From the desk of Kodan, Chronicler of Metru Nui

The following is a series of excerpts from a journal recovered from the Tren Krom Peninsula. Written by a Bo-Matoran named Keddik, it is believed that the Toa of Air mentioned in many of the journal’s final entries is Toa Nidhiki, Metru Nui’s Toa of Air. The journal was found in a partially-collapsed cavern, alongside evidence of former habitation. The area appears to have been deserted quickly. None of Keddik’s other personal effects were able to be located. The journal seems to be around seven to ten years old. For brevity, sections of the journal have been omitted. The original copy will be retained at the Wall of History for recordkeeping purposes.

Day 571

Today, the Makuta visited us again.

The last time she was here, she fought off a horrific beast. The sight hasn’t left my mind. That sickly pink form, oozing as its halves slid apart, split by the Makuta’s vicious battleaxe. The Mistress of the Acid Falls, they call her, and for good reason. It was almost elegant. I watched her sling the great fleshy lumps into the falls, which hissed and blackened as they dissolved under the flow.

Makuta visited us today for a different reason. Her appearance cast a deadly pall on the village - work seemed to halt, and all eyes were trained on her… and me. She had come with a proposition.

She knew that there were more beasts that could threaten my village and our operation. She was also careful to point out that as the village leader, it is my business to know the comings and goings of the area around the acid falls. So, in return for her protection, I would furnish Makuta with regular and detailed reports on the state of the area, and turn in any Matoran who would oppose her. With so many looking to me to keep the village safe, it was impossible to refuse.

Satisfied, she flew from the cavern like some sort of sick insect. I shuddered at the sight. She left a trail of black smoke that hung in the air.

Later the same day, I saw something truly out of the ordinary. Here, where the general consensus is that the Great Spirit has forsaken us… a Toa? Couldn’t be. And I needn’t call her back this soon on what is only an unsubstantiated sighting. Nevertheless, there will be more guards near the entrance tonight.

Day 575

This morning, a Matoran came to tell me about a party who would endeavor to leave the Peninsula. At first, I was utterly relieved. Finally, I could escape this wretched, stinking spit of land. But the relief was soured by a pit in my stomach when I thought of my village. Here is where I had to stay - where we all had to stay.

I asked her to show me the boat. It was a small, hastily-assembled craft, with space for about six Matoran. Good Ga-Matoran craftsmanship went into it, and its hull was shored up by Fe-Matoran steel, perfect for the jagged, rocky shores of the Peninsula. It was the best these Matoran could do, but it would get the job done.

I feigned hearing one of the monstrous Rahi, and ushered the Ga-Matoran back to the village. Once she was out of sight, I drew Makuta’s sigil on the beach’s sand and crushed a lightstone in my palm, scattering its dust into the shallow lines I carved. I lit a flame in its center, which caught on the lightstone shards and erupted into a low green flame. The shadows suddenly grew thick around me, and the Makuta appeared so abruptly I was startled. She visibly fumed as I explained the escapees’ plan.

That evening, I told the Ga-Matoran I could not accompany her away from the Peninsula. “It’s my duty to our village,” I had said, “but I will send more along when I can.”

I watched from afar as she, the Fe-Matoran, two Po-Matoran, and a Ce-Matoran boarded the small craft and embarked. They made it about two bio from the shore when a black mass burst from beneath the waves, capsizing the boat. I watched the Matoran of Water and Matoran of Psionics swim for their lives as the Makuta lifted the Fe-Matoran. The two Po-Matoran did not resurface. I could not bear to watch what she did next.

A quiet head count later that night revealed to me that none returned.

I’m faced with the possibility that this is my fault. Is it right to trade their lives like this? It must be. A whole village for the cost of a few… traitors? It’s a dereliction of Duty, not to mention Unity. But I still have reservations…

It’s nothing. It had to be done.

Day 577

I saw the Toa again today, skulking around near the village. I know him to be a Toa for certain, a Toa of Air wearing what seems to be a Mask of Stealth. He was stalking a Rahi wearing an infected Kanohi. I watched him kill and feed on it mercilessly. He seems to be as desperate as we are.

I’m weighing my options. Do I contact Makuta again? Do I bring the Toa into our fold? This would be a prize indeed for the Makuta, but am I willing to give up a Toa for… for what?

My villagers are starving. Some have gone a very long time without food, but the work must continue. If I can get this Toa into the village, he can help us gather supplies, and sustenance. But, what would I get from the Makuta for turning him in?

I will have to sleep on it tonight, I think.

Day 578

This morning, I contacted Makuta, and informed her of a Toa in the area. She was characteristically severe. My orders are to keep an eye on him, so keep an eye I shall. In fact, as I write, I’m preparing to hunt the Toa. At the right moment, I will strike from the shadows and bring him to our village. I will update this entry when I return.

My plan was rebuffed. The Toa caught me as I sprang upon him, and demanded to know my intent. Apparently, I hadn’t been the best at remaining unheard.

I told him my name, and my position as leader of Ul-Koro. He only offered me what I already knew: his element. Despite my prodding, he wouldn’t tell me his name. He did agree to accompany me back to the village, though.

My people were awed by his physique and powers. The Toa grinned with pride as they begged him to demonstrate his elemental abilities again and again. I could feel a sliver of hope growing among them.

That only makes this that much harder.

Day 580

I went with the Toa on a hunt today. We moved through the treetops, searching for bird Rahi to bring back to the village and eat. Sure enough, I pointed out a nest to the Toa, and we moved in.

The four Gukko in the nest sprang into the air as we approached. I leapt and grabbed onto the tail of the smallest as they took off. The Toa followed quickly, lifting himself on a column of air.

Clinging onto the Rahi for dear life, I braced to feel the rush of the wind against my mask, prepared to hold my breath as the bird reached top speed. However, no such thing happened. In fact, I pried my eyes open to see the Gukko struggling to keep its speed up, its three brethren vanishing over the canopy ahead. Its chest heaved as it laboriously breathed.

Suddenly, the Gukko dropped from the air. I braced myself and gripped the bird’s back tightly. The Rahi and I fell, landing on branch after branch, before hitting the ground hard. I stood and dusted myself off as the Toa floated down on a gust of wind.

The Gukko was clearly ill. Its eyes were dull, and its breathing was loud and ragged. The Toa paid it no mind as he killed it.

“This isn’t a place for mercy,” he told me. “It’s eat or be eaten here.”

Sure enough, a creature came along to turn the two of us from eaters to eaten. One of the gelatinous horrors of the Peninsula crashed through the trees, nearly crushing the Toa of Air with a falling log. In an instant, the Toa dashed off, leaving the Gukko’s corpse. I was stranded.

I yelled out for his help as I dragged the Rahi’s body, but I couldn’t even hear myself scream over the sound of the creature’s roars. A pink tentacle slammed me onto my back.

All of a sudden, the clearing went quiet. I looked up, and saw the Toa atop the creature’s back, scythe buried in its brain. He dragged it carelessly from the gooey flesh of the monster, stepped off of its back, and dispassionately helped me to my feet.

“Sorry,” he muttered tersely as he left me to drag the Gukko home.

Day 583

The Toa has been living outside the village ever since I brought him here. I have to pray to whichever legend will listen that he’s still in his hut when I go to see him in the morning. Mata Nui? No. Artakha? Maybe. Karzahni? I can’t imagine a place worse than this.

Our village has been prospering since I introduced the Toa. He has been keeping us alive. I haven’t had much of a chance to express my gratitude, though. The Toa keeps us at arm’s length, doing what he must and never more. That might be a good thing. I don’t want to be too attached when the time comes for Makuta to return.

Today, I was at my post by the acid falls. It was my turn to collect the burning green liquid that poured over the cliffs and bring it to the bottling station. A couple weeks back, our village was shaken when one of our number went missing as he worked.

Lost in thought as I was, I barely had time to react as I took a false step, the cliffside crumbling away beneath my foot.

The corrosive acid falls had carved a series of holes in the ground by their path, forming a system of caves, cliffs, and bridges. It was near the top that the acid bottling station was located, and it was a short walk to push the collector along the cliff to the falls. As I slipped, I grabbed onto the collector, tipping the vat over and pouring its contents onto the acid-logged dirt. Narrowly avoiding burning myself, I swung my body back as the acid fell into the chasm.

My hand was losing its purchase. I was certain that I was about to be the next victim of the falls.

In an instant, I was swept from the cliff’s edge, winded by a powerful force. It was our resident Toa of Air, who had seen my plight and rescued me at the last moment. We landed on an adjacent cliff. I watched the collector plummet from the cliffside, slam loudly into a bluff, crumpling, and finally careen into the pool of acid at the base of the falls.

“It’s just a tool,” the Toa commented. “It can be replaced.” It seemed like he was trying to comfort me.

I had better make arrangements for another collector to be sent to the village.

Day 585

The Toa still won’t tell me his name. Today, I stood firmly at the door to his hut and demanded he tell me his name, by order of Keddik, leader of Ul-Koro. He simply laughed, saying a Matoran held no sway over him. He pushed past me to leave, grabbing his scythe as he did.

Despite my warnings that today would not be a safe day to hunt, he entered the wilderness, and I found myself tailing him. The guards had spotted wild Rahkshi in the woods last night, and I knew that even one had the potential to match a Toa.

We did see a Rahkshi, sure enough - a Rahkshi of Plant Control, one of the worst breeds one could expect around here. The Toa kept us out of sight. I did my best to camouflage my blue-and-green armor amidst the foliage, but he had the power of a Mask of Stealth at his disposal. Cloaked, we watched a Muaka spring from the trees to consume the Rahkshi, eager for its favorite food.

The wilderness suddenly came to life, branches reaching out to ensnare the Muaka and constrict it. The Toa’s hand over my mouth kept me from screaming in terror as thorned vines tore into the cat-Rahi. Once the Muaka ceased breathing, the Toa of Air picked up a small stone and tossed it in the opposite direction of the village, keeping it aloft for a time on a wind gust before it audibly dropped to the ground. The Rahkshi turned its head in the direction of the sound and stalked into the treeline, on the hunt for its source.

I turned, and saw the Toa shaking in fear. When I asked, he pretended not to know what I was talking about.

Day 589

The Toa has had a single mind about the Rahkshi for the past few days. He says it’s unsafe to let it freely roam the Peninsula. I’ve tried to tell him that these things are normal, but he won’t hear it. I can’t tell if he is still afraid, or if he has begun to genuinely care about our safety. He left this morning, trying to track it. I would have followed if not for the telepathic contact I received from Makuta. She was angry.

She demanded to know about the status of the Toa. Turns out, in the past couple weeks, I had forgotten to keep her updated. Not that it mattered, because she had been probing my brain crystal. She didn’t like what she saw. I tried to tell her that she could come do what she wished with the Toa, but she wouldn’t direct her fury away from me. I stopped hearing her voice in my head a few moments ago and I’ve been writing hastily since. Now, I must go alert the village guards and have the gate closed. Makuta will be here soon and we are in danger.

I can only hope that the Toa will escape her wrath.

From the desk of Kodan, Chronicler of Metru Nui

This journal seems troubling - if it truly describes our Toa Nidhiki. I have heard stories of the horrors of the Tren Krom Peninsula, but never how they affected those who live there. The wanton killing and cold cowardice is unbecoming of a Toa. In addition, this Keddik’s moral character is complicated, to say the least. And it is nothing if not interesting how he justifies his decisions. I suppose I can say I’ve learned about life on the Peninsula, at least.

From the desk of Kodan, Chronicler of Metru Nui

This prose is a dramatic reconstruction of the fall of the Toa Fortress, crafted from various historical archives and personal testimonies, including those from Toa Lhikan himself. While certain details and embellishments are speculative, the intent of this document is to provide an accurate tale of what happened on Tumua Island, nearly 3000 years before he became a protector - a Mangai, of the City of Legends.

Before anyone ever stepped foot on Tumua Island, it already had the potential to become a perfect strategic location for a military base. It sat a roughly equal distance from the Northern Continent, the Southern Continent, and Xia, but was also remote enough that few knew of its existence. When the Toa found it, they were surprised that such a strategic location hadn’t already been settled by Dark Hunters or another significant faction. Towering icebergs surrounded Tumua Island in the sea, preventing most coastal access, and with its geography defined by sharp crags, sheer cliffs, and an imposing mountain in the center, there was little need for additional defenses.

The Toa who discovered and named Tumua Island many generations ago wasted no time building one of the greatest strongholds that the world had ever seen. Toa of Stone and Iron worked together to raise and shape its walls, while Toa of Earth used their power to reform the peak of the mountain into a solid foundation. The construction took half a century to complete, but the investment was worth every effort put into it. In the end, it became the single most important location to Toa from all over for centuries. Young Toa traveled here to learn skills and wisdom from veteran warriors, and several independent teams used it as a hub for their missions across the seas. It also protected items of great importance in an inner sanctum, some of which held enough power to change the course of history if they fell into the wrong hands, or if their existence was ever made public.

Today, however, the Fortress would become just another piece of history. The icebergs surrounding the island were not natural formations. They contained hibernating Frostelus, a particularly destructive breed of Rahi beast. The eight-limbed monstrosities would sleep in their frozen shelters for eons at a time, and upon waking, they would make certain to exterminate any intruders on their territory. Now that they were awake, the Fortress would soon be no more.

Toa Aidau, Master of Ice, hero of Stelt, and leader of the Toa Tumua, learned the hard way about the might of the Frostelus. He had centuries of training and experience against enemies that had their own war doctrines and combat strategies. He knew how to counter dozens of fighting styles from cultures all around the world, as well as the brute strength of Rahi beasts that had gone berserk. The Frostelus, however, were poised with a disturbing blend of mindless, unpredictable violence and surprising cunning. In one skirmish, they would seemingly act like an organized unit, and then a moment later they would break formation and run wild.

Aidau had seen far too many of his brothers and sisters die today. He knew the fortress could not be saved. Instead, he focused his efforts on saving the precious items held within the Heart of the Fortress, an inner sanctum of utmost security. The Makoki Stone, a stone-carved dossier containing sensitive details about the Brotherhood of Makuta, could not be lost. If the Brotherhood found out that the Toa were suspicious of them… Aidau shuddered. His heartlight flashed rapidly as he ran through the maze-like corridors and chambers, making his way deeper and deeper towards the sanctum. The sounds of battle had become faint, and the fact he couldn’t hear the screams of his brothers and sisters anymore brought him a pang of despised relief.

He entered the next chamber, which served as a storage hall, with his Cryo Scythe gripped tightly in his hands. On the far side of the room, a lone Frostelus scrounged through the crates of food and basic supplies, hoping to find a meal. As expected of a Rahi beast, no effort was made to hide its ransack as it scattered packaging and shelves across the room. Aidau wasn't sure why it was so focused on vandalism, since it wasn't eating any of the perfectly good food. The important thing was that it was thoroughly distracted.

Standing at almost two bio in height, Frotelus were not only extremely physically imposing, but also armed with twin natural Rhotuka spinner launchers. Their spinners had a myriad of powers, depending on the individual, each just as destructive as the next. The Rhotuka of one Frostelus might create a basic yet devastating explosion, while another might turn targets inside out. They couldn’t control the elements, they couldn’t use Kanohi masks, and they certainly had no real advanced technology or strategy like the Toa did, but it hardly mattered. What they lacked in tactical finesse they made up in raw, primal, and sinister brutality.

Aidau readied his scythe, charging it with enough elemental energy to take out the Frostelus in a single blow. The beast noticed the Toa’s presence and began to turn, but it was far too late. Aidau had already launched a beam of pure cold directly at its center mass, hoping to freeze it solid. The Frostelus did its best to dodge, but its entire right set of limbs were caught in the blast. As a biomechanical being, its protometallic components didn’t receive much harm, but the protorganic components were completely neutralized. Frostbite set in immediately, the exposed muscles turning purplish-black, and caused the Rahi beast unfathomable pain. It howled out in anguish, and Aidau struck again, directly with his scythe this time. He swept at the Frostelus’ legs with his blade, knocking it off its feet and freezing the monster’s lower half in the same strike. As it fell, it swept at Aidau with its un-frozen arms. It caught Aidau with a powerful blow to his flank. It wasn’t strong enough to knock the Toa out, but the beast’s claw left three long gashes in his armor, tearing through the muscle tissue below. Adrenaline pumped through Aidau’s body, so he barely even felt the pain, but he knew that the injury would need medical attention soon.

