Chapter Text
The ale flowed, and the stories grew ever more extravagant as the night wore on.
Torch light spread warm smoky tendrils into the darkness beyond, casting a warm glow on the partygoers and spreading a pleasant smell around the heights of Meridian.
On one of the nearby balconies, Erend could overhear an Oseram fighter claiming he had taken down two ravagers with nothing but a single arrow and a small pebble during the Battle of the Shard. A Nora Brave listened to his story incredulously, taking small sips from a beaker of warm ale, laughing when he began to clumsily replicate the dying screech of the beast.
The air was muggy and humid, making clothes sticky with sweat and spilled ale, and everyone’s fingers were stained with the bright purples and oranges of Meridian’s finest fruits and meats. The mighty Sun-King had spared no expense, and the feast was as grand as he had promised. All the fighters from every battle-worn tribe were gathered; Oseram, Carja, Nora, and even a few Banuk broke bread and shared stories of the terrors they had faced, the victories they had won, and those they had lost.
Erend sat back on a bench in a far corner by the edge of one of Meridan’s many balconies, laying back comfortably, enjoying the cool relief of the night breeze and the feel of an ale in his hand. Some partygoers chatted and laughed in a street below, the sound of their glasses and occasional cheers soothing him. He felt the most calm he’d felt in a while; he’d been itching for a fight since he’d returned to Meridian from Pitchcliff, and the festivities had provided some release.
He always missed his home among the Oseram. It was a constant ache while he was away serving Avad and his people, but he was not too proud to admit that his land was home to some of the most stubborn assholes this side of the planet.
Deliberations were being held over the taming of machines. With the derangement apparently halted, some saw them as a potential asset, ideal for transportation of goods and, in true Oseram fashion, as a new form of defence for those who went delving and salvaging. However, there were many Oseram who were still loathe to let any machine within a mile of any stronghold, tamed or otherwise.
Old habits died hard among his people.
Erend believed machines could be utilised successfully; he’d seen Aloy do it plenty of times out in the open. She’d first tamed a Broadhead for him after he’d near passed out under all his Oseram brass and shining chainlink. They’d been headed west to gather a couple of Snapmaw lenses from where they gathered down by the lake, just one thing on a to-do list as long as his arm. It was a hot day, hotter than any he could remember, and Erend was half convinced the sand in the cove would soon turn to glass in the heat. He too had been reluctant to go near the beast as Aloy had led it towards him, but she’d assured him it was safe, taking his hand and placing it gently between the Broadhead’s horns.
Taking a sip from his mug, he absently wondered if Nino was being well looked after in the stables down in the Maizelands; he wasn’t sure if the Broadhead could feel emotion, but he had to admit that he’d grown pretty attached to the beast.
He’d told the Oseram of the taming he’d seen Aloy do, and tried to negotiate his side peacefully; needless to say, his last meeting in Pitchcliff had ended with something of a disagreement between himself and a particularly stubborn council member. Erend had gotten a black eye, but he’d broke the guy’s nose.
He’d headed back to Meridian frustrated, briefly entertaining the idea of travelling to Nora territory. They knew him there, back from when he’d visited as an envoy of the Carja. He could take a break from the dry heat of Meridian and the watchful eyes of its King; he could check in on Aloy, see how she was coping under the weight of all the titles the Nora had bestowed upon her.
Something had stopped him, though. He didn’t want to disturb her. She presumably had her hands full dealing with the poor hand the battle had dealt her people; the Nora had suffered much, and they looked to their Matriarchs, and to their All-Mother’s Chosen, to guide them.
Erend thought back to the grim line of her mouth before she turned to leave, the tiny motes of ash from a dozen fires that still burned up on the Spire clinging to strands of her hair.
I’m going home, first she’d said. Whatever that meant.
There was a smear of blood up her neck, turned dark in the hour or so that had passed, and she held her left leg oddly, as if she was trying to disguise the wound that bloomed there. He supposed he didn’t look any better, if his multitude of bruises and the pain sparking up his chest was anything to go by, but he’d been rooted to the spot as she hauled up her pack and mounted a Strider. His heart was lodged painfully in his throat; he’d never felt so inept in his entire life, stood toe to toe with a lit fuse. He could feel her warmth like a forge-fire, even as she’d rounded the cliffside and out of sight, flanked by Nora who looked up at her with whispers of Mother and Anointed.
It made his stomach twist.
