Chapter Fourteen: The High Turning
Nil sat atop the watchtower, his legs dangling over the edge. The easterly sun rose behind him, warming his back as it burned away the last wisps of morning mist. Windswept conifers appeared below him, their roots clinging to craggy mountainsides. And in the distance beyond the weathered sandstone and crumbling granite, he spied a great basin, desolate and gray.
There was something ugly and hard about this desert that beckoned him. As if it were teeth without gums or spit. He imagined how its sand and wind gnawed on those who entered, grinding them into dust. A far cry from the lush, green forests and gentle plains that fattened the Utaru at his back.
He briefly considered lingering in their Eden. Afterall, trouble existed everywhere, so why not seek it among grassy meadows and cerulean lakes? Perhaps he'd be cleansed instead, and thus find salvation in their verdant serenity.
Except that he didn't want peace. And he didn't want comfort.
He absently scratched at the bandages binding his chest and abdomen. Through the gauzy cotton, he felt the sutured lips of his wounds and thought about the scars they'd soon become.
That's who he was. A gnarled knot of tissue amid unblemished skin. No matter what the army and prison had done to stitch him smooth, the seam remained, because he'd always be an old, jagged wound that violence created.
So, he wanted to be where it was ugly and hard. He wanted to be in this forsaken desert and be ground down by its teeth.
And maybe give it a fucking cavity in return.
He had started the effort at least.
Bodies lay strewn around the massive gate that marked the boundary between the Tenakth and Utaru lands. Body paint smeared their skin in bright bands of black, yellow, and red. In nature, these were colors that screamed danger to the unsuspecting. But the Tenakth were the ones screaming when his arrows pierced their chests and bellies, their gushing blood adding a little more red to their paint.
Now he enjoyed their silence, though the primal ecstasy he lusted for in battle eluded him. Instead, he felt as empty as the corpses he'd made. Not even the gleaming terror in their eyes before death clouded them over satisfied him, its flavor as bland as water.
His gaze panned over patches of tall grass capped with red. He watched as their feathery seed-heads undulated with the mountain breeze. Then he spied Aloy scything through them, her body in rhythm with their flow.
His breath caught in his throat, and his grip tightened on the bow resting on his lap.
He blinked.
And then only the grass remained
He sighed and rubbed at his face.
He didn't want to think about her, and yet there she was slinking through his mind. She wove through his thoughts, like she did through the grass, blending in so well that he sometimes forgot she was there. And then when he was cooking, or stitching, or hiking a trail, she would leap out and strike, her spear tip burying deep into his heart.
She had pierced him through on the mesa when his body was too weak to make the descent, and he devoured the fruit and vegetables she had left behind. He felt her again when the ground shuddered as the western ridge exploded, and when, through the billowing smoke, machines swarmed and rained fire on Meridian. And then he felt her when waves of red light pulsed through the blackened sky, raising the ancient dead with apocalyptic intent.
He realized at that moment he needed to leave the Sundom. Perhaps he'd wander into the forbidden west and cake his boots with Cinnabar Sands' red dust. He would return to that eternal battlefield, his origin of sorts, and dye it again with blood, doing his part so that it would never fade.
But more than that, he knew she wouldn't be there, hidden in the grass and waiting to strike.
Below, the red seed-heads waved against the breeze as a shadow crept through them, and his eyes widened.
She wasn't here, was she? Or was his imagination toying with him again? Except that even when he imagined her, she wasn't so clumsy as to let her shadow be seen.
More shadows filled the grass, and he caught glimpses of skin banded with red, yellow, and black.
He grinned toothily like a snapmaw, then he plucked an arrow from his quiver and nocked it to his bow. With the high ground, he'd score a few hits on them before dodging for cover and finishing the rest. His aim panned over the possibilities, his assault strategy forming more out of battle-hardened intuition than conscious thought.
Then a man stood up in the grass.
Nil's aim smoothly gravitated towards him, centering on the bandana draped around his throat. Patches of white paint slathered his skin, accented by geometric streaks in blue and yellow. Machine armor lay plated over animal hides and natural fibers, each piece stitched together in a raw and unsymmetrical fashion. And yet there was something distinctly Carja in the design. In the way the barbed metal over his shoulder spread like hawk wings.
"It's been a while…" the man shouted up at him, his welcoming tone threaded with a hint of wariness. "…Hero of Cinnabar Sands."