The Frostelus was on the ground, writhing in pain, but still conscious enough to begin charging its Rhotuka Spinners. Aidau had no intention of giving the beast a chance to recover, so he gripped his scythe in both hands, raised it over his head, and slammed the broad side of his weapon right into the Frostelus’ chest, sealing the entire beast in a six-inch coating of solid ice. For now, anyway. Unless Aidau continuously maintained it, the ice would soon thaw and become brittle enough for the Frostelus to smash out of; and as Aidau had very recently learned, the only thing worse than an angry Frostelus is an angry Frostelus with a personal vendetta.

Aidau moved on, approaching his destination with a slight limp. That last fight drained him more than he’d ever admit. The hit he had taken to his side shouldn't have hurt as much as it did. Something had to be wrong, he thought. It couldn’t be his age; Aidau still felt like he was in his prime. Even if he was a little older than the average Toa, his experience and skill more than made up for any potential physical decline. Surely, that Frostelus was stronger than average, Aidau told himself. He pushed those thoughts of doubt aside and carried on to the next chamber. His target inside the Heart of the Fortress was only a little further away.

The next few minutes were a blur for Aidau. One moment, he was entering another mundane storage chamber. The next, he was ambushed by a pair of Frostelus that struck relentlessly with such speed and force, that the Toa couldn’t concentrate enough to summon his power to fight back. Before he could even understand what was happening, he had been disarmed, pummeled, thrown through two stone walls, and out of the fortress into the cold daylight. Twin moons shone down on him as he flew through the air and over the sheer cliff that surrounded the fortress. As Aidau fell, his mind slowly began to process what had happened. How did he get taken by surprise so easily? How did two Frostelus get this deep into the Fortress? What had stopped him from simply creating a protective hardlight barrier with his Mask of Projection, or a mere wall of ice? How did the Frostelus rip his weapons out of his hands so effortlessly?

What went wrong? What did I do wrong?

Aidau knew that nothing but certain death awaited him in mere seconds as he plummeted through the cold air. With the last of his strength, he closed his eyes and called on his power to create a round cushion of snow around him, while simultaneously using his Kanohi to create a protective sphere around the snow. Even with his makeshift snow globe, only by the will of Mata Nui would he survive. Without any way of knowing how much longer he had until impact, his mind turned towards his team. Had any of them survived? What about the trainees? Aidau’s thoughts were interrupted as he plowed into the side of the mountain. His hard-light shell shattered immediately, and the snow cushion disintegrated just as fast. He hit the rocks hard, and continued to tumble down the side of the mountain, before finally coming to a stop on some level ground with a heavy thud.

Broken physically and mentally, Aidau stared up at the cloudless, serene sky. A faint, twisted smile formed behind his mask as he recognized the irony of such a tragedy happening during such a perfect night. The sounds of the fortress being demolished were faint, or perhaps Aidau’s sense of hearing was failing. The Toa wondered what could have happened if they had stronger firepower on their side, in addition to better leadership. Aidau knew this was his fault. What if Toa Dume had been here to protect the fortress? Aidau had never seen another Toa of Fire with such masterful control over his element. Surely the Fortress would have stood a better chance if Dume had been here…

Aidau let his eyes close. He remembered when he and Dume had fought side by side against the armies of the League of Six Kingdoms. Aidau had let himself get surrounded by enemies, and his icy blasts weren’t enough to drive that many foes away. Suddenly, a ring of fire appeared around the Toa, expanding outward and fending off the assailants. Aidau turned and saw Toa Dume standing beside him, armed with his warhammer, the massive weapon engulfed by flame.

“There’s nothing greater than watching them run!” Dume shouted, the only way his words would be heard in the heat of the battle. “Don’t hold back so much, brother! We don’t kill, but we can make them hurt, and lucky for us, fire and ice both burn.” “I owe you one, Dume,” Aidau said. “You’re right, I’m not taking advantage of my full power.”

With that, Aidau turned and spotted a heat-resistant enemy soldier trying to force her way through the blazing wall of fire that had been giving the Toa their brief respite. Aidau summoned his power, conjured a blunt-tipped javelin of ice in the palm of his hand, and hurled it at the attacker as soon as she managed to step through the flames. It caught her in the shoulder and she was knocked back through the fire wall landing on her back.

Aidau and Dume smiled and bumped fists.

“After all,” Aidau said, “What’s the point of being a hero if you’re not going to use everything Mata Nui gave you?” “That’s the idea,” Dume agreed, before he extinguished the flames and turned to face the rest of the army..

[Chronicler’s Note: Aidau and Dume, along with the other members of their team, went on to win a decisive battle against the Barraki’s army that day.]

Aidau would give almost anything to have those years back, fighting alongside Toa Dume. Saving Matoran, defeating darkness. He remembered reuniting with Dume after parting ways as Toa so many years ago. It was a bitter memory, for Aidau never expected Dume to become a Turaga. Brief pleasantries were exchanged, but an argument soon sparked.

✦ ✦ ✦

“You betrayed everything you taught me!” the Toa of Ice exploded. “Look at you! You have reduced yourself to a weakling who can barely light a torch! How are you supposed to fight armies now? How are you supposed to save anyone? How are you supposed to protect the Matoran or your duty to Mata Nui?”
“We’ve both fulfilled our destinies, brother!” Dume shot back. “Our duties become whatever we make them after that. How can you still wish to fight when you can do so much more than that? Through leadership, use your wisdom and knowledge to do so much more than what we could as Toa! As Turaga, we can build legacies that will outlive us! I have plans for Metru Nui that will change the entire future of our universe.”
“So that’s it, then,” Aidau said softly, his tone betraying his rage. “You just desire a different kind of power. You’re so afraid of dying you became a ruler instead of a hero. I cannot believe I ever respected such a coward.”
“You are a short-sighted fool, Aidau! It’s time for us to pass on the torch of heroism to new Toa, ones with fresh minds who see the world in a different way. You need to step back and think about what will happen when we’re gone!”
“New Toa?” Aidau couldn’t believe this. “Do you not remember all the mistakes we made when we were young? Why let history repeat itself? We were the greatest team this universe has ever known, and we were still in our prime when we split up! You were still in your prime! There wasn’t any emergency that forced you to give up your power, there wasn’t anything at all! You gave it up for nothing!”

✦ ✦ ✦

Aidau couldn’t remember the rest of his last conversation with Dume, and he preferred it that way. Criticisms turned to insults, and two friends walked away with nothing but resentment for each other.

“You were right, Dume,” He said softly to himself. “ You were always right.”

Aidau’s prime as a hero had long passed. He should have passed on his power centuries ago. He should have realized that he didn’t have to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders forever. Could have, should have, would have. It was too late for Aidau now. Even on his walk of stubbornness, did he still do well? Yes, he realized. Despite his shortcomings, Aidau did his best. The fall of the Toa Fortress wasn’t his fault. Nobody could have expected such an attack.

Suddenly, a shadow swooped over Aidau. He turned his head to see a young Toa flying in on a hoverboard: Lhikan, Toa of Fire. This was one of the Toa created by Dume when he gave up his power, only five years ago. Lhikan had a good heart, but Aidau was always reminded of Dume’s abandonment every time he saw the young new hero. Even now, Aidau still felt a tiny pang of bitterness. It should be Dume coming to save him instead.

“Toa Aidau, you’re hurt!” Lhikan shouted as he landed next to the Toa of Ice.
Such remarkable observational skills, Aidau thought to himself. “I know, Lhikan... Too hurt to save.” he said.
“Don’t say that,” Lhikan argued, pain in his voice. He wasn’t about to let his mentor and leader die like this. “I’ve got you!”
“No, you don’t. You don’t have a Mask of Healing,” Aidau said. “Save the Heart of the Fortress. You have to retrieve the Makoki Stone inside. It’s the most valuable thing inside the Sanctum. It can’t fall out of the Toa’s hands.”
“I don’t care about some carved rock! You’re worth more than anything in that fortress!”

Lhikan carefully tried to lift Aidau onto his hoverboard, unintentionally causing a rush of pain to blaze up Aidau’s side like lightning. He cried out. Lhikan gently set Aidau back down. His mind started racing as he considered how to safely move his leader.

“I’m not worth more than your future, Lhikan! Leave me behind,” Aidau said, his voice breaking. “That is an order from your commander.”
Lhikan stared down at Aidau. “I won't leave you, Toa Aidau.”

Looking up at Toa Lhikan, watching the young hero attempt to save him, Aidau noticed something he had never paid attention to before. Lhikan’s heartlight rapidly flashed a brilliant green hue, standing starkly out against the dark night sky— the same color as Dume’s had so long ago.

“Perhaps,” Aidau thought to himself, “Dume is here…or a part of him anyway. He clearly saw something in this one, something that I was too arrogant to see.”

Although it caused him incredible pain, Aidau reached up and grabbed Lhikan’s shoulder.

“Go, Lhikan! You will carry on my mission. Find the stone, and keep it safe. You are ready.” Aidau laid back down in the snow, breathing heavily. “As ready as I ever was.”

Lhikan stayed with Toa Aidau on the icy slopes of the Toa Fortress until the end, although nothing more was said between them. Rising to his feet, Toa Lhikan set his eyes toward the burning Toa Fortress, and the Makoki Stone that he knew lay inside.

✦ ✦ ✦

The young Toa of Fire struggled to keep his mind focused on the mission as he flew towards his destination, yet he somehow found the strength to put Aidau aside as he circled around the section of the Fortress that housed the inner vault, as he searched for a suitable entrance. The main door had been completely blocked by rubble, but he managed to find a new entrance by carefully shoving away the debris, which offered little challenge for the strength of a Toa. As soon as he was inside the vault, however, Lhikan knew something wasn’t right. The Frostelus were determined to destroy the Fortress and eradicate the Toa, but shouldn’t have had any interest whatsoever in the contents of the vault, yet the whole room had clearly been ransacked. In the center of the room stood a bare pedestal. The Makoki Stone was gone.

Lhikan was at a loss, but suddenly a noise caught his attention from a dark corner of the room. A pair of glowing red eyes disappeared into the shadows, through another crevice. Although he couldn't be sure, it seemed like they belonged to a face smiling with sinister smugness. Lhikan created a small flame in the palm of his hand and rushed forward, but it was too late. The shadows cast by his flame played games with his mind as they flickered. Whoever or whatever that was had gotten away, having vanished into the ruins of the Fortress.

Lhikan realized what this meant. He didn't know who, why, or how, but he finally knew what was really happening. The entire Frostelus assault was merely a diversion. The true goal had been the Makoki Stone. But what really was it? Who would go to such lengths to steal it? Before Lhikan could finish his thoughts, what little remained of the Fortress began to finally collapse.

Lhikan took to the skies once again, leaving the Fortress behind, enraged by his failures. He could have saved Aidau. He should have saved Aidau. Lhikan decided then and there as he flew towards the mainland that the lives of his brothers and sisters were always going to be more important than anything else. The vault wasn't the Heart of the Fortress. The true Heart was its people, and they were all gone. Lhikan vowed to never run away again, disappearing into the night sky.

From the desk of Kodan, Chronicler of Metru Nui:

The titles of Toa, and hero, are older than we sometimes care to remember. And like all things, they too are passed with time.

The following is a collection of texts detailing one of our greatest Toa, one of his greatest victories, and the day he chose to pass the strength of his generation to the next.

Prose will be interspersed to dramatically reconstruct that which was lost to history. Accuracy will be paramount regardless.

✦ ✦ ✦

Six armies came, six conquests reaped

And by hands of many, fruits won for few

But no army too vast, nor lord o’ war too great

Can be still Mata Nui, or His hands of fate.

For these hands clasp doers, demigods beholden,

Toa above all, duty and deed emboldened.

--Excerpt of The World in Twelve Hands: A Barraki Wars Compendium, by Waiata, Ko-Matoran of Artakha, Published Cycle 25.6K

✦ ✦ ✦

To Kaiwhi,

I hope this letter finds you well. I trust you’ve kept the shop together in my absence, and that the winter hasn’t gotten too harsh down there. The chimney better be in top shape. If soot builds up there again your lungs’ll be blacker than a Makuta’s heartlight by next week. And just think of the product! I work hard to get those pickaxes to shine like that. It’s what makes them look so sharp!

Sorry, sorry, getting carried away, I know. Yes, doing well myself. The war goes…well it could be going worse. We may yet have a way to outsmart these Steltian apes. Of course, having a Toa wouldn’t be remiss about now, but we just may be able to turn the tide ourselves. Even Mataku’s managed to keep his nerves together. You should see him! All those years keeping up our delivery guarantees really paid off for the little guy. He just has to pretend what he’s carrying isn’t a temperamental homemade bomb.

Wish us luck, old friend.

Sincerely,

Kamate

--Third of five correspondences between a Matoran detachment stationed at the Eastern Zakasian Strait, and Atu-Koro, a southwestern village of the Southern Continent, Cycle 19.8K

✦ ✦ ✦

Fear always gripped Mataku’s heartlight in a cloying embrace. It held, strong, sometimes stronger than whatever might the greatest Kanohi Pakari could bestow upon you. The grip of an acquaintance from formative years, too insecure to grow beyond him. He could fight it, resist it, but it always found its way back eventually. It marked him a coward, but that was no surprise. Mataku already knew he was that, a coward.

He saw it, he felt it, wherever he went, for whatever he did. When he pined for the easiest tasks in the village, when he refused to step a foot past the main gate after dark, when he wouldn’t risk even a finger on his shop’s own forge. The little Ta-Matoran held no illusions as to why he did these things, or why people looked at him with such contempt every time he did them. He was a coward, out for himself and his own hide. Plain and simple.

And that silent resignation held true even now, as his legs desperately tried to propel his aching body across a scarred battlefield far from home. The rest of his squad was dubiously absent, and best left out of mind.

Quakes shook the ground with increasing vigor.

Best left out of mind.

Fire seared crimson scars across the black sky as ordnance roared overhead.

Best left out of mind.

The unstained dagger at his belt rattled, singing for action.

Best left out of mind.

Rusted metal clanked, warriors grunted and cheered, somewhere, everywhere, behind a hill or a rock Mataku refused to narrow down.

Best left out of mind.

Better to run. Better to hide, if the opportunity ever presented itself. Even surrender had occurred to him once or twice, but at the very least that felt like a line even Mataku wouldn’t cross. Not that the aggressively and violently single-minded laborers of Stelt would ever give him the chance.

It was hard to believe the Matoran’s little makeshift rebellion had only kicked off a month ago. Tren Krom Peninsula notwithstanding, the Northern Continent was famous for being so much more lush and fertile than the regions Mataku knew of its southern counterpart, his arid home of Atu-Koro most of all. But you’d be forgiven for mistaking the contrary now. Weeks of thoughtless battle had razed the green to ashen boughs and bare wooden limbs. What settlements had stood here stood no more, now only as good as the stones that comprised them, so much less than the sum of their parts.

A putrid black smoke hung in the air now, the afterparty of relentless artillery. Its all-encompassing mass put the skylights to rest, casting the land in a brackish dusk without end. And as above, so below, choking Mataku’s lungs with soot and powder. Every breath burned as he tried to push his run further with another bound. But still he ran, for he knew nothing before him, nor fatigue waylaying him, could compare to what marched behind him.

