#aloy is going down a very dark path and she needs to be pulled back man

[chloefraazers]

who is in c o n t r o l? | Horizon: Forbidden West (2022)

[lyranova]

Children of the Future:

Chapter 15: Herz

Hi guys! Here’s chapter 15 I hope you all enjoy I’m sorry its taken so long to post, but hopefully chapter 16 will arrive much sooner! Also a long awaited character shows up along with a surprise one hehe!

Taglist: @eme-eleff @crazyclownthanos @simpingforthisonedeer @thoughtfullyrainynightmare @bowandcurtsey @flow3rbudz @ckjwnnbc @elysianluv @melissa-novachrono (apologies if i forgot anyone or if you want to be added please let me know!)

Word Count: 3,355

Warnings: None

———

Asta and Noelle followed behind Brielle as she led them through the Northern Woods. Noelle glanced over at Asta, he seemed to be taking the news they had children together in the future pretty well. She had figured he would have screamed and freaked out like normal, but instead he was confused for a moment and then accepted it. She accidentally let out a soft laugh which caused Asta to turn and look at her.

“ What’s so funny?” He asked with a frown, Noelle’s face turned a slight shade of pink before she made a ‘hmph’ noise and turned away.

“ N-Nothing, don’t worry about it!” She told him, she may’ve finally admitted her feelings for him to herself but that didn’t mean she was about to admit them to him. She had been trying to get better about telling him things and being nicer to him, but some habits were hard to break.

“ Ok…” Asta replied in slight confusion, Noelle could be so weird sometimes. Asta turned his attention back to Brielle who stopped and began to look around.

“ What’s wrong Brielle?” He asked as he and Noelle came to stand next to her, the young girl looked around the area with a frown.

“ Ah man I can’t remember where I woke up!” Brielle suddenly shouted loudly, causing a few birds to fly out of their nests at the noise. Noelle groaned a bit, ‘Great. She’s just as loud as Asta.’ Asta walked up to Brielle and patted her on the head.

“ It’s ok! I’m sure it’ll come back to you, I’m not very good with directions either!” He told her with a sheepish laugh, the young girl looked up at him and smiled cheerfully.

“ That actually makes me feel a lot better,” she laughed. “ thanks for cheering me up da-, I mean Asta.” The girl mumbled sadly, she had to get used to calling him by his name.

Asta and Noelle shared a look for a moment, it had to be hard on her, she was only 12 at the oldest and was already going through so much. She had been sent back to the past, she had lost her sisters, and now she was with the people who would be her parents someday. It was quite amazing that the girl hadn’t been overwhelmed by it all yet.

“ Oh! I think it was this way!” Brielle suddenly shouted before running in the direction she pointed to. Noelle and Asta quickly followed behind her.

——

“ Y’know, this would have been a lot easier if Captain Yami had come with us.” Noelle grumbled as they continued following Brielle.

Captain Yami had decided that he was going home after he took them to get Brielle, he told them that he trusted them to get her sisters and come back in one piece. He gave them a communication device just in case they needed him, but he doubted they would.

“ Yeah, but I think the Captain’s tired because of all the kids showing up and he kind of deserves a bit of a break from it all don’t you think?” Asta asked with a nervous laugh, Noelle made another ‘hmph’ noise before tossing one of her pigtails over shoulder.

“ I suppose he does deserve some kind of break.” Noelle agreed when suddenly, Brielle let out an excited shout and took off running, Noelle and Asta quickly followed behind her.

“ This is it! This is where I woke up!” Brielle said excitedly as she turned to face her ‘parents’. Asta and Noelle looked around the area with wide eyes and their mouths slightly in surprise.

It was an empty space with small tree’s standing in a circle, just like what Gauche and the Captain had described. Were these portals of some kind? Asta and Noelle looked at each other. This was very odd, especially considering Aloys, Gauche and Grey’s ‘son’, had woken up in the Eastern Woods while Brielle had woken up in the Northern Woods. Did that mean there was a circle of tree’s like this in the Southern and Western woods as well?

“ I’m going to call the Captain and tell him about this.” Noelle said as she pulled out the communication device to call their Captain when suddenly, two loud high pitched screams could be heard from deeper in the woods.

“ What was that?” Asta asked with a frown before Brielle gasped.

“ Mizuki! Kaiyo!” She then took off running in the direction of the shouts, Asta quickly following behind her as did Noelle. She would have to call the Captain later.

——

Noelle, Brielle, and Asta stood in shock at what was before them.

There in the center of a clearing, stood a sphere being held up by 6 legs, 2 of those said legs were swinging wildly about, trying to defend what was inside the sphere. Noelle frowned, not only did the ‘monster’ look familiar, the magic it was made of felt familiar.

She watched as tree’s were being knocked down left and right, the ground was being ripped up as the ‘monster’ walked around. Asta looked and saw a young girl trying to get the ‘monster's’ attention and he quickly ran towards her. He pulled out one of his Anti-Magic swords and quickly blocked the attacks the ‘monster’ had aimed at the girl.

Asta grabbed the girl around the waist and carried her behind a tree as Noelle used her water magic to try and distract it. As Noelle’s spells hit their target she noticed they seemed to bounce straight off and a ‘tinging’ sound was made, she frowned a bit, but the more she actually looked at the magic, the more she began to recognize it.

This was Mercury Magic, just like her mother and eldest brother’s magic.

“ Hey, are you alright?” Asta asked and he looked at the girl in front of him; she had short silver hair, green eyes, and was wearing a calf length light purple/pink dress and gold sandals. The girl looked around the tree and watched as the ‘monster’ continued to throw spells at Noelle and Brielle.

“ I’m fine, I didn’t need you to rescue me, I could have saved myself!” The girl snapped before turning to face him, when she did her eyes widened in recognition and she tilted her head.

“ Dad?” She asked tentatively, Asta smiled brightly but it was a bit sheepish as he couldn’t really get used to them calling him ‘dad’.

“ Not quite, I’m Asta. Your dad’s past self.” He told her with a sheepish laugh, suddenly the girl's eyes narrowed at him.

“ That explains why you look so young.” She muttered as she looked Asta up and down, he looked at her in surprise.

“ Hey what’s that supposed to mean?” He shouted indignantly, his voice laced with irritation and slight disbelief.

“ That you’re old.” The girl stated matter of factly, there was no denying she was Noelle’s daughter, she acted a lot like her.

“ Hey that’s just mean-!” Asta started shouting before he was suddenly cut off as the young girl wrapped her arms around him in a hug, he sat there in surprise for a bit before his arms instinctively wrapped around her.

“ Please,” the girl begged softly. “ Please help Kaiyo, she isn’t doing this on purpose, she just can’t control her magic. Please da-I mean Asta, please help my sister!” The girl cried as she gripped Asta’s Black Bulls robes tightly in her fists, she looked up at him with pleading eyes. Asta nodded and he smiled softly at her before patting her gently on the head, as he opened his mouth to respond he noticed something move out of the corner of his eye.

“ Kaiyo stop!” Brielle shouted as she came to stand in front of her what they now realized was her sister’s out of control magic.

It seemed like everything, including time itself, froze in place. Noelle and Asta stood there watching as Brielle stood her ground, her arms stretched out as though she were trying to block her sister’s path. The two Magic Knights looked at each other, neither one really wanted to attack the spell, especially since they couldn’t see where Kaiyo was inside the sphere.

Suddenly, one of the spell’s ‘legs’ reached out and grabbed Brielle around the waist, lifted her off the ground, and threw her into a nearby tree. All within five seconds. Asta, Noelle, and Mizuki all stared in shock at what just happened. Brielle sat against the tree, her head laying on her chest. Whether she was conscious or not they didn’t know. Asta gripped the handle of his sword tightly in his hand before running towards the spell.

“ Why did you attack her?! She’s your sister!” Asta shouted in anger as he slashed and cut off one of the legs.

“ she isn’t doing this on purpose, she just can’t control her magic.” The young girl, who Asta assumed to be Mizuki, words suddenly popped into his head and it made him hesitate. So Kaiyo, the girl trapped inside the sphere, was like Noelle and couldn’t control her magic? If so, then why didn’t she have a magic item that helped her like Noelle did?

As Asta got lost in thought the spell decided to take full advantage and attempted to swing at him before it stopped just short, Asta quickly moved out of the way and frowned. Why did it stop? Was Kaiyo taking control back?

That's when he felt it.

He turned to look where Brielle had been sitting and his eyes widened. This presence felt dark and ominous but also familiar in a way. He watched as a faint red and black glow began to ooze off the young ash-blonde girl. He looked over at Noelle and he could see the fear and confusion on her face, she began to back away from Brielle. The young girl suddenly lifted her head, her eyes looked cold and distant.

“ Herz.” As soon as the words left her mouth a figure began to appear at her side. It started out as almost a smokey figure before it began to take shape.

“ About damn time kid, I’ve been waiting.” The figure spoke before it finally came into full view.

It was a young woman. Her skin was pale grey, her hair dark black and pulled into a loose ponytail, her eyes were a bright red as the pupils were cut into slits making them appear catlike. She had small horns on either side of her head and had a long thin tail. The smile on her face appeared cold and very menacing. Asta and Noelle stared at her.

It was a Devil.

The spell suddenly launched numerous attacks towards the Devil, who only stood there and watched as they approached her. She suddenly held out her hand and all the spells collided against it, but she didn’t look hurt or phased at all.

“ Counter Magic: 15%.” The woman said and instantly the spells she had ‘absorbed’ were sent back towards Kaiyo’s spell and instead of hitting the sphere, it took out all 6 legs in an instant. Asta and Noelle just stared in shock, what the hell was going on? The sphere Kaiyo was in suddenly landed on the ground with a loud thud.

“ You might want to hurry and slice it open before it grows new legs.” The devil told Asta as she looked over at him, Asta nodded and quickly rushed towards the sphere. He had no idea where she was, but he figured cutting the top off would be the safest bet.

As Asta sliced the top part of the sphere, the rest of it seemed to melt. Noelle walked towards Asta and in the center of what used to be a sphere made of Mercury, sat an ashen-blonde haired girl who had her hair tied up in a small ponytail and was wearing a pair of dark blue pants and a white shirt. The girl opened her eyes and looked at both Asta and Noelle.

“ Mom? Dad?” She asked softly, the two Magic Knights looked at each other for a moment. They would have to explain for the third time that they weren’t exactly their parents.

“ Kaiyo! Are you ok?” Mizuki shouted as she ran towards the young girl, Kaiyo turned towards the sound as tears welled up in her eyes.

“ I’m fine Mizuki. How’s Brielle? Is she ok? Did I hurt her?” Kaiyo asked quickly as she looked around for her sister. Asta and Noelle turned to look as well, and saw the Devil holding Brielle by her shirt collar a few inches off the ground.

“ Brielle!” They all shouted in unison before the Devil dropped her onto the ground next to her sisters.

“ Can’t you be just a little more careful?” Brielle whined as she sat up on her knees and began to rub the back of her head, a small bump had begun to form from where she hit it against the tree. The Devil rolled her eyes.

“ Nope. Now, tell me, what the hell happened here?” The devil glared down at the young girls, who quickly moved to sit on their knees just like the Black Bulls did when Captain Yami was scolding them.

“ W-Well,” Kaiyo started sheepishly, the tears that had formed in her eyes earlier now beginning to fall. “ I was going to try and make a bird or some other type of creature to fly us to the Capitol so we could find Brielle, but I lost control of it. I’m so sorry!” The young girl cried as she buried her face in her hands. The devil sighed before turning her attention to Brielle and Mizuki.