So he’d rode back to Meridian after his stint in Pitchcliff. His men bought as many rounds as they could afford, and Avad had welcomed him with open arms and a familiar look in his eyes - something halfway between an apology and a call to arms.
His Vanguard had been stationed in Meridian for a few months, aiding the Sun-King in Erend’s absence. They’d jostled him into attending the Anniversary Celebrations to try and cure his sour mood.
He’d entertained their crude jokes and jabs at the Carja for a short while, laughing when his mind didn’t drift, taking small sips from his drink. He’d enjoyed their ribbing and had smiled into his ale as they’d taken turns filling their pockets with all the tiny ruby-red fruits and spiced meats they could get their hands on, earning a few disapproving looks from some of the stiffer Carja warriors.
They’d shot him looks when he slipped away to the balcony, but they didn’t pry. It was a fault of the Oseram often remarked on by the Carja, particularly by the ever Blameless Marad, that his people were painfully obvious and embarrassingly easy to read. He was under no impression that he could disguise his quick exit as anything other than what it was.
It was the first anniversary of the Battle of the Shard, which sat gleaming in the night like the pale jewel in the crown of Meridian. Erend had earned his share of scars from the battle, as had all his fighters. His largest mark, a mean-looking pink splash of scar tissue across his ribs ached in its familiar way when he pressed his hand to it in rememberance. It had taken him almost a week to mend the gash in his chest leathers.
The Sun King had emerged from his father’s shadow in the wake of their victory. The Maizelands were badly damaged by the mechanical onslaught, the ground poisoned by the acidic blood of the older machines the Eclipse had resurrected. Ancient roots had been pulled up, churned by the chaos of the battle, and their recovery was painfully slow. He had no doubt that this feast was a show of strength and good will in a city that was still lacking both at its core.
He thought again about ash motes smouldering in red hair, grey against amber like a wildfire against a dark sky.
A hand snaked over his thigh.
There was a woman sat on the arm of the chair he reclined in, sipping from a tall beaker of wine, peering at him as she drank. There were small delicately carved shapes on the rim of her glass; a boar and a hare. He’d come over here with her, he was sure; something about getting some fresh air. It wasn’t important.
He smiled, a smear of something ingenuine peaking through his buzz. She was beautiful, really, a Carja noblewoman with a penchant for the Oseram. Maybe he was a trinket to her. Her eyes were like flat mirrors, a dry breeze on the Mesa that stirred up the dust into a clumsy spin. It wasn’t important.
He moved a hand to her leg as it lay almost across him, nudging the line of her dress to trace shapes along her inner thigh - the outlines of the carvings on her glass. She hummed contentedly, angling herself so he could access more of her. He planted a kiss just below the top of her thigh. He bit down.
He wasn’t normally like this.
She gasped a little above him, her nails coming down and digging into the skin on the back of his neck; he wondered if it would be visible above his scarf when he was back in his armour. It wasn’t important. Her hands moved to his forearms, exposed where his sleeves had been rolled up. She leaned down expectantly.
“Wait.”
It felt odd to speak in this space, and he wasn’t sure what had possessed him to do so; a whim, so unfamiliar he didn’t have the energy to pin it down in his current state. He reached around the back of her head, leaning forward as she leant down. He tugged at the circular ornament holding her hair in place, feeling it click as the mechanism came undone.
He pulled away and her hair came loose, falling into shape. The shape of it was gently waved and dark as unlit coals. In the light of the nearby brazier, her hair was brightened to a warmer hue, becoming molten, and the sight of it pinned him to the wall. He could almost picture small blue beads and scraps of fabric woven into braids-
He dove to her neck, trying to silence himself with the feel of her against him and her hands running through the stubble on either side of his mohawk. She kissed him then, and he was glad for the distraction. Her mouth was pliant beneath him, and part of him registered that he probably wasn’t being as kind as he could be, but the languid shape of her was enough evidence that she didn’t mind. Her mouth tasted sickly-sweet with dark fruit wine and stuck to him like pitch.
Her lips were loose, slackly smiling, content to sit and receive, and Erend realised with a twist that he almost loathed it. Back when he’d been Ersa’s shadow, the welp at the bottom of every bottle, he’d occasionally had dalliances with whoever had been nearby after the heat of the battle had died but the adrenaline had remained. They were only ever solutions to a problem, a suitable placation for an itch; most of them had been like this, thoughtless remedies, and it only got worse when he got drunk. He’d apparently fallen back into old patterns in the smouldering wake of Meridian’s battle, again leaning perhaps too heavily into the burn of drink and occasionally the bed of someone who would quickly forget his name. He sunk into the work Avad assigned him, barely breaking for air, and he took satisfaction where he could get it. He’d never loathed that before, but he did now.
