Author's Notes:
So, I know I'm writing another Fic right now. However, Eat-your-god on Tumblr pointed out something that I completely hadn't considered. Apologies if this is already done I'm just trying to get it out of my head! This will be a 3 part fic. Something small. It also gives me the opportunity to write in-game.
Rituals
By Atheniandream
Chapter 1/3
Looking back, the moments leading up to this one were gradual. Fragmented like greenshine in a watery grave, fitting in amongst the heady fray of combat and smell of survival. In amongst any journeying or discovering and framing blood, sweat, tears and the tone of death.
It had started, on reflection, with the simplest of gestures.
An offer, between comrades.
Birthing the beginnings of something…more than what had come before .
Aloy hears the sound seep out of the washrooms; a low grunt accompanied with the grating edge of human teeth, clenching tensely as nostrils flare with a familiarity, the funnelled air of sheer frustration sounding into the hallway. She identifies the tone immediately, not only from her keen hunter senses, but also because the sound is uniquely derived from one individual in particular. Of course, they are all individual here, with not one of the four of them in residence even the bit alike alike - s ave for Beta and herself, and even then barely in appearance and almost entirely different in personality. Through common deduction alone she reasons that it is an easy guess as to who she will find.
She turns the corner slowly and with caution. Out of the three possibilities, she knows that this person is the most withheld of the men that she shares the facilities with. Unlike the other two, he is less likely to come asking for assistance, despite recently aligning himself with her cause of his own volition , he is still guarded with her, still filled with the ripe sense of Tenakth pride and staunch Marshall code that he follows to the line, like a warrior through and through.
"Kotallo?" She calls, not wanting to appear in violation of his privacy before she enters the stall.
She straightens as he turns to face her, taking in his rather naked form. Save for blue undergarments he is almost completely naked, stripped of all his familiar looking armour, and with it some of his former fearsomeness. It is not odd for her to see the naked form of both sexes. On the contrary, if there is something she has learned it is that the Tenakth are barely shy of parading around their graces. However, there is something exposing about a man like Kotallo, being stripped of that which makes him so formidable looking in battle, and none more so than when she examines the look on his face in this moment. He straightens against the sight of her, his back becoming rigid, shoulders widening with a stubbornness as he attempts to mask the look of alarm on his face at her finding him in this state, his jaw sharpening the planes of his face.
It is then that she notices the vibrant and contrasting river of white, pouring from his right shoulder, swerving away from his forearm and bicep as if dragged by a current to collect around his wrist like an archers glove, pooling onto the floor beneath his dripping fingers.
"Are you okay?" She asks, her face bending with serious concern, her eyes picking up the patches of black markings on the tanned skin of his arm that have yet to be covered like the rest of his body has.
He clears his throat, a pensive expression on his face. "I…am having difficulty with my…remaining arm." He says reluctantly.
For a moment she frowns, mildly confused by the consideration, until logic catches up with her tiredness, and the she pieces the events together. "You're trying to paint your arm with…itself?" She asks. "Why didn't you ask Zo, or Varl?" She asks.
"It is…a personal rite of passage before every possible battle. A Tenakth, and a Marshall more so, must paint themselves as a mark of respect for their sacrifice to the clan." He says, the heaviness of importance in his voice.
"But I don't understand. I was painted by someone." She states, her brows knitting together.
"You are not Tenakth born, Aloy," He explains. "Despite your accolades from your actions in the Kulrut, a member of the Tenakth must bear the task on your behalf out of respect to the clan."
"Ahh." She sighs, understanding then. "And as there are no Tenakth-born present here at the base,"
"I must accomplish the task alone." He nods for clarification.
She notes the stress on his face. He has taken himself out of all relatable circumstances and pledged himself to her individual cause, away from his post. She feels her gut stir, and something light grabs her chest in sympathy for his continued struggle. Despite her feelings, it is understandable in theory, but wholly illogical in practice, she thinks, thinking of his recent trauma.
"Kotallo." She starts, stepping towards him. "As I've proven myself worthy to fight beside the Tenakth. Perhaps you can…teach me? And I can help you...prepare?"
"That is…admirable, Aloy…but I could not burden you with such a task. Your fight far outweighs one clan's traditions."
