined up before her, sweeping her head to address each one. “This outlander owed us nothing, but gave us everything: our people, our very lives! She needs your help!” 

The line doesn’t move. 

Seyka’s hope falters. “Please!” 

Rheng clicks his tongue, then nods at one of the soldiers to his right. “Warning shot.” 

Seyka recognizes him: Korin, a fellow sailor she had once relied on several times in a pinch during the voyage. The look in his eyes, through his helmet, tells her that he remembers her, too. 

“Sir . . .” He says, hesitating.

“Do it now!” Rheng barks.

Korin lifts his bow and draws, pulling the string back toward his jaw. His chest rises and falls rapidly; from where Seyka is she can see that he’s shaking. He fires.

Pain sprouts across Seyka’s left cheek as the arrow whistles past, its fletching just barely grazing the side of her face. Blood spurts from the fresh wound, and she buckles over, pressing a hand to it to staunch the flow.

“Need I remind you that conspiring with outlanders is punishable by death?” Rheng calls, his voice ringing across the shore. “If you step away from the barbarian now, we may give you the decency of a fair trial.” When Seyka doesn’t respond, he snorts. “Very well.” Raising an arm, he addresses the rest of the soldiers to his left and right. “Open fire. The woman you see before you has made her choice. She is no Quen.” He turns away.

“You’re wrong.” 

Rheng stops dead in his tracks. “What?”

Seyka’s head is bowed, wiping the side of her face. She lowers her arms to gently lay Aloy across the ground. “I am Quen.” Her own mantra reverberates in her head. I am one of the chosen people. Not some weak-kneed sailor who abandons ship when the seas get rough. “I love my people. I would do anything for my people.” She rises to her feet, now, stepping over Aloy’s body until she’s standing between her and the soldiers. Her body quivers with the strength of her rage, her conviction, but her voice is calm as she lifts her head to address the soldiers. “Let go of your fear, all of you,” she implores. Another voice echoes in her mind, after her own, this one familiar, from the depths of one of the holo-recordings Aloy had given her, weeks ago. “There are whole tribes beyond our borders, full of people just as good as you,” she says, and she believes it. She fixes her gaze onto Rheng’s. “We are not your enemy.”

Rheng’s lip is curled, and he marches forward, drawing his sword, just as the line falters.

Seyka reaches for her own sword at her back. Well, I tried, she thinks, falling back on her instincts . But I guess it's just you and me. 

But before Rheng can cross the distance, there’s a flash of white, and Nikeri tackles into him, bowling him over. Rheng recovers quickly, drawing a hand back to slap Nikeri across the face. Korin dives onto his arm, holding him down.

“No!” Seyka roars, ripping out her bow instead. She knocks an arrow, then draws. I’ll kill you. She can’t get a clear shot through the crowd; the soldiers have descended into chaos, some siding with Rheng, others siding with the mutiny, and a large-scale tussle breaks out.

“ENOUGH OF THIS!” 

I know that voice! 

The dust settles, and none other than Kina is standing at the far end of the beach, flanked by the Admiral and what appears to be half of the fleet. Kina covers her mouth with her hand, a Did I just do that? look on her face, then glances back at the Admiral, who gives her a nod of approval.

The line of soldiers immediately shoots to attention, scrambling to their feet, followed by Rheng, but Korin and Nikeri continue to hold him down. It's almost comical: Nikeri has her arms wrapped around Rheng's waist, and Korin is restraining his arm. All three are a panting, dusty mess, their robes and helmets askew.

“Admiral Gerrit!” Rheng gasps, hastily adjusting his elaborate headdress as well as he can while weighed down by two bodies. “I was just about to send word. Seyka here--”

“Was doing exactly as I told her,” the Admiral cuts in. “And there’s no need for an explanation, Officer Rheng. You were about to strike her down -- as well as the woman who recovered our missing people, and saved us from a rampaging Metal Devil.”

Seyka doesn’t need to hear the rest of what they’re saying, much as she’d like to. She collapses, her legs weak as the rest of her courage gives out. Exhaustion crashes down over her. 

I did it. She can hardly believe it.

The sound of pattering footsteps rouses her, and she’s met with Vin, one of the healers from Fleet’s End. “How is she?” He asks, skidding to a halt beside Aloy, unslinging a pouch from his shoulder. Two men are on his heels, laying out a stretcher across the sand.

“She’s bleeding,” Seyka rasps. “Here. I managed to stop it, but she’s really weak.”

Vin checks Aloy’s pulse, then examines the wound. “You did the right thing. She’s alive, but just barely.” 

Warm relief washes over Seyka, so palpable that it hurts. Her eyes blur over. Thank the Ancestors! 

An arm wraps around her shoulder, and suddenly Kina is there. “Hey,” Seyka says softly. She can’t believe what’s happening before her eyes; it almost seems too good to be true.

“I’m sorry, I did my best to make it on time,” Kina bursts out, taking Seyka’s face in her hands. “I saw the Metal Devil, and a Waterwing flapping around it, making all kinds of noises. That’s how I knew that it could only be you.”

Seyka offers her a weak smile. “Thanks, Kina. You were right on time.”

“I learned from the best.”

The two sisters smile, laughing, tears streaming down their faces. 

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Seyka whispers.

“Me, too.”

“But sir!” Rheng is practically squawking now, interrupting the moment. “I was only fulfilling my duty to the Quen -- to protect our people!”

“By sentencing our saviors to a firing squad?” The Admiral roars. “Enough!” He gestures to Kina. “Your navigator has returned, alive and well. The path ahead is clear, lifted because of these two. And this is how you repay them?” He takes a step closer, until he’s nose-to-nose with Rheng, who shrinks backward. “Never mind the countless insubordinations you sanctioned, arranging this behind my back.” Addressing the soldiers behind him, he barks, “Take him to the brig!”

The Admiral’s forces advance, swarming Rheng and his crew, plucking out the traitors and dragging them off. Seyka locks eyes with the stragglers -- Korin, Nikeri, and all the others who had sided with her in the midst of the chaos -- and gives them a small nod. 

Thank you. 

She feels a sudden, sharp sting on her face and flinches backward. Kina is pressing a wet rag to the cut on her cheek. “Hold still!” She cries. “You need medical attention.” Vin hovers just behind Kina, preparing a salve out of berries and leaves on a metal tray.

“Guys, I’m fine, really--” Seyka protests.

“No such thing!” Vin barks. “You just fought off a Metal Devil--”

“And a narcissistic maniac,” Kina chimes in.

“Which one?” Seyka winces, ducking away under the pairs’ ministrations. “There were two.”

A shadow falls over her and she looks up. The Admiral is standing over her. 

“Vin?” The Admiral grunts. “How is she?”

“Banged up, sir. Sprains and scrapes. The outlander--”

“Aloy ,” Seyka corrects.

“Aloy should be safe to move, but she is still in critical condition. She’ll need urgent care and rest.”

The Admiral nods. “Very well.” He reaches down, offering his hand to Seyka, who stares at it in momentary disbelief before grasping it. 

What is going on today?  

“On your feet, marine. Let’s go home.”

Home, Seyka echoes, as she falls in step behind the Admiral, half in a daze. Kina and Vin jostle her on one side, and Aloy is laid out on a stretcher on the other, her eyes still closed.

The Nora huntress’ arms are limp, and Seyka reaches forward to grasp her hand. It just feels right somehow. Her fingers slide to her wrist, checking her pulse. She doesn’t notice when Kina and Vin exchange knowing glances beside her.

There. Aloy’s heart beats, slow and weak, but unmistakably there. 

Seyka breathes a deep, relieved sigh.

Home.

Yes.

Chapter Text

Dying shouldn’t feel as peaceful as this. 

If it did, maybe she’d be tempted to do it more often.

She’s bundled up in soft linens, a cool, wet cloth pressed to her forehead, and she’s propped up several times a day to have her wound redressed with those soothing, numbing herbs. 

Under normal circumstances Aloy would rip off the bedding, disconcerted with being so weak, so vulnerable. But these aren’t normal circumstances. 

“When will she wake up?”

“How is she?”

“Any changes?”

“Is there anything I should worry about?”

She can hear the same conversations play out every day, the silhouettes of people bustling about and casting shadows over her closed eyes. There’s a male healer, patient and reassuring, a couple of Quen villagers, and . . .

“Hey, Aloy.” 

The hand that takes hers is warm and soft, familiar and soothing, brushing against the rough calluses of her palm. It’s after hours, usually is -- she can tell by the way Seyka’s voice drops low, the way the cool night breeze lifts open the tent flaps, revealing the soft silvery light of the moon just beyond.

The marine is seated on a stool beside her cot, and on good days Aloy can just make out her expression through half-lidded, semiconscious eyes. Tonight, Seyka’s shoulders are slumped in exhaustion, but her voice is warm, and she’s smiling softly. 

She must be tired , Aloy thinks dimly. 

Aloy has a lot of questions, but she’s too weak to vocalize them. 

I’ll be sure to ask later. The thought comforts her, as if getting better is a foregone conclusion, simply a matter of time. 