Not long ago, six warlords dubbing themselves “Barraki” had taken one look upon the universe in all its expanse and potential, and saw it owed to them. A crown by birthright for their newly founded League of Six Kingdoms. They had no trouble swaying others to that cause, or their authority. It was an aimless time, far removed from the inspiring legends of the first Toa and their mythical deeds. Toa these days were mundane, cold, and decidedly detached from the Matoran. They’d come, they’d protect, they’d depart, without ceremony. Over and onward to the next damsel.

Something felt different now, as if more gnawed on the mind than ever before. Elusive swirls of thought and desire, fluttering pieces of sand that menial labor just couldn’t grasp, let alone make solid. There was a unanimous loss of deeper purpose to serving the Great Spirit’s will, and Matoran, Toa, and everyone beyond and between, didn’t know what to do about it. But the Barraki knew. Or at least, they knew how to exploit it. If anything, even their own ambition likely owed something to it. After all, what more reinvigorating purpose than to hold the whole world in the palm of your hand?

As for their legions, some wanted certainty, others safety, but many simply wanted an excuse to finally unshackle themselves: one freedom sacrificed for another. The underclasses of Stelt were one such many. Bulky by design, brutish by trade, they found little use for themselves on their island home beyond shouldering the businesses of their upper class. Often they’d even resort to their own gladiatorial fights for no other reason, no other stake, than to simply feel the euphoria of unadulterated strength against another. Fist to fist, foot to throat, a chance, however brief, to experience the primacy their might deserved. Beings after the Barraki Carapar’s own heart: elegantly simple, viciously primal, and easily malleable.

Now they formed the backbone of his army, the strongest of the six where pure brawn was concerned, a status that suited Carapar just fine. A legion of strongmen for the Barraki’s strongman. Serendipity at its finest. And when unruly Matoran came knocking on the League’s plans in the north, his seemed the perfect fit to efficiently stamp out the would-be threat. Looking across the blistered plains, Mataku couldn’t argue with the results.

A thought hit him again. Some fit of insanity had conscripted him into taking part in all this. Him. The Ta-Matoran too afraid to come within five feet of an open flame, and yet here he was, the soldier marching on behalf of the homeland, through a hell worthy of Karzahni himself. How did he let this happen?

Kamate, Mataku bitterly thought to himself all too readily.

Kamate had been the one to convince him this was a good idea. Kamate. The bolder one. The manager. The leader. And now the wannabe freedom fighter. Kamate. The Matoran that refused to sit by when the League’s armies rolled across the land. Theirs was a quiet village to the southwest, dwellings of craftsmen with barely enough material to sustain themselves, let alone some misbegotten war machine. They were well out of the way, well out of riches, and easily ignored. Such was Atu-Koro life. It was doubtful the Barraki would have ever set foot there, but it wasn’t a chance Kamate ever intended to take.

He went out of his way to instill that rationale in every villager, inside the koro and out, Mataku especially: wouldn’t it be more dangerous to sit home in waiting, not knowing when the enemy could come knocking at their door as they had for so many before?

“Would you really want that sword left hanging over your head?” he had said.

It was that visual in particular that finally swayed Mataku over. In some ways, beneath the nest of resentment and frustration, he respected him, even envied him. After all, in a world so resigned and bored with its duties, Kamate still held pride in everything he did. Running a forge? Light it the brightest for mios. Crafting tools? Craft them the sharpest for kios. All that said…that resentment and frustration still came from somewhere. Because he also hated him. Hated the way he always tried to push him, to assign him dangerous tasks about the village. Cool a red-hot blade, lure a rogue Kane-Ra bull into a pitfall, run deliveries through the middle of a raging storm. He was even the one to gift Mataku the dagger now strapped to his side, practically rusting from disuse, only action seen being the times Mataku almost fell upon it. Perhaps Kamate saw something braver in him, bold as he.

Or perhaps he’s got too much soot in his optics , Mataku silently dismissed.

Another quake rattled the earth, closer this time. To his immediate regret, Mataku chanced a look behind him. A nearby hill had erupted, rendered fragments of dirt and ash. The culprits, a pair of the usual Steltian brutes: beady red eyes of beaked white faces glaring down from a mass of navy blue armor, torsos lugging bulbous metal tanks masquerading as arms and fists. They saw him. Sized him. Targeted him. Another kill for their count.

The muscles in Mataku’s legs screamed as he tried to wrangle one last burst of speed from their sinew, darting back on course. The ground trembled in a steady heartbeat, no doubt the two bruisers attempting pursuit. It took all Mataku’s strength not to let his flashing heartlight leap out his chest in fright. He had to remind himself: Steltians were immensely powerful, but those mighty frames were carried by a rather unassuming pair of legs. If he could keep just far enough ahead, he might reach his escape route yet. And just a ways away…

Yes! Mataku almost blurted aloud. His gaze found it, his destination only a hundred feet to go: a metal hatch tucked away in the soil. Easily missed to the untrained eye. It was how he and his fellows had gotten around the battlefield unseen. Their greatest advantage, and right now, Mataku’s greatest hope. There was just one problem: it was closed. Locked from the inside no doubt, as was protocol.

They left me , Mataku realized. For a moment he was almost angry. A passing reflex, undone by the reminder of what he was already guilty of. By the reminder that this was probably what he deserved. His pursuers didn’t give him time to process the thought. One opted to find another way to close the distance. With a mighty heave, the winds blew a baritone tune for the soldier that chose to take to the air, his tiny legs granting him a surprisingly high bound. A KA-CRASH brought him back down to earth, planted squarely between Mataku and the hatch. The impact sent the Matoran falling off his feet, the momentum of his sprint rolling his body through the soil. Down, and soon out.

Mataku groggily looked up to the Steltian in front of him, too stunned to run or fear or even make a half-baked attempt to brandish his dagger. Like a dream of danger bearing down upon you, closer and closer, all while your body refuses to escape. Despite the lethargy, there was still one thought that managed to piece itself together in Mataku’s frazzled mind.

This is it. This is the end.

“Hey knuckle-dragger!”

The closest Steltian didn’t even get a chance to turn to the interloper before a Kanoka disk struck him square in the torso. One FWIP later and the 10-foot bruiser barely dwarfed a Hoto bug. The unfortunate victim of a shrinking disk, one of many eccentric Kanoka variants. Mataku had the sense to quickly flick him away, the poor thing letting out a high-pitched squeal as a light breeze plucked him up and carried him into the sky.
“Durva!” the other Steltian cried. His eyes turned a murderous glare to the shooter: Kamate, Kanoka launcher in hand, standing atop the now open hatch.
He waited for me , Mataku realized, not entirely believing it. Whole army turns tail and he waits for me.

The defiant Onu-Matoran slid another disk into his launcher with the smooth liquid precision of a machine. He coldly held it back aloft, ready to fire.

“Care to join your friend?” The ebon Kanohi Akaku upon his face betrayed nothing but steely confidence. The Steltian’s glare remained undeterred.
“You’ll pay for that, half-bio,” he growled.
“What does that make your friend? A quarter?”

The soldier roared. Kamate fired. In razor-sharp response, panels shifted aside on the Steltian’s left shoulder. A launcher of his own quickly flung itself into position, firing its own disk to meet his opponent’s. Both barreled, straight and true through the air. Flying, soaring, until--

TING!

Mataku could feel his heartlight sink into the dirt. Kanoka disks were a prized export from the island city of Metru Nui, and each section of that city prided itself on the unique characteristics they imbued their disks with upon manufacture. Po-Metru’s, for instance, could hone on other disks mid-flight and knock them off course with ease. And evidently, they were one of this bruiser's favorites.

Kamate’s disk was flung to the side, sputtering off into the hills like a dizzy insect. But the Steltian’s disk wasn’t done. Its path now unobstructed, it finished its flight on its true target: Kamate’s launcher. Another FWIP rattled the little mechanism in the Matoran’s hands. Before he could even register what just happened, the metal shattered to dust with a faint PUFF , as if it’d been no better than ill-kept glass all along. The work of a weakening disk, no doubt. The Steltian grinned with a biting cruelty.
“No more tricks.” He stomped forward. “No more games.” Another stomp more. “We crush you here, and now.” Turning over his shoulder, he whistled into the ragged air. On prompt command, a dozen more bruisers arose from the various hills and wooded debris around them.
At last, they all surely thought. Some entertainment.

Mataku hadn’t even thought to get to his feet. He panickedly looked back to Kamate for some sign, some hint of a plan that’d get them out of this. The Onu-Matoran merely stood his ground, frozen. If he chose to dash back into the tunnels right now, Mataku wouldn’t blame him. He didn’t need to stay behind to begin with. And yet here he remained.

Get up , a voice chided. So similar to Mataku’s, and yet entirely alien in its tone and assertion. It disturbed him, but at the same time it called to him, stirred something within him, all the same. Get up you idiot. He couldn’t. Stand with him. He shouldn’t. They’d die either way. Exactly. So die standing.

Mataku’s legs remained frozen, stricken with the same fear that gripped his heart. His hand reached down, grasping the hilt of the dagger at his side, ready to inch it from its sheath. Only a token gesture, surely.

It doesn’t have to be , the voice assured.

Perhaps. No plans, no arms, but at least he and Kamate could go down with some fledgling dignity. Or stupidity.

It didn’t matter. He still couldn’t stand. He still couldn’t move. He couldn’t even draw his own blade. He could already feel that small flicker of steel in his nerves rust away, as good as the dust the enemy trod upon before them.

I was wrong. This is it. There it was, his own voice now. Much more familiar. Pitiably so. Of that he was as sure as he was of his own doom. The only thing he wasn’t sure about was whether to cover his eyes, or cover his ears to smother the horrible shrieking that was filling the air.

Wait, shrieking? Why would the Steltians be--?

Mataku’s head darted up, hand relinquishing his blade back out of thought. It was no Steltian this time, but he wasn’t imagining it either. Kamate could clearly hear it, the Steltians could clearly hear it. All heads swiveled about in confusion trying to find the source. The bruisers fidgeted, the noise putting even them a bit at unease. Mataku couldn’t even put a proper analogy to it. Just a strange light whistle cutting into the back of his head, prickling his Kanohi mask. Too soft to be deafening, too loud to be ignored. But there was one thing he knew: it was getting louder.

Heads turned upward. As the whine grew, so did its apparent source: skyward, still unseen among the black and gray. The sound was becoming increasingly more familiar, and Mataku felt like an idiot that his mind kept coming up empty fishing for the word. He could feel his franticness only making the task clumsier.

It’s like…like a firecracker, or…or a mortar, or... Mataku’s heartlight froze. A falling star.

High above, the looming array of smog began to part, a clean circular window opening to the skylights beyond. The first light in ages finally shown down upon the land, a heavenly column of gold and luster, almost blinding to eyes so numbed by shadow. And through the window, two streaks of color flew with grace, red and white in hue. Searing as fire. Chilling as ice. The light they beckoned only added to their sheen. They were coming, falling, straight for the group with unrelenting aim and purpose, the shriek that foretold their arrival as loud and unambiguous as ever. Mataku knew he should be afraid, and yet, all he could muster was awe. Somewhere deep down with an almost religious certainty, he knew…he wasn’t the one who needed to be afraid.

A FWAM shook the earth as the stars found impact. A storm of dust blinded all, particulates of ice and fire only adding to the fray. The Steltians stumbled back, trying to find footing and ground in the torrent. As the dust cleared, two figures stood bathed in light in its stead, clad in curved, utilitarian armor. A pearly white figure held aloft a silver scythe, the other ashen black and dark crimson, bearing an impossibly massive hammer belching fire from its core. The right word finally found Mataku’s lips.

“Toa,” he whispered.

The red-and-black Toa glared down upon the surrounding warriors. They did their best to hide the cowering twitches in their posture beneath his gaze. They had three or four feet on him at least, but the pure vengeful determination in his eyes did that gap of height away with gusto. He towered over them, and each of them felt it.

He slammed the hilt of his hammer into the ground, carrying the hard FOOM of a gavel bearing judgment. “You have brought a blight here. Harm and sorrow upon innocents undeserving,” his voice boomed, its bass rattling the armor of the enemy before him. He raised his hammer overhead. “No more.”

His hammer shook the earth harder than their arrival ever had. Its flames from within erupted outward, flailing every which-way in celebration of their newfound freedom. The Steltians tried to mount a charge, and failed as quickly as their plan came. Fire and magma swatted them away like flies. Any that attempted to foil the Toa of Fire from a distance with Kanoka disks were quickly met by his partner, streaks of ice from the tip of his scythe freezing their arms in place. Their actions synchronous, their duty synonymous, the two Toa moved as one.

The struggle was furious, but almost tragically one-sided.

And in all the chaos, and all the battle, as Mataku watched at the center of the storm, he never felt more safe. A new certainty had put every fear that rattled his heartlight to rest. The Toa were here, and soon, all would be right.

✦ ✦ ✦

Tiarun: “I just— I never understood how they worked.”

Toa Colqi: “How what worked?”

T: “The stones. The ones that just…zap you [snaps finger], from Matoran to Toa. The Toa stones.”

TC: “What’s to know?”

T: “Well, how do they work? How do they know? They’re just any ‘ole rocks, right? How do they know they’re zappin’ the right Matoran? What’s to stop the wrong one from goin’ Toa?”

TC: “[chuckles] Well there is no ‘wrong one.’ The stone simply…knows. It always knows.”

T: “And how do you figure that?”

TC: “Because the Great Spirit knows.”

--Excerpt of interview for Tiarun’s Toa Talks and Travel Thoughts, Issue #459, Published Cycle 94.1K

✦ ✦ ✦

Chronicler’s Records - The Great Temple, Ga-Metru, Metru Nui

Alright let’s get one thing straight: I’m not a Chronicler. I never pretended to be a Chronicler. But Toa Oroka couldn’t find anyone else so she asked me to write this down. So if this isn’t objective enough for you, go get an actual Chronicler to sand it down. Or do it yourself. I don’t care.

As for me, I’ve been asked to record the goings-on for the first proper Toa Stone Ceremony in Great-Spirit-knows-how-long, hosted in the Great Temple of Metru Nui. Cycle…93K? Give or take a year. Anyway, the crowds are still assembling. Turaga Lygari didn’t want to take too many Matoran off the job, bless the fire-spitter, but he’s made a surprising amount of exceptions for today, and that’s without mentioning all the Toa. The Toa Apocta are an obvious addition: Amante, Lhela, Oroka, Rohu. I think it’s been a while since they’ve all assembled together. Well, four out of six, but all things considered that’s not a bad ratio. Amante’s certainly enjoying it. He’s been playing doorman all evening with Lygari, genuflecting for every new guest like an overzealous twit. He keeps touching the back of everyone’s hand to his mouth. Don’t know what he’s showing at there. Just plain strange.

As guests file in, subtle runes and shapes give away the regional embellishments of faraway lands, adorning Toa and Matoran alike. The gentle, intricate curves of Artakhan masks, the squared shoulder armor of the Southern Islands, the boxy heartlights of Voya Nui, it’s a true mass of everyone from everywhere. Nothing short of impressive. I just hope they’re not leaving too much unattended back home. This many unworking Metru Nui Matoran is bad enough.

As the suns dip onto the horizon, and evening gives way to night, the arrivals finally conclude. And in their stead, the guests of honor. Five new Matoran march through the temple’s entrance. Amante makes no show of graciousness this time. Just a quiet reserved reverence, one the rest of the crowd shares. Oroka had informed me about these five before: Naho, Motara, Colqi, Doucasse, and at the head, mask shining its glorious gold, Lhikan. Matoran of many places, and the five chosen worthy to become Toa. I couldn’t tell you for what deeds, but I suppose that’s not for me to know. What’s important is they’re here, and look like they’d rather be anywhere else. This audience and atmosphere clearly aren’t their forte. It certainly isn’t mine.

The silence becomes doubly deafening as another figure pulls up the rear. He towers over the Matoran, and quite frankly everyone else. Armor old and embattled, its red and black sheen still catches the lightstones’ glow with ease. There is grace and wisdom in the warrior’s stride where youth lacks. All bow their heads, the Turaga, the Toa, even I throw mine down with them. It’s only due.

