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Kotallo must admit he is impressed at Alva’s ability to speak without drawing breath - perhaps she has had training on holding her breath due to the Quen’s sea-faring ways. He would be much happier if that ability was not being used to interrogate him on the ways of the Tenakth, and their beliefs surrounding the Ten and the visions in the Grove. He had thought he had answered all of her queries by this point, but the diviner is seemingly an unending fount of questions. She really ought to ask someone else- maybe he can push her to the Lowlands and let Dekka handle her questions.
The air rings with the shattering of one of Erend’s kegs, startling Alva into silence.
For a moment, all Kotallo feels is relief.
Then he recalls that Erend is away visiting Chainscrape, and that all of his ale kegs are made of wood after an incident that left the sleeping quarters with sticky floors for several weeks.
Then his ears catch the shaky curses of his commander.
Kotallo is standing on the edge of the common room before he can blink, staring down at Aloy crouched in the centre of the room.
He does not miss the way her hands tremble (stained blue, dotted with droplets of red), the quiver of her lips (the way she is so clearly biting down on them), the growing wetness in her eyes (glittering, catching the light).
The entire base is covered in a stifling silence, watching, waiting. He can sense Alva’s nervous fluttering behind him, can see Beta and Zo standing hesitant on the edge of the room, can feel the anxious hammering of his own heart in his chest.
Never, in all that he has faced, has Kotallo been so unsure of what to do.
Never, in all that he has faced, has Kotallo hesitated.
Never, in all that they have faced, has Kotallo seen Aloy cry.
But in this moment- he does not know what to do. He hesitates.
And Aloy rushes off, like an animal startled, disappearing into her room.
The pottery shards lie in a growing pool of blue, mixing with hints of red, steadily creeping across the floor. He fishes out a pair of small drowned feathers, some pieces of sopping and frayed rope, and some rounded pebbles, all dripping and bleeding blue.
He remains crouched, holding vigil over the remains of the paint pot, even as Zo brings over cloth to mop it up. He refuses to let her take the fragments, collecting them up himself and holding them gently in his hand.
This thing was precious to Aloy.
Precious enough to bring her to tears.
When he looks up, the silence has turned to quiet murmuring, and the others have wandered off to busy themselves. Zo heads out to tend to the garden, Alva and Beta busy themselves with data and Varl-
Varl stands sentinel on the other side of the room, eyes sad, watching over the door to Aloy’s room.
Kotallo does not know how to help his commander; he barely understands what happened.
His plan of action is clear- he must gain intel on what has occurred and from there, he can come up with a plan on how to help Aloy.
Varl meets his gaze steadily as he approaches.
The words catch in his mouth, and again he can feel his heart hammering anxiously within the cavern of his chest. “How can I help?”
A curious expression falls across Varl’s face as he glances from Kotallo to the space where Aloy had stood.
Then he breaks into a smile, and that’s where Kotallo’s newest mission starts.
***
The snow has begun to fall, swirling and dancing across the air, dusting the Sky Clan lands in glimmering silver. He looks out and wonders what it is Aloy sees when she looks upon his homeland. Varl had mentioned how his breath had caught at the sight of the snow-covered landscape when he first made his way into the territory, how it had made him feel a flash of hot twisting homesickness for the Nora Sacred Lands he had left so far to the east.
Aloy’s tales of her home back east are few and far between, yet always tinged with anger and bitterness, and a deep pervasive sadness that seems more like grief than homesickness.
He wonders if one day she might tell him why.
For now, he resigns himself to feeling like an utter fool.
It is foolishness, he thinks, as he crouches amongst the snow-laden shrubs and rocks, armour and paint blending in with his surroundings; he has no need to hide from Aloy. Let alone in such an undignified way. It reminds him of being a child, playing hide and seek with his squad, proclaiming it as “stealth training”.
He watches her as she moves whisper-light across the snow, as if she is no more than a gentle breeze passing through- but beneath, a raging storm, harsh and wild, ready to be unleashed upon the world. The light catches her hair in burnished brilliant bronze and glimmering gold. Her face is marked with spots of angry red from sun- and snow-burn.
She would not be so badly burned if she had paints with which to protect her skin.
The rocks sit heavy in their pouch, safely secured to his belt. The mouth of the pouch is dusted a chalky blue from when he put them in. It is paler in dust form than it will be when readied for application, but it is unmistakable Nora blue.
When he looks up, Aloy is gone. Nothing but footprints remain.
He spares a glance toward the direction her trail leads, wishing he could go with her and stand by her side.
But his mission is not yet done.
There is much work still to do.
***
This is a Nora tradition (one of the few that Aloy engages in and will accept, it would seem), but with the Base Squad all squashed into the Games Room, all willing and ready to provide their aid and support, it feels very Tenakth.