Still, on nights like these, when it’s just her and Seyka in the tent, Aloy doesn’t feel the rush. Her breath is slow, even, her heart soothed in the marine’s presence. Some nights they sit in silence. But on the best nights, Seyka speaks, filling the tent with the sound of just her voice.

“You know, this reminds me of bootcamp,” she says, her eyes crinkling with amusement. “After hours, we’d take turns on guard duty for the night. We’d make bets as to who could stay up the longest. I’d fall asleep right at my post.” She laughs. “I guess that’s why I ended up a petty officer . . .”

“You’d hardly believe what’s happening. The Admiral is relying on me, and almost everyone from the Park is back with the fleet . . .”

“I never got a chance to thank you, you know.” She’s pensive now. “You did so much for me, and for my people. I never thought I’d see Kina again. And . . . I hope you get better soon, too.”

“This one night, they dragged us out of our beds and took us down to the beach for a training exercise. We had to stand, up to our shoulders in the freezing water, reciting our mariner’s pledge until they were satisfied that we wouldn’t break.” A dry laugh. “I guess it paid off.”

“Can you hear that, Aloy? Listen.” Seyka’s eyes are closed, cupping her ears. “That’s the sound of swallows coming home to nest and breed for the season. They chirp and sing unlike anything else. I used to hear them, too, back in the Great Delta. I loved watching the little nests they’d make, under the eaves of our home. They’re so resilient. It brought me a lot of comfort in the early days of the expedition to know that they like to settle here, too. It was as if they were making the way for us . . .”

“The others are beginning to wonder when you’ll wake up.” For the first time Seyka looks troubled. How long has it been? A week?   “Whatever you’re going through right now, it must be another battle. But I know that if or when you do, it’ll be when you’re ready. I just hope I’m here when that happens . . .”

“I miss you. Not -- not right now, obviously. Well, actually, yeah. It’s just not the same, when you’re asleep.”

“Come back soon.”

It’s an unremarkable afternoon when Aloy finally opens her eyes. 

The breeze is there again, billowing open the entrance to the tent. She can hear the sound of crashing waves, trees rustling in the wind, and the laughter of children in the settlement beyond. 

She stares up at the canvas ceiling, blinking slowly for a few moments.

I’m alive. 

That realization alone is enough to trigger a sudden release of emotions. Tears well up in her eyes, trickling down her face, and her lip trembles, breaking into a grateful, overwhelmed smile.

Rost . . . She blinks rapidly to clear her eyes. Thank you. 

She lays like that for a while longer, in no hurry to rejoin the rest of the world just yet. 

Thankfully the world seems just as eager to let her take her time.

“You’re awake,” the same voice that Aloy had ascribed to the Quen healer sounds sometime later. A skinny young man enters her field of view, carrying a tray of herbs and potions. “How are you feeling?”

Aloy sits up with a pained grunt. “I’ve been better.” 

“Good. That’ll teach you not to run headfirst into battle again.” The healer sets down the tray and pours her a cup of water, which Aloy takes greedily in her hands. “My name’s Vin, by the way. And you’re the one they call Aloy.”

Aloy can only muster a nod. She drinks, then drinks some more, only just now realizing how dehydrated she is. “What happened?” She croaks.

“You and the marine took down the Metal Devil,” Vin replies, taking her cup and replacing it with an unstoppered potion. He expertly crushes up the herbs on his tray into a thick green paste. “You’re lucky you escaped relatively unscathed.”

“I had help,” Aloy says.

“Indeed.” He leans forward, gesturing to the patch of bandages atop her ribs. “May I?”

Aloy nods. Vin carefully peels back the cloth, and Aloy winces as she looks at the wound for the first time: it’s a deep laceration, but it looks clean and is already showing signs of healing. “I guess it’s a good thing that you were knocked out this whole time,” Vin says, redressing the wound. “From the sounds of it, you’re not the type to sit still for very long. No way it would have healed properly if you kept running around.”

“How long have I been out for?”

“A little over a week. Not too long, but enough to make people start to worry.”

Anxiety grips her heart. “And . . .”

“Seyka is fine. She’s working with the Admiral right now to snuff out the last of the rebellion.” A sidelong glance. “How much of that day do you remember, by the way?”

“I remember . . . defeating Londra. Destroying the Metal Devil. And then I was falling. Into the sea.” Aloy winces at the memory. “And not much else after that.”

“Well, it’s thanks to Seyka that you’re still alive right now. She dove into the water after you and pulled you out. Then patched you up on the shore.”

Warmth spreads to Aloy’s ears. She really did all that for me? 

“Is that . . . when you found me?”

“No.” Vin lets out a small chuckle. “It’s a long story. Maybe Seyka can tell you. But she risked a lot to save you, you know. Including defying Compliance.” 

“What?” Aloy’s jaw drops. 

“Yes. Stared down a firing squad until the Admiral arrived. That was a rough day.”

“And is she alright? Did she get hurt?” Aloy is already struggling to her feet. “I didn’t even know -- if I had . . .”

“Slow down.” Vin raises a hand to stop her. “She’s fine, for now. Her injuries were minimal and she was on her feet by the end of the day. As for the rest of the tribe . . . she’s in the Admiral’s good graces, which should afford her some protection. But others have been calling for her exile.”

Aloy’s stomach drops. “You can’t be serious. Not after all she’s done--”

“I’m afraid so. It all depends on how the situation is spun back home.” Vin sighs. “Our ways are different from what you may be used to, outlander. We honor order above all else. Obedience. The Admiral only has so much power, and most of it is limited to maritime conditions.”

Aloy is staring at the sheets now, lost in thought. She shouldn’t be surprised, but she is frustrated, fighting down a rising surge of despair. Was it so naive of me to think that we could initiate change in one day? Her thoughts wander to Seyka, and she feels a pang of sympathy in her chest for the young marine. 

Vin rises to his feet. “I’ve given you much to think about. But I should leave you to rest. I’ll send for some food for you in a bit.” 

The tent flaps flutter shut behind him.

“Sylens? It’s done. Londra’s dead.”

It’s a few hours later, and the sun is setting over Fleet’s End. A tray sits on the stool by her cot, filled with half-eaten dishes and offerings. For all their talk, some of the Quen sure know how to express their gratitude. 

“Excellent,” Sylens’ voice rings through the air, cold and crackling with feedback. “I expect he put up a fight?”

“Yeah, you can say that,” Aloy replies. “He, uh . . . threw a Horus at me.”

“Did he?” There’s genuine surprise in Sylens’ voice now. “That couldn’t have been easy to defeat . . . even for you.”

“I had help from one of the Quen,” Aloy says, honestly, and a little too warmly for her own comfort. She quickly clears her throat. No way I’m going to talk to Sylens about that. “And I’m sending you some data from Londra’s implant. See what you find out . . .” 

“I’m fine, guys.”

Aloy is seated upright, stretching her sore muscles, addressing the holographic projections of her friends, gathered in a semicircle around her cot. It’s a few days later, and Vin has given her a list of exercises to slowly rehabilitate her injured side. She hadn’t realized how much she relied on her ribs for movement, but anything close to bending or twisting is enough to make her tense with pain.

“I hope you never have to face another one.” Beta’s voice is full of relief, and Aloy can’t help but smile. 

After all this, I’m never taking her for granted again. 

“Face another one?” Erend lets out a booming laugh. “Ha! You mean the Horus hopes it never has to face another Aloy. At least it would, if it weren’t dead. Isn’t that right, guys?”

His remark is met with good-natured murmurs of agreement. Aloy feels a wash of tenderness, mixed with a bit of guilt. She had failed to keep her friends updated throughout her foray into the Burning Shores, and their first group call together had been full of uncomfortable revelations. 

Luckily, her friends hadn’t seemed to hold it against her. They had all been understandably concerned, but once Aloy had assured them that she was victorious the mood had changed into triumph, admiration, and relief. To her surprise, Alva hadn’t seemed all that shocked to learn that the other half of the Quen fleet had survived, only giving her a knowing smile. 

“Indeed,” Kotallo rumbles. “I only wish I could have seen it. To fly from the Wings of the Ten and defeat a machine from the days of old, as they did . . .” His face is filled with awe.

“I don’t.” Beta shudders. “But I’m glad you’re okay, Aloy.”

“Nevertheless your experience fighting one should provide us with valuable intel, should more of them return,” Kotallo reasons. “We could all benefit from your new battle strategies.”

“Yeah, now that’s a good idea!” Erend agrees. “You’re going to have to tell the whole story over drinks next time, Aloy. On me, of course.”

“Did your healer sort you out properly?” That’s Zo now. “I regret not being there, to tend to your wounds personally. It sounds like it was a serious battle.”

“It was. But I’m fine now, I promise. The healer here says I should be on the mend.”

“I hope that means you’ll be coming home soon,” Beta murmurs.

“Yes, when can we expect you back?” Kotallo asks.

The question catches Aloy off guard. “I . . . I don’t know,” she says, honestly. “I don’t really know if I can even get on a Waterwing right now. And -- there are a few more things I have to sort out here.”