I side an eye to the Toa Apocta, all joined in the grand gesture to honor the fifth to their six. Oroka shoots me an amused look, a playful grin at the proceedings. It’s all a little silly, sure. We’ve all known each other for so long, the borderline deification’s a bit unnecessary, and yet…something about it still feels right. They say the two most important moments in a Toa’s life are when they become one, and when they stop being one. After all, the former is what enables their entire legend, and the latter is when they finally pass that legend to the next generation, enabling their own. Not all Toa get to live to see that second moment, but here, before the eyes of all, Toa Dume has. And I don’t need to be a Chronicler to be any more proud.

Dume reaches down to a satchel hanging at his side, and pulls aloft a stone. It glows a soft crimson and pulses in hand, steady as a heartbeat. It is the means of the transition, from the old to the new. A Toa stone.

Dume raises his free hand to quell the crowd’s reverence. If Kanohi could blush, I’m sure his would probably find a way to grow redder at all the attention.

“Please,” he calmly begs. Everyone’s heads rise. “This honor is not for me.” He gestures down to the five Matoran. I notice a familiarity in the way he looks at two of them, Naho and Lhikan. He gives them a wink, the kind that immediately seems to put their nerves at ease. It’s what he does best. “The day belongs to them.”

He nods to Lhikan. The little Ta-Matoran leads the rest in a march to the center of the chamber: a massive dome embedded in the floor, adorned in markings and light. A Toa Suva. Each Matoran takes a stand at its edge, surrounding it. Dume steps forth, but does not join them in the circle. Instead, he looks back to the crowd. To us. To me. He clutches the first Toa stone close, wrapped in gingerly fingers. You’d think it were fragile as glass. Something so small, it’s strange to think that this is how a Toa ends.

“Now…” he announces. “Let us begin.”

✦ ✦ ✦

Mataku had never seen a Toa before. Only heard of them, in passing, in legend, but all the scripture in the world didn’t seem to do their presence justice.

“Are you alright, little one?” the red-and-black warrior asked, leaning down to close the gaping height between them. It did no good, of course. Mataku felt miniscule in his shadow. Forgetting to get up off the ground probably didn’t help. “Y-yes sir,” he squeaked. “You’re here now. It’ll all be alright.”

The Toa scowled at that thought, then immediately tried to mask it.

“Good, good,” he nodded.

Did I say something wrong? Mataku wondered, another nervous thought to join the flurry of others in his head. No matter. The Toa had more to say.

“I am Dume, Toa of Fire,” the figure stated. His voice spoke with an utter clarity, every word as good as law. Yes. He was Dume, Toa of Fire. “And this is Aidau, Toa of Ice,” he gestured to the pearlescent Toa behind him. If he didn’t know any better, Mataku would’ve sworn the Toa had tried to strike a pose in the skylight. “We come from the city of Metru Nui. We had heard talk of Matoran making a stand against the Barraki’s forces, and thought it only right to provide whatever aid we could.”

“You’re welcome by the way,” Aidau muttered. Dume shot him a glare.

“Yes yes, of course! Thank you so much for your help, Toa,” Mataku sputtered, trying not to fumble his skittish words. “We would’ve surely been goners without you!”

The gratitude did nothing for Dume. If anything it seemed to only irritate him more.

“Yes, well…” he stood up and quickly gestured to Kamate. He was, after all, still standing atop the little hill and hatch it hid, and still had some dignity left. “You there, what’s your name?

“Kamate!” Mataku blurted out against his better judgment. “He’s Kamate.” Dume and Aidau both looked at him with barely restrained left eyebrows. “And…I’m Mataku,” he added meekly. Some days he wished he was an Onu-Matoran himself, just so he could bury himself twenty feet under in moments like this.

“I see,” Dume replied, putting a merciful end to the awkward silence. “Well then, Kamate. What news from the front?”

It took a moment for Kamate to shake his own awe off.

“We’ve held our own as best we could.” His gaze immediately lowered, ashamed. All his vigor and steel gone, no better than the smog the Toa cleared. “But our best…our…it wasn’t...” His voice petered away.

Dume knelt down to him now, though Mataku couldn’t help but feel there was less of a gap to close. He placed a calm hand on the Onu-Matoran’s shoulder as he did. There was a pain in his eyes, and a humbling sag in his shoulders. Something about seeing a Matoran become so dispirited seemed to drag Dume down with him.

“Tell me everything.”

It was a curious tale. The Barraki’s forces had swept across the world’s many lands with ease, an insatiable beast with a particular taste for industry, strategy, and power. Metru Nui to the north was off the menu, too isolated and fortified for even them to claim, at least for now. But to the east were perfectly fit consolations: the islands of Xia and Stelt. The former’s manufacture and the latter’s finance were ideal for the Barraki’s growing war machine.

When Kamate had decided to make his stand, and swayed at least fifty Matoran to stand with him, this symbiotic relationship seemed the ripest for sabotage if they had any hope of making a dent in the Barraki’s plans. Their navy was underdeveloped and unfit for long transportation, making hops from island to island a begrudging requirement. To this end, their means of reaching Xia from the Northern Continent was navigating the Zakasian Strait, the thin body of water that played ligament to the Continent and two adjacent islands, Zakaz and Karzahni. And from there, an easy shot to Xia, and beyond that, a route to Stelt that avoided the perils of the Tren Krom Peninsula. A functional system, if convoluted, until Xia could fortify them with a proper armada. That chance, of course, was not one Kamate intended to give.

As infantry Matoran stood little chance, and so brains and espionage became paramount. The Onu-Matoran put decades of mining expertise to use, mapping out and carving a network of tunnels all across the eastern side of the Continent. A lesser mind would’ve left it at that, but Kamate took it further, explicitly linking the tunnels to every enemy encampment carrying the chain of trade posts from the west to the Strait, and Xia. A few crafty Ta-Matoran brainstormed their own contribution: bombs, of a very special variety. Mechanisms crafted from multiple Kanoka disks, various powers jammed together in unholy matrimony, fit to blow with the right fuse. Mataku, of course, was not one of those Ta-Matoran smart enough nor daring enough to come up with the idea. He was, however, gullible enough to be talked into placing them.

“You should’ve seen him. He was the fastest runner we had!” Kamate boasted, some small sense of pride seeping back into his body. “Why I think we can chock up a dozen wrecked camps to his name.”

Just another stupid trick he fell for. Mataku could already feel his loathing for Kamate stir back to the surface. And with it his respect all over again, when he remembered the other fact of the matter.

It worked, didn’t it?

For a time, at least. It made its dents. It drew the Barraki’s ire and attention. But even beings as dense as the Steltians couldn’t be fooled forever. One clumsy bomb-runner was all it took to reveal their system, and from there the entire plan unraveled. Attacks were anticipated, runs were intercepted, and soon their numbers grew thin.

“Mataku here was trying to make one last strike. Him and three others tasked to escort him to and from.” Kamate and the Toa looked to the Ta-Matoran, still sitting on the ground. Now it was his turn to hide his shameful gaze in the dirt. He was alone, and there weren’t many guesses as to why. Mataku could only shake his head. “We…we tried. They saw us coming. I ran, and…” Mataku closed his eyes, for all the good it did. He could still feel all their contemptuous glares holding him in judgment.

And why shouldn’t they?

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. Barely a whisper.

A grave silence held the air still.

“Is there anyone left?” Dume asked. He stifled a burgeoning dread for Kamate’s answer. “The rest have gone. I told them to go.” He finally pulled Dume’s hand off his shoulder. He didn’t feel worthy of it. Perhaps he never was. “Like I said, we…we did our best. But it’s over. And I…this is my fight. Not theirs. Not anymore.”

He looked pointedly at Mataku, not a shred of contempt in sight. If anything, there was…sympathy? Mataku wasn’t sure what to make of it. He’d never heard Kamate speak like this before, look like this before.

“It’s just as well,” Aidau interjected. He pulled his scythe from his back, gripping it tight. “Matoran have no place in battle.” He walked past Dume and Kamate, nodding to the Onu-Matoran as he did, and ignoring another glare from Dume. “You did your best, miner, like you said. But no more Matoran are dying on our watch.”

He stood atop another hill to look over the battlefield. Dume shook his head.

“We need everyone here, brother.” He rose to his feet to meet him. “These Matoran were ready to fight, and we need all the help we can get. They need to stand with us.”

“We’re Toa,” Aidau emphasized, sounding almost disgusted at the notion of needing help from anyone that wasn’t. “We’re born for this. They aren’t.”

He gestured to Kamate and Mataku equally. Dume marched closer, his voice growing noticeably more irritated.

“Oroka and Amante are inbound for the Southern Islands. Rohu and Lhela are stuck guarding Metru Nui. We are all they have, and we are not enough.”

Aidau spun his scythe. A harsh burst of ice scarred the earth between him and Dume, cutting off his attempt to bring the confrontation face to face.

“Says you.”

“Wait!” Kamate cried. Mataku looked up. At first he thought he was simply trying to break up the argument, but something sounded different in his voice. His body echoed it, vigor sparking all over. Excited. Motivated. Inspired.

Oh no…

“I have an idea.”

✦ ✦ ✦

Tiarun: “Y’know, funny thing. I actually knew you before you were a Toa.”

Toa Colqi: “Did you now?”

T: “Well, of you.” [ shuffling noises ] [ scraping noises ]

TC: “Is that…?”

T: “A bonafide Colqi original. Really spruces up my desk back home.”

TC: “Yes, I remember. I based it off a small shrub I came across in Po-Metru. Just a little sprout bursting from the rocks. I liked the idea of it, just… continuing that, from anywhere. A little bit of stubborn beauty growing from wherever you placed it.”

T: “It’s so sparkly. Look at it! You’d think it was ice.”

TC: “I used to work with ice. But it never lasted, and it didn’t feel right to limit my work to Ko-Metru. The other Matoran there, well, they weren’t ones for art anyway.”

T: “Then what? You got some Ta-Matoran to teach you glass-work, just like that?”

TC: “[laughs] Eventually. When I found one who could stand me. He even provided me the tools.”

T: “A Ko-Matoran workin’ flames. You think you’ve seen everything…”

TC: “It wasn’t easy. But that’s what made the ends so gratifying.”

T: “[sighs] Guess that’s all over now.”

TC: “What do you mean?”

T: “Well you’re a Toa now. Now you get to do things that matter.”

TC: “[scoffs] I’m sorry?”

T: “Er, things more important. Sorry. That was— that wasn’t the right way to put— um, yeah. Wasn’t the right word.”

TC: “I’m still very proud of my work.”

T: “Sure, but…that doesn’t compare to bein’ a Toa, does it? To what a Toa does? Goin’ around, fightin’ evil, savin’ the meek?”

TC: “They matter in different ways. I’d like to think my sculptures, well, that they meant something to people. That they made them happy. And if not, they still made me happy.”

T: “Sure but, savin’ the day--”

TC: “--also matters to me. They all matter to me. Before or after. That hasn’t changed. Why should it?”

✦ ✦ ✦

Chronicler’s Records

Turaga Lygari takes the stage.

“Thank you for your kind words, dear Toa. Our city thanks you. You honor us, yes, honor us very dearly, to host your history here today. Mata Nui be praised, and all those He moves through!”

“Mata Nui be praised, and all those He moves through!” the crowd echoes.

“Now then…”

The five Matoran remain standing around the Suva, and Dume with them, all in silence, as the little fellow hobbles on his cane to meet the crowd. You’d think they’d have gotten the stones by now, but, well, formalities. Lots of formalities. A Toa team hasn’t been brought together here for many ages.

I’d even heard that this particular temple wasn’t all that old. That it’d been rebuilt not too long ago after a nasty bit of Rahi tore the old building down, then subsequently died, their bodies forming the peninsula on which the new temple now rested. The circle of life at its oddest. Either way, something tells me they don’t just want to break the new place in. They want to make this one count. Make it one worthy of the history walls.

To that end comes Lygari’s idea of bringing things full circle: a retelling of Dume’s legend.

“Allow me to set your stage, dear Toa,” Lygari bows. He gives his raspy voice a moment to clear. “As was his beginning, so shall be his ending, here!” Lygari gestures grandly to the Suva, and Dume’s chosen. “Amongst the Matoran that shall carry his power, as Toa!”

He’s going to be at this for a while.

He thrusts an arm to the side expectantly. A Ko-Matoran aide quickly hustles forth, a Kanohi Matatu - a Mask of Telekinesis - in hand. Lygari thrusts it upon his face promptly. He snaps the finger of his free hand to the air.

On the other side of the Suva, unseen hands shift and crank panels apart to unveil an array of lightstones from the ceiling. They shine a snow-white beam down upon a vast enclosure of sand: the Amaja Nui, the Great Story Circle. I’d seen smaller variations before across so many villages, but none compared to this. Mere beaches to this sprawling microcosmic desert.

The crowds collectively shift to the side, moving to gather around the Amaja. Lygari joins them from high above. He raises his hands, fingers outstretched, across the sands.

“Gathered friends, listen, again, to the tales of the Toa.”

His new mask glows. On command the circle shifts. Forms and structures take shape in the sediment sea. Crowds “ooo” and “aaa” at the theatrics.

“It began simply, with the tale of a Matoran. Yes, a Ta-Matoran, caretaker of the hearth of his village.”

He really emphasizes the “Ta.”

The circle wavers and shifts. A small figure emerges, no doubt a little analogue to the eponymous Dume. A sphere of sand spirals before it, imitating the waves and arms of flames.

“In his care the hearth grew, and his village flourished. But there were no Toa to call his land their own. No, none to protect it, or the Matoran that dwelled within it.” Sands swirl into a writhing storm, tendrils slashing at the little “Dume” at the center, and the little flame he guarded. “So the duty fell to Dume, the strongest of his Matoran. Only he could protect them, and at this task, he did not relent.”

He speaks fancifully, but there’s a sincerity to the presentation that can’t be denied. This will probably be his only chance to guide a Toa ceremony. Far be it for him to waste it.

The tendrils now form the shapes of various creatures, monsters, hideous things I’m not sure I’ve ever seen before. Some serpentine. “When the Great Snake, Many-of-One, emerged from the sea, the very breath of its six heads a plague to choke the land, he did not relent.” Others hulking titans. “When one of the Crowned Dragons marched from the eastern ashes of Zakaz with ravenous hunger, he did not relent.” And so many things more. “When the mighty--”

You get the picture.

Dume watches from the Suva. Every other detail brings out a bit more ire, another crick in his posture. He won’t say it aloud, but there’s something to the story that displeases him. The way it’s told, what is told. I have my suspicions.

After all, he and his team have more than enough history to their name as it is. Lhela’s tales of saving Dume from disaster could fill a book, and Amante’s still particularly fond of retelling how he and Dume subdued a rabid Blade Burrower with their bare hands. And Rohu, well, Rohu doesn’t shut up about his own deeds period.

As long as I’ve known him, Dume was never alone. If that’s so utterly true for his time as a Toa, could the same possibly be said for his time as a Matoran? You wouldn’t know that from Lygari’s regaling, that’s for sure.

I can just imagine the cries of subjectivity creeping up again. A real Chronicler would repeat Lygari’s words letter for letter. Turaga knows best, the “legend” knows best, but frankly? I think anyone reading this is due a little honesty.

“And after banishing all evil from his home, so prodigious were his deeds, yes, so very, that even Toa from faraway lands would be remiss to ignore them, or him, any longer.” Lygari gestures back to Dume with pride. The subtle discontent all across Dume’s body continues to go unnoticed. I’m starting to wonder if it’s by choice. “One saw great potential in Dume’s courage, and by way of the Toa stones, so too was Dume elevated to the title.”

He raises his hands high. The entire circle’s display dissipates, fluttering to the ground, until only Dume’s analogue remains. A new stream of sand rises, enveloping the figure in a cocoon of sediment. It falls away, and in its stead, a figure buffer and taller than before remains: Toa Dume.