“ And you two, what were you two idiots thinking?! You both could have gotten seriously injured or worse killed!” The devil scolded them, Brielle suddenly raised her hand.

“ Um I was injured?” She pointed out.

“ Exactly, and you should be thankful I was able to slow down your speed otherwise you would have been knocked into quite a few trees and you would have injuries far worse than just a bump on the head!” She shouted at the girl, Brielle and Mizuki looked down at the ground in shame.

“ We’re sorry.”

“ Yeah you should be, not only because you three idiots woke me up from my nap, but now I get to explain to your parents and Uncle just what happened here today and I can assure you, they won’t be very happy!”

“ Um, actually our parents are over there.” Brielle said, suddenly pointing towards Noelle and Asta, the Devil turned to look at them and frowned. She leaned in a bit closer as though she were wanting a better look.

“ No way. There’s no way you’re-.” The devil suddenly looked down at the sword in Asta’s hand and began to study it. For some reason she was acting as though she didn’t believe that it was the girls ‘parents’.

“ You’re both way too young to be Asta and Noelle Silva, they’re both super old!” The devil exclaimed in shock. Asta began to shout about how this was the second time today he had been called ‘old’ today and he didn’t like it one bit! Noelle sighed before hitting Asta on the head.

“ Well that’s who we are, except I’m the only Silva. Asta’s just…Asta. Anyway, who are you supposed to be? The girl’s nanny or something?” Noelle asked as she crossed her arms, the Devil glared slightly before that cold smirk appeared on her face again.

“ Hmph, I’m not the girls ‘nanny’ or whatever. You can call me Herz, and I’m Brielle’s devil, which you would both know if you were her parents.” Herz said as she crossed her arms as well, Brielle suddenly made another ‘umming’ noise. “ What is it now Brielle?”

“ Um, well, it’s a lot to explain.” The girl said sheepishly before she began to explain to Herz the entire situation.

“ While she’s doing that, I’m going to inform the Captain that we found the girls along with a guest and that we’re headed back to explain more.” Noelle whispered, Asta nodded and kept his eyes on the girls as Noelle walked away.

He wasn’t sure if he trusted Herz or not, sure she might be Brielle’s devil, but that didn’t mean she had good intentions. For all he knew she could be like the Devil’s that had possessed the Dark Triad, but for now he would wait and see what kind of Devil she turned out to be.

———

Julius stared intently at the wall across from him. He was doing his reports like Marx had asked him too when his mind began to wander, there was this weird feeling he had been getting right before a child would show up and he was beginning to feel it again. He sighed softly, he thought Brielle Silva was going to be the last one. But it appeared he was wrong.

“ Lord Julius, you’ve spaced out again.” Marx said as he came back into the room with more papers. Julius blinked and turned his attention towards the blue haired man and he softly smiled.

“ Ah sorry about that, I was just thinking about the children.” Julius admitted with a nervous laugh, Marx frowned a bit.

“ Oh? What about them?”

“ I’m just, hm, I’m just trying to figure out why these kids are appearing. There have been one or two a day for the past week, and they all seem to be coming from the same time period. So, what on earth could be so terrifying in the future that it's driving their parents to send them back to the past?” He muttered the last part more to himself. Marx put a thoughtful hand under his chin.

“ Maybe war? Or famine? Or the kids could have been playing with some magic item and got transported here by mistake?” Marx asked thoughtfully. When Julius went to open his mouth Marx cut him off. “ Maybe they decided to blame it on their parents because they were scared of getting into trouble?”

Julius frowned thoughtfully for a moment, Marx made some compelling points. War made the most sense though out of all the options, but even if it was war, who would they be fighting that was so terrible that they had to send their children back to the past in order to protect them?

“ Sir,” a magic knight shouted as he ran into Julius’s office. Julius stood abruptly and looked at the man.

“ What is it?”

“ We have an intruder inside the castle! Apparently they’re a spatial mage which explains how he got in, luckily we were able to apprehend him without difficulty. He…He’s a bit of a coward.” The magic knight muttered as suddenly shouting could be heard behind him.

“ Please let me go! It was an accident I hadn’t meant to just pop in here! I can assure you this will never happen again! Please please let me go! I’m too pretty to be tortured and I’m too young to die!” The young man shouted as he was dragged into Julius’s office. Julius and Marx blinked.

The young man had shoulder length pink hair that was partially tied into a ponytail. His suit was a mixture of burgundy and black, his eyes were a light purple color as well, but what really stood out was the robe he was wearing. A Black Bulls robe to be exact.

“ Oh great, another child. I’ll go call Captain Yami again.” Marx said with a defeated sigh, he could already hear the Black Bulls Captain yelling at him already. But Julius held up a hand.

“ Actually, why don’t you just call his parents directly? Yami deserves a break don’t you think?” Julius suggested kindly, Marx frowned but nodded with slight relief washing over his face. He walked away to go call the Black Bulls hideout and Julius turned back to look at the pink haired man.

There was something different about this child, the weird feeling Julius had a moment ago had disappeared the minute he saw him. What was so different about this child?

——-

Thanks for reading and I hope you all have a good day~!

[xtolovers]

The Anvil

Pairing: Aloy x Erend Rating: M ( albeit in later chapters) Warnings: Graphic Mentions of Violence, slight mentions of alcoholism AO3  / Fanfiction.net

Uncomfortable

“I can’t move troops to the border without provoking the Oseram. But I could send a few Vanguardsmen… and perhaps an exceptionally gifted Nora as well?” Erend suppresses a growl as he recalls Avad’s words from the day before. If he’s honest, it’s less the words — Aloy certainly deserves the praise— but the look and step forward that accompanied them. He doesn’t know if the rumors about Avad and Ersa are true, and fire and spit, he doesn’t want to think about it, but even if they aren’t, he still can think of a good dozen reasons why the Kings praise rubs him entirely the wrong way. Sure, one of them might be his… fondness for Aloy, he will admit as much, but there is a reason he thought Ersa and Aloy will get along well- both of them are free. And Avad might be likened to the sun all day and all night, but he is tethered to his throne and to his people. So why that damned look? “So cap, is she really as pretty as they say?” Irritation turns to anger as Erend turns away from where his eyes are searching the bridge, ready to give Andrik a good punch. 

“Ouch!” As he turns he sees that Karan has beat him to it: Andrik is rubbing the back of his head with an insulted look on his face while his second-in-command crosses his arms. “What matters is if she’s as proficient as they say. Our goal is to get Ersa back, not to help you with one of your conquests,” Karan snaps. Erend gives him an appreciative nod. The older man was— is one of Ersas most trusted companions, and Erend knows he can count on him. In the past two weeks that he’s been staggering around trying to fill Ersa’s shoes, Karan has helped him more than once, and he is grateful for him, even if his competence makes Erend feel even more useless. Andrik shrugs, not bothered. “A guy can ask, can’t he?” “A guy can remember that Aloy is the only reason we even know Ersa could still be alive, so a guy would do better to shut up,” Erend barks. He knows he’s being hypocritical, because her looks were the first thing he himself had noticed, and Andrik hasn’t even met her. But back then his sisters life hadn’t been on the line and he hadn’t seen what Aloy was capable of. Andrik is a good guy, but his comment makes Erend grit his teeth. His shoulders feel as if they’re made of steel with all the tension they’ve been holding in the last weeks, and he knows that spending the next week watching Aloy dodge Andrik’s flirting will thoroughly exhaust his patience. He needs her to find Ersa, and distracting her is off limits. He willfully pushes down the tiny part of his brain that thinks that that’s only half of the reason he wants Andrik to keep his thoughts to himself. “I thought we were leaving at dawn. Where is she?” Andrik asks as he’s leaning himself back against a bridge post. “At first light is what we agreed upon, I believe,”a voice rings out behind him. Andrik snaps upright, and Erend and his men turn towards the path next to the bridge, Aloy crosses the last few steps of distance between them, eyebrow raised defiantly, a bunch of wild ember in her hand. “She was here then, but because the rest of you weren’t here, I went down to the river and gathered some herbs in preparation.” Andrik opens his mouth to reply, and that can’t mean anything good, but before he can form the words, Karan steps forward and turns to Aloy, his hammer conveniently swinging just so that it slightly hits Andrik in the back of his head. “Apologies, m’am. We ought to have been here sooner, there is no time to lose.” Erend watches Aloy’s eyes linger on Karan’s hammer for a second, the slightest smirk on her lips, before she scowls and shakes her head. “My name is Aloy, no need to call me anything else.” With a gratuitous motion that Erend couldn’t pull off if he wanted to, Karan bows his head. “ Karan. At your service, Aloy.” Then he looks expectantly to Erend, who feels like a complete ass because he was too slow again. Too slow to call Andrik to order, too late to gather his men, too late to apologize. Karan’s meaningful look feels like a gesture of pity, even though Erend knows it’s one of respect. Respect you haven’t earned. He clears his throat. “Apologies, Aloy. Karan here is my second-in-command. This bung over here is Andrik, these two are Beren and Enoch — they’re brothers —  and this is Oren.” Each of his men nod to her as he calls their names, and Erend feels that the introduction is far more lackluster than it ought to be for a Vanguard strike team, but for the life of him, he can’t recall what Ersa used to say. He’d have to ask her. This time, he’d learn from her as much as he could. Aloy returns their nods, plainly studying each of them for a brief second. At the end, her eyes meet his, searching,  and Erend knows what she’s looking for. He meets her gaze steadily. After a second, the green in her eyes becomes the tiniest bit warmer, and she nods, apparently pacified.

“Then let’s go.” She strides right through them and presses the wild ember against Andrik’s chest without any further comment. Beren and Enoch snicker as he starts to tie the bundle to his sack where it can dry. His men start following her up the ridge, towards the way that will lead them north to Pitchcliff, and Andrik shoulders his sack before he grins. “So she is pretty.” This time, Erend is not too late. Karan’s and his hand smack Andriks head exactly at the same time.