Still, after nearly an hour of Varl sharing what must surely be every possible piece of information on clay types, clay deposits, and clay moulding, Kotallo is starting to regret asking for help.
“But there is no significance to the colour or type of clay used?” Kotallo asks, steeling himself for another long-winded speech.
“No, it’s entirely up to you to decide what is most suitable. Although…”
“Go on.”
“Well, there is a practice of collecting clay from an area of significance to the maker and receiver. It’s not widespread, and it’s more of a personal choice, but I know that my father collected clay from the riverbed of the Brave Trail where he was first bested by my mother.”
Kotallo nods, thoughts moving already to the next stages of his plan. “There is a clay deposit in the riverbed by the Memorial Grove. Given all she has done, all her victories–” his mind is filled by the memory of standing with Hekarro and Ivvira, of Aloy flying upon the Wings of the Ten, of later taking to the sky with her, “–I believe that would be suitable, yes?”
Varl only smiles in response.
“So long as you don’t engrave ‘Champion’ on the damn thing,” Erend retorts, leaning over a scroll with Beta, the parchment steadily blooming with notes and diagrams, data streaming in the air before them.
“Ooh! I could get you some pearlescent shells to help make it shine,” Alva adds, standing at Zo’s shoulder with a Quen kettle adorned with such shells, adding water to the pestle at the Utaru’s bidding.
“I think,” Zo smiles softly, dark eyes gentle as they meet Kotallo’s, “that the specifics of the decoration ought to be up to Kotallo. It is, after all, his gift to Aloy. We are only assisting.”
“Oh, right,” Alva stutters, face reddening, “but if you need any, I’m your Quen!”
“I shall consider it.”
Already he can picture it within his mind’s eye. He cannot return the blue feathers that she once wore in childhood, ruined by the explosion of paint and shattered clay, but he can give her something to the effect of the freedom those feathers had represented. A memory, a thanks, a promise.
***
Kotallo learns very quickly that pottery is, in fact, a very difficult skill to master.
He also learns that attempting pottery with one arm is much easier than with one arm of flesh and one arm of metal.
Unfortunately, he learned that lesson a little late.
He spares a mournful glance to the arm, caked in ruddy-brown splatters. He does not envy himself the later task of cleaning it. But, as the Old Ones were prone to saying (a phrase Erend has latched onto): that is a problem for future Kotallo.
On the topic of Erend- thank the Ten for his and Beta’s assistance. The scroll they had created for him to aid in his task has saved him much time and many a mistake, and he dreads what might have happened had he been without the guidance of their detailed diagrams and in-depth annotations. Although Erend’s scrawled handwriting had taken some getting used to. And there was more than one section where it seemed Erend and Beta had strayed from their explanations into bickering.
In spite of Erend and Beta’s guidance, Kotallo still finds himself covered in clay to such a degree it has become part of his paint, but he carries on with dogged determination- such that he almost misses the soft footsteps approaching.
Almost.
“... What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” He whirls around to find his Commander stood at the door to the Games Room. Her hair is tangled and strewn with twigs and leaves, her nose and cheeks red from sun exposure and- Kotallo’s heart skips a beat.
She is wearing Sky Clan armour.
It is not unusual for Aloy to wear outfits besides her usual Nora leathers: Oseram padding, and Utaru fibre-weaves, and on occasion some Tenakth armour. But the Tenakth armour she has worn in the past has all been Lowland stealth gear. To see her now, in front of him, in the fur-lined dark red and sky blue of his clan is something else. He finds himself breathless in the face of her fierce beauty, her unyielding resolve, her–
Her intensely suspicious glare as she stares him down, hands on her hips. “You’re up to something.”
“No, just working on… my arm.” He feels a swell of dark dismay at his stammering and the obviousness of his deception.
“Your arm, huh? The arm that is lying on the other side of the room?”
Shit . “... Yes.”
He barely has the chance to blink before she has stalked her way into the room, trying to peer behind him. “Kotallo, what are you working on? Show me .”
He draws himself up, meeting her blazing determination with his own. “No.”
They back and forth for some time, Aloy attempting to spy beyond him to his project, and him adamantly denying her. Eventually it falls more into a teasing game, the project forgotten.
“Fine,” she steps back, a wide grin painting her face, shaking herself in a way not dissimilar to the owls in the Sky Clan territory that Kotallo had attempted to befriend as a trainee, “keep your secrets.”
“You have had enough?” He goads, all the while relieved she has finally ceased her investigations. “So much for the great Champion.”
She scoffs and rolls her eyes, grin brightening as she moves toward the door. “I’ll find out soon enough. Secrets don’t stay secret here. Besides, I need to find Alva. I found some data she might be interested in for the Quen homeland. But, uh, maybe a shower might be a good idea? You’ve got a little something…” She begins to gesture toward his face and then hesitates, realising the full extent of the staining, “uh, everywhere? I’m honestly a little impressed. Anyway, I should–”
“Yes, and I should continue working on my project.”