There’s a beat of silence, during which her friends exchange knowing looks. Then:

“That’s okay,” Alva says, slowly. “We’ll be fine without you. Right guys?”

“Of course,” Kotallo dips his head. “We await your return, commander.”

“Yes,” Zo chimes in. “Just focus on healing. Don’t worry about us.”

“Take your time, Aloy!” Beta chirps.

Aloy frowns. “Okay . . .” The others won’t meet her gaze. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing!” Alva says, waving her hands quickly.

“Then why are guys being so weird?”

Erend seems equally as confused. “Yeah, what are you guys going on about?” He tilts his head, and Zo and Alva shoot him a look. Realization dawns on his face. “Oh! Oh. Yeah, tell her we say hi, by the way!”

Aloy flushes with embarrassment. “Excuse me?”

“Erend!” Zo barks sharply.

“What? What’d I say?” 

“Can’t you respect her privacy?” Alva groans.

“Oh, come on, I know you’re dying to know,” Erend retorts. “You and Beta have been giggling about it nonstop for the past week.”

Aloy whips her head around to stare at the Diviner. Even Kotallo is laughing, in his own stoic way. “YOU KNEW?”

Alva gives her a guilty smile. “Surprise?”

“THEN WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME?”

“Seyka asked me not to!” Alva explains, throwing her hands up in the air. 

“When did this happen? While I was out?”

Beta nods sheepishly. “Yeah. It was the first night when you didn’t wake up.”

“Seyka was concerned, so she took your focus and attempted to make contact with the Base,” Zo explains. “I believe she was searching for any information that might have helped you.”

“Oh, well, that’s just great.” Aloy pinches the bridge of her nose, processing. A sudden flash of horror causes her eyes to fly open. “Wait. What did you tell her?”

“Nothing! Well, nothing she wouldn’t already know,” Beta says, but it’s not reassuring.

“Mostly we just asked her how you were doing,” Alva offers. “She seems nice, Aloy.”

“She was really worried about you,” Zo laughs in agreement. “It was rather endearing.”

Aloy wishes she could die on the spot. She’s momentarily grateful that the focus projection is relatively monochromatic, to hide just how badly she’s blushing. 

“You’re going to have to share that story with us, too,” Erend chuckles. “Any friend of Aloy’s is a friend of ours. Unless, you know, you want to be more than friends. Which is okay too.” The women glare at him. “I’ll stop talking now.”

“I must say that I agree,” Kotallo grunts. “To charge into battle against a Metal Devil and stand up to her own tribe, even while outnumbered, is no small feat. Not to mention that she flew on the Wings of the Ten as well. That alone is worthy of enough ink to cover every soldier in the Clan Lands.”

Beta lets out a small gasp. “And she did it all to save your life -- it’s just like all the holos!” 

Aloy drops her face in her hands, letting out a small groan. Despite her embarrassment, however, she can’t help but feel a small glow of pride that her friends approve of Seyka.

Still. 

“Can we please stop talking about this?” She begs.

“Yes, that’s enough,” Zo murmurs. The Utaru turns to fix Aloy with a concerned look. “In all seriousness, Aloy, are you sure you’re alright?”

“I am,” Aloy says, grateful at last for the change in subject. “I’m just glad the nightmare is over.”

At least I thought it was.  

The rest of her friends murmur in agreement. Then, after a few “get better”s and “see you soon”s, they sign off one by one, until she’s once again left alone in the tent.

Aloy flops backward into the cot, pulling up the linen sheets to cover her head. 

I can never show my face again. 

As her embarrassment subsides, she realizes that her conversation with her friends isn’t truly what bothers her, not really. It’s her last thought: that the nightmare is over, and that she had accomplished what she had initially set out to do here in the Burning Shores.

The implications of that realization, and the obvious question that it raises, troubles her. 

What’s next? 

Her reaction is almost visceral. I’m not ready to say goodbye to her yet, she realizes. The reason is obvious to her: she’s certain that she’s known for a while -- not in the heat of battle, not even after being rescued by her, but in the quiet stillness of her tent, the sound of Seyka’s voice in her ears above the moonlit, lapping shore.

Still, that doesn’t make it any easier. What am I supposed to do? What if she doesn’t feel the same way? Not to mention the even more important question in the back of her mind: Do I even want this? The thought of having Seyka by her side in the journey ahead shouldn’t trouble her as much as it does -- but she had seen her fair share of couples come and go, and their stories often ended tragically. All that without mentioning her own awkward inexperience in . . . whatever all this is.

Even so . . .

For the past year I was so certain that restoring Gaia had to be faced alone, and I was wrong there, Aloy finds herself thinking. Could I be wrong in this too? 

She thinks of Varl and Zo -- how the pair had chosen each other and faced down the Zeniths together, despite knowing that either of them could lose their lives in the journey ahead. Even now, Zo remained ever faithful to Varl, tending the garden by the cliff overlooking Plainsong.

Varl. The thought of her old, steadfast friend sends a fresh wave of grief coursing through her. What would he do? What would he say? What would I say? Her spiraling thoughts are beginning to grow overwhelming, so she forces herself to take a breath. Calm down, Aloy. The first thing he’d do is tell me to calm down. 

She lays like that for a little while, staring up at the canvas of the tent ceiling. Outside, Fleet’s End is still carrying on. Children laugh and play in the sand, laborers fan themselves in the shade of their tents, warriors sharpen their swords, cooks stoke fires and chop vegetables. 

Each is completely oblivious to the problems of one girl. 

It’s reassuring.

Relaxing now, Aloy sweeps her legs over the side of her cot and slips into her armor, then sweeps open the tent flaps and picks her way down to the shore.

Some of the Quen look up as she passes, but she pays them no mind.

Down by the waterside, Aloy marvels at the way the tide crashes and recedes across the sand. 

Varl would have loved it, she realizes. The ocean. Rost too. I wonder if he ever got to see it . . .

Aloy’s never been one to abide by the rules of the superstitious. She had often felt stifled by it, misunderstood by even Rost, whenever he invoked All-Mother for their blessings and misfortunes. Even so, and even though he isn’t here -- even though his body rests hundreds of miles away -- she finds herself lifting her voice up to the sky, the wind, and the sea, in the closest form of prayer she has ever known, reverberating softly in the warm safety of her solitude.

“Hey, Varl . . .” She begins. “It’s been a while.” 

Chapter Text

She’s standing on a beach, not for the first time in the past year. 

A fresh breeze is kicked up from the sea, ruffling her hair and the tassels of her armor, lifting the weight that has sunk deep in her soul over the past few weeks. She lets out a long-awaited exhale.

Finally.

Seyka relishes in the moment for a while longer. She knows she doesn’t have long -- there’s a team of soldiers, including the Admiral, a few dozen meters away, hovering over scrolls and equipment, and it won’t be long before they have to move on. Some of them are wounded, fresh from their latest sweep of the last of Londra’s devotee camps, and others are simply eager to go home. 

Her mind wanders to the past week. After Aloy’s condition had improved enough, the Admiral had approached Seyka with a request to accompany him on a mission to track down the last of the missing Quen, a task that required her newfound skills.

“It’s the Waterwing,” Kina had said dryly when Seyka had told her, practically bursting at the seams with pride. 

“It’s my expertise with the focus,” Seyka had corrected, trying to hide how badly she was deflating. “And my experience taking down devotees pretty much single-handedly at the Park. And, not to mention, defeating the Metal Devil. And--”

It had mostly been the Waterwing. 

But she can hardly blame the Admiral; so far, it’s proven incredibly useful in gathering information on patrols and camps from the skies, where arrows can’t reach her. And Seyka has to admit she’s gotten better at controlling the thing since the final battle with Londra. She has no choice; not after it saved both her and Aloy from drowning, acquiring its own fair share of battle scars in the process. You simply don’t forget that kind of loyalty.

As if on cue, the Waterwing appears beside her, pulling her out of her reverie. Its enormous beak reaches down and gives her shoulder an inquisitive nuzzle.

“Hey, buddy.” Even though she knows it’s a machine, she can’t help the affectionate note that creeps into her voice. She reaches over to pat it across its neck. We’ve been through a lot. 

Seyka smiles at the memory of her initial trepidation during her first flight with Aloy. The Nora had sensed it; in the first ten minutes alone she had dropped down to explore some ruins, leaving Seyka stranded and airborne atop the machine. As if that wasn’t enough, when Aloy had returned, she had decided that it was an excellent time to perform some aerial tricks, including rolling and flipping midair.

Seyka never would have imagined taking down a Metal Devil atop one, let alone growing attached to it. In truth, there were a lot of firsts over the last year that she would never have imagined accomplishing.

But today marks the end of all of that. 

After a week-long campaign spent tracking down the rest of the missing Quen -- which had involved attempting to reason with and rescuing the less-brainwashed, then subduing and arresting the dissidents -- the Burning Shores was once again deemed safe, and their half of the fleet once again deemed whole. 

At least, as much as it can be, Seyka thinks, recalling all they had endured over the past year. The Quen are resilient, but even this is a trauma that I’m not sure we can recover from. Her own perilous fate is another thing to consider, and her smile fades. What’s next?  