About an hour past noon Aloy looks over her shoulder and let’s herself fall back next to him. Until then, she had steadily led the group, always on the lookout, only slowing when she was engaging her focus. His men had given her some distance— by Erend’s orders. They’re good men, and he’d easily die for each of them, but Erend remembers how uncomfortable and overwhelmed she had looked back in Mother’s Heart during the celebrations. Aloy wasn’t used to being surrounded by people, and his men weren’t exactly considerate. Since yesterday when he’d broken the news to them, all of them had been gripped by a sense of restlessness and a thirst for revenge, and he was too grateful for her help to make her uncomfortable. “There’s a small valley between those mountains up ahead where we can rest for a bit. Unless you want to push ahead.” Erend shakes his head with a laugh. “ Something you never do, I’m sure. Do you ever eat?” “Sometimes,” she shrugs, but the corner of her mouth twitches. He takes a look around at his men. If he asked, they’d march all the way to Pitchcliff without a stop or complaint, but Erend can see that the hours on the road have taken their toll. “Let’s rest.” Aloy nods and scans the area around them, apparently content with her findings. She starts walking faster again, and Erend has to push down the urge to follow. Instead, Karan slips next to her, and he can see her tense up for a moment. This was exactly what he didn’t want. “If I might ask, what does this… device show you, Aloy?” Erend sees her contemplate for a second, and then her shoulders drop and she starts answering him. After a second of contemplating it, Erend decides against interceding. “Why is Karan allowed to talk to her and I’m not?” Andrik asks behind Erend’s right ear. “Because Karan can behave himself, and you’ve already insulted her once today,” Erend growls back. Andrik mumbles something but falls silent as he sees Erend’s face. Up ahead, Karan and Aloy are chatting amiably, laughing now and then. He should be happy that she’s getting along with someone— their trip could last at least two weeks after all— but it doesn’t sit right with him. Aloy and Karan are chuckling ahead of him, and Erend’s teeth grind together. He really hopes he isn’t seeing what he thinks he’s seeing. Karan is a good man, but he’s twice her age. But he can see why, with the force of nature that she is, that wouldn’t stop somebody. Yesterday when she arrived at the palace she was suddenly clad in Blazon Armor that barred her midriff and clung to her body, and the only thing that kept his mind on the task and his eyes from Aloy’s navel was the thought of Ersa suffering somewhere in a dark dungeon. Now that she was walking ahead of him, hips swaying slightly with each step and the sun on the very well defined muscles of her back and her legs, Erend was sure he’d be sore tomorrow with the effort it took not to stare. Embarrassingly, he was doing a poor job of it, catching himself a couple of times, or at others, hearing Beren’s snicker behind him. But fire and  spit, Andrik is right— she is pretty. Who could blame Karan for noticing? Sure, they are talking about tracking techniques now, and all Erend sees is respectful camaraderie between two travel companions, but still. Karan is, despite his years, a damn good looking bastard. The sun and the fights have done their fair share to cover his face with wrinkles and scars, but his skin is tanned from the sun, his hair fair and golden, even if there is the odd white strand showing now and then. For an Oseram, he’s unusually slim, not as stocky as the rest of them, but muscular enough to make up for it. Erend has visited enough taverns with him to see women fawn over him and his stupid blue eyes, a lot of them not much older than Aloy. Bastard. By the time they reach the valley and start to make camp, Erend is thoroughly annoyed. “Do you mind clearing the perimeter?” He turns to Aloy, who frowns for a second, but shrugs in the end and jogs to the other side of the valley, scanning the surroundings. Before Karan can get any ideas, Erend turns to him and asks him to start distributing the food, something that usually is Oren’s task. Karan studies him for a moment and he can see him barely suppress a smirk as he nods and turns around to comply. “Of course, Captain.” He’s sure he’s hearing Beren and Enoch chuckle behind him, and Erend turns away to study the landscape as he feels himself blush. In a week he’ll have Ersa back, and she can wear her own damned boots again so that he doesn’t have to stumble around in them and feel like a gods-damned fool. Aloy comes back to them without any news, and an awkward silence settles over their group as they all silently bow over their lunch. He can feel her eyes on him a few times, searching, probing, but she doesn’t say anything. Her shoulders are stiff again. They rest for an hour, and then they continue their track the same way they have so far, with Aloy slipping to the front, leading them north. Mostly they make good time. The further they get from Meridian, the more machines they see, usually further away. At some point they happen upon a small herd of tramplers, and Erend has to grin as his men disbelievingly watch while Aloy takes down two of them by herself while the Vanguard collectively handles the other two. As they bring down the last one, she pushes her arm in all the way to the shoulder and rips out the machine’s heart with a well practiced twist of the hand.  His men step back and let her do the looting— it’s easy to see she’s far better at it. Despite their protest, Aloy disperses the parts between the men and herself. Above them the sun crawls their way over the sky as they slowly make their way north, the men chatting amongst themselves as Aloy strides ahead. Now and then he can see her scanning, and Erend has the feeling she is searching for something. Once she startles, only to sink down disappointed, and he hears her mumble Grazers. She leads them around the herd without disturbing it. Several times, when he’s not busy thinking about Ersa or wishing for a drink, Erend considers going up to her and striking up a conversation, but he has no idea what to say, and he’s afraid to make an ass of himself again, so he leaves her be. They decide to make camp at a river bend next to a cliff face. He sees Aloy scan their surroundings. “So what is it this time? Machines to take down, or killers to track?” he asks as he steps next to her, and his stupid quip is rewarded with the first genuine smile he’s seen on her face all day. “No machines except a few Glinthawks south of here, but they don’t worry me,” she points in the direction, but there’s just the side of the cliff. It takes him a second to realize that apparently, she can also see through mountains with her focus. “ There are some goose downstream however.” With that she draws her bow and skips over some rocks in the water. Within moments she is on the other side of the river and disappears into the tall grass, her red hair blending effortlessly with the color of the stalks. Erend shakes his head and turns around to the camp. With a pang of guilt he can see that Karan has already delegated all necessary tasks, and is now watching him. He takes a few steps to Erend’s side, and then looks over to the spot where Aloy has vanished. “She seems as capable as you have said.” “I have the feeling I’ve only seen a fraction of what she’s capable of,” he replies, and Karan gives him a look that makes him blush the faintest bit. Erend looks away. Because Karan is a bigger man then he, he let’s it go. “She seems uncomfortable.” Defensiveness raises the hairs on his back. “ Of course she’d be. She was outcast from her tribe her whole life, and alone most of the time afterward. A rowdy, loud group of Oseram would make her uncomfortable, that’s why I told them to behave.” Karan was silent for a moment, nodding slightly to himself.  “That… might be true. But a rowdy, loud group of Oseram who don’t talk to her might be even more uncomfortable for someone who was shunned her whole life.” Karan looks at him, his eyebrows the slightest bit raised, and Erend’s stomach sinks. He thinks of Karan asking her questions earlier, and the way Erend rewarded that with giving him an unnecessary task to occupy him. “Shit.” Karan chuckles and pats his shoulder, a gesture that feels undeserved. “ You tried.” “And failed,” Erend mumbles as Karan retreats back towards the rest of their group. His men are setting up the tents for the night, and after he has pitched his own, Aloy is still nowhere to be seen. She’s left her pack with them, so he gets started on hers in an effort to make up for it. Behind him, Beren and Enoch are talking about Aloy’s victory over the tramplers, and he decides he has to do something. “Listen lads… I think you can ease up on her now,” he starts, but as he sees Andrik’s eyes light up, he amends: “ A little. Don’t wanna give her culture shock now, do we? Doesn’t mean you can’t talk to her, though. Respectfully.” Karan gives him a small nod, but Erend knows he’s chickened out again. There’s rustling behind him and Aloy appears out of the brushes, carrying a bulk of Ridgewood and  two turkeys. As she starts to settle on the ground to pluck them, Oren makes his way over to her. “Let me handle those. You did the catchin’, I do the cookin’.”Oren is a big mountain of a man, huge even for Oseram standards, but ironically one of the gentlest of the Vanguard. At his low-pitched, rumbling request, Aloy hesitates for a second, always assessing and analyzing the situation, but then she smiles and hands them over. “Never been much of a cook myself, anyway.” “But an excellent huntress, I can see. Straight through the head.” “Can’t afford to waste the meat when you’re the only one feeding yourself.” “And good training for aiming at anything with even bigger heads.” She laughs then. “That, too.” As Oren sits down to take care of the birds, Aloy looks over to him and sees his progress on her tent. “You didn’t have to do that.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “Eh, had nothing better to do, and you were already making yourself useful, so I thought I should do the same.” Her face is hard to read, but she nods and touches his shoulder lightly before she takes the straps out of his hands. The spot on his arm stays warm for a long while. This rest is different then the first. Not exuberant— it can’t be, given the cause of their mission— and not fully comfortable yet, but not as awkward as the first. When the odd lull in conversation happens, it’s simply because they don’t know each other well enough yet. But this, finally, is something Erend is good at. Rambling, telling jokes, making people comfortable. So he does. Little stories about failed flirting attempts— none of them his stories, of course— or Vanguard mishaps, and soon he has her laughing, has all of them laughing. It doesn’t take them long to make short work of the two birds Oren has expertly prepared, and the sky  turns from red to purple to blue. Around them, the crickets start their songs, signaling the evenings arrival. “ I can take last watch, I don’t mind getting up early,” Karan offers, and Oren volunteers to join him. “I’m not tired yet, I’ll take first, then,” Aloy says. Across from him, he can see two devilish glints flash in Andrik and Beren’s eyes, albeit of a different kind. Before Andrik can speak up, Beren steps on his foot. “Andrik and I can take middle, he still has to finish telling me about this girl he’s met and her brother, who is apparently a very interesting prospect for one lonely Oseram Vanguard, warrior and hero. “ He pounds his chest with a laugh, and replaces it with the stupidest, most calculated look of fake pondering as he turns to his brother. “Enoch, you’re probably tired right? You haven’t marched this long in a while, with your busted foot.” Enoch, who had twisted his ankle months ago, makes no point of concealing his grin as he yawns deeply, and Erend’s scalp starts tingling. Bastards. “Brother, I am surprised I’m still awake right now. You know, I really need to go to bed. So sorry I can’t take a shift today.” “No no, we need you strong tomorrow. Cap’ can take the first shift, and then we’re all set up, right, Cap?” Steel to his bones, he’s going to strangle them. It doesn’t take long for them to disappear into their tents, and silence settles around the camp. Aloy busies herself with the Ridgewood she has gathered earlier and starts making arrows. Erend tends to the fire, trying to come up with something to say, but she beats him to it. “How are you doing?” Her eyes are on him, appraising.

“Haven’t had a drink in nearly a week, so could be better. It helps that I don’t have to mourn Ersa now, but the worry isn’t exactly

better.

”

“

You didn’t eat a lot.”

“Eh, I’ll eat better once we have her back, and once I can have an ale with it. Before that, my stomach is denying me its work.”

The scowl is back on her face. “Are you in pain?”

“Nah, just… queasy. Happens to the best of us, right?” The worried line between her eyebrows is back and he just can’t have that. “ It

does

happen to you, right?”, he quips, and Aloy rolls her eyes.

“Put some water on, I’ll be back in a second.”

Without further warning she slips away into the darkness, silent and swift like a Stalker. Because he has the feeling that protest is futile, he complies and puts on of the pots back on the fire, and fills it with water.  

Two minutes later, Aloy reappears silently next to him, some kind of dark purple root in her hands, dripping with water.

“Ochrebloom root. The tea will help your stomach.”

He watches her slip a small knife from a leather strap on her boot, using it to peel and slice the root before she puts it into two cups, a treacherous warmth spreading in his chest.

“Thank you,” he murmurs as she hands him the tea. Silence falls over them while they both sip carefully.

She stares into her cup, her thumb absentmindedly tracing its rim, and Erend feels guilty.

Time to man up, Erend.

[theculturedmarxist]

What happened to back in the day when the left and right didn’t hate each other over differing opinions. Now people are scared to express their views because the left tells us what is and isn’t okay to talk about.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seeberville_Murders

The Seeberville Murders, also less commonly referred to as the Seeberville Affair or the Seeberville Massacre, were the shooting deaths of striking miners Steven "Steve" Putrich and Alois "Louis" Tijan on August 14, 1913, by a group of strikebreakers in Seeberville, Michigan, a suburb of Painesdale. The murders took place during the bitter Copper Country Strike of 1913–1914, one of the United States of America's most violent labor strikes, and are considered among historians as the first real casualties of the strike.

 The Putrich boardinghouse, where the Seeberville Murders occurred, photographed in Seeberville, Michigan, on in August 1913.