“It was here that Dume’s grandeur, his legend, truly began.”

✦ ✦ ✦

“Do tell,” Aidau replied, an only light condescension in his tone at the idea that a Matoran would suggest anything. Kamate ignored it, and instead quickly pointed to the streak of ice the Toa had left on the ground.

“Your power. Your elemental power. That could be the key.”

Aidau’s eyes narrowed, intrigued. Even a little flattered, if the small self-satisfied grin was any indication. “Go on.”

Kamate tugged at something on his back, a frayed cloth bag that, judging by the patches, was a few weeks due a replacement. From its contents he plucked the most precious: a small, thick tablet. It rattled, so much so Aidau couldn’t help but squint curiously for a hint of its secrets. The Matoran had his attention now.

Placing the tablet on the ground, Kamate carefully tugged on each side. From the center slid stone plates, and from them thinner plates more, each engraved with fractions of terrain and landmarks. Taken altogether, the pieces formed a very familiar map, scrawled with a vast net of lines encircling the landmass, each line occasionally interrupted by a bold dot. Aidau’s gawking was better masked than Dume’s.

“Well crafted, little one,” Dume remarked, obviously impressed. He didn’t even try to hide it.

“This was as much as we could map, of this side of the continent anyway,” Kamate explained. “And this…” He traced a finger over the net of lines. “...is our tunnel network.”

“And those are the Steltian camps, I take it?” Aidau guessed, pointing to one of the dots checkering the web. Kamate nodded.

“Our tunnels link almost every encampment across these plains. We could take them out in one fell swoop, if we had the means.”

Mataku pulled himself to his feet to meet the gathering. Even he couldn’t keep his curiosity quelled now.

“What are you driving at, Kamate?” the Ta-Matoran asked, the gnawing acid of his suspicions all too obvious. They lapped at Kamate’s feet, daring him to confirm them.

“Bombs won’t cut it anymore. We don’t have the numbers to get that much firepower across the battlefield all at once. Even before, there was no way we could do it without drawing notice anyway.” Kamate pointedly looked up to the two Toa. His confidence, his gusto, it was all flaring back into his bones with triumph to propel his next sentence forth. “Fortunately we have a damn fine substitute, and then some.”

Dume and Aidau looked to each other, a knowing glance passing optic to optic. The plan was already coming together in their own heads. Aidau cracked another grin.

“I like where your head’s going, miner.”

“It won’t be easy,” Dume warned.

“Nothing worth it ever is, right?” Aidau dismissed. He pumped a fist in the air, biceps bulging beneath his armor. “I take one kio, you take the other, between us that’ll be more than enough power to blow the whole network sky-high.”

Dume raised a hand to pipe his brother’s excitement down.

“There’s still the matter of the path. If any of those tunnels are blocked, our entire stratagem is jeopardized.” He glared at the convoluted web that comprised the Matoran’s precious tunnels. “And there has to be a more efficient way than simply flooding everything. Our power isn’t infinite, little one.”

Kamate nodded expectantly. He jutted a confident thumb to himself and Mataku.

“That’s where we come in.”

“We do?!” Mataku knew this was coming and still felt terrified at the prospect.

“Yes,” Kamate quelled acidly, his patience hitting their usual limits every time Mataku pushed back. “We’re the only ones that can fit down those tunnels. We need to make sure the path’s clear and block off anything extraneous. We give them the shortest route, the fastest route, and they do the rest.”

“Absolutely not!” Aidau and Mataku shouted in unison. Perfect overlap for all the wrong reasons.

Kamate jolted back, surprised. Not at Mataku, his reaction was expected. He could deal with it as he always had. But the Toa?

Aidau shook his head, as if to reassure that the Matoran hadn’t misheard him. “Out of the question.”

“But--”

“They already know your little trick. They’ll see you coming kios away,” Aidau warned. He pointed an unceremonious thumb to the side at Mataku, not even looking him in the eye. “Your little friend’s fiasco is already proof of that.”

Kamate stood up, defiant as he could be only meeting Aidau’s knees. “We can handle it.”

Aidau closed the gap between them, emphasizing his height as he did. It took every ounce of will Kamate had not to shrivel in the Toa’s shadow.

“No. You can’t,” Aidau uttered coldly.

Dume’s crimson hand clasped him by the shoulder, yanking him back. His iron grip thrusted the Toa of Ice face to face with him. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, anger doing its best to reserve itself to an undertone.

Aidau’s stance remained undeterred, instead leaning in further.

“You know I’m right.”

“That’s beside the point.”

“It’s exactly the point.” Aidau pushed past his brother, gesturing to the open hills. “They’re not going. I’ll rip up every camp the League dug out here myself if I have to.”

Dume shook his head. “Madness, brother. You’re no good to Mata Nui dead.”

Aidau bluntly pointed to the Matoran. “And they are?”

As the Toa continued to argue, Mataku moved to join Kamate’s side. He watched him. He watched him watch them, his eyes coldly indifferent. Mataku thought for a moment. There had to be a more tactful way to put this, but then, maybe it wasn’t the time for that. Better, perhaps, to simply give voice to his own side.

“The Toa’s right. We don’t belong here.” Kamate refused to look at him. What little tact Mataku had bent to annoyance. “Look, just say something. Kamate, please--”

“Twenty-seven,” he murmured plainly.

Mataku’s frustration quickly dissipated, left more confused than angry.

“What?”

“Twenty-seven. I marched here with fifty Matoran, Mataku. Fifty of the bravest Matoran I could band together all across these lands, when everyone else was ready to just sit and hide and watch. And twenty-seven of them aren’t coming back.” He finally looked the Ta-Matoran in the eye. Though still cold, there was a tinge of glass to his optics. Glossy, almost aqueous if one didn’t know better. Mournful. “And that’s my fault.”

Mataku stammered, trying to speak. He stopped. Tried again. Still nothing. He tried to think of something to say, to console him at least. But the truth was, deep down…

I agree.

Kamate shook his head.

“Don’t even try to pretend it’s not true. I talked them into it. I talked you into it.”

He admitted it. Right there, he admitted it. All Mataku’s quibbles and woes over the years put to word. So why didn’t it make him feel any better? Then Mataku remembered. If he truly felt this morose over everything, that still left one gnawing contradiction on the table.

“Then why don’t you want to leave?”

“Because I’m not done. And if twenty-seven Matoran died to get us this far, who the hell am I to not finish it?”

Mataku thought for a moment, then shrugged. Tact be damned.

“That wasn’t for them to do.” Even Mataku was surprised how cold he sounded. He quickly relented, putting a soft but insistent hand on the Onu-Matoran’s shoulder. “Like you said, it’s over. Let’s just… let’s go home.” He tried to imbue every bit of nostalgic yearning he could into that last word. It’d been only a month, but home felt so far away, and so long ago.

Kamate shook his head again. He brushed Mataku’s hand off, useful as a fleck of dirt clinging to his armor.

“You just don’t get it.” He thought for a moment, then sighed of deep regret. He couldn’t hold this back any longer. “Maybe you can’t get it, the way you are.”

The way you are.

He didn’t say the word itself, and somehow that made it so much worse. To hear himself characterized as something so inescapable and…and dirty, Mataku wasn’t sure what to be more bothered by: the insinuation, or its possible accuracy. Before he could respond at all, a deafening blare roared over the plains.

WAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMMMM!

A harsh cacophony that cut through every wind and breeze like butter. Due dread and callousness for the song of war horns.

WAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMMMM!

A thunderous percussion joined their clarion symphony, pulsing the earth step by step. Confident, propulsive, and only growing nearer. Dume and Aidau looked to the noise, their argument quickly dismissed. They grimaced, hands reaching to their weapons.

As dark forms took shape on the hills decorating the horizon, Mataku’s heart sank once again. Horns did sing, but it wasn’t drummers or performers following in their melodically ugly wake. No, the quakes that shook his feet, the bass to every brassy flare, all that had been needed to produce them was much simpler.

The march of an army. The march of an honor guard. The march of a king.

A long time ago, Mataku had the near misfortune of being caught in a Kikanalo stampede, the one time he’d ever made the mistake of wandering too far from the village to explore the sights of Mount Atu. He was younger then, stupid, careless, until he was put in his place for daring to wander into their valley pass. The sight of them on the horizon, the sound of their ominous tread, there was a certain humbling terror to seeing something so inevitable coming your way. Uncaring, unrelenting, a force of nature unto itself.

And yet there was also a certain comfort in times like those. Though unstoppable, it was never personal. Step out of the way, respect duly the power that be, and it’ll spare you in kind. But to know that force hunts you, to know purpose guides its stride, to know what marches unrelenting seeks quarry only with you, to put you underfoot, well, that was another matter entirely. For no matter how slow its pace, however long it took to pass, such a prospect terrified Mataku far, far more; as he was soon finding out.

A gilded chariot lurched forth in indulgent patience, pulled by the glistening silver hides of two Rock Lions. The ends of their manes glowed a fierce red, but only barely enough to light a proper flame worthy of their reputation. Even from here, their jaws visibly scowled and winced, agitated but too tempered by domestication to do anything more than pull forward. To either side, three Steltian bruisers marched in step. Each held a golden spear in hand, a token weapon of decorum they’d undoubtedly toss once the fighting started.

And between them, atop the chariot, whose frame held aloft nothing but a decorated throne, sat a lone warrior. His figure pulsed with muscle, clad by armor plating so thick it put his Steltians to shame, ending with a curved, quilled helmet that housed unblinking red eyes. Their glare was apathetic, more bored with the proceedings than anything. His body was almost uncomfortably smooth, blurring the lines between metal and skin. It reminded Mataku of the tops of crab shells imported from the shore, appearing hard and soft all at once. Only its sheen gave it away, a brooding amber whose glow was only strong enough to be metal. Perfection with ease.

And when the Barraki Carapar spoke, his stature felt only earned.

“Halt!” The boom of his voice wasn’t unlike Dume’s, but it lacked his cooled timbre. In its stead tore an underlying rasp, slashing the air with a rough indifference that called earthquakes to Mataku’s mind, of crevices cleaving tectonic plains in two.

Such a sound brought the Rock Lions to an abrupt stop. The Steltians followed suit, bodies doing their best not to drip their obedient fear. Carapar marched down, from his throne, from his chariot, until his feet brought smoking craters to the soil.

And there he stood, eyes locked with his Toa opponents. A reserved glee squeezed his eyes with newfound joy at the sight. Perhaps this day wouldn’t be so boring after all.

Tiarun: “Look, I didn’t mean anything by it, alright? I just-- you said it yourself. ‘The Toa Stone knows.’ That implies that there’s something…well…different about you. Right? A special kind of different.”

Toa Colqi: “Being a Toa is a duty.”

T: “Right, exactly!”

TC: “Just like any other duty. Matoran serve the Great Spirit as well, in their own way. So do we.”

T: “Sure, but…yours seems a bit more important.”

TC: “We’re tailored to our duty, just as you are. That doesn’t make us better. When I made my glasswork, I received all kinds of commissions. Decor, statues, trinkets, but they each filled a tailored need.”

T: “Right…”

TC: “And meeting that need was what made them important. Not the size, not the task, but that it met someone’s need or want at all.”

T: “The ‘Will of Mata Nui’ seems like a slightly greater need than a schmuck like me wanting a desk toy.”

Chronicler’s Records

“And then came the darkest, most dreadful days, when the endless forces of the Barraki swept across the land.” Lygari slashes the air to punctuate. In tandem, a wave of sand sweeps across the Amaja Circle. As it clears away, the tiny Dume still stands, resolute as ever.
“The impious lords sought the machines of the East, craft of devious craftsmen ready to oblige their machinations.” He twirls his hand downward. The crowds gasp as a bulky figure takes form. It floats to meet Dume as an imposing equal. “But this, Toa Dume would not allow. And so the Lord Carapar marched to meet him.”

Dume mutters something to himself. I’m no lip-reader, but the tone and ire seems to shoot a pretty telltale “Oh please.”

Lygari thrusts his two hands together, giddy as a Muaka kitten with its toys. The two figures fly into each other. Any distinction or form is lost to a flurry of sand.

“The lands did shake, the mountains did quake, as the two did battle. The torrent of the razure only chorus to their operatic clash!”

Now I know he’s talking out his posterior plating.

✦ ✦ ✦

Carapar gestured a hand to his Steltian guards. One of them inched forth, tentatively stepping into his lord’s shadow. “Are these the two jesters that sent you running?” His mockery was as blunt as it was piercing.

“Y-yes, sir. That’s them.” The Steltian kept his posture as stiff as his spear: stark, upright and eerily proper.

“And you ordered the retreat?”

“Only when all else failed.”

Carapar nodded. “Of course.”

Carapar swung around a heaving fist, front to back, punching a hole straight through the Steltian’s chest. His armor shattered on impact - no better than plywood some lazy Ga-Matoran had strapped together and called a canoe - as Carapar’s claw tore through chest, muscle, and spine. The Steltian’s eyes widened, gawking at the column of amber metal now embedded in his torso. It’d happened so fast he could barely register the act. His shock was shared by guard, Toa, and Matoran alike, all left dumbfounded but unable to respond, with neither action nor word.

The Steltian’s head swayed, tilting downward. He locked eyes ahead with Mataku’s, the only thing below with which he could. Wide, unblinking, their stare held. As if all the world were spinning beneath the soldier’s feet, and the Matoran, of all things, was the only visage that could anchor him. The Steltian gazed intently, every emotion that had dwelled in mind and soul desperately pouring through his optics in an undammed deluge. Nostalgia, joy, surprise, denial, despair, rage, resignation, all laid bare for at least one to witness. And for one moment, that one silent moment of intimacy - in their dual abject sensation of shock, awe, and horror - they were kin. Until his eyes faded, his heartlight with them, and his body fell. Vacant.

“‘No place for the weak, in battlefields or forces, only left and made part, put among the corpses,’” Carapar quoted. He let the Steltian’s body slide off his arm with unceremonious disgrace. As the heap of scrap hit the ground, he flicked his hand side to side to disperse any clinging fluids or shrapnel. “Just a proverb of ours. I hear it’s a favorite.”

Whatever shock had stayed Dume’s feet before quickly slid away, replaced with a silent rage carried by burning eyes. “He served you...” Dume growled, disgusted. A few seconds ago Mataku would’ve figured there was more sympathy in those words than perhaps due. Carapar rolled his eyes.

“Grunts aren’t worth much if they can’t take a punch.” He shot a glare to his other underlings to ensure the message was sent. Stiff salutes reciprocated. Satisfied, he cracked his neck to the side in one smooth stretch. “Must admit, I thought he might’ve been exaggerating. Toa, alone, out here, shooting fire and ice like wasted Kanoka.” He snapped a thoughtful finger. “And yet it all makes sense, doesn’t it? Pah, to think they thought Matoran were giving the shipments so much trouble.”

“Have I got the disappointment for you,” Aidau muttered, unheard.

“And now here you are!” Carapar gestured to Dume in all his majesty. There was a surprising lack of mockery in his tone. The excitement sounded almost genuine.

“And?” Dume asked, the earnest not fazing him remotely.

“I’ve conquered many places, Toa. And if there’s one thing I know, it’s that a conquest is never finished until the strongest joins the fray, and is…how’d it go again?” He pulled something from his back: a silver flail, black handle bound in chains leading to a cruel piece of spherical metal, enshrouded in spikes of protosteel.
“Oh, right, ‘put among the corpses.’”

Dume brandished his hammer in kind.

“I’ve had enough of you,” Dume said, no intent of giving the Barraki the dignity of a direct retort. “Of all of you, with your toy castles and armies of flaccid iron, playing king. I will only say this once, Barraki: it’s your choice how you return to your little castle. Whole, or broken. But you will leave this place and its people be. That, I promise.”