Thoughts struck Erend like arrows, unbidden, cutting through his haze like sunlight burning through fog.
Her hands are too soft. Her eyes aren’t right. She tastes wrong.
He didn’t even know what right was; clearly some unachievable pinnacle he was striving to reach.
“Erend, hey! Over here!”
Hanna, the Vanguard’s armourer, appeared across the way, flanked by a couple other Oseram soldiers. They were waving and hollering from a nearby balcony, their drinks sloshing in their hands. One of them wolf-whistled. Erend waved back, smiling tersely, a wave that was almost a salute. He loved them, but they had pisspoor timing. Erend had caught his team in many a compromising position during late night guard shifts and emergency calls to arms; his position was embarrassing to be sure, but nothing he wouldn’t eventually live down.
“Get over here, man! We persuaded the poncy Carja band to play The Glinthawk’s Revenge!”
The song’s name said aloud was met with cheers from a few more Oseram nearby. The Glinthawk’s Revenge was a classic of the tribe, a loud and brash retelling of a local legend involving a particularly nasty Glinthawk and the brave brawny Oseram who had taken it down. Hardly suitable for a fancy Carja do, and in the presence of the Sun-King no less.
“Unless, that is, you’re busy-“ that remark, coupled with the relatively obscene gesture she made, earned one of his spearman a smack in the arm from his right-hand man Flin, setting his team off into half-aborted snorts and chokes of laughter.
Erend sat still for a moment, before pulling himself up to a series of applause and whoops from his men. He waved his hand at them dismissively, smiling. He ran a hand through his hair, surprised at it’s length; it was still in his customary mohawk style, but he’d neglected to trim it during his trip to Pitchcliff and hadn’t found the time to crop it since.
The noblewoman sighed regally and removed herself from under Erend’s hands. She gathered a ruby-amber shawl she had removed at some point from a nearby bench, draping it over the crook of her arms and around her back. She turned to him pointedly, raising her eyebrows, and it took a few moments for Erend to realise her hair clip was still in his hand. He passed it to her, rubbing his hand along the back of his neck, feeling the small grazes she’d left there. She smiled like a painting and bent to whisper something in his ear along the lines of find me later, we can finish what we started before leaving Erend with nothing but some dissipating heat and a lingering sugary scent.
The short walk to the opposite balcony was pleasant - the air was sweet and fragrant from the hanging baskets that lined the path, and he absently ran his finger along a chip in his drinking mug that dangled lazily from his fingers. A few fountains chirped along the way, the water shining red in the torchlight. He stood for a few moments in a pocket of scents by a stall long closed for the night. He let the water vapour from a nearby fountain cool his ardour, all the while feeling like the drunken boy he thought he’d left behind when Ersa had fought her way free of the Sun-Ring, when she’d told him her plan to rebel with spear-headed hope in her eyes and Avad dotingly by her side. He kicks himself often for missing that one.
The noise of the party began to grow louder, and Erend could hear the discordant sound of the band tuning their instruments before the song.
The largest balcony where the Vanguard were gathered housed the Sun-King’s trusted allies and friends. There was a largely Carja presence, as to be expected, with the Oseram coming into a close second. Erend was surprised to see a few Nora dotted around the festivities, looking slightly nervous surrounded by what many Carja would consider casual opulence. Three or four Banuk spoke with Blameless Marad by the Sun-King’s platform, no doubt here on professional business of some kind and appearing only as a courtesy. There were less regal parties in the streets below and in what was left of the Maizelands, the sounds bleeding into the night, but everyone who was someone across all the tribes was present. There were tables everywhere, heavy with what food and drink could be spared to serve as a sufficient display, and rich red and gold fabric lined the walls and chairs. It was essentially an open courtyard filled with sparkling jewels of people under the dark blanket of a Meridian night, all of them twinkling like however many stars under the vault of the sky, spinning and drinking and forgetting and remembering.