The Waterwing nudges her again, this time on the head, knocking her focus askew and startling her. Seyka laughs, her hands shooting up to catch it before it falls. “You’re right,” she says. “If there’s anything that a year spent shipwrecked in the wilderness has taught me, it’s that I should be more optimistic.”

The Waterwing squawks in response. 

She moves to readjust the focus, a little surprised at just how much she had gotten accustomed to having it on her temple -- in truth, somewhere between the assault on the Park and the battle with the Metal Devil, she had forgotten it was ever there. 

Another sign of just how much things have changed.

Meditative now, she removes the device, turning it over in her hands. It’s scorched in a few places, with more than its fair share of dings, but ultimately intact. A marvel that it didn’t break during the fight with the Horus. 

The familiarity of this scene is enough to give her pause. It wasn’t that long ago that she had stood on a shore similar to this one, contemplating throwing the focus into the sea. That all seemed so long ago.

And now . . .

 I did it, Diviner Vai. She allows herself a soft smile. I saved them. I saved our people. 

You can rest now.

She can’t help but feel her throat tighten at the last thought. The vindication, the knowledge that she had done the right thing after all is enough to make her feel weak. It’s tainted with the bittersweet realization that she is a mongrel now, an outsider that the Quen are ashamed of. But those feelings are immediately overshadowed by a strong surge of pride.

Even if they cast me out -- shun me forever, I won’t be ashamed, she resolves, lifting her chin. She affixes the focus back over her temple.

I did the right thing. 

She closes her eyes then, the sea lapping at her feet, content with the illusion that that is all the universe is -- a girl and her Waterwing, a machine and its rider, side by side at the edge of the world. 

It arrives like a dream.

Off in the distance, a steady beat drums, so soft that Seyka initially mistakes it for her own heartbeat. 

In a way, it must be. 

With each passing second, she grows ever more aware that she is in fact awake, and that each steady beat is actually the thrum of a pair of wings, arriving ever closer until even the soldiers around her are crying in alarm.

Seyka smiles.

For the first time in two weeks, she looks up.

The huntress is radiant in the sun, her limbs and face glowing with a fresh, restored vitality as she comes in for a swift descent atop her Sunwing. She’s more graceful than the first time this scene played out; there’s no imminent danger, no tower shooting at her, no desperate struggle to activate her Shieldwing. But just like that first time, and hopefully not for the last time, Seyka’s heart quickens at the sight of her -- her red mane billowing in the wind, her green eyes aglow, her smile brilliant. Aloy locks eyes with her, and though the Nora doesn’t know it, the sight of her is enough to dispel the weight of the past two weeks. 

Two weeks since Seyka’s seen her last -- conscious, alive and well, at least.

Two weeks of uncertainty and fear, late nights and worrying.

Two weeks since she’s last seen those eyes.

Their intensity is staggering -- flickering with enough fire to confirm that she really is back from the dead, and so is Seyka, her inner turmoil banished at the sight of her.

Beside her, the Quen soldiers cheer, their initial fear replaced with recognition and excitement. Some take off their helmets and wave their arms at Aloy, and even the Admiral, for all his gruffness, cracks a small smile. 

Aloy circles above them, and just when Seyka thinks she’s going to be normal, for once, she leaps off her mount, deploying her Shieldwing and gliding gracefully toward the sand. 

Show off, Seyka thinks, warmly. Deep down she knows she wouldn’t have it any other way. I need to ask her to get me one of those sometime. 

Aloy’s feet touch down on the ground, and, without missing a beat, she is running, closing the distance between them in rapid strides. Seyka’s already moving too, shoving down the tiny worm of self-consciousness that tells her she looks foolish, wearing her heart on her sleeve. But she can’t bring herself to care, not when Aloy is racing toward her like the tide to the shore, powerful and inevitable all at once.

And then they’re colliding.

“Aloy!” Seyka cries, breathless, as she grabs the Nora and practically spins her around, swept up in the excitement of the moment. 

“Seyka, don’t--” Aloy yelps, her eyes opening wide with horror, but the damage is done; the huntress is reduced to a little girl, her legs flying in the air. But she clings tight to Seyka, and soon they’re both laughing, and Seyka thinks that she would do anything to feel this way all the time, to hear Aloy’s laugh, hold her in her arms.

And then they’re back on earth, grinning and breathless, neither letting go of the other just yet. 

“You’re all better!” Seyka gushes, taking a step back to look her over. The bandages are still there on Aloy’s waist, and she has a few unhealed cuts and bruises on her exposed skin, but her eyes are like Greenshine. “How long have you been up for? I was supposed to be there when you woke up!”

“All week, pretty much,” Aloy replies. “But I’ve been in bed for practically the entire time. Vin -- he wouldn’t let me out of his sight--”

“I know!” Seyka laughs. “He had to chase me out of the tent several times while you were out!” The admission is out of her mouth before she knows it, and she instantly flushes with embarrassment. Smooth, Seyka. She races to change the subject. “Does he know you took your Sunwing to get here?”

Aloy only cracks a guilty smile, and Seyka allows herself a moment of relief. “He was preparing a boat to transport me when I whistled it down.”

The marine grins; she could practically see Vin in her mind’s eye, running around the beach like a frazzled Diviner as Aloy lifted off where he couldn’t follow, laughing all the while. “That sounds like you.” A beat then, and, feeling a little bolder, she says, “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“Me too,” Aloy breathes. The flickering sunlight off of the ocean seems to dance in her eyes, and for a moment Seyka is spellbound. That’s when the adrenaline between them fizzles out, leaving her suddenly clueless. Now what? It was one thing to risk her life for her, to save her, to stand in front of a firing squad for her -- but to deal with what came after , that was when her mind drew a blank. 

Luckily for her, she doesn’t have to do much of the talking at all.

“Aloy,” Admiral Gerrit clears his throat, coming up behind them. The rest of the soldiers are in tow, and they fan out around Aloy, some curious to get a look at the outlander who had saved them, others almost deferential. Seyka wants to roll her eyes -- since when did you decide she was worth your time? -- but she’s nonetheless glad that Aloy is finally receiving recognition -- the good kind, at least. “I’m glad to see you have recovered. I trust that all of your needs are being seen to?”

Aloy dips her head. “They are, Admiral,” she replies. “Thank you. Vin’s been a big help.”

“I am glad to hear it. It’s the least we can do, after all you have done for us.” 

As they exchange pleasantries, Seyka searches Aloy’s gaze. It’s hard to imagine Aloy savoring her time in recovery, but part of her is glad that she has no choice. She deserves it. Her eyes wander to the tiny, unhealed cuts dotted along the Nora’s face and neck, including one that’s just grazing the bottom of her lip. A pang of sympathy wells up inside of her. She’s been through a lot. Only then does she realize that Aloy is staring back at her, her eyes crinkling up in a small smile. Seyka flushes, then returns the gesture, before quickly averting her gaze.

I’m an idiot. 

“Aloy . . . when we saw the Metal Devil rise from the hills, it was as if the Time of Ashes had come again,” the Admiral continues, oblivious to their exchange. “To think the two of you defeated it by yourselves . . . it staggers the imagination.” His voice softens. “My only regret is that I did not intercept your arrival sooner. I do not know what you may have heard, but a contingent of our Quen -- Officer Rheng and a band of soldiers loyal to Compliance -- found you and Seyka at the beach. They would have had you executed, had Seyka and Kina’s quick thinking not saved the both of you.”

Aloy’s eyes widen in surprise, and she shoots Seyka a look. Kina? 

Seyka smiles and shakes her head. I’ll explain later. 

“I . . . understand that Rheng was operating outside of your control,” Aloy says carefully, turning back to address the Admiral. “But I’m thankful that you came to the rescue in the end.”

“Regardless, it was an unacceptable overstep of his authority. And an oversight in my own.” The Admiral lets out a deep sigh, suddenly looking every bit of his seventy-odd years, his gaze clouding over with regret. “I can only offer my sincerest apologies, and my commitment to have the perpetrators brought to justice. Seyka and I have been busy, tracking down the last of Rheng’s forces, as well as the other survivors who have turned their backs on us. After you saved us from the Metal Devil, and returned our lost brothers and sisters to us, however, it pales in comparison.” He meets Aloy’s gaze, then bows his head ever so slightly. “A thank you does not suffice for all you have done for our people. Still: I thank you, Aloy. What else can I say but that we are in your debt.”

Seyka raises her eyebrows. Oh boy. There was a lot to process there, not least of which included public honors from the Admiral. She had never seen him this remorseful. To have him owe you favors -- Aloy had elevated into a very powerful person indeed. What would half the Empire give to be able to say the same?

A small part of her is curious whether Aloy would take him up on all his talk, demand some treasured prize or title. Most Quen would throw open the coffers of the Empire without a second thought, if given a chance. 

She doesn’t have to wonder for long. 

“All I ask for is that you give my friend here,” Aloy says, regarding Seyka, “the credit she deserves for all the risks she took.” 