The deaths were especially significant considering that a local doctor classified the death of Steven Putrich as homicide. In addition to this interpreters were brought in during the Seeberville trials and the coroner's inquest, whereas after the Italian Hall Disaster the government would refuse to use any interpreters whatsoever.[1][2][3]

On Thursday, August 14, 1913, two striking miners of Croatian descent, Ivan Kalan and Ivan Stimac, went to South Range, Michigan, along with a group of other strikers to collect strike benefits. There they discovered that there were no benefits for them as the Western Federation of Miners could not fully fund a strike of this size. After having a drink, they headed back to their homes in Seeberville. As they passed through Painesdale, Kalan and Stimac went into a store to buy some soda pop; the rest of the group continued on without them. After finishing their pop, Kalan and Stimac continued on towards Seeberville. They decided to take a shortcut to Seeberville from Painesdale that cut across mining company property.[2][3][4]

On the last leg of their trip they heard a man yelling from behind them. This man turned out to be a trammer[clarification needed] boss by the name of Humphrey Quick, who had been directed by his boss, William H. Schacht, to patrol the path and ensure that no one crossed this path. Quick told the two men, in English, that they could not cross this path. Kalan and Stimac were Croatian and Kalan spoke very little English. Stimac spoke almost no English. Kalan answered in broken English that they had always crossed this path before. Quick responded by taking out his billy club and angrily waving it in their faces, threatening to beat them with it if they did not comply. The two men simply responded as they had before and continued on walking.[2][3]

It was at this point that Quick claimed that Kalan turned around as he continued walking away, raised his fist and shook it, saying, "You better watch out you son-of-a-bitch. I fix you for sure." At the time this happened Kalan and Stimac were about a hundred feet away. They then disappeared toward their boardinghouse in Seeberville.[2][3] Quick then went to his supervisor, William H. Schacht, a German immigrant. On his way he encountered a man named Thomas Raleigh, a strikebreaker with a reputation for violence. Once Raleigh heard Quick's story he got excited; Raleigh insisted that they go find Quick's supervisor and obtain permission to go after Kalan and Stimac. Quick and Raleigh told Schacht of the encounter. Schacht told Quick and Raleigh to go retrieve the two men and bring them to him so he could talk to them and explain the issue about the use of company property during the strike. Schacht understood that the issue at hand was a communication problem. Everyone involved in the conversation recalled that Schacht told them to, "Bring them down here and I'll talk to them."[2][3][4]

From the captain's house, Quick and Raleigh made their way towards Seeberville, Michigan. On their way to the community, a few more men joined their group; some were Waddell-Mahon strikebreakers who had been deputized and others were locals who were not on strike.[2][3]

When the mob arrived at the boardinghouse, Raleigh asked Quick to point out Kalan to him. Quick located Kalan near a group of men who were playing a lawn bowling game in the side yard next to the Putrich boardinghouse. Kalan was not playing the game, he had just finished his dinner and had come outside to chew some tobacco. Other neighbors were present at the scene. Raleigh shouted at Kalan something to the effect of "I want you." Kalan yelled back, "No. You can't take me." Strikebreakers began beating Kalan and anyone else nearby with their billy clubs and their fists. Stimac — the other individual whom they were searching for — was still inside the boardinghouse, finishing his supper. Kalan managed to get away from the strikebreakers and get inside the boardinghouse. James jumped the fence sometime between the initial assault on Kalan and the moment Kalan entered the boardinghouse. Joseph Putrich, the landlord, told the gunmen that he "didn't want any trouble" around his house. The landlord's brother, Steven "Steve" Putrich, had come out into the yard when the mayhem began. Someone threw something toward the gunmen. It did not hit anyone, however it scared Cooper who was still wielding his firearm. Cooper was between the boarders and the boardinghouse; he was outnumbered and alone. The rest of the gunmen had returned to the street and were beyond the fence, outside the borders of the side yard. Then, a stick was thrown at Cooper and hit him in the head.[2][3]

Cooper panicked; he turned and simply shot the first person he saw. A bullet hit Steven Putrich in the abdomen; Putrich had nothing to do with the incident on the trail that day, he was simply the brother of the landlord. He had now been fatally shot by Cooper. The other gunmen then reacted by rushing back into the yard, surrounding the boardinghouse, and firing their guns into it. Meanwhile, Joseph Putrich's spouse, Antonia, rushed with their seven-month-old daughter from the dining room through the kitchen and out behind the line of men firing through their windows. As she leaped from the shed, powder from a gun fired close by blackened and burned her baby's face. Her three and four-year-old children remained in the dining room.[2][3][4][5]

Cooper then chased Kalan into the house and continued shooting all the way. Once Cooper opened fire, the hired girl, Josephine Grubetich, abandoned her dishwashing and ran through the dining room into the master bedroom. She saw both rooms filled to the brim with smoke, heard the shouting, and paused between the two rooms. Cooper emptied his gun, firing into the kitchen in the back of the house into the front rooms of the house. According to Rebels on the Range: The Michigan Copper Miners' Strike of 1913-1914 (1984) by Arthur W. Thurner,

"Albert Tijan, at the first rough handling of Kalan in the yard, jumped through a window; he ran upstairs to the boarders' bedrooms, then down again, in time to witness the men, guns drawn, at the windows and Josephine and the children running into the dining room. He returned upstairs. As he ran, he heard one shot, then the fusillade. Moments later, his 18-year-old brother Alois came up and collapsed in his arms, saying, 'Brother, they killed me.' He had been shot as he reached the foot of the stairs. Albert placed Alois who indicated he had been hit on his left side on one of the beds. He pulled up his brother's shirt and talked to him but got no response. Antonia Putrich, after turning about excitedly on the road outside, oblivious to neighbor Lisa Mutka's beckoning her to take shelter across the road, waited until she saw the deputies walk away. Steve Putrich remained in the yard until Cooper came out of the shed. One of the Italian neighbors saw him grow pale and limber, then walk into the house. When Mrs. Putrich reentered, she found him mortally wounded, standing in the kitchen. 'I am shot', he told her, 'and if anything happens to me, send my money to my children.' He was taken upstairs."[4]

At the bottom of the staircase lay Stanko Stepich, with his feet in the dining room. He had been shot in the arm, and then, as he started to run upstairs, was shot in the back. He attempted to climb on his hands and knees but had slipped down onto a little landing at the bottom of the staircase. Joseph Putrich heard Stepich moaning, "They killed me, they killed me," but he did not stop to examine him. Putrich moved up the narrow stairs. Alois Tijan, dying, blood trickling from his mouth, muttered, "Uncle, take off my shoes." Steven Putrich cried to his sibling Joseph from the other bed, "Oh, brother, they shot me too", and he pointed to his bleeding stomach. Joseph Putrich rushed over to a nearby store and telephoned a doctor. Josephine, coming upstairs where she saw Alois Tijan dead and Steven Putrich dying, went downstairs at once "to get a candle for the man who was dying."[4][5]

Once the shooting ceased, Ivan Stimac fled from the boardinghouse. Caught in the barrage of bullets in the dining room, he had been hit in the side. The pain was keen, but he ran upstairs, stumbling over the body of Stanko Stepich and thinking, "Gee, they killed him." He saw the Tijan brothers, one dying, the other lamenting. He panicked, grabbed his coat, dashed out of the boardinghouse, and "ran up in the bush." He stayed in the woods until dark, then went to the house of a friend, Frank Stiglich, and spent the night. Once the doctor arrived he soon realized that there was little he could do for Tijan except make him comfortable as he lay dying. He also could do nothing to aid Steven Putrich at the house, but thought there was hope if they could manage to get him to the mine hospital in Trimountain, another small mining town just up the road from Seeberville. Putrich would make it to the mining company hospital but would die the next day thereafter. According to Steven Lehto's 2013 book, Death's Door: The Truth Behind the Italian Hall Disaster and the Strike of 1913: "His death was is remarkable for at least one reason: Of all the death certificates for people killed by strike violence in 1913, including the 73 victims at the Italian Hall, his was the only one which indicated a cause of death. The attending doctor -- not the coroner -- deemed his death 'homicidal' in nature."[1][2][3]

After the group ran out of ammunition, they began to tamper with the crime scene and plant evidence to make it appear as if the battle had been two-sided. According to Lehto, "After the gunmen who fired their guns ran out of ammunition, they paused and walked out to the road in front of the house. ... Several witnesses would later testify [that] they saw the gunmen casually walk out to the road and reload their guns -- just in case they needed to do some more shooting -- and then they started gathering rocks, bottles and sticks and throwing them into the yard." Lehto asserts that a police officer would have taken steps to preserve the crime scene at least until an investigation had been completed instead of fabricating evidence to support their position. The gunmen subsequently began to dump spent shells from their guns into the dirt. Later, children came by and picked up the shells. Lehto notes that an actual police officer would have removed them from their guns and saved them as evidence rather than disposing of them immediately. Lehto concludes that these actions were performed because the gunmen knew that the evidence had made them look bad.[2][3][4]

Lehto continues, "Thomas Raleigh and the gunmen started walking casually away from the house they had just shot up. Raleigh and his band of accomplices did not bother to call the police. After they traveled a little distance from the yard they realized they were in a pickle. Not worrying about whether any of the men in the house needed medical attention, Raleigh instructed the other gunmen to accompany him back to the house to conduct a search; he did not bother to call the sheriff or a doctor in the meantime. ... Less than a half-hour from when they had emptied their guns into the house, Raleigh and the five others were still willing to pretend they were police officers. With their guns drawn, they went back into the boardinghouse and demanded the tenants show them their weapons. The boarders denied having any. Not believing them, Raleigh and the others tore the house apart looking for weapons. They found none."[citation needed] As the gunmen ransacked the boardinghouse, they noticed that some of the neighbors had come over to aid the victims. The gunmen found this most troubling; the neighbors became potential witnesses and so far, the circumstances of the situation were developing in such a manner that did not benefit the gunmen to any extent. A neighbor named Peter Klobacher testified that as he was coming downstairs from visiting the wounded and dying upstairs at the Putrich boardingouse, Cooper "chased me out of the house."[2][3]

After searching the house only to find that the boarders were telling the truth, that there were no weapons, Raleigh walked around the front yard of the home. Whenever someone came by to see what the excitement was, he would shoo them away. At least one witness later testified that Raleigh walked over to him and pointed his gun at him saying something to the effect of, "You'd better leave unless you want me to shoot you, too."[2][3][4]

Once Stimac had returned to the Putrich boardinghouse the next morning, he was arrested by Harry James and taken to the hospital. During the scuffle in the side yard, the attackers had hit Kalan in the head with a billy club several times; as a result, Kalan was dazed. He somehow managed to get away from the deputies and into the boardinghouse, but there he found himself in the crossfire of the strikebreakers and guards firing from inside the boardinghouse and through the windows of the boardinghouse. Once the continuous firing ceased and the situation settled a bit, Kalan went outside and saw them taking away Steven Putrich, who was near death. Some of the gunmen then recognized Kalan as being one of the men whom they were searching for earlier in the day so they promptly grabbed him. Because they had no warrant for his arrest and they were not police officers, they hauled him over to the mining company office and instructed him to wait there while they figured out what to do with him.[2][3]

According to Lehto, "When the men took Kalan into custody, he was not being arrested. He was being kidnapped. The strikebreakers dragged Kalan to the mine office, assuming that they could then get him handed over to a friendly law enforcement officer, with the help of mine managers. While Kalan sat in the office waiting to see where he would get dragged next, a deputy came by and spit on him. After an hour and a half, they then took him to Houghton, to see if they could get him arrested for something. They did not bother to see if he needed medical attention even though he had been hit in the head repeatedly with clubs and fists. The next day, Quick filed a formal complaint ... After he did that, warrants were issued for the arrests of Kalan and Stimac. The warrants were issued after Kalan was kidnapped. It is unclear if the warrant for Stimac was issued before or after he was taken into custody. In either case, the eventual arrests of Kalan and Stimac was [sic] highly irregular and probably illegal."[2][3]