“Oh ho, a promise!” Carapar’s armor rumbled a small clangorous storm in his fit of laughter. “Careful fire-spitter. Best to make ones you can actually keep.”

Dume let his hammer reply, driving its blunt ends into the ground. A burst of fire erupted, shooting forth to encompass Carapar’s hide. One swing of his flail batted the flames away, their path only good enough to light the smirk on his face. He turned to his soldiers.

“Call the rest. Every camp of scrap-meat around. And bring them here.” He stomped forth, daring Dume to try the same trick again. “This deserves a crowd.”

Aidau braced his scythe alongside his brother. Dume shook his head and gestured away, as Carapar’s guard darted for the hills.

“No! To them! You need to stop them!”

“What?!” Aidau asked, wide eyes matching his incredulous tone. “Dume, I’m not—”

“Brother listen to me. If we don’t keep those camps in position this’ll all be for nothing. Go!” He shot an emboldening glare to the two Matoran behind him. “That goes for you too! Now!”

Aidau and Kamate obliged, the Toa launching himself on a column of ice to intercept his quarry, the Matoran darting back for the tunnel hatch. Only Mataku remained, frozen and stiff at what was about to transpire. Kamate had just enough time to shoot him a disgusted look before he vanished into the dark below.

Run! Mataku’s sterner voice thought to himself. He couldn’t.

“I said go!” Dume repeated, giving further voice to Mataku’s thoughts.

Carapar laughed from his side of the soil.

“Maybe your little servant thinks whatever scheme you’re cooking isn’t going to bake to much.” He swung his flail idly in his hand, its end revolving in deadly hypnotic circles. “And maybe he knows, deep down, there’s only one side worth serving.”

“He’s not my servant.” Dume spat that particular label with the care of bile. He did his best to hide Mataku in his towering shadow. “And he’ll never serve you. No Matoran will.”

Carapar shrugged. “The offer stands ‘til death, little one. All are welcome to serve us.” His free hand grasped his flail by the chain. He pulled it taut, anticipation stretching his face into the devious smile of a predator. “As all eventually shall.”

Dume’d had enough. He thrust himself forward in a crimson flash, swinging his hammer upward as he did. It caught Carapar’s chin right on target, a thundering uppercut that would behead a lesser enemy outright. The Barraki stumbled back at the blow…only to catch himself in three feet. His face shot back up into place, grin apparent even through the dented helmet.

“Alright then.” He was ready to play.

He tossed his flail forward, straight for Dume’s head in a violent retort. The Toa ducked to the side and clasped his hammer steady. Perhaps another target was due. He flung the hammer into Carapar’s left array of ribs, then his right shoulder, then his chest, his back, anything he could land between swings of the Barraki’s flail. But each strike barely fazed him. His armor held, and his posture was deterred none, a well-rooted weed in the earth. It was as useful as hammering a mountain. A mountain that could catch your hammer mid-swing, as this one soon did.

Carapar boredly eyed the thing as he clutched the upper hilt, its end only inches from striking his face again. “Hmph. I think I’ve taken your measure little fire-spitter...” he sighed.

He kicked Dume away, the Toa finally losing grip on his weapon. Carapar held it softly in one hand like a plaything, almost pitying it. What had been so mighty in Dume’s hands looked so puny in his. He lifted it overhead, clasping either end. Biceps, triceps, whatever kinds more lurked in Carapar’s frame flexed in unison across his arms.

No… Mataku thought to himself. He can’t…

But he could. He had taken Dume’s measure.

“And found it wanting,” Carapar finished. With that, his claws snapped the hammer in two, metal handle sporting the stamina of a twig as it gave way. Mataku was almost worried that for the first time, he’d see a Toa show fear. Not so.

“That was a mistake,” Dume rasped, climbing to his feet.

He charged, every care taken to maneuver another strike from his opponent’s weapon. It sailed into empty air overheard as Carapar made another throw, giving Dume another opening. A kick to the shin, a punch to the side, two three four, another kick for the neck— until Carapar batted it off with his forearm. The parry knocked Dume off his balance entirely.

“I’m sure you’re acquainted with many,” the Barraki spat.

With that, another toss of the flail, this time striking Dume dead-on in the chest. The Toa’s body was sent flying, until his armor found dull impact in the dirt a dozen feet away. Satisfied, Carapar turned to face an unattended Mataku.

I’m not afraid of you, his bolder, angrier voice wanted to spout. But Mataku wasn’t one for lying, least of all on the spot.

“And you, littler fire-spitter…my offer still stands,” Carapar murmured, almost a whisper, threatening as it was tempting. “As does its point of expiration.” The Barraki let the end of his flail drop to the ground, leaving its due crater in the earth, and his point made.

Words became lodged in Mataku’s throat. The dreaded two, the ones he swore, to Kamate, to Atu-Koro, to Mata Nui, that he would never utter. And yet, if all else were going to fail…

“I…I surr—”

“Leave him be!”
Dume was already back on his feet and in full sprint, ignoring the undoubtful pain that had to be throbbing in the gash across his chest.

Carapar rolled his eyes and gave his flail another toss. All the pain in the world didn’t hinder Dume’s reflexes just yet, dodging its path once again. The Barraki lazily braced for another round of would-be blows…but Dume’s path wasn’t to him. It was to Mataku.

He scooped the Matoran up in passing with one arm, as easy as a ball in play. With the other, he bore an outstretched hand. The weapons and tools of Toa served only as a focal point for their power, not the source. The elements could be wielded just as easily without them, but there was always a risk. What came was always unfettered and unrestrained. It could be aimed, but seldom controlled. But in circumstances such as these, to Dume, that was a risk worth taking.

A wild inferno erupted from his palm. It engorged itself on the surrounding air, blooming into a massive circle of flame around the Toa and Matoran. Its ferocity was enough to make even Carapar back away, arms raised to repel its heat and light. But the gaze behind them said it all.

This won’t save you.

The bonfire well-founded, Dume gave himself a moment to breathe. He dropped Mataku and let his body fall to its knees, reprieve embraced. Could be its last chance for any, after all. He let the moment hang, until his deep heaving settled into light, rhythmic huffs. Then he looked to his distressed damsel.

“You…need…to go,” he murmured slowly, breath still not quite caught.

Mataku sat on the dirt, knees clutched fetally to his chest, as wrapped upon himself as a Dermis Turtle sensing tomorrow’s storm.

“I can’t.”

“What?”

“I…I can’t do it. I shouldn’t be here.”

Dume pondered. He reached out a comforting hand, as he had for Kamate earlier. “You made it this far—“

“I never asked to be here, alright?!” Mataku shouted, recoiling at the undeserved affection. All his festering bitterness from thoughts prior poured out, unchained. It no longer mattered to him who it was unleashed upon. What else mattered at all? “I was…I let myself get talked into it. Tricked into it— no, no I let that happen too. And now people are—“. His voice cracked, too disgusted to finish. “I don’t belong here.”

“I see.” There’s a steady, unnerving air of understanding to Dume’s tone, something much deeper than mere sympathy. Mataku wasn’t yet sure if that comforted him. “And why do you think that is?”

“Because I’m a coward. Because I’m afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Of dying, what else?” Mataku scoffed in shame. “It’s…it’s stupid.” He held his knees closer.

Dume shifted in front of him, resting on crossed legs. He let a soft but insistent posture say the rest: Whenever you’re ready.

“A long time ago…an avalanche hit our village. I’d called the day off. I wanted a quick…just a quick break, to myself. So Kamate had another assistant make the day’s delivery. We met each other on the road, him on his way to another koro, me just getting some air, on a stroll. We said our hi’s and pressed on. And then...the mountain started shaking. The earth...the earth itself rained down on our heads.” He gazed up, at the wall of flames encompassing the pair. He let the gaze rest, the ebbs and flows of the fire easing into a patterned rhythm. “One moment he was there. The next he wasn’t. One moment his eyes w-were bright and full of life, the next…” Mataku’s gaze finally fell from the fire. There was only so much their dance could soothe. “Nothing alive should ever look that empty.”

“That’s not a foolish thing to think.”

“Everyone dies. I’m not special for getting worked up about it.”

“Perhaps. But all the more reason to—”

“You don’t understand. When I saw that…that void in his eyes, I was—” He choked. A lump of disgust and self-hatred lodged itself in his throat. He coughed it down. “I was happier that it wasn’t me.” He slammed a fist into the dirt. “First thought in my head. Not ‘How tragic,’ not ‘How sad,’ but ‘How terrifying. That could’ve been me!’” he paraphrased, the memory recalled in a whiny, petulant falsetto. He relinquished the fist back to his curl of limbs. “It should’ve been me. Kamate thinks so.”

“He doesn’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I see it. He wants the best of you, hoping it’ll be all the better for you. But there’s one mistake that clouds him.”

Mataku looked up from his pit of self-loathing, unconvinced. “And what’s that?”

“He thinks fear is something to be ashamed of.”

Mataku lowered his knees. “Isn’t it?”

Dume shook his head. He held a hand to his chest, just above the mesh of cracked armor Carapar had left. “I’m afraid.”

“What? No you’re not,” Mataku said rearing back, incredulous.

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Because you’re a Toa. What do Toa have to be afraid of?”

Dume chuckled. He gestured a hand to the wall of fire, to the Barraki pacing like a starved Muaka just outside it. “He’s not the first of his kind. And he won’t be the last.”

“But you’ll beat him, won’t you? Make it all right?”

“I certainly hope so. But that is never a guarantee. I’m afraid of that, little one. Not just for what will happen to the rest of the world, but I’m afraid for myself. For…the end. As you said, fearing death is hardly unique.”

“Sure, but—”

Dume raised a hand, then took a deep, solemn breath. ”Left untempered, fear undoes the mind and stays the body, but it keeps the heartlight honest.” He taps a finger to his. “It reminds what binds us, Matoran and Toa alike.” He placed a hand on Mataku’s shoulder. He didn’t recoil this time. “We fear, and we fight regardless, together.”

Mataku’s head lowered again, what little spirit rising only sputtering out. “But…but it just won’t stop...”

“You can’t hide from fear. It comes as do the suns, or the tide. Would you expect the suns not to rise, or the tide to lay still?

“No, but I—”

“And should Mata Nui be ashamed the world moves in such a way?”

“...no.”

“The suns, the skylights, they try to burn us and blind us. And the tide, it tries to drown us. But we can also make them light our way, or push us to the shore.” His hand clasped the Matoran’s shoulder ever tighter. “That is our power, Mataku. Fear is not to be feared. Only understood, and made companion. Whatever comes.”

“And then what?” he asked, less tentative now. He yearned for a real answer.

“And then we stand.” So he did, hand pulled away from Mataku. “And walk forward with it. Hand in hand.” He turned to the fire, and his awaiting enemy beyond it. And marched.

Mataku was left in the dirt, only to watch. Carapar watched too, now noticing the Toa’s approach. Dume marched on, straight for the fire. He raised an open hand, steeled glare locked with the Barraki’s behind the flames. With prompt resolve, the Toa closed his fist. The wall of flames let out a hard FWOOM as it was cleaved in two. Its halves swept to either side, a narrow path now open between their curvatures. Dume marched on, tread steady through the parted infernal sea. Disobedient flames lapped at his arms and legs from the walls. Trickles of melted armor started to drip wherever they caressed. But Dume marched on. Carapar awaited at the end, weapon in hand, grin upon face. And still Dume marched on.

With one last wave of his arm - final conduction to his fiery orchestra - his fist unclenched. The wall was whole once more; but further back, beyond Carapar’s gaze, a new path opened. Far to the rear, where Mataku still rested. Peering through its expanse, the Matoran’s path became clear: the tunnel hatch, lying exposed and open at the end. It was now or never.

Mataku chanced one last look at Dume. He and the Barraki remained locked in eye. The two continued to stare, even as clouds moved in overhead. The rays of light opened by the Toa only minutes prior soon became shrouded in darkness once more. Carapar smirked at the sight. A sign from the Great Spirit Himself, surely. He raised his arm to the side, flail in hand. Without another moment’s hesitation, he let the weapon leap from his palm to the dirt. He wouldn’t need it. Not for this.

Dume made the first move, as usual. He raised a kick to Carapar’s left, one he was already bracing to catch. But— no, a feign! Dume quickly stamped his leg to the ground, its leverage ample to swing a fist into Carapar’s right. Whether out of surprise or the pure strength of the blow, the Barraki stumbled back, genuine shock lighting his eyes wide as clenched hand met shoulder.

Something looked different now of Dume, at least from where Mataku stood. Certain details stood out more starkly. A grimace in Dume’s fist as it returned from its strike, stifling pain from bruised knuckles. A tremble in his arm, as waning strength made every move a feat. A persistent worry in his eye, an uncertainty in self and victory. And yet, as Carapar rose back into place, rage pushing his fists forward in shaken pride and stirred fury, Dume caught them with his own, holding the two in a tight standstill. Despite everything, at this, he would not relent.

But he’s still a Toa , Mataku thought to himself, turning and darting into Kamate’s well-worn tunnels. What can I do?

✦ ✦ ✦

Toa Colqi: “In the eyes of Mata Nui, all duties and destinies move in equal stride.”

Tiarun: “I’ll believe that when a trader’s cart levels a fortress. Or a poem lifts the sea.”

Chronicler’s Records

“That’s enough!” Dume shouts. He’s doing his best to keep polite but let’s be honest, it’s no secret to anyone how bitter his tone sounds. It won’t stop bouncing off the walls for one.

Lygari immediately shrivels at the sound. The sands of his great tale fall to the ground in a collective pathetic hiss.

“A-apologies, great Toa,” he stutters. “I-I do believe I’ve offended you in some way. Please, enlighten me. Lay my sins bare. Leave nothing—”

“Just—” Dume catches himself before he lets another shout echo down the halls. “Enough.”

“Please, dear Toa. What bedevils you?”

“It’s wrong,” Dume laments, shaking his head the way you would if protodites were stubbornly buzzing about. “All of it. Wrong.”

“We can consult my sources if—”

“All of it,” Dume emphasizes firmly. He looks to the crowd now. He sighs, no doubt embarrassed to make this such a scene. “No one appreciates what you’ve worked to honor here more than I, but…this is not how I wish to be remembered.”

“And how is that, great Toa?” Lygari inquires. He tries to keep the tone neutral, as if his great idol weren’t undermining hours of rehearsed histrionics.

“Alone.”

He locks eyes with Oroka, and the rest of his former team. The Apocta still four strong. “I was never alone, as Matoran or Toa. And during that wretched war most of all.” A solemn memory darkens his eye. For a moment it’s heavy enough to weigh his gaze downward, away from his audience. He doesn’t let it hang there for long, bringing his eyes back to them, more stalwart than ever. “There are those not here today that ensured that I am. My story is theirs.”

In better spirits I’d smile and nod in solidarity, but right now I’m sure my eyes are as morose and dead as his were. No one knows the truth to his words more than me.

After all, I was there too.

✦ ✦ ✦

Aidau fancied himself an efficient warrior. No strike wasted, no power put to needless use. Steltian bruisers were a hardy bunch, but the right strike in the right place always rendered their limbs manageable slabs of ice. The only problem was, they had a bad habit breaking back out of them.

“This is getting old,” he whispered to himself as another soldier wretched his arm free, ice flexed off by his muscles and left in watery splinters.

They were five in total, more than enough to multi-task and send a spare or two off to carry out their master’s whim. But they’d all taken to circling him together, a swarm of Ruki fish homing in on shared, singular prey. Perhaps they all wanted a piece of the fun, or thought it’d simply be quicker to break him together.

Too bad for them, Aidau thought to himself, twirling his scythe for another bout.

A massive dome of flame erupted far on the horizon, a dazzling frieze for the flat earth. Too far to hear or feel, but its light alone was enough to pause the fight at hand, all participants struck with awe. Something told the Toa of Ice his fire-spitter of a brother was the culprit, subtle as ever. Wasteful as ever.