It was a grand mirage; the idea of a bunch of rowdy Oseram dancing around all the fine food and silks was an entertaining thought. The Sun-King sat apart from the rest on a raised platform, speaking quietly with a few of his guests. On seeing Erend enter, he smiled in his direction. Erend returned a respectful nod before being pulled away by his whooping Vanguard. They patted him heartily on the back, hard enough to cause his drink to spill a little. Flin cast a look to the marks that adorned his neck and what was visible of his chest, looking lightly chastising – Erend just focused his attention to the bottom of his mug and tried to look considerably less guilty then he felt. Flin knew his behaviours, knew what he got like when the fighting was over and the people around him inevitably left. Erend knew he was right to be judged, and that made it sting even more. Flin got to the point of opening his mouth to say something, not a scolding as much as some gentle words - or as gentle as the Oseram could be – when one of his men signalled to the band, who looked at each other remorsefully before beginning to play.
Their arms around each other’s shoulders, the Vanguard under Erend’s command began to sing.
Glinthawk, Glinthawk, great big giant Glinthawk,
What do your sharp eyes see?
Glinthawk, Glinthawk, bloody huge Glinthawk,
Blown to fucking smith-er-eens!
Their voices were rough and the beat was lumbering, provoking some soldiers to stamp their feet in time. The Oseram in the crowd lent their voices to the familiar tune, raising their glasses high and swaying along. Some bolder partygoers began to dance in the centre of the room, much to the King’s quiet amusement as he politely clapped along to the beat. Even a few of the more serious Banuk and a couple of Nora clapped along to the rowdy beat, entertained by the tenacious energy of the Oseram. Many partygoers retreated to the corners of the hall to avoid the wide sweeps of the dancers, a few of whom knocked over chairs and silver platters of food in their eagerness. Erend sang loud, emboldened by their wild energy, arm in arm with his Vanguard. These were the Oseram he remembered from his home, the kind that brought a twinge of homesickness back in full force. He’d have smithing-burns on his hands for the rest of his life, but the roaring heat of the forge-fires and the tangy acrid smell of molten scrap metal was impossible to replicate anywhere else.
Fighter, Fighter, bravest of our fighters,
Armed with hammer and tong,
Fighter, fighter, battle-worn fighter,
Glinthawk didn’t last long!
Before he knew it, he was spinning around the centre of the room, passing from person to person in quick succession in a simple dance all Oseram learned as children. He downed his drink, throwing the empty cup into a crowd of his Vanguard who were thoroughly entertained at seeing their leader spin like a loon. He span with a Carja military man, before being passed onto a particularly bold Banuk who hollered louder than Oseram’s best. She let him go off beat, catching him off guard and causing him to spin right into another dancer, causing some of their drink to splash between them.
“Oh, shit, sorry! I didn’t see you – there -”
Words flew out of Erend’s head as he looked up at the person in front of him.
Her flame-red hair was braided with red and blue beads, and plaited over her shoulder, a few wisps coming loose and framing her face. It was longer than he remembered.
She was flushed with exertion, her face pink and her eyes bright. Her smile changed as she looked at him, really looked at him, and Erend wasn’t sure what compelled him to but before he could say a word he swept her up and spun her around in a single movement.
“ALOY!”
His arms were around her legs, her hands on his shoulders, and she yelped slightly at the sudden contact before her laughter caught up with her.
His heart danced figure of eights in his chest as he placed her down, her hands moving to his chest to stable herself.
The words spilled out of his mouth quicker than he could articulate them, his hands gesturing wildly.
“I can’t believe it- you’re actually here, like, really here, I haven’t see you in, what, almost a year? I mean, where have you been? What have you-“
Her silence was enough. He shut his mouth.
“It’s great to see you, Erend.” She smiled, wide and sincere, and Erend felt something fall into place inside him. His head was fuzzy with the aromatic Meridian ale and he was breathing hard after the dancing, and she still had her hands on his chest. The dancers swirled around them in a haze of noise and light, but he was anchored to her presence like he’d been tied down with her ropecaster.
It was all a little much.
There were a few moments when Erend’s ability to articulate seemed to disappear as quick as it had arrived, leaving him essentially staring at Aloy like he’d stared at Elaena Ore when he was fifteen and sweeping embers off the floor of the School Forge when she’d asked out of the blue if he’d like to kiss her – supremely grateful and embarrassingly naïve.
She smiled and laughed a little nervously, her eyes a little incredulous under the scrutiny.