Nil blinked, and his aim drifted upwards until it settled on the man's face. There it hovered, poring over his aquiline nose and the line of his jaw. The familiar features needled his memory, pressing him to remember. He knew this man, and more importantly, he knew he didn't hate him.
Perhaps he even revered him.
"You've grown a lot since we last met," the man added. "You finally fit the headdress I gave you when we were honored by Sun-King Jiran in Meridian."
Nil's jaw went slack with surprise, and he let his aim drop. "Lieutenant? Lieutenant Fashav?"
Fashav chuckled, his shoulders shaking with relief as much as with humor. "You mean Captain Fashav, don't you?"
"If field promotions were meant to last beyond the field, then sure."
His chuckle bloomed into genuine laughter, and he grinned up at him. "Point taken."
"Marshal," a man called out harshly.
Fashav's amusement softened to a smile, and he turned to glance back over his shoulder.
A tall man approached. He was thick with corded muscle across his imposing frame and strode forward with an officer's confidence. His tattooed skin was dipped in white from head-to-toe, and he wore similar armor as Fashav, though his was woven from jungle leaves and decorated with bright feathers and beads. His stern eyes glared at Nil, never wavering.
"Kotallo," Fashav replied smoothly.
"What are you doing?" Kotallo asked, then he sneered at Nil. "Why are you engaging with this bloodthirsty intruder? We were in position for the kill. If he's begging for parley, it's too late. His life is forfeit."
Fashav sighed wearily through his smile. "About that… If our friend here is still as deadly as I remember him to be, I don't think we're the ones in position for the kill. So, if anyone is begging for parley, it's me."
Kotallo's eyes strayed from Nil and narrowed on Fashav. "What?"
"This is the soldier responsible for Carja's last victory in the west before your tribe toppled Barren Light and drove us from the Daunt."
"The devil whose arrows pierced the sky and brought bloody rain to the desert?" he asked, then he jabbed a finger at Nil. "That's him?"
"To be fair," Nil said with his hand casually propped under his chin, "The sand was already red before the battle. I just saturated it a bit more and made it brighter."
Fashav leaned towards Kotallo and whispered. "I could tell from the way he was scanning the grass that he had already made every member of our team. We were two heartbeats away from being the next wave of this massacre. Let me talk to him and maybe I can persuade him to move on." He clasped Kotallo by his bare shoulder. "The embassy is a week from now, and the Sky Clan is still dragging their feet. Everything we've been working towards for the last two years, this peace that our tribes want, will evaporate if we die here."
Dissatisfaction rumbled in Kotallo's throat, but his eyes flicked to the snowy peaks far to the northwest. He sighed, relenting. "The Sky Clan has grown impudent from the comfort of their Bulwark..."
Fashav gave him a reassuring squeeze. "And despite that, I trust that you'll persuade them to send a few warriors to join us at the embassy to ensure our success." Then he nodded towards the shadows still lurking in the grass. "Send them back to Scalding Spear. I know that the Desert Clan will demand vengeance, but it will have to wait. There's too much at stake to throw it all away over one Carja asshole."
Kotallo nodded, and then he turned to face the field. He gestured into the air, his forefinger making a circular motion, and painted warriors began to rise, melting out of the rippling grass. One-by-one, they headed west down the mountain pass and back into their territory. Nil watched them, catching their seething glances in his direction and smirking in reply.
When they were gone, Kotallo lingered, his concerned gaze on Fashav.
"It'll be fine," Fashav said, "He used to be my subordinate."
"That just means he'll put two arrows in your back instead of one."
Fashav chuckled. "Maybe, but I'll take the chance that he'll put in none."
"I hope you're right," Kotallo said, then he nodded his farewell. He gave Nil one last hard stare, his dark eyes promising inescapable vengeance if Fashav was wrong about him, and he turned, heading down the mountain pass.
When he was out of sight, Nil alighted onto his feet. He slung his bow onto his back and leapt down. His hand caught the watchtower's highest handhold, and he made his way towards the ground until he hit it in a dusty cloud.
Fashav watched him, his arms crossed against his chest. Nil could see his calculating mind working behind his brown eyes, untying the new knot in his plans. The man hadn't changed since the night he patched him up after Cinnabar Sands.
"Surprised to see me?" Nil asked, unable to hide his cocksure smirk.