But then again… Aidau glanced about his surrounding opponents, their stupefaction already beginning to wear off. Their eyes were drawn back to him, ready to resume their confrontation. Maybe now’s not the time for subtlety.

✦ ✦ ✦

Much further away, even underground, the rumbles of battle shook Mataku to his protodermic core. He tried not to think which quake belonged to which combatant, or what it might signify: victory or defeat, and for whom. No, that was their business, and this, this was his.

He’d made quick note of Kamate’s footprints as soon as he thrust himself down here, and made for the opposite direction as soon as he did. With any luck they’d meet each other on the other end of the loop soon enough. In the meantime, casting aside every stone on the trail was its own small task. Mataku wasn’t sure how much space a Toa’s power really needed to move unabated, but best not to leave things to chance. Same went for the network’s many offshoots, interconnected redundancies made to link the web and leave its users the means to get anywhere at any time. But this time, there was only one path that would need to be taken, and that meant blocking everything else. Thankfully the rocks cleared on the former mission made for adequate blockage to serve the latter. Good and tidy.

Mataku didn’t carry a map on his person as Kamate did. But then, he never really needed one to begin with. The resistance had put the Ta-Matoran on so many bombing runs in the past that he practically had the whole array down by heart. It wasn’t like he had much else on his mind, outside of fear for his life. Why not this? It made him useful, if nothing else.

Minutes and hours blended together as Mataku pressed onward. Soundscapes of war faded away, and he prayed it was only distance that made it so. Another rock on the left, another path to stow on the right, so on and onward. It became a pattern to him, and as patterns were wont to do, it helped put his nerves at ease. He needed any reassurance he could get right now, and if that had to come from the mundane certainty that one stone here could dam up another tunnel there, so be it.

Another rumble shook him ragged. It’d been so long since the last one that it actually managed to startle him this time. He looked about, head back on its slick anxious swivel. Surely he hadn’t made it back to Dume already? No, this was different. It sounded closer to the tunnel, as if striking the tunnel itself.

Maybe it is , Mataku nervously thought, as another quake shook his feet.

A wiser Matoran would take this as a sign to turn back. No one had foreseen this. Best to call it quits, run, think another plan, fight another day. Who’d blame him? Mataku wasn’t known for his bravery…but then, he wasn’t known for his wisdom either.

He pressed on. Another quake, followed by a yelp this time. The scene was becoming clearer in Mataku’s head: the tunnel wasn’t being attacked, someone in it was. Another quake, another shout. Mataku recognized the voice now. His pace quickened. Another quake, reaping a shout and gasp more.

The scene was laid plainly as he rounded another corner. A burley blue arm wretched a claw into the subterranean dirt, raking blindly at stone. And its target, tucked against the wall just barely out of reach, was Kamate. A cowering Kamate, lodged at such a precarious point that any inch more to either side would surely put him in his hunter’s grasp. So there he remained, cowering.

Why do I keep thinking that word? It felt judgemental - petty even - to Mataku, that he would ever attribute such a word to the Onu-Matoran. Hadn’t he proven himself more than above it? But..no, Mataku knew what strategic self-preservation looked like. What a patient brace for a decisive counterattack looked like. And more than anyone, he knew what cowering looked like. And when he looked past the swinging column of Steltian armor, when his eyes found Kamate’s locked so wide and frozen at the sight of his encroaching attacker, Mataku saw something he never thought he’d ever see: a reflection.

A reflection of fear. A reflection of terror, pure and binding and steadfast, as it locked one’s arms to side and feet to ground. Even the mind was unable to dwell on anything else but the moment, and the threat it bore. No counters or plans, just the anxiety that whatever action taken would surely be in vain and speed the end. Mataku knew the feeling, and against all curious odds, it seemed Kamate did too.

Or did he always know? Mataku wondered. Know, but walk and fight despite it. And if he could do that, for so long… He wasn’t Kamate - he’d never be Kamate - but the gap between them had to be more palatable than what yawned between him and the Toa, it had to. And with all this laid in mind…maybe that gap was all that more possible to cross.

But who is he to cower now? a more selfish voice thought deep in Mataku’s head. To his chagrin, he still recognized it as his own, if tainted with more cowardice than usual. Who does that leave to fix this mess? Me?! I’m only here because of him! Why does it have to be me? What can I do? The thoughts overwhelmed him, a paralyzing venom that seeped into his feet, leaving them as still as Kamate’s.

“Can’t hide forever you little borer worm!” a voice shouted above. “Make it easier, and I’ll make it faster!” The Steltian’s claw flailed deeper. The ceiling itself cracked with strain, sweating dust.

Stand , another voice whispered. Mataku recognized it too, from so many moments of doubt before. The steadier him, the him that never was. Stand with him. Stand for him.

Why should it be me?! the other voice cried. Don’t I matter? He doesn’t want to die, too bad. Neither do I. What makes him so special?

But that was beside the point. Kamate had a life back home. Atu-Koro, his work there, it was everything to him. He had something to live for.

But what about me?! Don’t I?!

Yes. He too had something to live for. The breeze of the mountains blowing down a kiss of snow. The sense of warmth at absorbing the energy of homegrown berries, their tang running up his arms. The smile of a grateful customer when he made a delivery. So many cumulative little things. And moments…yes, moments, like when Kamate held his hand steady to shape the curves of a shovel for the very first time. When he and Kaiwhi kept hiding all the wood for the forge to the point Kamate thought himself insane. When he pushed himself to venture past the village gate for the first time in years just to watch the skylights dim atop Mount Atu’s cliffs, even when the distant roar of a Kikanalo was enough to put his heartlight still.

But all these, too, were beside the point. And yet, lent something to it all the same. Because it’s not about me , the sterner voice insisted. Or him. It’s about us, all of us.

And the thought became clear: the one thing he feared more than losing his little things in life, or losing the life with which to experience them…was others losing theirs. Mataku felt his hand moving, down, to his belt. It clasped a handle, the hilt to his dagger, the one Kamate had given him when he dragged him into this war. Now unused. Useless, as he was.

It doesn’t have to be. I don’t have to be. His hand gripped it tight. We all stand where the other falters. Together. It’s why I’m here. It’s why I belong.

The coarse note sung when a rusted dagger finally leaves its sheath is a deafening sound.

✦ ✦ ✦

Toa Colqi: “You’re not taking this seriously.”

Tiarun: “C’mon, it’s just…something had to’ve felt different, after a turn like that.”

Toa Colqi: “Well of course. Suddenly I had a lot more to prove. No one expects much from a Matoran, and…honestly? That might be our biggest mistake.”

T: “Mistake?”

TC: “Yes. You’d be surprised what we can do.”

✦ ✦ ✦

Chronicler’s Records

“And you were right about one thing, Turaga,” Dume admits, a moment’s reprieve from his retelling. The crowd’s left hanging on his last word. I can tell they’d wait a century just to hear the next.

“About what, mighty Toa?” Lygari’s hurt pride seems to’ve subsided a bit. If nothing else he sounds genuinely open to Dume’s answer. I’m sure he’d like to be right about something.

“Lands did shake. And mountains did quake. But it was never about them.” He holds up an emphatic hand. “It was about those that had to make their way through them, and pick up the pieces.”

And so he continues.

✦ ✦ ✦

“Damned Matoran! Sneaky Matoran! Stupid Matoran!”

Mataku backed away as fast as he could without tripping on his own feet. By his side, his dagger dripped gray internal protodermis. To his front, its bleeder, a Steltian marching and cursing uncivilized vows for payback. He still clutched his wound, a deep gash at the center of his ankle. It’d make pursuit difficult; or at least that was the hope.

The corners of Mataku’s eyes could barely catch their surroundings: the interior of a small cubic fort, walls the dull gray of cheap metal, the grounds carelessly dotted with weapon stands and huts of canvas. More than a few other warriors occupied it, and his presence wasn’t a secret to any of them. And yet they all just…stood there. Watching. He might’ve even caught a chuckle or a smirk in the audience. Seems they were amused, and curious how a proper one-on-one could play out. Great Spirit knows they had nothing else to entertain their days.

Just as well. Mataku wasn’t confident in his chances as it was.

Dume wished he could voice superior faith on his end. In truth, Carapar had him on perilous ropes. Melee was no good, and his list of tricks was running thin. His latest in the line, a whip of fire extended straight from his palm. Keeping any elemental construct so solid and precise was taxing without a proper weapon, but not impossible. It couldn't afford to be.

Dume’s mind was weathered, a cliff ashore carved by relentless waves into a sharp concavity fit to collapse, but he still had a job to do. They all did. So he’d hold his flame, lash his whip, lasso his foe, throw him, pound him, again and again, as many times as it took to bring Carapar down.

But he, like any Barraki, could always smell weakness, as surely as a Takea shark smelled blood in the water. And it only took one clasp of the whip with his own hand, searing pain ignored, to turn Dume’s tactic on its head. One lash in reverse sent the Toa deep into rubble without another thought.

Another trick off the list it seems.

Further still out in the field, a lance of ice pierced a Steltian in his right shoulder, cleaving armor and muscle just enough to make his mounted Kanoka launcher as good as slag. Aidau gave his hand a sharp swipe to the left. The tip of the lance followed, its end veering into a hooked curve. It wasn’t leaving its victim just yet.

Aidau puppeted the ice one step more, thrusting his arm to himself. The ice, too, followed, guided towards him, and carrying a very unwilling Steltian in tow. Aidau let the train of metal pass, its new destination one of the warrior's comrades, who’d picked an unfortunate time to try and sneak behind him. The two collided in a cacophony of scrap and fell for the hills. Aidau almost felt proud of himself.

WHACK!

Aidau cursed himself, even more than he cursed the Steltian that had just sucker punched him in the gut, or his two pals closing in on either side. His groove was gone, and they were just finding theirs.

Aidau let his breath find its way back into his lungs. The precious moments to do so allowed his enemies another few feet of ground. They grew closer, bolder, no doubt certain they’d struck the critical blow that’d bring their stubborn Toa down.

Here’s the part where I disappoint them.

He twirled his scythe in hand, faster and faster in expert rotations. The air chilled, adding an extra hoarse whistle to his scythe’s circular dance. The Steltians slowed; should they stop this? Could they? Or would that only make it worse? An explosion of frost ensured they wouldn’t need to worry about that any longer.

Mataku caught his breath behind a tent. He hoped he’d earned himself that much a reprieve. He couldn’t keep this going for long. To some extent he always knew that, since the moment his knife found Steltian flesh - a memory already unreal in his head, product of some other sneaky, stupid Matoran. But what he didn’t know was how much longer Kamate needed to finish the mission. And so this would go on as long as it needed to.

Inelegant claws ripped through canvas. What little shadow the tent cast upon Mataku fell away, its form slave to his Steltian pursuer now, draping his person in sandy cloth. His unhappiness hadn’t improved.

“Kill…you…”

Mataku stabbed his other foot before a better idea could take root. The Steltian howled. The Matoran ran.

Fear guide me. Fear push me. Fear do something. Just keep me ahead.

Time for a dirtier tactic. Dume hadn’t wanted it to come to this, but his options had long since been exhausted. Even the color of his armor was noticeably dimmed now, etiolated as blossoms strangled by drought. A glaring symptom of elemental subsidence. This was all he had left. And he hoped, and frankly was quite sure, that these creatures would appreciate the opportunity.

He raised a flattened hand overhead, its edges glowing orange with a restrained heat. He sliced it down, cutting air and chain in equivalent ease. At last, from their chariot and decades of service, the Rock Lions were free. They huffed and sniffed about, investigating this new sensation the only way they knew how. It was strange, alien, and that begged the question: what to do with it?

The growl of a rampaging Barraki provided a possible answer. Carapar climbed to his feet not a few yards away, batting off soot and rubble from another in a long line of failed assaults his fiery opponent had wrought. His dents shallow, his strength unemptied, he had plenty of fight left to give, which suited at least one of the Rock Lions just fine.

And suited Dume even more so. The lions’ release was only part of his plan, the distraction to cloak the goal. The shattered remains of his hammer laid just a ways to the left, towards Carapar. Not an easy mend even for a skilled craftsman, but Dume’s Kanohi Kiril - a Mask of Regeneration - had a habit of defying such things. If he could reach it, he could repair it, and if he could repair it, this fight may yet yield favor. He only needed the opening, which the lion was more than ready to give.

It charged, its mane bursting back to life with a vibrant cornucopia of flame that honored Dume’s patronage. It roared, years of toil shirked off in one triumphant gesture of sound and fury. And it leaped, claws borne, straight for Carapar’s throat. Dume couldn’t dream a more fitting end.

But dreams, of course, seldom matched the reality. This reality being a very angry Carapar catching the lion midair by the throat, beating it senseless aloft, and tossing its broken corpse aside with candid indifference. The other lion eyed the body of its sibling, then the taunting eyes of its killer. In that silence, in those eyes, a choice.

Defy me or join him.

If vengeance ever crossed the lion’s mind, it never showed it. Not for the Barraki at least. Now Dume, it had a few choice words for. It pounced for him, mane ablaze with cerise. He could barely duck away in time, the lion instead planting itself firmly between him and the hammer. Another dirty tactic then.

The Toa thrust out an instinctive hand, fingers arched and crooked to claw an unseen edge. The lion’s newfound glow slowly faded, its flames fluttering into tepid sparks. Confronted with his own element in play, Dume had himself another Toa trick to call upon. When lacking, power could come from anywhere, or be reaped from anything. The lion shook its head profusely. It could sense the transaction, fire ebbing and leaving a telltale trail in its wake to the buyer.

It turned enraged eyes on Dume, and charged once more regardless. It had no idea how the Toa was doing it, but it required few guesses as to why, and had no intent of being made a pawn any longer. But new strength already surged through the Toa’s frame, instilling healthy luster back to his dulled hues. He thrust both hands forward now, outstretched, and carried with them a torrent of flame. A Rock Lion’s hide could endure heat of any measure, but the sheer force of the blast was enough to knock it right off its feet and send it into a tumbling roll, all the way to back to its master.

Carapar made no effort to hide his disdain. No mew or yelp from the pitiful creature would sway that. Nor would it sway the heavy foot he placed on its head, or the flex in his thighs as he pushed down with merciless force. The giant wad of broken hammer smashing into his chest, however, may be better suited.

Dume threw its remaining hilt close behind, straight and true as a javelin. It found a new home in Carapar’s shoulder, thrusting him off his already dubious balance and back to the ground. The Toa nodded to the creature below as it opened its eyes, a little surprised the end hadn’t already come. Not a word of Matoran lurked on a Rock Lion’s tongue, but such a gesture was immediately understood even to it. And it ran as fast as its paws could carry it.

“Nothing is sacred to you, is it?” Dume observed, weaponless once again.

“Says the low-blower siccing beasts on their own master,” Carapar growled, climbing to his feet. He plucked the broken handle from his shoulder, and crushed it to splinters in his hand for good measure. With any luck, the Toa’s spine would be next.

Dume steadied himself into a stauch pose that hopefully better hid the fatigue weighing his arms down. “If all their loyalty rested on was an unbroken chain, you were never their master.”

Carapar could be quite fast when he wanted to be. And Dume’s thin illusion of vigor held little stance before a shrewd eye. Carapar broke through it with ease, and wrapped an annoyed claw around the Toa’s throat.

“It’s funny. You remind me of my boss,” he spat to a gasping Dume. “I hate my boss.” He threw Dume into the ground, leaving a Toa-shaped print in the dirt. He kept his grip on the Toa’s throat tight.

“This…will not…avail you…” Dume whispered.

“No?”

Dume thrust a bent leg between them, high and hard enough to implant a knee into Carapar’s face. It dazed him just enough to slacken his grip. A push from Dume’s other foot broke it entirely.

“No.” Dume shifted himself back, buying more precious space between them. “You keep making the same mistake.”

Carapar rubbed his chin, more amused now. There were only so many more ways this could go. “And what’s that, fire-spitter?”

“The same mistake your kind always makes.” He began to circle him, eyes still trained. “That strength comes from domination and rule.”