"And yet, you offered your blade to help our cause here." She reasons. "The least I can do is help you finish?" She offers.
She waits for a moment, laying the gauntlet of her words as she watches him digest her offer of assistance. He is a reasonable human being, but this is a tender subject, connected to a massive and recent life changing event. She would be insensitive to overstep his feelings with mere common sense. Humans are far more complex than the easiest road to tread.
It is a period of minutes before he answers, and she is patient beyond measure out of sheer respect for his presence.
"I accept your offer to help. It would be…an honour, to teach you." He says finally, the formality not lost on her as it weighs down the task at hand.
"Good. Where do I start?" She asks.
He looks about himself for a moment, before his eyes focus on a cloth discarded in the nearby sink.
"I believe the first step is to begin again." He notes, picking up the damp cloth in his hand as he bends, wiping the puddle on the floor before discarding the cloth, and turning the faucet on.
She cuts in swiftly. "Here," She says, taking the cloth to rinse it under the tap for a moment or two, squeezing the material in her hands to relinquish the moisture, before turning to him.
Touch is an ambiguous thing. In battle, it can be essential. Helping a friend up; pulling a comrade to safety. With friends it can be in comfort, or a jostle of fun and camaraderie between those who share a closeness.
Kotallo is a friend, of course. A fellow warrior indeed and someone with whom she respects above measure. He has overcome insurmountable odds, and opened his own opinion of her, from resentful and weary to trusting and loyal to her personal mission.
But touch?Touch is not defined with them. And the truth of such a thing causes a swell of unease to flutter in her gut. She swallows, looking to his right arm, appearing left in her view. She takes in the pouring of stark white paint against the deep black markings of accomplishment, jagged patterns and symbols relating to a picture or an award of his achievements. Amongst the temporarily tarnished flesh is much darker skin, the brush of fine brown hairs lining his forearm. She hadn't stopped before, to think of what he looked like beneath his prominent markings. The Tenakth, especially those that traversed the grounds of The Grove bear the daily weight of the midday sun and the intense humidity that lingers thereafter. But he was born of the Sky Clan, having grown amongst the harsh reflection of golden sun on snowy mountain peaks. It was understandable to assume that he was far more tanned than his war paint would suggest, but to see it before her was to see him differently somehow. She had never seen him without his full markings, only cementing his reaction when she had interrupted his shortcomings.
"May I?" She asks, indicating with the cloth.
He nods wordlessly, straightening with the slowest of an in-breath, as she painstakingly slides the material against his shoulder, wiping away the beginnings of the paint haphazardly marking his body. She feels him flinch at the coolness of the rag, the moisture brushing past the invisible hairs on his arm as her cloth sweeps away from him to land back in her hands. It is a practised motion despite her hesitancy. She looks down, side stepping to the sink to wash away the paint, before coming to stand in front of him once more. She feels his eyes on her. If she knows one thing, it is that Kotallo's gaze has been known to turn attention to or away from him with very little effort. Erend had likened the look in his eyes to a Stormbird's death stare and she would be remiss to disagree with the description. Consequentially, she doesn't question his interest, instead concentrating on the task at hand. She grabs the palm of his hand in hers with a sternness, ignoring the moisture that continues to drip from it, sliding the cloth against his forearm, and up around the elbow. The effort is perfunctory, but she feels her breath still as her eyes track the many lines of black ink that come alive with every wipe, feeling her concentration blur into the want to decipher each one. She has yet to understand the picture based language of Tenakth markings, even with the vague similarities between that and Nora embroidery to denote ranking. She hears his breath hitch slightly, her eyes following the query unfolding in her head. When she looks at him, he is looking at her with a mixed expression, one that is just as elusive as the patterns on his body. She bows her head to avoid examining his features, her pin sharp acuity zoning in on her given task.
"Let me know if I'm doing this right," She replies dryly, a slither of nervousness in her voice.
"You are doing fine." He says rather quietly.
She looks at him briefly, watching him nod, before directing his gaze to the wall over her shoulder. She lets his hand go limp as she repeats the action of washing the cloth, squeezing it one last time before she takes his hand again, her fingers curling around the flesh of his palm, pressing slightly to unfold his relaxed fingers as she wipes each one briefly. When her thumb brushes the cloth over his, her much smaller hands folding to claim any unruly paint she feels his hand twitch in hers. She drops his hand gently but swiftly, the action feeling far more intimate than intended, hearing him clear his throat in the process.