Anthony Lucas, the prosecutor for Houghton County, paid a visit to the shot-up boardinghouse and instantaneously deemed that the shootings were murders. He requested that Houghton County Sheriff James A. Cruse arrest all six of the men who had gone to the house to get Kalan and Stimac. Cruse promptly refused and instead arrested Kalan. The men whom Lucas desired to be arrested for the shootings became the star witnesses of the case against Kalan. The arrest warrants for Kalan and Stimac were issued on August 15, 1913; however, it is unclear if they were signed by the magistrate before or after Stimac was taken by Harry James. The arrests of Kalan and Stimac took place sometime between August 14 and August 16, 1913. James took Stimac to the hospital first to get his gunshot wound attended to by someone with medical expertise.[2][3]

The next morning thereafter the shooting, Steven Putrich died within the Copper Range Hospital at nearby Trimountain. On Saturday, August 15, officials questioned, at a hearing, members of the Putrich household—Joseph Putrich, Albert Tijan, Josephine Grubetich, Ivan Kalan's 18-year-old son Slave, three unnamed neighbors of the Putrichs, and Quick, Cooper, Raleigh, James and Polkinghorne. Judge Alfred J. Murphy, Houghton County Sheriff James A. Cruse, and Houghton County Prosecutor Anthony Lucas, began their own independent investigations into the massacre. Lucas, after paying a visit to the scene and interrogating witnesses, called upon Cruse to deprive the two deputies and four Waddell men of their stars and place them under arrest. He denounced the shooting as wanton murder -- "a shameful affair ... entirely uncalled for." Cruse countered with doubt as to whether Lucas had any authority in the case and said that he would get legal advice about that.[6][7][8][9][10]

On Sunday, August 16, at 11 a.m., a special funeral train left the Copper Range depot at Painesdale. It stopped on its journey north to Red Jacket to pick up mourners from South Range, Atlantic Mine, Houghton, Hancock, Dollar Bay, Hubbell, and Lake Linden. At Red Jacket, passengers formed a procession with thousands of others who met first in the early afternoon at the Palestra and then marched to the funeral conducted by Father Medin at the Croatian Roman Catholic church of St. John the Baptist. The Finnish Hamu Band led the procession to Lake View Cemetery two miles away. Many carried boughs and wreaths of evergreen, women and girls bouquets of wildflowers. Numerous strikers carried American flags, draped with black. Others carried signs which read "In memory of our murdered brothers," "Our Lord said: Do not take what you cannot give" and "Give not thy boughs of cedar; give back my life, oh thugs."[4][11][12][13]

The solemn funeral was a massive demonstration of striker solidarity; about five-thousand individuals participated and the strike leaders addressed the mourners after the religious graveside ceremonies. Joseph Cannon, a prominent WFM organizer, declared that the "crime" for which the strikers' two brothers had been struck down was trying to bargain collectively with their employers. Tijan and Steven Putrich had come from the Balkans where Turks and Hapsburgs oppressed the people, he said, but in northern Michigan, "there is the sultan of industry and his countless satraps". He termed the Hapsburg tyranny mild compared to that exercised by the corporations in Michigan.[6] Cannon attacked Governor Ferris "as an accessory before the fact of this lamentable double murder" and Sheriff Cruse whose "hands dripped with blood." He accused the corporation-controlled press of assisting in the murders by falsifying facts and perverting the truth. He lashed out at the mine owners: "Boston coppers, long have you boasted of your mines of wealth untold. Long have you grown fat by keeping us lean." He accused the state of Michigan and the nation of having "failed to protect us in our peaceful efforts to obtain the merited better conditions ... While we should always strive for peaceful means" and avoid trouble and violence, he also declared "there are times when it is hard, times like this when every pulse-beat cries out for action and retaliation ... but, friends, let us control ourselves and endeavor to prevent the threatened violence." But, he added, "let us also determine to bring into being a condition of society under which there shall be no incentive for more, hireling or otherwise, to take the life of his fellows."[4]

On Friday night, August 14, a large number of strikers and sympathizers gathered at the Kansankoti Hall in Hancock. They adopted resolutions hotly denouncing the Waddell  men who had taken the lives of "two honest workmen, murdering them in cold blood" and expressing shock that the Houghton County Board of Supervisors had approved the sheriff's hiring of the Waddell men. Laura Cannon, a reporter for the Miners' Magazine, said that as of August 16, 1913, "the excitement runs high and nervous tension is keen, a reign of terror prevails throughout the district."[4][9][14][15][16]

[galadrieljones]

zero: chapter 8

Fandom: Horizon: Zero Dawn | Pairing: Aloy x Nil | Rating: M (Mature)

Content: Existential Angst, Touch-Starved, Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Alcohol Abuse, First Loves in the Wild, Slow Burn, Violence, Love Triangles, Nightmares, Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Post-Traumatic Stress

Masterpost | AO3

Dawn

This one time, when Aloy was young, maybe ten or eleven, Rost taught her how to fashion a mirror glass from the lens of a Watcher, and then he taught her how to fashion another, and then how to arrange herself between the two so that she could see the back of her head when braiding her hair. He did not typically use a mirror glass at all, but he told her it had been a method that his mother and sisters used when he was growing up. He told her all this while chopping carrots on a long cutting board in the yard, and preparing a soup made of root vegetables and boar.

Later that night, they were out at the fire like usual, taking inventory of the day and sipping cocoa—Rost spiked his with brown liquor—and Aloy asked him a question.

Rost, am I pretty? she said. She was holding the mirror glass in her hand. He we chewing on an acorn shell.

Aloy, he said, smiling. Overhead, the sky was clear and drawn up and inward to the big, white moon. The stars were so numerous, it lit the entire mesa and the valley below. Why are you asking me this?

 Because one of the jerks from Mother’s Crown called me a beet.

 A beet?

Yeah, said Aloy, gazing into her mirror glass. Her face felt scrunched. She set it down and put her chin in her hands. He said I look like a beet, that I’m not pretty, but I don’t think I’m so bad.

Rost laughed at this. He spat the acorn shell to the earth. He set down his cup and picked up his dagger. First off, he said to her, examining the blade, That boy shouldn’t have been talking to you at all. He could be exiled for even looking in your direction. So you’ve got a one-up on him. He is bound by the rules of the tribe where you are not. For now.

Aloy smiled.

And second, Rost continued. He took a small whetstone from his pocket. Pretty doesn’t matter, Aloy. He struck the whetstone to the metal, becoming serious again. Pretty is meaningless, if you ask me. But there will always be men who will judge you on your appearance alone, and you’ll best them every time.

 Why’s that?

Because you are pretty, he said, his eyes crinkled as he pulled that whetstone down the length of the blade. You are a beautiful girl. At least I think so, albeit, I’ll admit that I’m biased, as I love you like a daughter. Even still, that boy called you a beet, but you’re like the sun, Aloy, and you’re going to grow up one day, and you’ll still be beautiful, and because of this, that boy and nearly all men will think they can own you. Do you understand?

They’ll think they can own me? said Aloy.

 Yes.

 Why would they think that?

 Because there are men who believe the world was made to bow at their feet.

But will they own me? she said. Will they?

He gazed at her, his eyes were hard. He stabbed the dagger into the earth and rested his elbows on his knees. He shook his head by the light of the fire. Never.

He smiled out one corner of his mouth. So she smiled, too.

He directed her then to hand him the pot of cocoa. She obliged, and he poured some for both of them. It is difficult for me, he said after a little while as he poured more liquor into his cocoa, to have these conversations with you.

Why? said Aloy.

Because I would prefer you never have to experience the ugliness of the world. Telling you this reminds me that, one day, no matter how I prepare you, you’ll have to go it alone.

She waited. He did not know how right he was. She watched as he took a long drink of his cocoa and looked up at the moon. She then drank her cocoa with the same mannerism, the same length of time. She looked up at the moon with the same angle of her neck as he did. She loved him desperately as a father.

She could only hope now that he knew.

“Nil?”

The traps had taken out most of the foot soldiers. Their screams were loud. Aloy and Nil had retreated through a tiny canyon that led out to the river. The moon was wide and low, but it was still full night, and five or six of them made it past the minefield and one caught Nil with his spear—a hard graze, right past one of his ribs, and it was a flesh wound, but Nil’s armors were a white stretched canvas in this part, and by the light of the stars, all she could see were dark stains, and she became impatient. Nil told her to move right in the shadows, and he went left, and they flanked them in the high trees, and Aloy dropped a canister of fire, which took out their path and two of them by surprise. She hit another two with arrows, and when she looked up, she couldn’t see Nil, and for a moment, this caused her to panic, but then she heard a sort of wet, muffled gulp, and when she looked down, she saw him in the high grasses beneath her, his spear buried deep in the final bandit’s spinal column. He dropped him hard, the body falling with the spear still in it.

It was done. Nil spat into the weeds and wiped the sweat from his brow. He looked mean in the natural light from the moon, but it was going to fade—the rise and fall of his chest would slow. She knew this. She watched him yank the spear from the dead bandit and wipe it clean with a handkerchief from his pocket. She waited until she was sure it was okay, and then she dropped to the tall grass from the tree tops, and she went to him. He dropped to a crouch and she by his side, and now he was looking out at the river. He didn’t stir as she touched him, peeling back the armor to see what damage had been done.

“It’s sort of deep,” said Aloy. "Are you okay?"

Nil seemed unconcerned. “Just leave it,” he said.

“No,” she said. “These jungles are weird. It’ll fester. We gotta go back.”

He was still agitated. “Fine, but there will be more of them, Aloy. We should move our camp at first light.”

“What? No."

"No?"

"There are dead machines all over this clearing," she said. "I have plenty of wires, and fuel. We’re not leaving.”

Nil smiled at this. It was disarming. “You’re going to wire the whole woods, just so we can keep our camp?”

“Yes,” said Aloy.

This amused him, in a good way—she could see. “Very well,” he said. He looked back at the water, tossed the reed. “We can cut back through the canyon. There are going to be bodies.”

“They can wait,” said Aloy. “The heat stays gone with the sun, and at this rate, I’m not sure it’s ever going to come up anyway.”

“It’ll come,” said Nil. He had picked a reed and was now peeling it into very thin strips. "Do you have everything you need?"

“Yes,” said Aloy. “Back in the tent, I—”

She stopped cold, she was looking somewhere else, and her mind had gone there with it.

“What’s the matter?” said Nil. “Aloy?”

“Why is that there?” she said. She was on her feet now, looking around. Nil followed her gaze, about a fifty feet up the river, on the other side, and he could see what she saw now. The single blue light, the lone Strider, the one he’d left. “One Strider? There must be more of them, maybe on the other side of that bluff? I thought you said you cleared all the machines inside a mile radius?”

“I did,” said Nil, his body constricting. His ribs hurt. That spear had come right up against the bone, and every time he moved, he could feel it. “All the machines inside a mile radius.”

"Except this one."

"Right."

“You missed it?” she said.

“No, I did not. I left it on purpose.”

“You left it on purpose?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you leave it on purpose?”

He sort of grunted a little as he stood then, dusting off his pants. Aloy was staring at him. “I left it for you,” he said.

“For me?”

“Yeah,” he said. “After Sickle—I knew you wouldn’t get yourself another, so I left it. Obviously, I can’t override her programming. Only you can do that, Aloy, so the choice is yours.”

“The choice?”

“Yes,” said Nil. He limped toward her, holding his side. He lowered his voice. “It’s just a gift,” he said.

Aloy turned her head to look back at the Strider, and how its blue light flooded the water with the moon. It made big robotic noises, and it had no idea they were so nearby. It had no idea. It was just a machine. With the fighting over and the traps all let loose, smoking in the woods, the bugs in the trees seemed to wake up again. They rubbed their wings together and made buzzing noises, and there were fruit bats dive-bombing in the canopies. Aloy looked at Nil, perplexed, because it had been a long time since she’d received a gift. She tried to remember. “What if I don’t want it?”