Fashav sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "That would be an understatement." Then it seemed that he couldn't hide his own smile, and he reached out with his arms open. "Come here. It's good to see you, kid."
Fashav collided against him in a bracing hug, and Nil didn't stop him. When the man's arms wrapped around him and gave him a hard squeeze, Nil felt his body shudder. The warmth overwhelmed him, and he couldn't tell if it was longing comfort or sheer terror that ached inside his chest. Just as he couldn't remember the last time he'd been hugged. Or if he'd ever been hugged. He only hoped that Fashav didn't feel him trembling.
"Good to see me, huh? You just called me an asshole," Nil said, pressing with a joke through a thready voice.
"You are an asshole," Fashav replied with a laugh, and then he let him go with a parting punch in the arm. "You fucking killed all these people."
"To be fair," Nil said, feeling his confidence returning, "They fired the first shot. I was just passing through and minding my own business."
Fashav scoffed. "Except that you're a sun-damned Carja in full regalia. You can start a fight without loosing the first arrow, you know that right?"
Nil shrugged.
"I suppose it's a miracle you survived all our skirmishes and battles up through the civil war. You always enjoyed living on the edge of the sword, no matter who was swinging it. In fact, I'm surprised Helis didn't recruit you into his Shadow Carja cult."
"He tried," Nil said, then he made a sharp gesture as though he were plunging a dagger. "But I let him know I wasn't interested in being wielded in the name of zealotry any more. Or by anyone really. If I knew how crazy he was going to end up being, I probably would have stuck the knife a little deeper."
"Eh, well," Fashav mused, his finger prodding at a bandage binding Nil's chest, "Seems like you don't wield yourself any more gently than the sun-king did."
Nil sighed wearily and looked away.
"Oh? There's a story here," Fashav said, smirking toothily. He headed for the cool shade under a rocky outcrop. There he leaned his back against a boulder and made a beckoning gesture with a nod of his head. "Well, come over here and tell me about it."
Nil sighed again.
His hesitancy only seemed to make Fashav grin harder. "Come on, kid. Let's hear it."
Reluctantly, Nil shuffled over and joined him. The boulder felt cool against his back; its rough grain gently prickling his skin. Fashav dug into one of the pouches on his belt, his fingers fumbling through it, and he withdrew an old, metal tin. He flipped its lid open, revealing rows of rolled cigarettes, and he plucked one up and stuck it between his lips. The tin closed with a snap, and he dropped it back into the pouch. Then he produced a small contraption with a vial of gold liquid sloshing inside.
"Is that blaze?" Nil asked, wrinkling his nose.
"It's a lighter," Fashav corrected, his words muffled by the cigarette, and he pulled the lighter's lever. It made a loud tap, and a spark lit white inside its nozzle. "The Oseram are geniuses when it comes to lighting shit on fire. You won't even taste the blaze, I promise."
Nil furrowed a brow.
"I promise," Fashav repeated, and with a final pull, the tip of the nozzle ignited with flame. He cupped the fire, protecting it from the breeze, and put it to the cigarette. The papery end kindled with bright orange embers, and he took a drag, breathing in its smoke. He exhaled blue wisps and rolled his shoulders. Then he held it out for Nil.
Nil eyed it skeptically.
"It's the good stuff," Fashav reassured, "The Tenakth, if you can't tell, will smoke anything to sometimes disastrous results. But the Utaru know what they're doing. This won't alter your senses or dull your mind. It just loosens you up."
Nil frowned thoughtfully and then reached out to accept it. He put it to his lips and took a light drag. The smoke filled his lungs, and a pleasant easiness radiated through his body. It relaxed his muscles, and the tension in his neck and shoulders evaporated. He blew out the smoke in a contented sigh and watched it swirl in the air before it dissipated.
"See, I said you'd like it," Fashav gently chided as he took the cigarette back for another drag. "So, where were we? You were going to tell me a story."
"It's not a story," Nil said, rubbing his forearms. "Not really. I just don't know what I am any more. My purpose was simpler before Sun-King Jiran was deposed. Before the civil war, I was a weapon. An arrow fired upon the Sundom's enemies. I didn't think about why or whether my orders were just. I simply followed them and reveled in the fight. In spilling blood." He scoffed under his breath. "I still enjoy it. Lust for it."