“To tell you the truth, I’m not exactly here willingly. Avad personally sent an envoy to Mother’s Heart to ask if I’d attend. In front of the Matriarchs no less, so I couldn’t exactly say no.” Then quieter, but with fondness, “Bet he planned it that way, the sneak.”
“Not exactly a bust though, right?” Oh he was feeling brave tonight, no doubt.
She swilled her drink in her cup thoughtfully, smiling like she was trying to chase off a grin.
“Not exactly.”
And she looked up at him then, and he was like a big open wound and trying desperately to hide it. His lungs were filled with it, that bleeding heart feeling, and Erend had to switch the tone because this was too much. “Sorry about your drink. I’m normally much more graceful, but I’ve had enough of that fruity Meridian drink to fell a Thunderjaw.”
“Hey, it’s better than Oseram beer. That stuff tastes like swallowing hot coals.” Her voice strained at the memory and she mimicked a painful cough.
“Yeah, you’re right. Not gonna fight you on this. Oseram beer tastes awful.”
Looking proud and riding a burst of adrenaline at seeing her again, Erend grabbed what was left of Aloy’s drink out of her hand, holding it out of reach. She danced around him, trying to grab it back. He drank some while swatting her hands away and looked quizzical, as if he was assessing its flavour.
“On second thought; I take it all back. I’d take Oseram ale over this any day. I’m getting subtle notes of – now what is that – misguided superiority and a love of shit ale?”
“I think you’re forgetting a fondness for gold and red colour schemes.”
He chuckled at that, and in that moment of distraction she swiped her drink back out of his hand.
She looked at what was left. “Well, at least you left me some.”
“Enough to get you hammered for sure.”
He smirked down at her, feeling pretty pleased with himself, or maybe just brave. Aloy smirked right back, and looking at him dead in the eye, downed the rest of her drink in one go.
It was a power play, just part of their easy-going back-and-forth, but something about her eyes locked on his in challenge made something imperceptible twist inside him and set a heat travelling beneath his skin.
Or maybe it was the gaze he felt on his back.
He looked around, catching Avad’s eyes in the process. The King had been watching him, he realised with a start. But why? Erend tried to look for some meaning in Avad’s face, shooting him a quizzical look. The Sun-King had his mouth covered by his hand as he leant his elbow on the arm of his throne, his brows furrowed in thought. He looked like he was considering something he was entertained by. It wasn’t a look that conveyed malice more so than a question.
Before Erend could go over and ask for an explanation, himself and Aloy were overcome by the Vanguard.
They made a ruckus, and if anything, they had more of an outburst than Erend had had. They crowded around Aloy, inundating her with hellos and questions and hugs. She looked genuinely pleased to see them, squeezing some of their shoulders and smiling wide.
Flin made himself known and Aloy reached past the buzzing Vanguard to hug him. Aloy and Flin had become close friends during the early preparations for the Battle of the Spire; Flin was arguably the most level-headed of Erend’s team saving Erend himself, a decidedly rare trait among the Oseram. It warmed Erend to see them embrace, thinking how far Flin had come; when they’d first met, he had been filled with rage and wrapped up all wrong, his hair too long and his clothes ill-fitting, his mother ignoring the name he knew was his. Erend had cut Flin’s hair short one morning several years ago and had seen his younger self in the reflection of the mirror, afraid and grateful to have someone give a damn about him. Out of the countless things Ersa had taught him, he was glad that had stuck.
“Nice look, Aloy, real fancy. Finally becoming the Anointed the Nora keep raving about?”
Aloy’s face dropped almost imperceptibly for a moment before she recovered. If anyone else had noticed, they didn’t remark on it.
“Good eye - this is the haircut the All-Mother picked out for me specially. Only the best for her Anointed.”
“Oh of course, my lady. Forgive me!” Flin bowed, and Aloy rolled her eyes good-naturedly.
She turned to face Erend for a moment when the Vanguard were momentarily distracted by their armourer Hanna chugging an extraordinarily large bottle of something that smelt of flowers and a distant hangover. The others crowded her in a circle and began to chant.
“So.” It felt a little dangerous to even say the words, like he might tempt fate. “You’re back?” It came out like a question when he hadn’t meant it to.
She sighed with raised eyebrows and a laugh, a distinctly relaxed gesture like it was just them in this space and she could take a breather. She stood alongside him against the wall he was leaning against, their shoulders just touching. She wore a simple pale linen shirt underneath some Nora leathers stitched with a little cornflower blue thread around the edges. He looked down at the yellow-orange detail on his neckerchief, tied securely around his wrist to stop it flying off while he danced, and indulgently entertained the idea of their contrasting colours in his head: the blue of the sky and the light amber of the earth.