“Take it or leave it,” said Nil. “I won’t hold it against you either way. I’ll kill it myself, if you want me to. Just say the word.”

“Don’t kill it,” she said.

“All right.”

“I want it—I just—” She turned back one more time, staring through the Strider, trying to make sure that it actually existed, that this wasn’t just a dream or some sort of hallucination. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, and he nodded once, very solemn, like Nil. “You deserve it, Aloy. It was no trouble.”

There was a moment. Aloy felt very raw all of a sudden, like one of her layers had been peeled back. It was hard for her, and she held her feelings tightly within herself for no other reason than that was how she worked. That was what she knew. She tried to go back to that moment in time where she had felt free enough on the riverbanks near the Maizelands to stand on her tip toes and kiss him, but that was so far away by now. She’d lost her cool. And in trying to unfeel the moment, she realized that now, she was just busy worrying about his wound, how he was bleeding, and how it was getting worse. The blood was everywhere. The blood was dark. “We need to get you back,” she said. “Let’s go.”

“I’m fine,” said Nil.

“Nil.”

“I swear that I’ll survive for another four minutes while you go collect your gift.”

She sighed. She was reluctant, but she felt like she might cry from gratitude, and so she looked away. “Don’t move,” she said. “Moving makes it worse.”

“I have to move, Aloy.”

“I know,” she said. “Just don’t move…suddenly.”

He thought this was funny. He showed her his palms in surrender. “No sudden movements,” he said. “I swear. Now go.”

Once they were back at camp, Aloy left the Strider to graze in the orange halo from the fire. Nil surveyed the machine carefully, like he was testing it, and then he let his approval show by patting it gently on the flank. He had never done that with Sickle. He didn’t seem to register the machine as anything real—just cargo, a means to an end. “Is this a he or a she?” he said.

Aloy was rifling through her bag. She found her needle and her sutures. “What do you mean?”

“The Strider,” he said. “What does it feel like to you?”

Aloy walked over to him in the firelight. She placed her hand on the Strider’s flank, next to his. “A she.”

“What will you name her?"

“Maybe...Dawn? Wishful thinking, I guess." She smiled down at her boots. "Come on."

Nil followed her back to the tent where she tied off the flap and they sat on a mat, outside, near the doorway. They sat facing opposite ends of the clearing while Aloy lit a lantern and helped Nil with the ties and hooks so he could remove his chest plate and the canvas and linens and the bit of chain mail that had failed him, pressed to his side.

The thin undershirt was stained very dark.

She didn’t want him to lift his arms, so she slit the fabric with her hunting knife, and then she pulled the shirt apart at the seam to reveal the wound underneath. The graze was deep and still bleeding a little, but mostly it had stopped off by now. This was a relief.

He sat with his elbows resting on his knees. He hung his head between them. “Shall I live?” he said.

“Shut up, Nil.”

He smiled.

She told him to brace himself. She took a half empty bottle of moonshine and drizzled what was left over the graze. He was stoic, but his breath hitched and his eyes squeezed shut. She blotted and cleaned away the blood on his skin, then she held her needle to the flame of the lantern for many seconds, steadied her hands and got to work. They were quiet for a long time.

“You should stop getting grazed,” she said to him after a while. Aside from their breathing, they could only hear the bugs in the trees and the distant Glinthawks, the crackling of the fire. “This is becoming a habit.”

“There are worse wounds.”

"I know.”

“At Cinnebar Sands,” he said, “I was swiped by the tail of a Thunderjaw. I hit my head so hard, I lost my vision for a second. That was worse.”

Aloy paused. She worked slowly, but she was nearly finished. “A Thunderjaw?”

He nodded once.

“I’ve only seen one,” she said. “Once. In the Gatelands. I’ve never fought one.”

“They're not easy,” he said. "Maybe from a distance, and with hours at your disposal. But in a cage match, you're likely to meet your doom."

Somehow she knew this would be fruitless. “Did you take it down?” she said. “I learned that—Rost, he taught me that ropes are useful for big machines like that.”

“Indeed,” said Nil, “and yes, I brought it down, but I had help.”

“What else happened?” she said, bringing the needle back again, but maybe she tugged too tight. He winced. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “It’s fine, Aloy.”

"Shit." She felt bad. She got quiet. She finished closing him up, and he had his eyes closed. She tied and trimmed the sutures. She placed a piece of gauze over the wound and used an adhesive salve to cover it in a long strip of linen. It was done. They both sighed with relief and looked at the fire, and then Nil shifted around so that he could see her. She got up from the ground and dusted off her pants.

“Where are you going?” he said.

“Back to the river,” she said, showing him her hands, stained in his blood. “To wash these.”

He shook his head. “There’s water in the canteens.”

“I need to lay the traps anyway.”

“We have time,” he said. “Wait until dawn. Stay, Aloy.”

She thought on it. She nodded and sat back down, and he handed her a leather canteen, and she poured a spare amount on her palms, rubbing them together, and then she wiped them off on her pants and studied her nails. There was still some blood. “Does it feel okay?” she said.

“It feels fine,” he said. “What about you?”

She took a very deep breath. She showed him her hand, the burn she’d gotten the day before. The bandage was peeling off. She let him clean and fix it for her. At some point, there was nothing left to do but acknowledge that they had just been through a great deal. They held hands.

“Nil,” said Aloy after a little while. The nightingales had started singing in the trees.

“Yes?” said Nil.

“I know what we talked about before, with Avad. I think that he—I think he has feelings for me,” she said. She scratched an itch on her nose. “I think he followed me out to your camp the other day. Sorry for the non-sequitur.”

“He did follow you,” said Nil. “He came out to talk to me.”

“What did you guys talk about?” she said.

“Ersa,” said Nil, tracing the lines on her palm, very casual. “And you. You’re right in that he does…like you. So to speak. But a man in mourning is not to be trusted with matters of the heart.”

“I don’t get it,” said Aloy. “He’s like a king.”

“He’s not like a king,” said Nil, and he gave her back her hand. “He is the king. Aren't you flattered?"

She rolled her eyes, studied her her knuckles.

But Nil was grinning. “You know,” he said, “an alliance between the great Nora and Carja tribes would be politically expedient at this point in the game, Aloy.”

“What?”

“An alliance forged by a strategic marriage—that would be unshakable. It could be you. You could be his queen. You could live your life in perpetual safety, live a life of dreams come true. You could fight in his Vanguard if you choose. Of course he’d never let you see battle. But he would not prevent you from your calling, if that was what it took to keep you.” He took a swig from the canteen, held it out to her. “Don’t you agree?”

“What?” she said, yanking the canteen. “Marry Avad? Are you fucking kidding me?”

He shrugged. “It doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Then you marry Avad.”

Nil laughed at this. “He and I could never get along well enough for marriage. Not anymore.”

“I don’t want Avad.”

“It’s not always about want. Sometimes, it’s about what’s best.”

“But I’m not—that. I’m not that, Nil. I’m not a queen. You know this.”

“Perhaps.”

“Avad has to know this by now.

He shrugged. “Men tend to see what they want to see.”

She took a drink from the canteen. She set it down. “What do you see?” She said. “When you look at me, what do you see?”

He seemed content. He had been teasing her, but not anymore. He tucked the hair behind her ear, his jaw firm. “Just you,” he said. “I only see you."

His hand lingered, grazing the little freckles of her cheek. She was blushing from the conversation and now his touch. It seemed to bring them both home. The violence was past. She could feel the dirt in her pores, the blood stuck on her skin, but it didn't seem to matter. She was tired but alive there, with him at the end of the night. She could hear Dawn, shifting around by the fire, her great big robotic movements, alive. Aloy felt many pieces of her hardened exterior falling away then. She couldn’t help it anymore. He was right there, looking right at her with his weird blue eyes that seemed to cut through anything. There was nothing that could outlast them. And before she knew it, their faces where very close. She could smell the aloe in his hair and on his skin again. She could feel his breath.

“It’s no use,” he said to her, a surprise.

“What’s no use?”

“Talking, the fight.” His resolve filled the air, making the world feel clean. “We're right back where we started. There's only one thing to say.”

“What?"

“I missed you. Aloy.”

"When?"

“When you were gone,” he said.

The sky was turning purple. Nearby in the hissing melodies of the protected forests, the daytime animals rose with the sun, and she was safe

No more interruptions. Their mouths touched, eyes closed. They kissed.

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Thank you, @bonnie-wee-swordsman, for the outrageously perfect song suggestion!

Read the other chapters here.

Our Story

At some point, they start ignoring time.

Claire, whose career so closely monitors the rhythms of human life, stops wearing a watch at home. The digital clock, which rests on a bedside table, is turned away like a spurned guest. A 45-degree angle now arrowing through the black, its numbers an indecipherable mist of light on the wall.

And for his part, Jamie skirts the church on his morning walks. The chimes, echoing from the stone bell tower, are a reminder of something there will never be enough of.

They recognize this for what it is: denial, out of fear. They are afraid of what they’ll see when they wear the watch, pass the church, if they allow the digital clock to stand guard over their dreams: the digits changing, the minutes out-pacing their steps. And they are afraid—perhaps even more so—of what they will not see: an immobile hand, a blank screen. Time stopped, time run out.

If this is truly denial, they tell themselves, then so be it.

It’s the small things that go first. The plot of a favorite film distorts, then takes the shapes of plots from other, less favored films. The frozen aisle moves with every grocery shop, its location found not by memory, but by the increasing chill in the air—goosebumps down skin, the body shaken. And a childhood pet, though long dead, lives and dies in the span of a single day. The joy and grief of it all, so fresh, that Jamie reaches for a shovel, upends the earth to bury a ghost. (Adso sits at his feet, though it’s a different loss he mourns.)

Eventually, the disease consumes other things. Dates: Is Geordie’s birthday on the 20th or the 21st? Directions: Is their new house on Jefferson Street or on Bond? The inertia of Jamie’s life slows with the disappearance of such landmarks, everyday values made so identical that he does not know where to put his faith, his love.

On an afternoon in July, Jamie volunteers to pick up one of Claire’s prescriptions. It is 2PM when he arrives at the pharmacy, approaches the counter with a tied and twisted tongue. Something about the pharmacist—so self-assured in his pristine lab coat—unnerves him into forgetfulness.

“A Dhia. One second,” Jamie says, fumbling through his pockets. He pulls out the receipt he’s put there and reads the reminder note on its blank side. (He cannot attribute the uniformly written letters or the passionately-crossed ts. His, or someone else’s?)

“Fraser,” he finally says. “I’m picking up a prescription for Claire Fraser.”

This is the first time Jamie has forgotten her—she, who is his world, and who is also half of himself. Suddenly, he is desperate to hide his embarrassment, for an enclosed space in which he can trap his wife’s name to prevent it from flying away. The white paper bag, passed to him and labelled just for her, feels wrong in his hands, now dirtied by the betrayal he has just committed.

Jamie does not return the way he came, but drives. By sunset, he does not know where he is, or how he has come to be along this stretch of foreign homes. Here, there is only the lingering sense of his shame—the very thing that has propelled him forwards, keeping his foot pressed adamantly to the gas pedal.

In a moment of panic, he wonders if one of these homes is his. If that driveway, curtained by the beds of purple petunias, should look familiar. But no, this land is flat—and he has the image of a hill, there should be a hill, he lives on a hill, he is sure of it. (He is, in fact, approximately two miles away from that hill.)

Jamie pulls over and shuts his eyes. Says, Focus. Says, Breathe. These are the recommended mantras, but while they have soothed him before, they are failing him now. The path to the phantom hill does not emerge from his mind, revealing itself, but remains at the end of a dark and winding tunnel. No focusing, no breathing to coax it out of hiding.