That did it. Sekya blinks, fighting down the sudden tightness in her throat as she gazes back at Aloy. Something inside her shifts, somewhere between her overwhelming gratitude and humility, somewhere between a surge of affection and longing.

Because of course Aloy would -- courageous, selfless, compassionate Aloy, huntress of her heart; she who had saved her dozens of times over, and who may very well be her undoing. 

She makes up her mind.

“Is he gonna try to take your focus?”

The pair are walking down the beach, side by side, away from the Admiral and his team of soldiers. Although they’re now alone, Aloy’s sudden shyness doesn’t allow her to broach the subject, not just yet.

Seyka lets out a small huff. “I was wondering the same thing.”

“Well, he can’t -- you’re going to need it.” A mischievous note enters her voice. “Though I’m sure you already know that.” Off of Seyka’s momentary confusion, she adds, “Alva told me everything.”

Seyka flushes with embarrassment. “Oh!” Then regret. “Aloy -- I’m so sorry. I promise I wasn’t trying to invade your privacy or anything like that. I just figured that getting in contact with anyone who knew you was a good idea . . .” Her voice trails off and she wrings her hands. 

Aloy laughs. After spending so much of her time in Seyka’s shoes, it felt good to twist the knife, just a little. “That’s the second time you’ve stolen a focus. If you’re not careful it could become a habit.”

Seyka grins back. “You’re not mad, then? I swear I didn’t go through anything at all. I was just . . .” 

“Really worried?” Aloy finishes. “It’s okay to say that you missed me.”

“Well, you could say that,” Seyka admits. “It’s not every day that you destroy a Metal Devil and face down bloodthirsty Compliance officers. Not to mention nearly drowning.”

“But I had you to rescue me all three times, didn’t I? It could have been worse.”

The marine grimaces. “You heard about that too?” 

“Vin told me. But don’t worry -- I won’t hold it against you. I expected nothing less of my sidekick.”

“Hey!”

The pair dissolve into laughter, and Aloy feels a wash of relief. It felt comforting to know that for all they had been through, they were still the same; that rescuing each other and risking their lives for each other was just an unspoken part of their relationship. 

“Hey, we should celebrate,” Seyka says, stopping suddenly in her tracks to face Aloy. “Now that you’re up and on your feet, the rest of the tribe kind of owes you a party. Well, the friendly ones at least. I could call in a few favors?”

The thought of a party is a discomforting one at best, but the familiarity of this situation is enough to resurface old heartaches. Aloy is suddenly reminded of the night after the Battle of the Alight -- the last time this had happened -- when she had slipped away from her friends to begin her search for a GAIA backup.

“About that, Seyka,” she begins, sobering. “I can’t stay long. I came here for a specific purpose, and as it is I guess I’m two weeks behind on my return back home.” As she speaks, she feels a twinge of longing -- the same kind when she had first seen Varl and Zo together, shortly after her encounter with the Zeniths. Their affections for each hadn’t been a secret, and she remembered wondering what that felt like, to trust and care for someone as much as they did. 

“The exceptional walk a path of solitude, Aloy.” Sylens’ words had been fresh in her ears, beating her down in her already vulnerable state in the loneliness of that Utaru hut. She hated to admit that she agreed with him. But she had grown much since then.

Seyka nods, her gaze casting downward, the edges of her lips curled up in a slight smile. “I figured as much. You’re a busy woman.”

“Well, so are you.” Aloy tries to keep her tone light. “I’m sure you’ve got your work cut out for you now that you’re the Admiral’s most valuable soldier.”

“That might be an overstatement,” Seyka snorts. “But the Waterwing has its perks. I have you to thank for that.” A beat. “You’re right, though. The Admiral is going to need my help to reunite our half of the expedition with Alva up north.” Her brow furrows. “He’s doing his best to protect me, but after that, I don’t know. I don’t think things will ever be the same with my sister. Or my people.”

“You’re not going to sail back with them?” Aloy’s voice betrays only genuine curiosity, but she can’t ignore the relief that floods through her. It’s tempered with an immediate flash of guilt, the realization that she can feel selfish sometimes, too, and she clears the thought from her mind.

“I want to see home again . . .” Seyka admits. “Someday.” She’s pacing again, her wandering thoughts carrying her feet. “But things have changed. The Quen don’t know what to do with me. And I don’t know where I fit in.” 

“I’m really sorry, Seyka,” Aloy says, and she means it. “I didn’t get the chance to thank you either, for risking your life to save mine.”

The marine doesn’t meet her gaze, shuffling her foot in the sand. “That was nothing. You would have done the same, really. And besides, it was the least I could do -- after you trusted me, and after Kina . . .” 

“Still. I know it wasn’t easy. To defy your own tribe.” Aloy sighs, fighting down a surge of frustration. “After everything you’ve done for them, I thought . . .”

“That we’d miraculously change their minds overnight?” There’s a wry note in Seyka’s voice, but Aloy knows that her pain is still fresh, hidden just under the surface. “You forget that what I’ve done is still unthinkable to most. Especially when we’ve been conditioned our whole lives to believe in the Empire, the Diviners, the endless Boards . . .” She lets out a bitter laugh. “Still, it’s funny, you know. All the people I’ve grown up with, my friends . . . I never would have expected them to turn their back on me. Let alone aim an arrow in my direction.”

“I don’t think it’s funny,” Aloy says softly.

“No. I guess you don’t.”

The silence that falls between them is charged with things left unsaid, but undeniably understood between them. 

“It’s okay.” Seyka is the first to speak, lifting her gaze. Her voice is firm now -- it reminds Aloy of a certain Banuk snow-ghost. “I stand by what I did,” she says, her hand reaching up to brush against the focus at her temple. “Even if they never acknowledge it, or me, I would do it all over again.” She locks eyes with Aloy, and they’re shining with the same fire that Aloy recognizes as her own. “In a heartbeat.”

The sea around them, the greenery, the sky -- all seem to blur together in a swirling mass of colors. Aloy’s heart pounds in her chest, accompanied by a sudden surge of admiration and . . . helplessness. 

You’re incredible. 

“I meant what I said before, you know,” Aloy says. “That your people don’t know how lucky they are. To have you. Even if they don’t show it.” 

“You must know what that’s like.”

Aloy smiles humorlessly. “Yeah. For a long time I hated the idea of home,” she admits. Now it’s her turn to pace, her arms crossed over her chest in a rare show of vulnerability, addressing Seyka but casting her voice out to the sea and the sky. “For me it meant . . . where I grew up. Where I wasn’t wanted. But the thing is, the last few months, I’ve realized that . .  . home isn’t really a place at all.” 

Here goes, she thinks. An image of Varl appears in her mind, his kind, reassuring eyes. Remember what we talked about. Her apprehension melts then, like a snowflake in the sun. Logically she knows that there is no time, no chance, but something about taking down Bileguts, devotees, a Slaughterspine, a Metal Devil, and a narcissistic maniac from the stars, as well as almost dying in Seyka’s arms, has left little room for stoicism between them. They’ve seen each other at their best and their worst, now. Still, there is a quiver of trepidation that she is venturing into uncharted territory; even as she flies back to the Base, returns to continue her fight against Nemesis, things will never be the same.

She will never be the same.

She takes a deep breath and faces Seyka, the strength of her conviction radiating outward in a smile.

“It’s more like . . . the people I want to be with.”

Did she just say that? She just said that. Ok. Ok. 

Her heart is pounding in her chest, her thoughts are swirling with everything Aloy has just said, but there’s no time to hesitate. 

Not when she is standing so close, practically glowing in the sunlight, smiling, gazing at her with enough warmth to make Seyka melt on the spot. She’s beautiful. 

The shadow hanging over Seyka’s heart clears at last, and she smiles earnestly in return, moving forward until Aloy’s close enough to touch. “I like that,” she breathes. “And . . . well . . . More and more I’ve been thinking, I want to be with you, Aloy. And I was hoping you felt the same way.” 

There. It’s out. She can’t help the uncertainty that slips into her voice, but she’s nonetheless glad to finally admit her feelings.

The Nora’s eyes widen. No way she hasn’t received her fair share of confessions, Seyka thinks, self-consciousness prickling under her skin. Not when she’s  . . . Aloy. Oh, shit. What if she’s already spoken for? The ensuing panic is enough to throw her off guard momentarily. I never even thought to ask-- 

“And what if I do?” 

Aloy’s voice cuts through her thoughts, as refreshing as a summer breeze, enough to revive her from the depths of her internal tumult. The huntress is gazing at her intensely, her previous modesty pushed to the wayside now. Seyka could crumble there and then; instead, she does what she’s used to doing: forces her thoughts away, and moves by instinct. 

“I think I know how to handle it.” Seyka takes another step forward, and, before she allows her confidence to falter, closes the distance between them. Her hand falls to Aloy’s jaw, the pad of her thumb just barely grazing the edge of her lip, before the rest of her follows suit, leaning in to press her lips to Aloy’s. Her reaction is immediate, like a blast from a Shell-Walker’s lightning gun, awash with a joy so profound it floods through her, heady in its intensity.