"I'll fill the bowl and then you can rinse your hand?" She offers, moving to drop the cloth into the basin, turning on the tap to relieve the water pressure, the rush of running warm water filling the basin to over half full.
She stops, looking to him as he wanders over to stand next to her, his body radiating a heat as he delves his hand into the filled bowl. She watches him clench his hand into a fist, before rubbing his thumb against his fingers to help soak off any excess paint that may lie under his nails. He lifts his hand out of the water, shaking it gently before regarding her.
She looks about his imposing form, judging his silence, before she spots the thicker woven cloth, an adequate size to dry his arm. She picks up the fabric as he straightens in front of her, watching as she clenches the fabric around his shoulder in set motions until she reaches his hand, scrunching the cloth until all obvious wetness has subsided. When she sets the damp cloth on the counter, regarding his arm once more, her attention finally catches on a patch of black far darker than the others at the edge of his wrist, a pattern of permanence that seems so familiar and yet all at once mysterious.
"What is it?" He asks, interest peeling out of his deep voice.
His keen perception pulls her out of her thoughts, as she looks to him and then to his wrist.
"This marking," She points to his wrist. "Is it… new ?"
She examines the image again. It is the image of three mountain peaks, or something similar. Beneath it lays a slightly curved triangle, with a line running clear through the middle of it, splitting it in half. The image is familiar and yet all at once a vague interpretation of something that stirs in her subconscious.
" Indeed it is ." He confirms. She feels his voice following her attention.
"What does it mean?" She asks boldly, frowning at its sudden presence on his skin.
"It is…" He pauses for a moment. " Not all markings are adornments of war , Aloy." He warns good-naturally. "Some are moments that we wish to remember."
"What is this moment?" She asks, looking at him then.
She notices him smile something small and private, before his onyx eyes connect with hers once more.
"Your victory over Tekotteh." He explains. "And the demolishing of the Bulwark." He adds, smirking.
Her eyes snap back to the image. Of course…a focus. She reasons.
"Is this…me?" She asks.
"Indeed it is." He nods, smiling at her.
She is taken aback. It is flattering and earth shattering that a strangely divided man such as he would have considered her in his personal decoration. In a moment that he wishes to remember.
"I…I don't know what to say." She breathes, forgetting her usual levelheadedness.
"You are embarrassed." He states, assuming rather than asking. "Perhaps I should not have explained the true meaning?" He offers with a smile.
When she looks to him, her eyes immediately apologetic, she finds herself at odds with the ease of his expression. He is the very opposite of embarrassed. Entertained would be a better word. Gracious even. Perceptive? Most definitely. She blinks flustering unlike herself.
"No. Of course you should have, I just…" She raises her eyebrows, drawing in a breath to catch herself. "I'm just…surprised, is all."
"You surprised me, that day." He reminds her. "Or have you forgotten?"
She smiles then, her memory flooding itself with the events of that day.
He had been obstinate and apart from her mission, only trudging ahead on the heels of orders that Hekarro had forced upon him, buried under the Marshall laws only to face a man that had made him, only to crush him later down the line. She had been livid, given his recent struggles to see Kotallo so mistreated by a man that he had looked up to once, that she had challenged him on his loyalty to Tekotteh with fire in her eyes and acid on her tongue. And graciously he had accepted her words, been bent to her will even when she had caught onto the idea of disrupting the status quo of the Bulwark. In the end, it had been the right move, but she had grown to understand, nay, respect Kotallo's position in the set of circumstances that surrounded them, even more grateful when he had helped her achieve what had been requested of her.
She looks down, her hand reaching for the drying cloth idly, as she pats his arm once more, as a gesture more than an action, before setting the towel aside.
"It was our victory..you know?" She offers, pushing her voice out of the small, delicate space that it seems to land. "Not just mine. We did it together." She says, her eyes catching at his with a softness.
He mulls over her words for a moment, his jaw twitching in thought.
"I must amend the image, then." He reasons. "There is no use in telling half a story." He says plainly.