To call for someone would be to acknowledge the child he is slowly becoming, and by this fact alone, the action becomes unthinkable. Reprehensible. Instead, he repeats Claire’s name to the silver dollar in the sky because that, at least, has returned to him and stayed.

As if summoned, she appears out of the darkness: her blue Ford now behind him, and she behind its wheel. And this—this car, he knows. Remembers well. The scratch on its left side, from a fallen pine bough. The car seat for a grandchild whose photographs are attached to the visor: a mouth covered in icing, a head grazing a penciled notch on a doorframe.

She approaches, slow-footed, and leans through his open window. It is her smell that reaches him first. Then her voice. Then her face—now floating in front of his—dissipates the remains of his confusion. Finally, Jamie breathes.

“Hi,” she whispers, smiling weakly.

“Hi,” he whispers back.

There is, he notices, so much tenderness in her—despite the circumstances, despite him. Him: a grown man who cannot remember his own address, but who can see, so clearly, the Coke stain on the Ford’s floor mat. And her—a grown woman wearing only her robe and slippers, but out in the middle of the night, to look for him.

“Now I may be mistaken,” she says, “but I believe you’re supposed to inform the seeker when you intend to hide. Otherwise that’s an unfair advantage.”

“I’m just trying to keep ye on yer toes, Sassenach,” he says softly, looking at his lap. (The phrase “remotely interesting” appears from nowhere, but—why?)

“Thank you for finding me, Sassenach,” he says instead, and Claire puts her hand on his arm. “You didn’t have to.”

“Well, I did consider letting your other wife come get you. Oddly enough, I can’t seem to reach her. Must be cavorting with one of my other five husbands.”

They both stifle their laughs, chastised by the quiet and the precariousness of their situation; all that it implies. When Jamie sees Claire’s crooked incisor after she lowers her hand, Jamie feels overwhelmed. By his love, by his gratitude. By his luck that she has found him again and again and again.

“So,” she says, gesturing towards her car, “Finder’s keepers?”

When the Ford pulls ahead, Jamie follows. He keeps his eyes on the silhouette in the driver’s seat—the messy curls, the hand that adjusts the rearview mirror (to see him better)—as his wife, Claire Fraser, leads him home.

Claire familiarizes herself with the facts. They are as follows:

In 1901, a man named Karl Deter admitted his wife to a mental institution. Throughout the previous decade, he told the doctors, her condition had worsened, and he feared he could no longer provide adequate care. The woman’s name was Auguste Deter, and she would die five years later at the age of 56. Auguste’s symptoms— memory loss, mood swings, delusions, and insomnia—would become the hallmarks of a then-unknown disease. It would be discovered by her doctor, Alois Alzheimer, shortly after her death.

During her examinations, Dr. Alzheimer would test Deter’s recall. When prompted to repeat his questions—and her subsequent answers—hours later, Ms. Deiter could rarely remember their conversation. One day, upon forgetting her own name, she had simply stated: “Ich hab mich verloren.” I have lost myself.

In the United States, an estimated 5.5 million people currently live with Auguste’s disease. Of these, only 200,000 are, as she was, diagnosed before they turn 65—the age bracket which delineates the standard cases from the “early onset.” Though advancements have been made in the past century, Alzheimer’s is still incurable. The fatality rate is discouragingly high.

When Claire thinks of Auguste and these statistics, it is hard not to feel betrayed. To not demand, fist raised, for remorse or an admission of error. We’ve made a mistake.

And when Jamie loses his professorship, or searches fruitlessly for the misplaced items of his imagination, it is hard to believe that this is where their story has gone. That he, her husband, should be among the 5-percenters and she, his wife, must stand idly by.

And when Jamie—driven by a rage he cannot place—smashes a plate against the counter, it is hard to not to want a piece of that nameless fury. To not take some of it for herself and direct it at their fate, the unluckiest of the unlucky, when there is nothing left.

And it is hard, of course, not to feel hateful when he stumbles over her name.

But then, of course—she loves him.

(Oh, how she loves him.)

While Claire sleeps, Jamie goes to his desk and falls into his chair, eager. This chair, a ratty and thrifted thing, has outlived all the other ratty and thrifted things they had purchased after the big house fire. Its cushioned back, as textured and as worn as his own, never hurts his scars when he leans into it, gazing out the window to the Blue Ridge mountains.

He is here to write and to remember.

But the sentences, which had roused him with such insistence, do not come now that he is waiting, ready for them. They have withdrawn in the advent of his intention, sunken in the murky bog of his disease.

Slow, so very slow, to resurface.

While Jamie sleeps, Claire goes to the balcony. A notebook in her lap, a pen that fills the pages. She works her hand into an aching cramp, and it throbs, throughout it all, like a heartbeat.

This has become her usual routine: Jamie wakes, goes to his desk, returns frustrated, then sleeps. Claire listens for his slowed and measured breaths, then rises. That notebook, that pen. That heart, needing more room than her chest can ever give it, forcing itself into her wrist, into her hand.

Not everything on these pages is hers to claim—eggs fried on steaming asphalt, a baby fist pressed to a horse’s mane—but she claims them anyways. An imposition, she knows, Jamie would not mind. And so she takes his stubborn sentences, feeling the pull of her responsibility, and gives them life. Knowing, without having to ask, what needs to be said.

Claire dreads coming home tonight. This night, which is no different from all the others, save for the extra weight she’s given it. Her footfalls, made heavier. The wind, more oppressive. Her awful certainty, like a stone in a pocket underwater.

This night, their anniversary.

It is not the date itself, or Jamie, that she dreads returning to. Even the absence of him, that slow but increasing degeneration, is not what keeps her inside the car, so reluctant to climb the hill.

Rather: it is the absence of herself, in him. Her disappearance somehow made complete in the hours she’s been away, at work.

What if, she thinks, Jamie has forgotten? What if she walks into the house and he looks up from his chair, bewildered? As if to say, “Who are you?” As if to say, “Do you belong here?” As if she had not been the one to discover that chair among the third-hand junk—that very chair from which he is looking up, so bewildered?

These thoughts are always on her mind, but they are more pressing now. The 27 years of their second marriage demand remembrance, enraged at the possibility of her nonexistence. More so than ever, she could not bear his forgetting—no, not on this night. Their anniversary.

As Claire walks towards the house, she sees her. Before the porch—a girl, face shadowed by twilight and raised to the sky. By the looks of her dress and unscuffed Mary Janes, she has come here with a purpose, but that purpose has been abandoned for the fireflies around her head. Her small hands reach out to cup the air, willing the constellating lights into the valley of her palms. Two golden flickers descend, then are sheltered. She moves closer, peeking at the light between the black crack of her thumbs, which she widens and narrows, widens and narrows. Awe, and a command: Stay, stay.

“Mandy,” Claire finally calls out, and her granddaughter looks up. That original purpose slides across her face, though her hands—curved in a prayer-like steeple—still hold the light. (She is five years old and beautiful.)

“Grama!”

“What have you got there, baby?”

Mandy whispers, “Firebugs.”

Her eyes are those of a mother looking at her child. Like Claire’s own, right now, as she looks at her granddaughter. All this wonder in the evidence of something good.

“You’re not s’posed to go inside,” Mandy says eventually, not lifting her gaze. “I’m s’posed to tell you that. Grampa isn’t ready just yet, but Mom will say when it’s okay.”

“That right? And what exactly is he doing in there?”

Mandy giggles, “Secret.” And quiet again, she says, “Do you wanna hold them?”

“I’d love to hold them.”

“You have to be very, very gentle.”

“I will.”

“You can’t squash them.”

“I won’t.”

“You can’t let them go until I say so.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Okay,” Mandy says. “Okay, okay. Ready?”

“Ready.”

And when the bugs have been safely transferred into her care, Mandy hovering at her waist, Claire feels: Wings like timid kisses against her skin. The cloud of her dread, receding slowly. The promise of—what, exactly? (Hope, she thinks.)

“Is that grandma out there with you, Amanda?” Bree calls from the porch. “You two can come in now!”

Mandy ignores her mother, asking, “Do you think they’re married?” then, “They seem to be very, very married to me.” And because her desire is so plain in her eyes, fixed wholly on these things she has come to love and is so unwilling to lose—stay, stay—Claire keeps her hands closed. 

“I think you might be right,” she replies, and they remain there, silent on the path. The bulbs illuminate each other’s faces and the night.

(Hope: Even in the oncoming darkness, there are these lights worth cupping in the palm of one’s hand.)

He is waiting for her in the doorway, smiling.

He has not forgotten.

They move together, swaying and colliding and fumbling. Jamie’s steps are too clumsy, Claire’s overcorrections too extreme—their own bodily melody, so out of sync with the music. They laugh more than they dance, holding each other up as they shuffle around the room.

“Yer terrible at this, Sassenach.”

“You’re the one with two left feet.”

“Two left feet, my arse! Ye canna take a step without missing my toes.”

“Such wonderful toes. How’s a woman to resist?”

Having fulfilled their duties as supervisor and watchman, Bree and Mandy have returned home to Roger. In their wake is an assortment of dirtied dishes (the meals prepared by Jamie), low-burning candles (purchased and lit by Bree), and scattered confetti on the floor (courtesy of Mandy’s decorative genius). James Taylor sings quietly from speakers which, like the rest of the living room furniture, have been pushed into the corner to avoid unwanted damages. On the mantle, a new blue vase sits flanked by a 25th anniversary card—though the five has been crossed out and replaced by an effusive, bright red seven. Apparently, Jamie had told Claire, “the fools at Hallmark dinna celebrate 27th anniversaries.” That’s why, Claire had told Jamie, she “used her artistic gifts to make something homemade.” (Her masterpiece: Two stick figures holding one heart.)

There’s something in the way she moves

Or looks my way, or calls my name

“Did you know,” Jamie says now, still swaying, “that this is the song I listened to after our first night? I put on ‘James Taylor’ after you left, and I couldna stop thinking about you in that hideous sweater wi’ the—penguins, was it? And the wee sparklies?”

“Is that what you’re thinking of right now? Me wearing an ugly jumper in 1989?”

“Aye, but can ye blame me? It’s a hard thing for a man to forget. Verra impressionable. Perhaps offensive.”

“As I recall yours had a Father Christmas with some vomit—”

“It was beer. And maybe a bit of fondue cheese.”

“As I was saying: vomit in his cloth beard. I’ve had nightmares ever since, and they’re all on your conscience.”

“Well, that was my intention, Sassenach. I wanted you thinking of me while you were in bed.”

Claire laughs, kissing the bottom of his chin before he rests it atop her skull.

“I stand by that jumper,” she grumbles into his shoulder. “A bloody good find.”

And I feel fine anytime she’s around me now

She’s around me now

Almost all the time

They continue dancing until she asks, “So what else are you thinking about?” and Jamie sighs.

“A few things,” he says. “One, that I’d like to see ye in that jumper again. Two, that I’d also like to see you in nothing at all.”

“Sadly, the jumper met its tragic end in the big house fire. May it rest peace.”

“Aye. Gone too soon.”

“But the second thing—well. I think that could be arranged.”

Jamie smirks, tucking an errant curl behind her ear.

“Mostly though, Sassenach, I’m thinking that I’m thankful.”

“Oh?”

“For you. For the fact that there are things I dinna remember, and others that will be lost, too…But that one, the moment I first saw you—I dinna think that will ever go away.”

Every now and then the things I lean on lose their meaning

And I find myself careening

In places where I should not let me go

Jamie begins to sing along, off-pitch but endearing all the same. Claire hums with him, pressed close.