Aloy seems to feel the same way, only she’s worse at hiding it. “Wow,” she’s breathless, her eyes huge and her cheeks pink, as they pull away from each other.

Somehow it makes her even more endearing. “Yeah,” Seyka laughs. She’s blushing too, finding it difficult not to grin when face-to-face with someone so gorgeous, so clueless.

Aloy’s hand glides to Seyka’s waist, tentatively, pulling her closer, and Seyka does the same -- careful not to graze her wound -- while her other hand wraps around Aloy’s shoulder. They stay like that, for a few heartbeats longer, holding each other, savoring the moment.

Aloy’s gaze suddenly clouds over. “Seyka,” she says tentatively. “I need to let you know.” She takes a deep breath. “I’ve lost so many people.” Her voice cracks, barely above a pained whisper. “I have a long road ahead of me. I don’t want to lose you, too.”

The thought of Aloy forging her path alone, both in the journey here and the journey ahead, sends a sharp spike into Seyka’s heart. “I can’t make any promises,” she admits reluctantly. “You’ve seen how it is here.” She returns her hand to stroke the side of Aloy’s cheek, playing with a loose lock of hair. “But I want this, Aloy. And if you do, too, then I’m willing to try.” That same stubborn determination returns, and she flashes Aloy a light smirk. “I’m willing to prove your fears wrong.”

Aloy lets out a small laugh. “That’s the thing, Seyka,” she whispers. “You make me want to be a fool.” She shifts, suddenly looking very small and vulnerable. “I . . . I heard everything, you know. While I was out.”

A cavernous pit of horror opens up in Seyka’s stomach, and she feels her face redden. “You did?”

“I did,” Aloy confesses. She seems equally as shy, the tips of her ears turning a light pink. “It helped me a lot. To -- to just breathe. To take my time. To rest.” As she speaks, Seyka’s gaze gradually softens, her initial embarrassment replaced by understanding. “I haven’t felt that way in a long time,” Aloy continues. “It feels like I’ve just been fighting, so much, and . . . for some reason, in that tent, I didn’t feel like I had to. You made it easy -- to wake up.” She moves to take Seyka’s hand, her fingers grazing over her own. “I also wanted to thank you for that. I hope you know that it’s not just your people, or your tribe -- I’m lucky to have met you, too.” 

Seyka blinks rapidly, her heart in her throat. She remembers those nights, slumped over in Aloy’s tent with only the light of the moon for company. It had felt like an eternity waiting for her to wake up, so she had marked the passage of time in the space between her stories, the steady rise and fall of Aloy’s chest, the thrum of her pulse in her hands. She would be lying if she were to say she wasn’t afraid, but now, standing across from Aloy, hearing her voice again . . .

It was worth it. 

“I’m not . . . good at this,” Aloy continues, her voice heavy with the weight of her confession.  “For a long time I barely knew how to make a friend, let alone -- this.” She waves an arm to gesture between the both of them. “But . . .” Her reticence fades, then, replaced with newfound resolve, as she lifts her chin to look Seyka in the eyes. “I want to try, too,” she offers. “I want to be bad at it. I want to make mistakes.”

The thought of Aloy being nothing short of capable is almost enough to make Seyka laugh -- not in disbelief, nor derision, but in relief. It’s comforting -- humbling, even -- to know that Aloy is only human, to see that she is willing to let down her mask for Seyka, to place her heart in Seyka’s hands.

I would have waited as long as it takes.  

She can’t help it -- she kisses Aloy again, swiftly, both her palms cupping the Nora’s face. She’s hyper aware of Aloy sinking into her embrace, the feel of her arms wrapped around Seyka’s waist. 

For the first time in weeks, she’s at peace. Happy, even. It’s a welcome change, to be a part of something beautiful and tender, instead of destructive and violent. 

I could get used to this. 

I don’t think I could ever get used to this. 

They break away, and Aloy’s breathless for the hundredth time that day. She knows she’s grinning like an idiot -- but she doesn’t care. Not when Seyka, beautiful, fierce, fearless Seyka, is in her arms, not when Seyka wants her back. 

But the bittersweet reality sinks in, as inevitable as the sun sinking below the horizon, and they both understand that their time together is short. Seyka must return to the Quen, and the creeping thoughts of Nemesis return to the front of Aloy’s mind, back from where they had spent the past few weeks lurking just under the surface.

“If you ever need anything, anything at all,” Aloy says, “you know where to find me.”

“And you, too,” Seyka replies. They haven’t let go of each other just yet, neither willing to end the moment. “Just . . . don’t forget about me, okay?”

The notion is almost ridiculous to Aloy, and all she can do is smile, her voice hardly more than a whisper. “Never.” 

How could I? 

Seyka pulls her in for one more hug, this one tighter and closer than all their previous embraces, as if she wants to sink into Aloy’s skin. Aloy does much the same, pressing her cheek against Seyka’s, burying her face into her neck, clenching her eyes shut. There’s peace here, wrapped deep in Seyka’s arms, in the crook of her neck, but it is overshadowed by an intense ache in her chest, the uncertainty of their future apparent to the both of them.

Our future, Aloy realizes, with a jolt. I’ve fought so much for the future of this planet, for its people, for Elisabet, but now . . . 

A vision appears before her, as clear as any memory: her fingers laced in Seyka’s, months or even years from now, the pair walking down a beach just like this one. Laughter echoes through the coves -- their laughter -- as they lay their swords and spears to rest on the sand behind them, their footprints swallowed up by the onrushing tide. 

Aloy’s eyes well.  Until then . . . She smiles, hugs Seyka tighter, breathes in her scent, committing it to memory.

And then, finally, they part for the first time. Aloy casts Seyka one more backwards glance as she walks away across the sands, seeing the same hopeful determination reflected across her face.

I’ll see you again. I promise. 

Then, she brings her fingers to her lips, whistles, and is suddenly swept away, lifted up into the sky in the talons of her swooping Sunwing. The heavens rush to meet her, and she’s one with the blue, her heart soaring along with her mount’s exhilarating ascent. She looks over her shoulder, sees Seyka reduced to a tiny dot amidst a sea of gold, waving as she takes off.

Aloy waves back, tossing her head back into the wind, a grin splitting her face.

So that’s what that feels like. 

Chapter Text

A year later . . .

Seyka doesn’t know why she hasn’t done this sooner.

She’s seated beside Aloy atop her skiff, trailing her legs in the water below, with the dying sunlight providing just enough illumination behind them. Both have their hair down, freshly washed after their foray into the kelp forest below, when she realizes with a start that she had never seen Aloy without her signature braids and topknot before.

It is little wonder why: they’re elaborate to be sure, and practical, and even Aloy seems a little shy to take them out. It’s only in the privacy of the wilds or her room in the Base that she practices her grooming rituals, and even those are borderline sacred to her. 

“Rost taught me how, and I sort of put my own spin on things as I grew older,” Aloy explains, instinctively running a hand through her hair. It’s an almost mesmerizing sight, the way it ripples and catches the sun, and Seyka commits the scene to memory. “It’s an important thing for the Nora. We used to trade all the time for new combs, new oils. Here.” She rummages in her pack and produces a long white comb, placing it in Seyka’s hands. “This one’s made from boar bone. I took just the one before I left the Sacred Lands.”

Seyka turns the comb over, marveling at the design. Its teeth are symmetrical, straight, and perfectly finished, while the handle itself has a cross hatched design, hinting at its artistic purpose. She passes it back to Aloy, who takes it and runs it through her hair, parting and setting it with a practiced hand. 

“Braiding others’ hair is seen as a kind of . . . reminder of your community,” Aloy continues. “For more elaborate designs, you’d need someone to help you out. Almost always your mother.” Her gaze casts downward, and Seyka feels a sharp pang of sorrow. 

No wonder you know how to do it yourself. 

She can’t help it. “Can I try?” She blurts out. 

Aloy glances at her, confused, but she hands Seyka the comb. “Ok . . .”

“Turn towards me,” Seyka says, climbing out of the water and positioning herself so she’s behind Aloy. She realizes a little too late that she doesn’t actually know where to begin with traditional Nora hairstyles. “Do you mind if I try something new?”

“No.” Aloy tenses a little at Seyka’s touch, and the marine realizes, not for the first time, that Aloy is woefully unfamiliar with this, with being let into others’ worlds. 

I’ll just let her into mine, then. 

“You know, braiding is considered sacred for the Quen, too,” Seyka says, running the comb through Aloy’s hair. It hits her now that this is a privilege -- to be able to hold Aloy at her most vulnerable, to have a hand in shaping her. “My mother used to do this particular braid for me all the time.”

“Really?” Aloy turns to look Seyka in the eyes, and Seyka gently tilts her head back the other way. 

“Hold still.”

“Sorry.”

There’s no need to be sorry, Seyka thinks, struck by the sudden lump in her throat. She can’t remember the number of times her mother had to fight against her own restless fidgeting -- it was inevitable and innocent at worst. Is this how you felt as a child, watching the villagers from afar? “Yes,” she says instead, her voice soft. She clears her throat. “The Quen love braids, knots, you name it. Can you guess why?”