Fashav nodded, blowing out a puff of smoke. "One way to prove you're alive is to see the other person lying on their back with an arrow through their chest."
"Something like that," he agreed, taking back the cigarette. "But with the civil war, I realized that I didn't want to do it for the Sundom any longer. All these nobles, no offense to you and your bloodline, have political gains they seek, and I am an opportunity to achieve them. That tastes too much like ownership to me. As if it's just slavery disguised as loyalty, and I won't be anyone's slave."
"Can't say it's much different when you're the cousin to the reigning sun-king, but I understand. So, if you're still a weapon but you wield yourself now, what do you do? What's your purpose?"
"Haven't figured that one out yet," Nil replied, breathing out a ring of smoke. "Thought I might have, but as you can see…" He scratched at the peeling corner on one of his bandages. "…I'm still in the dark."
"An almost deadly way to find out."
"Certainly was," he said, handing the cigarette back to Fashav, "As you know, I've always been someone who clashes. A war drum beats it rhythm in my ears until blood spills out with percussive violence. I believed there was something natural in its music, like a heartbeat, and I spun it into a narrative about the hunter and the hunted." He balled his hands into fists. "Except there's nothing natural about me. I was the residue cast by corruption and not birthed with love. And so, I ruined what I had with her, because I wanted what I wanted. I heard the war drum and thirsted for the fight."
"So, you ruined what you had with her…" Fashav said thoughtfully as he took another drag, then he eyed Nil, smirking. "Who's her?"
Nil couldn't help the heavy sigh that escaped him.
Fashav waited, his lips fumbling as he tried to blow out a smoke ring and failed.
"She's a girl I met," Nil began, and he suddenly found himself pacing. "There were stories about her in battle, and I had to meet her. And when I did, I'd never felt more at peace with another person. It's like we were both the same and yet the opposite. Like ice and fire. So, I called her my partner, and we killed bandits together. And we shared meals and small moments. Then when there were no bandits left to slay, I demanded that we slay each other. I thought it would be a communion for us to share like that which exists between predator and prey, but truthfully, I just craved the challenge and wanted to destroy her."
"Hmm…" Fashav hummed under his breath. He took one final drag from the cigarette and rubbed out what was left onto the boulder, reducing it to a fluttering bit of paper. "In this duel you forced her into, how many arrows did she put into you? Five?"
Nil nodded.
"How many arrows did you put into her?"
Nil opened his mouth, afraid of the word he was about to speak, then said, "None."
"None?" Fashav repeated with a wry smile. "From an archer who never misses? That's interesting."
"Is it?" Nil said coolly.
"It is," Fashav replied, his smile spreading into a grin, "So, first off, you're in love."
Nil blinked, his eyes widening with surprise.
"I don't think you've ever been in love, so this will be new for you, and if you're lucky, she might love you, too."
Nil shook his head in disbelief. "Love?"
"Yeah, it happens to the best of us. Trust me," Fashav added, then gave him a level look. "But secondly, and more importantly, you need to ask yourself why you wanted her to kill you."
"It was a challenge," Nil insisted with an emphatic wave of his hand, "Not some attempt at suicide."
"Then why did the best archer and most ruthless fighter I know, a legend wherever sunlight touches the ground, not land one arrow on this girl?"
Nil stared at him wordlessly.
"Well?" Fashav asked.
Nil swallowed. "I don't… I don't know."
Fashav sighed. With the heel of his foot, he pushed off the boulder. He approached Nil and clasped him by the shoulder. "You've been through a lot of hells, kid. Dark places in a world that already has enough shadows. It's tainted how you see yourself and how you relate to others. And until you deal with that. Until you see how you sew this fucked-up world together rather than ripping it apart, you're never going to find your true purpose."
Nil nodded softly.
"Understood?" Fashav said, his voice booming.
"Yes, sir," Nil replied sharply, a smirk hinting at his lips.
"Good," Fashav said, then gestured towards the strewn bodies. "Now strip off your flashy, Carja clothes and go find something more Tenakth to wear. The last thing I need is for you to wipe out half the tribe, because you haven't figured out who you are as a person. I'll stash your gear on the battlefield we both shared for when you're ready to head back to the Sundom."
Nil looked at him, shook his head and smiled. "Thank you."
Fashav beamed. "Of course. It's only what any good lieutenant should do for his soldier."