“On your arm?” Her grin turns sharp, eyes glittering.
“Yes. My arm.”
“Right,” and with a final snicker, she turns, her flame-bright hair cascading and he can note the new beads she has woven into the strands and braids.
As soon as she is out of sight and he can hear the low murmuring of her voice and the high excitable tone of Alva’s, Kotallo feels himself relax, letting out a long, low sigh. There is no need for his project to be kept secret from her. Varl had explained that in some cases the receiver of the gift would even be part of the process in making it. However… Kotallo finds he wants to surprise her with it, to present it as a true gift.
He wants it to be perfect for her.
He wants it to be worthy of her.
He wants to be worthy of her.
***
Kotallo’s hand reaches to his belt to check that the gift is secure, only to have it batted away by Varl.
“Don’t give me that look,” Varl laughs. “That’s got to be about the hundredth time you’ve checked. It’s fine .”
“It’s not the hundredth time,” Kotallo frowns in reply, “only about the twelfth.”
He grumbles under his breath at the bemused expression Varl sends him. “Look, it’s going to be fine. Great, even. Just– stop worrying so much.”
The biting reply dies on his tongue as he spots brilliant red hair in the corner of his vision. Evidently, Varl spots her too, giving him a smile, a pat on the shoulder and a quick “good luck” before heading out the Eastern door.
“So– There was some important mission you needed me on?”
The words stick in his mouth, but eventually he hears himself say: “Yes. Follow me, Commander.”
He catches a brief grin overcome the focused frown on her face as she follows him out of the Western door. The snow drifts gently from the peaks above, catching the light to dance in swirls of white and pale gold. The climb to the top of the mountain is slow, and he can tell Aloy is getting suspicious of the pace, with Kotallo taking far greater care in his climbing than he ever has before.
By the time they reach the summit, the evening has turned bright; the sky splashed with light pinks and brilliant reds as the sun makes its descent over the ocean. Aloy stands on the edge of the rockface, a strong silhouette cut against the sky, and Kotallo feels his heart drumming against his chest as if it might bust out. As if his heart wants to sit in the very hands of the one it belongs to.
He could stand there forever, just watching her, the sun painting her a vision more beautiful, more inspiring than any in the Grove. But eventually, the Sunwings below them begin to rumble, eventually the air grows chiller as the sun sets lower, eventually Aloy turns to him.
“So, why did you bring me out here? If you wanted to go flying, we’ve missed the Sunwings,” she grins, although the confused set of her eyebrows never smooths.
All ability to speak is lost to him, under her gaze, with the backdrop of the sun burning crimson behind her (and maybe he can see for a brief moment why the Carja find it so holy. But he knows it has little to do with the sun itself and more the one who stands before it). Instead, Kotallo detaches the brown fibre-weave purse from his belt and holds it out to her, hoping the earnestness in his expression can communicate to her in a way his words cannot.
His Commander makes her way over to him, brows furrowed, eyes curious, hand reaching. The brief moment when her fingers brush against his sends sparks racing through him, and he watches, breath held, as she carefully undoes the the ties, opening it up and–
The shaky gasp, the faint tremble of her hand, the glistening of her eyes- so terrifyingly reminiscent of the sight that had started this, but this time, he can read them as joy .
She turns her gaze up to him, eyes bright with tears and joy both. “Kotallo, I– I don’t– How? When?”
He watches the realisation dawn across her face, the soft smile of exasperated understanding: “When you were working on your arm.”
“Yes,” he can feel the small smile that blooms across his own face, matching hers, “after your last paint pot was shattered, I spoke with Varl. I… learned a lot about clay. Too much, I think.”
She laughs, bright and tear-choked. “Yeah, I remember hearing all about it when he was making one for Zo. When Rost was teaching me when he made mine, I thought it was just- him . But apparently, it’s a Nora thing. You– You made this. For me ?”
“The others helped,” he feels himself flush beneath his paint, “but. Yes. And I would make you as many as you need. For any colour, for any paint you would wear. I–”
I would do anything for you , he thinks, as she reaches up and pulls him into a kiss.
Aloy doesn’t have paint to hide the redness of her cheeks (not from the sun, this time), but Kotallo doesn’t think his paint does a much better job of hiding his own blush.
She pulls him over to a rocky outcrop, perching beside him and running her fingers over the paint, admiring the craftsmanship (he’ll endeavour to make a better one next, he thinks, before pausing at the idea that there will be a next one to make) before handing it back to him: “would you do my paint?”
“Gladly.”
They sit, breath silvering, and watch the last light of the sun sink below the distant waves, blue stained hand in blue stained hand.