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“Are you heading out?”
The voice stops her in her tracks, walking past the doorway of the former game room. The room Kotallo had been frequenting lately. She turns towards the rumble of his voice and finds him standing in front of the table that had the Tenakth lands displayed. His attention, however, is towards her.
“I’m headed back to the Grove,” Aloy explains, gesturing towards the Western door. She has a pack full of black boxes to hand off to Untalla, and if she heads out now she’ll make it past the harshest of the desert clan’s terrain before nightfall.
Kotallo takes a step forward, but hesitates. An odd behavior, coming from the Tenakth. He usually seemed so surefooted, so determined and set in his mission.
“Was there something you need?” Aloy supplies. The base takes more than an adjustment to warm up to. She knows she has far better sleep on a bedroll under the stars than she does with the soft glow of corrupted holo projections. From what she has seen from the sky clan, she guesses that Kotollo can’t be too dissimilar.
“Have you,” Kotallo begins, looking down at his feet before seemingly deciding on something. “Have you seen your reflection lately?” His voice holds a kind of mirth that causes her to tilt her head in confusion. Regardless, she activates her focus and calls up an image of her face.
She had gotten her face painted in Scalding Spear, not too long ago. She’d been warned more than once that a bare face is more likely to be shot on sight, before anyone would care to notice her blood red hair. It had lasted well through the sandy days, but with the snow and water, the sweat and grit of travel, it had dripped and smudged. She also sports a dark purple bruising around her mouth, no doubt left from the medicinal berries she carried with her on her journeys.
Aloy takes a fingernail and lightly scratches along her cheekbone, hoping to improve the distorted patterning, but only succeeds in smudging the lines further. She curses under her breath as she wipes the paint off on her clothes.
“I could fix it, if you wish.”
Aloy had practically forgotten Kotallo, standing not three feet away. His own face paint unmarred, although not as precise as the painters she had encountered in the villages. She nods, and his lip twinges in a smile.
“Follow me.”
Aloy tails Kotallo as he heads towards his sleeping quarters, decorated sparsely but enough to determine it of his own. She takes a seat on one of the chairs and he begins readying the paints, handing her a cloth to wipe off what she currently has on.
There’s little ceremony about it before he begins. With a solid grip on her chin, Kotallo maneuvers her head where he needs, before picking up the brush to begin. The two sit in silence. Not far away Aloy can hear the music coming from Erend’s focus, the idle chatter of Varl and Zoe. But here it’s quiet. Neither of them need to fill the silence with talk, and she finds herself feeling grateful for the reprieve.
Kotallo presses his index finger into her jawline, prompting her to tilt it, and she acquiesces. She glances in his direction, meeting a seemingly blank, concentrated stare as he switches back to the brush.
She’s not used to this. Being touched, that is. It has never conveyed much for her. Never comforted or grounded her, nor brought fear or repulsion. Growing up isolated simply meant that there hadn’t been exposure to things like that. Even Rost was delicate in his affection, sparse in his touches. His love was shown in protection, in the very choices he had made to keep Aloy safe until he could no longer do so.
Aloy can see that feeling somehow echoes in Kotallo. There was a similarity, a parity, in the way the other sky clan members had regarded Kotallo at The Bulwark. A way that he holds himself, larger than life but still always out of arm’s reach. The way he plucked that cannon from her grip without even a brush of skin. No, he had not known comfort in touch either.
Kotallo pauses to mix a new color, stepping away from her side for a moment.
“Why do the Tenakth paint their faces?” Aloy asks. “Even the children. I haven’t met anyone without it.”
“The painting provides a connection between all Tenakth.” Kotallo explains, his eyes not diverting from the task at hand. “While our tattoos show our victories, our conquests, the paint shows that we are only as strong as our combined might. As the Ten are remembered as one, so are the Tenakth.”
Aloy considers the reply as she watches Kotallo work. Tradition had always been a tough subject for Aloy. After all, tradition had left her abandoned and shunned for most of her life, only to be turned back around and regarded as a hero after her worth was determined. In a culture that idolizes success, she can only see the similarities. After all, wasn’t he also damned by his own traditions? Left an outcast of his own tribe, his value hanging in the balance by his injury? Why would he care of tradition, when it’s been used against them time and time again?
Kotallo returns to her side, and Aloy refocuses. Perhaps she’s projecting. Besides, doesn’t she don her Nora garb every time she enters a new settlement? Does she not carry tokens of the people that had left her and taken her for granted? Perhaps it’s not so easy, to reject the only familiarity among their journeys. Maybe it’s why she’s found her companions bringing pieces of themselves into the base. A sense of knowing, among the unknown.
Aloy blinks back into focus, to the man in front of her, still diligently painting her face. He seems unbothered by her dissociation, just as content to work in silence than to pry into her mind, unlike so many others. Somehow, through this distance, she feels oddly connected. A mutual understanding of sorts.
“All done.” Kotallo comments with one last brushstroke. “Feel free to ask, should you need my services. It’s easier to do it on another than on yourself.” Aloy smiles in gratitude.
“Thanks, Kotallo.” Aloy replies. She ducks her head a little, still trying to sift through the thoughts that had piled up in the moment. Her hair shifts forwards, a few strands sticking to the undried paint, and she moves to brush it away.
A firm grip snaps to her hand. Moves it up and away from her face. Aloy’s gaze connects with his. Her heartbeat breaks into a sprint, her pulse pounding where Kotallo’s thumb presses into the middle of her palm. The grip softens just as quickly as it came, but he doesn’t let go, not yet.
There’s something different here. A quickening of the heart, bright, like a red light flashing in their periphery, a machine about to strike. But there’s no danger. No threat, despite her body’s reaction. This is unknown territory, no tradition to rely on. And perhaps that’s what’s making her (and no doubt his, he looks like he’s facing down another tremortusk) hackles raise.
Kotallo lets go of her hand. Cautiously he shifts to pull the few strands from her face, leaving the paint undisturbed. Aloy is stuck frozen, her hand still in the air, just as he had left it, until he has distanced himself, and she feels her body relax.
It’s like looking in a mirror, the both of them. Aloy watches the somewhat open, exposed expression on Kotallo’s face tucked away, hidden once again behind an indeterminate face. She knows she’s doing the same, knows that she slipped up.
“I should go,” Aloy stands, Kotallo mirroring her action. He hums in agreement, his eyes searching for something. Something Aloy can’t quite put her finger on. “I’ll check back in when I return,” she adds.
“I look forward to it,” Kotallo replies. His voice is a little awkward, a little stunted, and when she smiles it stretches the skin on her face oddly. She gives him one last nod and turns to leave, a churning in her stomach and a warmth in her face that threatens to melt the newly applied paint.