She has the power to go where no else can find me

Halfway through the third refrain, the lyrics—once confident—tumble out of his mouth, muddled. He has forgotten some of the initial sound of her: Claire, drinking coffee on that morning-after. Three Sweet n’ Lows ripped open in one swift tear. I only use two and a half—do you want the rest? And then Claire, beside him, a week later. The winter-bleached Royal Mile and the squelch of her boots as they passed through Carfax Close. Stay with me tonight?

In the silence, Claire feels something come apart inside her, and so she holds Jamie tighter, finishing the lyrics that he cannot.

If I’m well you can tell she’s been with me now

She’s been with me now quite a long, long time

Yes and I feel fine

(Before he takes her to bed, she will ask him: “What if we went back?”)

He finds the notebook five days before they leave for Scotland. One sentence, and already he understands. Claire has placed him here without his knowing, while he sleeps. Joy, anger, sorrow, relief—all of him and all of her, mingling in the space between two lines.

Over 50 pages filled by now, but there are things he feels he ought to add, like: A hand clasping a bare throat, snow all around, and—singing. An invitation directed at his lips, Do you want to come in?, and gold pooled on the floor. Ghosts, too, watching from a church balcony; the acknowledging tilt of his wife’s chin.

With these thoughts in his mind, Jamie takes up his pen, inserts his own truths and imaginings in the spaces Claire has left behind. He tucks each one inside a pair of parentheses, like secrets shared between two people. 

(Like gifts wrapped up in so much history.)

[phthalology]

[Horizon: Zero Dawn] Evening Gray and Morning Red

Aloy and Sylens take the same path on the way to the Nora lands, for a little while. Mutual self-interest indeed; Aloy is in furious pursuit of knowledge, and he has some written on his skin. Yer garden-variety huddling-for-warmth fic. It’s awkward for them and it’s awkward for the writer and it’s awkward for the reader, too. Squick warning for a not-insignificant age gap. Aloy/Sylens, 2k.

They lost one strider to stalkers, and Aloy was too busy dodging sparks to see whether Sylens fought for it.

The machine flashed in and out of invisibility above her, the liquid batteries on its back glowing pale yellow like a disease. She couldn’t aim precisely under its thrashing leg, but she didn’t have to; her spear caught under the joint and she wrenched it in, leaning until the leg cracked and the stalker fell. Its head hit the grass inches from her, metal plates scraping her clothes. She turned in the circle of its twitching forelimbs and drove the spear back in through its sensor stalks.

A quick look up to see what else might be barreling toward her revealed only two blue glows and a corpse; Sylens was standing with one hand on the living strider. This one had been his. Hers had gone down under another stalker, both bodies now a knife-edged pile taller than a person.

Aloy said, “Well that’s just great.”

“We’ll find another strider.” Sylens walked toward her, apparently unconcerned, as she pulled her spear back out of the wreck. “We’ll get ahead of the storm.”

Clouds were piling on the horizon. Aloy frowned at the storm, frustrated by both the weather and her own inability to have noticed it during the fight. The Sun - the Carja’s precious Sun, another non-god among a desert crowded with machines - had turned its face. Would have been convenient for the Sun-Ring to be overcast when Helis had tried to sacrifice her to a beast.

She rubbed at the thin white scar across her neck. It was that which made her hesitate, more than the storm. “No. We’ll wait it out and follow. Catch them while they’re recovering, if the storm moves east. That pile will work as a windbreak.” She waved at the stalker that had died as it lunged over the strider.

“The armies aren't going to be moving in this weather either,” he said, as if it had been his idea.

“There could be more stalkers here.”

“And they won’t care if we stay still. Or do you think that we can’t take care of them too?”

We. Had he fought? “Okay. Okay, we can do this.”

We. She approached the strider’s side, dug through metal shards. Her travel pack was wedged between the two machines, cut by the angled edges she had seen the Cauldrons so carefully sculpt. Every we had felt disingenuous when she had been underneath Sunfall, when she had been doing the running while he talked. There had been promises in his hints, before, and those promises had driven her until she simplified them, distinguished her fight from his voice. She would find her mother, but that was her fight alone. She had begun to think of his dependency as something else.

And now - he had said he’d run two striders into the ground to get here. Typical Sylens - even more than typical to sound so wounded over work he had only watched.

She pulled her pack from between the machines. Her blanket unfolded easily, but the bowls and tines inside were broken, and the rope fraying.

Aloy fumed. Already, she could hardly see the windbreak through the fog and rain. The storm might not come over the mountains. The plan might not work. She might be too late into the mountain, too late to find Varl and Teersa and -

Sylens had begun to build a lean-to from ridge-wood and metal, up against the stalker’s side. There was something grim about cannibalizing the strider while its companion stood, head down in the wind.

“My supplies are broken,” Aloy said.

“Does it matter? We’ll sleep here for a few hours, until the storm lets up.”

If they had kept going she would have had to bring him along with her on the one remaining strider, closer than the bunks in the proving-house. “Fine,” she muttered.

She propped more metal plates up while he pulled his own supplies from his pack. The wind and the rain arrived at about the same time, spooking the strider enough that it shouldered Sylens. Aloy hid a smile while she shoved her bedroll into the shelter.

By the time he ducked into the lean-to, pulling the strider behind him as a cantankerous third wall, Aloy had rolled herself in her blanket and propped her chin on her hands. It felt better to lay with her face toward the door, her legs underneath her so that she knew she could stand up if she needed. She had stowed her spear beside her, close enough that she could feel it against her shoulder.

Sylens could hardly fit into the space that was left; he thumped onto the ground with his back to her and begun shifting at strider guts, trying to make more room. Aloy had filled in the lean-to quickly but effectively, and his movements were only giving the rain more paths to run down. He pulled the blanket in after him in silent irritation while the wind started to whip the trees, adding its sound to the rushing rain. More movement while he laboriously unhooked the metal band from around his shoulders and Aloy tried to shut out the sound.

By the time he settled down he sighed like a bellows, and Aloy squeezed her eyes shut. “I didn’t cause the weather,” she said.

“I never said you did.”

“You’re complaining.”

Another sigh. “A few days with my voice in your ear and you know how complaining sounds?”

“It doesn’t take scanning to figure that out.”

The storm made it abundantly clear which parts of the lean-to’s hasty construction had been most effective. Cold wind hit the top of her head, and Sylens shifted away from the rivulets now running in determined streams down the side of Aloy’s strider. His tension was stressing her out, so she tugged on the back of his shirt to give quiet permission for him to move further from the wreckage.

Instead of simply shifting over he turned, fixing her with a tired stare for a moment before shutting his eyes, realizing the look had gone on too long. He had apologized to her for saying that her mother was a machine. He had apologized for that single statement out of so many. She had to believe that she had a family to find, but was doubting more and more that she could even guess what that family would look like.

The wires woven into his skin glowed pale green in the dark. Aloy usually wrapped her Focus in a bundle nearby while she slept, close enough to wake her with its sound but not drive her to distraction with the light or the hard metal. The Focus Sylens had given her was as comfortable in her hand as the one Helis had crushed.

She had never been in love, she had told Elida. Certainly never like that, in an all-consuming way in which she felt she couldn’t live without another person. She had swam a river for Elida - did that mean she loved as strongly as Elida did? Maybe Aloy had felt that much loyalty to Rost, but he had been dead by the time she had known it.

If she moved toward Sylens only slightly, she could kiss him. The blankets were beginning to warm, and his skin would be warmer; he would open his mouth against hers and there would be a bit of hatred in the kiss. There would be another reckoning, another negotiation, a silent decision about which of them would get what they wanted in this as in everything else. Were the cords cool or warm where they pierced his face?

Instead, she touched the latticework on his arm. He opened his eyes to give her a look of lazy disapproval.

She muttered, “Were you Banuk?”

“What made you think that?”

The cords were cool and his skin was warm. She allowed herself a moment of satisfaction at having been right. “Your disdain for their religious traditions seemed particularly bitter.”

“It isn’t a religion. More of a … philosophy.”

Did her eyes look so tired? “The Banuk I saw were taming machines with some kind of transmitter.”

“It is different in Ban-Ur.”

“So you are Banuk!”

“Were. You said it right before. I would think you could do it again.”

Aloy scoffed. This close, he closed his eyes and grimaced against her blown breath. It just made the urge to laugh stronger.

“Quiet. There are already machines out there. Do you want to draw more?”

Aloy buried her face in the inner lining of her bedroll. She had scraped and sewn the furs herself, and the thick smell brought memories of nights from the Sacred Land to the burning desert. Underneath it now was the smell of Sylens’ sweat and machine oil.

He put an arm around her and drew her closer. “Shh.” The tone was more impatient than cajoling.

With her face covered she was quiet already, so she reached over Sylens to pull his heavy blanket over his face. The stitching felt Banuk, too. He thought he was so mysterious, but wore the marks of his home as surely as she did. He let out an exasperated breath against her hair.

“I’m not the one who glows,” Aloy whispered.

“It’s …” he stopped.

“Banuk tradition you don’t want to talk about?” Now the air under the blankets was getting close and humid, almost too hot. She would have to stay where she was if she didn’t want to admit defeat.

“I’m going to touch you,” he said.

Her mind went very quiet, catching on the fact that they were already touching. He had asked permission, though. Quietly she gave it.

He tangled his right hand in her collar, fumbling in the cloth for the beads she wore. When he drew the necklace into the blue-green light his fingers brushed her mouth. “These are made of clay. The cords I wear are made of Watcher filaments, what the Banuk call the sinew. Both are common and aren’t toxic.”  

“I’m going to touch you,” she said.

He didn’t answer.

When she ran her fingers over the top of his head he closed his eyes, his expression slackening. The cords above his ear were tighter against his skin than the ones on his face, and had taken some of the warmth of the blanket. He wasn’t wearing his Focus either, she realized suddenly, and felt more exposed than she had when she had settled down. Her fingertips brushed the warm skin at the top of his ear, and the next sigh into her hair was gentler.

“Thank you for helping me find Elizabet’s office,” she whispered. “And for breaking into the Sun-Ring.”

“We’ll see if it leads us to any greater knowledge.” His voice was softer when he talked about concepts, about pure information. It was difficult for him to see people as more than part of the landscape, Aloy thought, and Sylens pressed his face against the matted and braided hair over her ear, and did not sigh again.

They had both been right about the duration of the storm. The wind wore itself out on the trees, and what was left of the rainwater started to drop off the living strider’s flanks as it stamped in front of the lean-to. Aloy drowsed, damp but not cold. Sylens, silent, nudged her knees.

Aloy shoved his shoulder. Did he wake up like this wherever he lived, in whatever workshop or Focus-strewn forge? Did he wake up alone?

Probably, seeing as he pushed blankets out of the way gracelessly and lurched outside without barely opening his eyes. The tame strider had moved a body-length away, snuffling at the grass. Aloy moved to its head and checked the blue tubing. Still secure, still tame enough to ride. Sylens could take this one to wherever he had wanted to go.

Aloy needed to reach the Nora.

She heard footsteps near the lean-to, but didn’t look up as she packed her blanket and the metal shards and secured the Focus next to her ear. She marched east, and as far as she knew, he didn’t follow.

#

Weeks later in Meridian she would think of this and call out to him before dismissing him as another ghost. The Focus he had given her lay like a chip of crystal on the table in Olin’s apartment. If Sylens had answered, what would he say? Pragmatic advice for the battle? He had already given whatever stark encouragement he could muster. Maybe he would sit on the edge of the bed and she would kiss him, with more surety and less desperation than she had imagined. Maybe she would die tomorrow, and there would be no ghosts again.