She frowns, confused by the moment and yet still smiling at the gentle ease of his answer.
He reminds her of Azure blooms, high on a snowy mountainsides, above clans and trees and clouds and even Sunwings. Their true beauty seems illusive, held away from all except those who go in search of them. They blossom alone in the harshest of environments, and when you finally brush them out of the snowy drifts, plucking them out of sparkling white to hold them against the glistening suns rays, they shine with a hundred shades of blue and purple, layer upon layer of colour that stands out regal in their own right.
She clears her throat, folding the thought deep into the recesses of her mind as she places the towel down again, looking to him with a feigned freshness as she plants her hands on her hips.
"So…the paint." She states. "Do I paint it on? With a brush? Or do I use my hands?" She asks, distracting herself.
"Whatever you find is the best method." He answers. "The Tenakth do not place rigid measures on their own applications. It is personal to each individual."
She nods, chewing her lip.
Of course he would say that…
"Okay…what do you use? Did you use," She corrects.
"A brush for my body." He clarifies.
She watches as he passes her, moving to the counter. She spots the wooden pot of paint a moment before he picks it up, moving it to one side in order to hand a medium sized brush to her. Instead of hairs of wheat, she notices a fabric loop at the end of a piece of worn wood.
She picks up the paint, dipping the brush into the paint pot. The fabric is saturated almost immediately, much to her relief. She releases a held breath, swirling the brush in the pot, watching as the paint seeps into the material. She's never been the creative type, any creativity being rerouted into modifying weapons or thinking of solutions in the wilds. Between Rost's training and Zero Dawn and now The Zeniths, as well as hunting for simple survival or exploring on her many travels, there really hasn't been time to dally in the intricacies of brush technique and painting.
"Is there a…process to the painting?"
"No. As you like," He says, before directing his attention back over her shoulder.
"Okay," She answers awkwardly, looking up to his shoulder. She drapes the brush over his collarbone, hearing it slap gently with a splodge. She frowns, assuming that it has run its course as it had done on his attempt and grasps his bicep, pulling his shoulder to herself to examine the back of his arm. She feels his muscles flex under her firm grip, hearing him chuckle into the wisps of her hair as she sweeps the brush evenly to pick up the streaks that may lie there.
"Sorry," She breathes.
"It is paint, Aloy. Like blood, it spills." He reminds her.
"That doesn't fill me with confidence , Kotallo." She remarks dryly, pulling a breath in to still herself, as she slides the brush down the front of his arm.
"I am grateful, regardless." He reasons.
She nods, frowning into an overexerted sense of concentration. This may be a task for her, but to him it is, was , a daily ritual. It's important for her to get it right. She owes him that much.
After several moments she relaxes enough to make some headway. Like riding a Charger, it is not a complicated endeavour and once she concentrates on more measured movements, working the paint into his skin in long swathes of the brush, she starts to see the markings on his skin pale into their familiar grey tones.
Despite her self control, something catches at her when she reaches his wrist, as she takes her hand loosely in his. Her mind drifts, dancing on the idea of what his addition to the story could look like. How will he depict himself? Will he pay himself the same emphasis as he's shown her? Will they stand like victors side by side, or will he choose to view himself as an onlooker?
Something inside her hopes that he doesn't follow the same strain as other admirers of her work. She is growing tired of being adored and adorned far past her achievements thus far.
She blinks, noticing that everything but his hand is covered. Her brow twitches with an indecision, as she looks to him.
"Your hand is left bare?" She clarifies.
"Yes," He nods.
"I guess I'm done then." She shrugs, sighing at the completion of the task, before moving to wash her hands. When she turns back, Kotallo is watching her.
Something ignites between them in the moment, like spitting embers. But it is not born of this small moment that they have shared, one that borders on an intimacy that she has never experienced before. Nor the fact that he is naked, and obviously attractive. It is not because he, like so many others she has met, appears taken with her ability to fight and win, so far as to mark himself with the moment. Nor is it the fact that she is a woman and he is a man, even. She knows that people are people and very few sets are predetermined in this modern age.
"Thank you, Aloy." He says, earnestly.
It is the way that his voice, low and watery, cradles her name as he speaks it.
"Anytime." She promises. And she does.
And so, a ritual is born between them.