Aloy pauses, thinking for a moment. “Well, it shouldn’t be a surprise. I can see it on your armor -- the tassels, the ropes. Even your hair has a crazy knot. I’m guessing it’s because you’re all sailors.”

“Correct.” Seyka chuckles. “It’s one of the first things we learn, actually. Endless workshops until we can do them with our eyes closed. Essential for manning a ship.”

“How’d that work out, during the typhoon?” Aloy turns to look over her shoulder again, and Seyka clicks her tongue.

“Wow, Aloy, you weren’t kidding. You’re really bad at this.”

“Hey!” 

“Turn around one more time and you’ll end up with a lopsided braid.”

The Nora sits up straight, but her shoulders are still shaking with laughter. Seyka decides to take what she can get.

“It worked out fine, by the way,” she continues, with a mock air of defensiveness. She sets the comb aside and runs her hands through Aloy’s hair, sectioning out the top into several equal parts. “So fine that the fleet split in two. But, if you ask me, that was probably just a cruel twist of fate.”

“Do you believe in that? In fate?”

“Hmm? Well, if I did, then maybe things would have worked out better for us.” She thinks of Compliance, of the Quen’s strange, totalitarian ways. But she also thinks of Aloy, of the day she crash-landed on the Burning Shores, her chance encounter with her at the beach. “As it stands, things could have been a lot worse, though.” 

“The Nora believe in fate, in a way,” Aloy says. “That it is from All-Mother we all come; and it is All-Mother who wins out in the end, who always has the last say over machines and men.”

“Was this before or after they met you?”

Aloy casts her gaze downward, swirling her toes in the water below. Seyka doesn’t have to look to know she’s blushing. “Tell me a story, Seyka.”

Seyka smiles. It had become almost a ritual between the pair of them, ever since that fateful battle with Londra and the Metal Devil. Something about Seyka’s voice brought her comfort, Aloy had said, and Seyka had never forgotten it. 

“Once, there was a peasant boy, the son of ropemakers, who lived on the outskirts of the Empire,” she begins, her voice taking on a faraway note. “He was very poor, but he was clever, and strong, and hard-working, and that made him more valuable than ten men.”

As she speaks, she recalls the voice of her own mother, silhouetted in candlelight, seated behind her on the edge of their bed. This had also been a ritual for the pair of them, lulling Seyka to sleep by braiding her hair and sharing a story.

“The village where he came from was small, and they had little to eat," she continues. "Still, he went to work, tending crops, making ropes, and catching fish for them to live off of. One day, word came of a group of barbarians terrorizing a nearby village, preventing them from leaving or casting off their boats. All of the men of that village were old and frail. Another few weeks of this and they might soon starve. So the peasant boy took a rope -- the only thing that he had -- and set off for the village.”

“Let me guess,” Aloy says, her hand on her chin in wonder. “He killed the barbarians.”

“Maybe,” Seyka laughs. “But you’ll see.” She pauses, thinking, then resumes. “Before he left, his parents packed him some food. But they didn’t have enough to feed him for the entire journey, so they made a few dumplings and substituted clay and rocks for the rest, and gave him a bottle of bilge blaze. And then he set off. On the first day of his journey, the peasant boy found a log on the side of the road, which he took with him. On the second day of the journey, he found an old cloak, which he took with him. On the third day of the journey, as he approached the sea, he found a couple of seashells--”

“Which he took with him.”

“You catch on quick.”

“But what do these have to do with the story? What’s he up to?” Aloy’s voice is full of curiosity, and suddenly Seyka is eight again, asking the same questions of her own mother, always impatient, always interrupting. 

“Why doesn’t he just pick up a sword and run them through?” She’s frowning, gazing up at her mother through the corners of her eyes, tethered in place by the braid forming in her mother’s fingertips.

“Patience, Seyka, you’ll see.” Her mother smiles and strokes her head with a free hand. She tilts her head downward, re-laces her hands in her hair. “Sometimes fighting isn’t always the answer.” 

“It’s a pretty good answer most of the time.” 

“When the peasant boy arrived at the village, it was indeed under siege by the barbarians,” Seyka continues, smiling at the memory. “The villagers had managed to keep them out for this long, but it was clear that their defenses would fall by the end of the day. So, the peasant boy called them before him. 

“‘Fear not,’ he said. ‘I have come to rescue you.’

“‘What can you do?’ The villagers cried. ‘You’re no soldier. You’re no more than a peasant, just like us.’

“‘I will defeat the barbarians,’ the boy replied confidently. ‘With just my rope. Watch and see.’ But his rope was tattered and frayed, and made a poor substitute for a sword or a spear. The villagers only laughed at him.”

“I . . . sort of don’t blame them,” Aloy cuts in. 

“You’ve been in your fair share of hopeless situations, too,” Seyka reminds her. “How about we give him a chance.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” Aloy laughs. “I don’t blame them, but I also don’t agree with them.” She shifts. “He sounds like he knows what he’s doing, at least.”

Affection blooms in Seyka’s chest; of course Aloy would side with the underdog, as she had. 

Her eyes are shining with defiance. She reaches for a fire stoker, brandishing it in the air ferociously, causing her mother to sigh. “I can’t wait till he proves those villagers wrong!”  

“And you’d be wise not to underestimate him,” Seyka agrees. “The villagers had no choice anyway, so they played along. He put brooms and rakes in their hands . . .”

“And led them in a charge against the barbarians, chasing them out?” Aloy finishes.

“And cut off all their heads, for good measure!” 

“No, not quite. He told them to go hide in their houses down the street, and come out when he signaled them.”

“An ambush, instead.” Aloy leans back, satisfied.

“To catch them by surprise, and show them no one messes with the Quen!” 

“Not even that. Once everyone was safe and hidden, he fastened the cloak to cover his face and his body, and opened the gates to the village to invite the barbarians in.”

“He did what ?” Aloy whips around to look Seyka in the eyes, and not even she can stop her this time. 

“You heard me,” Seyka says, releasing Aloy’s hair with a defeated laugh. “I reacted the same way, the first time I heard this story.” 

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Seyka’s mouth is agape, staring at her mother with nothing short of disappointment. Her mother lets out an exasperated sigh, but her eyes are gleaming with amusement. 

“At this rate I’ll never finish.” 

Aloy drops her head in her hands. “They’re all gonna die.” Only then does she seem to realize what she’s done, and her face clouds over with guilt. “Oops.”

Seyka waves her hand. No harm done. “Let me finish the story,” she says, guiding Aloy so that her back is once again facing her. “And I can retry the braid, anyway. It was looking a little sloppy.” She combs and separates Aloy’s hair, then starts again. “The peasant boy was eager to show the barbarians the ways of the Quen, including their hospitality. He sat them before a table laden with dumplings, and offered them to eat. He took a dumpling and popped it in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed -- ‘delicious!’ he said -- and bid the barbarians do the same. The barbarians followed suit, only to find they were chewing on rocks and clay! They spit out their food, and in disgust asked the peasant boy if this was what the Quen truly ate. 

“‘Of course,’ the boy replied, completely oblivious. ‘Every child in the Empire loves these. They eat at least a dozen per sitting.’

“Though he must not have been talking about you,” her mother says, giving Seyka’s cheek a playful pinch. “You can eat two, easily.”

“A marine needs to keep her strength up!”

“The barbarians reached for the bilge blaze to wash down their meal, and that too was a shock. They spat it out, to which the peasant boy responded that it is like water to even the weakest Quen sailor.

“What’s bilge blaze?” 

“. . .You’ll find out, when you’re older.”

“Now unsettled, but not wanting to be rude, the barbarians drank the rest of the bilge blaze. They soon began to wonder who exactly their host was. A demon? Some strange monster? They demanded he show them his leg, to which he pulled back his cloak and revealed the log he had picked up earlier. 

“‘By my father, I have never seen such a leg,’ one of the barbarians cried. ‘It is as thick and stout as the oldest trees in the valley!’ 

“They then demanded that the peasant boy show them his eyes. He lifted his cloak, revealing the ghostly white seashells he had picked up earlier. The barbarians shuddered in fear, and concluded that the Quen were indeed a strange, otherworldly people. 

She’s laughing now, her shoulders shaking with mirth. “Barbarians are not very smart.” 

"You'd be so lucky never to find out, little sailor."

“‘My brothers and sisters are coming to visit soon, too,’ the peasant boy offered. ‘They will be glad to receive you as their guests, if you would only stay a while.’ As if on cue, the villagers began to rattle the windows and eaves of the home with their brooms and rakes, and the barbarians leaped to their feet.

“‘We have seen enough!’ They said, bolting for the door. But in their rush they failed to notice that the old rope was strung out below the doorway, and they tripped in it, falling in a heap outside. The sight that greeted them in the village beyond was a terrifying one: dozens of Quen villagers, all in their cloaks in the darkness of the night, brandishing strange weapons and howling with laughter. Thus terrified, the barbarians half-stumbled, half-ran into the night, out the gates, and were never heard from again.”

“Take that!” 