“I can never be sure. Being back in Meridian has been - interesting.” She laughed a little, pulling at a loose thread on one of her shirt sleeves. “I saw the Spire on the ride up and almost rode off the cliff in shock. It was like I was back there again, in the thick of it.”
The Vanguard cheered raucously as Hanna held up the empty bottle in victory.
Aloy’s story wasn’t unusual amongst the fighters from the battle. He’d had to send his best heavy artillery back to Pitchcliff after their sister had died defending civilians in the Maizelands. They couldn’t bear it to be in the city without her.
“Not that being in the Mother’s Heart has been any easier, but at least I’m not riding off any cliffs there.”
“Oh, sure you are.”
Aloy smiled. “Okay, well, maybe a few. It gets the Matriarchs and the queue that follows behind them off my tail for a few hours.” Erend chuckled at that, and Aloy bumped up against him gently.
“How’s Meridian been? Everything ticking over under your watchful eye, I’m guessing.”
Erend swirled what was left in his mug absent-mindedly, watching the drink stain the sides.
“Meridian is about two minutes from crumbling every day, but that’s a sizable increase from the previous two second bracket, so I’d say we’re doing alright.”
“You look tired.”
Always one to call it as she saw it.
“Gee, thanks.”
“You know what I mean, Erend. I know what it’s like to be relied on. It – it takes a toll.”
Erend raised his mug in a cheer, his face sarcastic. “Here here.”
“Hey.” She tapped his chest to get his attention. “Take care of yourself, alright?”
Erend stood and waited for the Ersa talk that inevitably came after sentences like that, but it didn’t arrive. He could tell she was thinking about that night, the night where he’d greeted her at the gates like a goddamn crazy person, booze sticking to him like burrs, drunk off his face in the looming shadow of his grief. That was enough.
“Yeah. You too.”
She looked up at him then, bright and serious, and he wants to try.
“Deal.”
Before he can crack a joke to push past the vulnerability, two Vanguard put their arms around Aloy’s shoulders and began incessantly chattering at her, prodding Aloy with questions about the Nora and what she thought of the new lighter armour the Vanguard had now and oh you should come see the new inn they built, it’s way bigger than the old one-
She seemed happy enough to answer – Erend supposed she was glad to be in a space where people didn’t look at her like they could see her legacy around her head like the Sun-King’s crown. One of his team clapped her hard on the back and barked with laughter after she’d made a sharp comment about something; Aloy elbowed him in response but laughed along with him.
Erend couldn’t hear the conversation over the general party chatter, but as she was tugged towards the door by Hanna and the other Vanguardsman, he noticed her fumble with one of her braids as it came loose. She started to look around by her feet but was too caught in the tidal swell of the Vanguard to stand still and look for it. Erend, who had been following a short way behind, managed to catch the small shape of the bead as it rolled a few feet away from him. It must’ve come loose.
He bent down to pick it up, and looked for her in the crowd as the Vanguard blustered on ahead. Peering over the partygoers, Erend managed to catch her eyes as she looked back towards him, still huddled between the horde of hollering Vanguardsmen. He raised his hand, holding the bead where she could see it.
Her eyes brightened when she saw the bead, but as she looked at the Vanguard around her, still firing questions and jokes at her, she shrugged with her eyebrows down in a classic well, what can you do?
She disappeared from sight as the Vanguard blustered her away, presumably to the new tavern Hanna had mentioned. He rolled the bead between his fingers – it was worn a little with use along the inside, the blue paint chipping to show the exposed wood underneath. It was no bigger than the end of his finger. It felt like a very small piece of her.
Erend waved a farewell to Avad as he jogged past to catch up, who nodded politely and warmly in response. He barely had time to pick up a glass of something alcoholic from a nearby table before Aloy fell out of view around the corner. He wondered if they’d constantly be passing in each other’s orbit, never in one place for too long, never able to stand still.
He held the bead in his pocket, thinking of the red blossoms around Pitchcliff that bloomed exclusively in spring. He thought of the multitude of reflected suns across all the different sizes and shapes of mirrors for sale at the north corner stall at market, the brilliance amplified as the sun set each night. All of it transient, but no less vital.
Yep. Worth it.