Aloy shakes her head, but she’s grinning. “Your people have such a low opinion of outlanders.”

“Who are the Quen, if not superior to the other tribes?” Seyka mockingly mimics the posture of a Diviner, and the pair burst into laughter. “But you’re right. So it is that the Quen, while a mighty empire, is at heart a clever people, a people of intellect.”

“A chosen people.” Her eyes are wide with awe, staring up at her mother with all the fanatical devotion of someone who believes in their charge, while Aloy’s voice is teasing, smirking at Seyka for the Quen’s misguided sense of superiority. Seyka nudges her. “I didn’t say anything!” The huntress laughs. “I was going to say, too, that it’s no secret that a rope did the barbarians in.” 

“Not at all,” Seyka agrees fondly, delighted that Aloy was a good listener after all. “In fact, the story doesn’t end there, either.”

“It doesn’t?” Aloy sits up in interest. “Don’t tell me the barbarians come back.”

“And the peasant gets rid of them for good?” She’s reaching for the stoker again, which her mother gently pries from her hands.

“They don’t.” Seyka hums, mentally retracing her steps. “When word spread of the peasant boy’s exploits, he was sought out by the Emperor himself. His deeds were worthy of true scholarship, so he was taken to serve in the court as a strategist, earning him an education, and the finest provisions of the Empire. He also caught the eye of a beautiful young woman -- none other than the Emperor’s daughter -- and their marriage was a long and happy one. On their wedding day, the peasant-turned-noble gifted her a rope, a splendid rope, made of two things: dozens of the finest dyed threads in all of the Empire, and the remains of the rope he had used on that fateful day to defeat the barbarians -- none other than the tool of a humble peasant, but most treasured in their eyes, because it had brought the two of them together from distant reaches of the Empire. These he braided in an elaborate shape, to celebrate their marriage and ensure its longevity; that for as long as they lived, their two lives were intertwined like the threads of that rope.”

Seyka leans back as she concludes the story, tying off the end of Aloy’s braid. She gives it a once-over, then nods, satisfied with her work. “All done.”

“That’s a nice story.” Aloy shifts, pulling her legs out of the water. Her voice is soft, almost reverent, and her eyes are shining in the light of the rising moon, reflected off the now dark seascape. “Was any of it true?”

“True enough,” Seyka replies, tucking a loose strand of hair behind Aloy’s ear. “To this day, lots of Quen practice braiding and weaving ropes for different rites. Weddings, to be sure. But also to celebrate the birth of children, to ward off evil, and so on.”

Aloy smiles. “That sounds nice, actually. I’d like to see that, someday.”

Well, maybe you won’t have to wait so long. 

“It’s definitely something else,” Seyka breathes. Now that Aloy is facing her, she’s once again struck by the wonder in her eyes. She’s beautiful, Seyka thinks -- always is, but more so when she’s overcome with burning curiosity. Her hand moves to cup Aloy’s face, and she leans in to kiss her. For a few beats there’s only the sound of water lapping the side of the skiff. 

Aloy grins as they pull apart. “What was that for?”

“Nothing. You’re just great, that’s all.”

“Careful, Seyka. I’m starting to get the idea that you like me.”

“Eh.” Seyka scrunches up her face. “Maybe a little.”

They laugh then, and Aloy reaches up to feel her hair. “I feel like a Quen now,” she says, twisting the braid around in her hands to examine it. “It’s gorgeous. So elaborate.” She lets out a small gasp. “You even added mother-of-pearl!”

“I did. The finishing touch. My mother always said my hair wasn’t finished without it.”

“What does it mean?” Aloy asks. “The braid, I mean.” 

“Hmm?” The question catches Seyka off guard. “Nothing,” she says, quickly.

Aloy raises an eyebrow. “You just told me a whole story about how braids are sacred to your people, and you don’t have an answer for me?”

“I just think it’s pretty,” Seyka admits. She can feel the heat rush to her face, and she’s glad that the sun has set now, so Aloy can’t see how badly she’s reddening. 

“Seyka. Seriously?”

“Seriously.” Seyka laughs, rising to her feet. Maybe I’ll tell you one day. 

“Fine. Whatever you say.” Aloy throws her hands up in the air. “The Quen and all their secrets . . .” 

Seyka smiles as she takes her place at the wheel. It’s not just a deflection, Aloy, she thinks to herself. 

It’s a promise. 

“Let’s go home,” she says. “You all set?”

“All done.” Her mother leans back, placing a mirror in her tiny hands so she can get a better look at herself in the light of the dying candle. 

“Wow! It’s beautiful!”

“It is, isn’t it?”

“And this is the same braid in the story? The one the peasant made for his bride?”

“It is.” Her mother smiles. “It’s also the same kind I wore the day I was wed to your father.”

“So one day . . .”

“Yes. One day, Seyka, when you find the person you want to spend the rest of your life with, I will do your hair just like this.”

“Or maybe I can do her hair like this, too!”

“That too, my little sailor. It’s a promise, you see.”

“A lifetime together . . .”

“Yes. Now. Ready for bed?” 

“Ready!” The voice that answers her is two-toned; one small, and childlike, belonging to a young Quen -- her past; the other low and soft, huntress of her heart, barbarian who changed her world -- her future. 

Seyka smiles and casts off.

Chapter Text

The Tenakth have a way of preserving their deeds in ink and paint. It’s a practice that Aloy personally isn’t all that partial too -- at least not permanently. But now, tucked in a sea of furs and linens, she can see the truth in their customs as she holds Seyka close, explores her body and counts the untold stories laid bare on her skin, memorizing every scar and blemish, every wound or injury that could have taken her from this world before they had ever had a chance to meet.

There is famine, marked here in Seyka’s rib cage that has only recently begun to fill --

Disaster, where a log had gouged her leg after a flood swept her from her home, back in the Great Delta--

Machines, countless machines, each leaving behind burns and teeth and claw marks and gashes--

Even that scar across her brow that Aloy adores is a testament to Seyka’s upbringing, earned on her first week of marine boot camp; but that pales in comparison to the tiny nick just above her left cheek, a mark left behind by Rheng and his firing squad.

Here, Aloy quivers with a quiet rage as she thinks about how Seyka survived even the Quen, her people, when they should have nurtured her, protected her, celebrated her.

That they were so willing to cast her aside as a traitor for doing what needed to be done to save them . . . and that they very well could have, robbing Aloy of her breath, her life . . .

Each trial, each obstacle, each near-death experience floods her mind, and the thoughts of what could have been are enough to make even her own stoicism crack.

Beneath it all, the same nagging question -- the one that has kept her up for as long as she can remember -- haunts her. 

What if? 

What if Compliance had succeeded? Or Londra, or the reanimated Horus? 

What if Seyka had fallen -- not that day, but in the thousands of days before then -- before they had ever met? 

Aloy knows that this is just a holdover from her upbringing: the endless drills, the pressure to dissect her every move, to aim for perfection on the next go-around. The only difference is that when she was a child, she had a margin of error -- a luxury she had lacked in her later confrontations with Hades, Helis, Hephaestus, Regalla, the Zeniths, Specter Prime, and Nemesis. 

And when that tenuous margin was compromised, the consequences were dire.

What if she had been faster? Stronger? 

Would Rost, or Vala, or Ourea or Varl still be alive? 

She screws her eyes shut, buries her face in the crook of Seyka’s neck, too afraid to think of the alternative. 

A hand brushes against her back, and another in her hair, pulling her closer. Soft lips press against her forehead, then a thumb to her cheek, gently tracing the path of her tears, down to her jaw, tilting her face upward.

Aloy pulls back, meeting Seyka’s gaze; she can see the same breathless disbelief, even grief, reflected in the marine’s eyes, and she knows Seyka feels the same, sees the same as Aloy does. 

Seyka reaches forward, her hand brushing over the tiny scar, almost imperceptible now, above her right eyebrow, where Bast had thrown a rock at her as a child --

Her other hand glides down to Aloy’s shoulder, where a Stalker’s sniper fire had just barely grazed her there-- 

Down to her ribs, where Londra’s lucky shot, now long-forgotten, has painted its permanence--

Then to her neck, her fingertips grazing feather-light over the jagged scar where Helis had pressed his blade against her throat.

Aloy trembles against her touch, feeling shy now that it is her turn to be held. She can feel the stinging sensation in her eyes as she meets Seyka’s gaze, sees Seyka’s own eyes brimming with unshed tears, and her grief tinges with relief , gratitude , even, that despite all she has endured it was worth it, to have known Seyka, to be seen and held, touched and loved by her. 

Practically she knows that any of these scars could have easily been the death of either of them -- that a stroke of bad luck could have doomed the world, or robbed it of meaning. That they are alive at all, that they met at all, that they love at all, is a testament to a strange twist of fate, a statistical anomaly, something beyond probability. 

But all that’s behind them now, when the world blooms in their palms.

She cups Seyka’s face in her hands now, leaning in to kiss her, to reassure her that for all the stories her body may tell, all that matters is the here and now , the future they have together, the stories yet untold. 

They are an impossible miracle.