Carapar rolled his eyes. This again. He remained still in Dume’s circle - his paltry attempt at assertion - only following his moves with a patient gaze.

“And let me guess. It really comes from coddling the weak, swathing them in little Matoran cradles, put to sleep with lullabies of false promise, blah-dee blah-dee blah.” His disgust made itself no secret. “It’s like you Toa share a script.”

“It’s more than that.”

Carapar cocked his head to the side, curious.

“It’s about giving them a chance to be more than what they are. There is no ‘the weak,’ Barraki, only the strong, and those that haven’t yet found their strength.”

Carapar scoffed. “What is it you think we do, Toa?” He gestured a clawed hand to the fields, to the undoubtable armies of brute lying in wait. “Do you think those bruisers had a life before we found them? A real life? We uplifted them! We gave them power!”

“The only power you ‘give’ anyone is the power to take…and that is no power at all.”

Dume tried to punctuate the statement with a twisted kick to the head. Carapar caught it as easily as he had the last dozen. It was swatting a fly at this point.

Is that right?”

He clutched his ankle tight and pulled him overhead. As his body found impact at the end of the arc, Dume’s mask decided it’d finally had enough. It wrested itself from the Toa’s rattled face and plopped into a safer patch of dirt a few feet away. His weak body went even limper without a Kanohi to empower it. And yet despite it all, his voice held firm.

“It’s a farce, Barraki, and it will fall,” Dume growled. “As every empire of glass idols has before you, and will after you.”

He did his best to upstage whatever meekness he could with defiance. Carapar dropped the rest of him, letting the Toa lie in the dust. Such a pathetic sight alongside such bold words was almost worth a laugh. Instead he opted to humor him.

“It’ll last as long as it suits us, and it’ll be remembered long after. And our name…our very name will be synonymous with conquest itself.” He looked away, higher, to the darkened sky, as if its lights still twinkled just for him. “And when we’ve risen high enough, Mata Nui Himself will see us.” It was as unabashedly sentimental as his voice had ever sounded.

Dume had to stifle his own laugh. His body wasn’t in any state to handle one. “If Mata Nui ever had that pleasure, He’d spit on you.”

Carapar placed a foot on Dume’s head, a fine enough substitute for his rogue beast of burden. “Let me worry about that.” His muscles tensed, beginning to press.

KZZZZ-RAK!

A blast of ice cut the act short, colliding into Carapar’s back and launching him a few yards over. Its sender stood tall behind him: a very weary but victorious Aidau, steaming scythe in hand. Carapar pushed his humiliated face off the dirt and scowled at the interloper. One strong push of his shoulder blades cast the ice from his back.

“You Toa never learn.” He charged.

Aidau twirled his scythe, letting parallel streams of ice fly. They coiled themselves at different targets: legs, arms, and chest. From impact, expansion, entombing the Barraki in a growing cocoon of ice. No limbs left to carry him, he tumbled to the ground mid-run. He wretched. He fought. But every space made, every crack rendered, was immediately undone with fits of icy growth more.

“You’d be surprised,” Aidau replied, surely but tired, and too tired to even hide it. He plucked Dume’s mask from the dirt, and shook off any debris that hurt its sheen. He let his brother find his own way to his knees, only kneeling down to meet him halfway. “I think this works better on your face.”

Dume clasped it, and thrust it back to his face unceremoniously. “Thank you, brother.”

Aidau smirked. “What else are we for?”

Dume returned it. “Shining my boots, polishing my hammer, but this will do for now.”

Neither laughed, but they didn’t need to. The heart of one was felt, in tone, in smile, and in tight embrace as they grabbed each other’s wrists, Aidau hoisting Dume back up to steady feet. Silence was all they needed.

“Toa! Toa please!” They turned. The moment was gone but in its stead came someone much more important: Kamate, body shaking, lungs gasping. He barely had enough energy to stop safely at their feet. “We need…it’s time…we…he…” The Onu-Matoran’s breaths were taking heavier priority.

“Easy miner. Start slow,” Aidau comforted, less attitude in his tone this time. It was hard to say whether it was sincerity or fatigue that kept it at bay.

Kamate let a deeper breath enter. It stilled the shivers in his armor, if nothing else. Dume looked up, to the hatch Kamate’s footprints led back to. He seemed hopeful for another sight, and simultaneously expectant that he wouldn’t find it. All the same, it beared asking outright.

“Where’s Mataku?”

“The skittish one?” Aidau asked, surprised the Matoran was even relevant. “I thought he ran.”

“He did,” Kamate confirmed, his voice finally finding some clarity. “To the tunnels. To…to me…” Dume placed a hand on his shoulder, guiding the Matoran’s gaze up to his.

“Kamate, answer me. Where is he?”

Kamate shook his head. “We need to finish this. We need to finish it now.”

“But what—“ Aidau tried to interject.

“You don’t understand! He won’t hold out forever. It has to be now!”

Dume finally understood. More bitterly, Aidau did too.

The Steltian grew tired now. Leaking fluids, sheer pain, plain exhaustion, something slowed his feet, and it filled Mataku with the first oasis of relief he’d felt in quite some time. At long last, his pursuer fell on weary knees, his weight enough to shake mountains. Mataku wondered if now was worth a cheer.

Then he was somewhere else.

He was on the ground now, and his arm…why couldn’t he move his arm? Something felt wrong, an entire body built improper. Metal and muscle tucked into uncomfortable places. Made that way, by…by…

Someone hit me.

Mataku’s head still moved, and his eyes still worked, and with both he could see; another Steltian towered over him, interchangeable as the rest, separated only by the cold boredom on his face.

“That got old,” he said plainly, as if he’d done something as mundane as switch up a tune at the bar, not brutally cripple a Matoran with one blow.

A finality dawned on Mataku, more real, more sure than any time his nerves had tried to insist it before: he was about to die. And all he could do was laugh. It hurt to laugh. It was more of a cough. His lungs felt too misplaced to manage a proper one, but still he laughed. The bored bruiser cocked his head, perplexed.

“If that…got old…” Mataku rasped, answering the unasked question. “...have we got the show for you.”

Dume and Aidau placed parallel hands upon the ground. Their entire bodies tensed and arched with concentration. A few feet away, Carapar managed to roll his cocoon over to face them from behind. His still-free head darted about, trying to make sense of what was about to happen.

“W-what do you think you’re doing?”

Dume smiled to himself. “You said you wanted Mata Nui to see you.”

“No!”

“And He will.” His fingers dug into the soil, glowing red with elemental power. “He could use a laugh.”

Aidau’s hands matched them. In one smooth motion, their muscles released all at once. Their actions synchronous, their duty synonymous, the two Toa moved as one. Their power poured through the soil, twin streams of fire and ice bursting to life and snaking towards the tunnel, and diving into the shadows. Deep inside, the two coalesced, letting a bubble of whistling steam gather between them. Building, fuming, until they were fit a good POP to propel each either way. And the rest was torn asunder.

Columns of red and white shot into the sky across the plains. Forts all around fell away to rubble, ice impaling some with frosty spikes, fire melting others to pools of magma and slag, as their streams surged throughout the tunnels. The earth laid itself bare, its wounds raw and free, as ruins flew for the sky. Soldiers not already tossed away in the maelstrom were left only one choice: run. Carapar roared in anguish as his halcyon shrines fell to ash around him.

Mataku could only see so much from his resting place, merely the columns piercing the clouds. But he knew what it meant, and even now, could feel the flood of elements coursing below, destined as much for this place as all the rest. The Steltian felt it too, the quakes strong enough to rattle even him. His panicked eyes turned to the Matoran for some sort of comforting answer. He had none to give.

“...should…run…”

He did. Right out the gate. His fellows soon followed.

Mataku let his broken body lie back, as relaxed as his state could allow him. He watched as the towers of fire and ice stabbed the polluted heavens. Their wake cast aside the smog and ebon clouds, bracks at first glance expanding forthwith until, at last, all the sky shined with light. The fort and ground shook with a growing finality. This place, too, would soon part the sky. Mataku closed his eyes. He couldn’t wait. Nor would he need to for much longer.

For someone so quick to dissuade others from a lost cause, Kamate always seemed to find himself flag-bearer to one or another. At home it was for the simpler things, forging a launcher last minute for the next hunt, catching a bovine Mukau despite it being well out of reach. Later it was the war, already cast as the underdog with the odds stacked only higher with time. And now it was searching for anything living amongst a smoking desolate pit, where nothing living could possibly dwell.

But a Matoran was out here - a neighbor, an employee, a friend - and he was only here because of him. Despite sending everyone else packing, he’d singled him out to stay. Perhaps not by force, but Kamate knew all too well the power of words and coercion. No one would say it, but this was his fault.

“Mataku!” he cried, hands vainly cupped for further volume. He’d done so many times already to the same silent result, but he wasn’t ready to give up now.

Dume and Aidau followed behind him. Their efforts were less vocal, but their strength proved useful parsing the rubble littering the place. But not even they had found anything, living or…not.

“Mataku!” Kamate cried again. They had to be here by now. The land was almost unrecognizable, but his map still had enough left to work with. This had to be where they parted. Where Mataku had saved him, and stayed to keep it so.

Dume loomed behind him. His arm was bent but restrained, unsure to stretch a comforting hand. There would be a finality in that act, and he knew the Onu-Matoran wasn’t bereft of hope just yet. But for Dume…it dwindled. He and Aidau hadn’t held back, and he knew what they were capable of.

Something gasped in the rancid air. Kamate bolted for the sound, Dume and Aidau close in tow. Dume almost dared to hope.

“Here! It came from here!” Kamate gestured to a small patch of broken metal and burnt canvas. Dume and Aidau nodded to one-another, their tasks already assigned. One clasped an end of the metal fragment, the other another, and together they lifted the wreckage. Held high, they tossed it to the rest, to reveal its guarded treasure: Mataku. Battered, misshapen, heartlight flashing faintly, but it was him.
“Ka…mate…” Mataku whispered, voice distorted. Despite his state, he inched his head to the side to properly face him.

“I’m here, Mataku. I’m— it’ll be alright.” Kamate grabbed a hand and held it in both of his. His grip was tight and constricted, as if the effort alone could keep the life in him.

“Yes…it is…” Mataku’s head rolled back, eyes facing upward to the clear-blue sky. “Blue…”

“Yeah, it’s…it’s blue now. The skylights can shine for you.” He held Mataku’s hand closer, against his heartlight. “We did it.”

“Red…I see red too…up there…red…like they say the suns set over Metru Nui…red…lovely red…a hearth…bright and warm and…Kamate…it’s…”

“Hang tight. We can fix you. We just need— we need…” He looked up to Aidau, to Dume, for an answer. They had none. He looked back down to Mataku. “Home. W-we’ll get you home. To Atu-Koro. Remember home?”

“No…home…am…free…”

“What?” He sounded hurt. You would think Kamate had offered all the riches of the world, only to be refused.

“...warm…red…hearth…” Mataku whispered for the last time. His heartlight faded to black.

Kamate clutched the Matoran’s body to himself without a word, every muscle begging some higher power to bestow life back to it. Dume only watched, while Aidau watched him. He wouldn’t say it aloud - not here, now, in front of the Matoran - but the accusatory look to his brother said all it needed to:

This is your fault.

✦ ✦ ✦

Chronicler’s Records

The crowd remains silent. What do you say to something like that? Cheer? Sigh? Thankfully Dume clears the air with a few more words.

“The Barraki escaped in all the…commotion." He seems lacking a better word. "He gathered what forces remained and returned to his allies to the south. I’m sure he hoped to bring them all - strike back with a vengeance - but the Makuta had rallied us in kind. It all came to a swift end after that.” He looks down, probably less proud of what came next. “Aidau and I…we never spoke since then.”

Lygari hobbles over to provide some much-needed conversation.

“But…but the Matoran made his choice, did he not? Made his choice and stood. A-a noble choice, through which…even you still stand.”

Dume nods. “Yes. But to some, there are sacrifices too great to make.” He reaches into his satchel. The red Toa stone resurfaces, shining as ever. He peers into its glow. “But they loom all the same, and if we wish to protect those around us, we must choose to make them. That duty holds as true for Matoran as it does for Toa. We stand by one-another.”
He looks to his chosen Matoran, gathered around the Suva. “As you will stand by each other.” He marches to Lhikan first, and places his stone carefully in the Matoran’s shaky hands. He pulls out more from his satchel, announcing each once their owner is bestowed their respective color.

“Lhikan.” The red.

“Naho.” The blue.

“Colqi.” The white.

“Doucasse.” The green.

“Motara.” The brown.

Only one of black remains. That’s when he looks to the crowd, and once again sees me. He smiles.

“And Kamate, old friend.”

For a second I think my heartlight stops. I can’t think. I can’t…I can’t even speak, but a hundred prying eyes remind me I should probably do something. My legs do the work, put on automation and marching me to the stage. They carry me all the way to the Suva, and Dume before it. I bow - frankly I can’t think of anything else to do - before Dume places the stone in my hands. I finally return his smile.

“I’m honored,” I mutter, only soft enough for us to hear.

Lygari swoops in before the momentum can stall. No time for sappy moments I suppose. “Behold, Dume’s chosen, Mata Nui’s chosen! Toa of our glorious tomorrow! May Mata Nui’s will shine through them!”

“May Mata Nui’s will shine through them!” the crowd echoes.

They file out soon after. I notice Motara makes a particularly quick break for the boats. Guess some of us can’t keep from work for long. I envy him. The other “chosen” linger a bit longer to absorb the festivities, but one excuse or another pulls them to the exit not far behind. No doubt they bear their own duties to attend to, back home. Best to get one’s dwelling in order before uprooting their life entirely for one anew.

The rest move more gradually. A few pats hit my back from interchangeable faces, telling me how honored I am, how proud these strangers are of me. It’s all a little surreal to process. I let them pass, thank them in kind, and remain, until the temple is left in silence.

I breathe. I flex my fingers. I remind myself that this is real, that the stone in my hand is real, and all not some figment of a dream gone wild. I’m going to be a Toa. I’ll be able to move the very earth with my hand, my mask will finally be enabled the power to see the unseen, and my village…Atu-Koro will never know danger ever again. But I need one more thing before I go.

I find him on a balcony, overlooking the silver protodermis sea that spans the temple and the city. It already carries so many ships homeward bound. It might be the only chance most of their passengers will ever have to be here, at Metru Nui itself, and yet…this one little ceremony was all they needed to be satisfied. Dume seems less so.

“Plan to stick around a little while longer?” I ask.

“For a time. Lygari intends to arrange a list of island governments in need of new leadership. ‘Fresh protodermis,’ as he put it.”

“Maybe this place could use some of that.” I’m anything but subtle.

Dume chuckles at the prospect. “Perhaps, someday. But even I will have things to learn before affording that much ambition.”

“Pfft, Lygari’d probably just give his seat to you.”

“My point exactly.” He gives me a knowing look. “Such power is earned, not taken.”

I look down at the Toa stone in my hands. I give it a soft press to remind myself it isn’t just some painted lightstone. It still doesn’t feel quite real…and yet a weight lurks in there too, pulling it down.

“Did…did I earn this?” I finally ask. Dume doesn’t answer. I’m sure he thinks he doesn’t need to, that I should know him better than that. But still, even after all this time, a thought remains. “It should’ve been me.”

Dume turns to me with a disappointed scowl. “He made a choice, Kamate.”

“Only because I refused to make mine.” I hold the stone up to my eye. “You know what first went through my head when he stepped up like that?”

“You were proud of him.”

“That too, but, something…something ugly inside felt almost…relieved that it was him. Him, and not me. And that never went away.” I lower the stone, and glance down the yawning abyss that leads to the sea below. The stone’s lurking weight pulls harder. “Dume…how can I be a Toa with a thing like that inside me?”

Dume stares at Metru Nui’s twinkling skyline, kios of labor in continual lustrous motion.

“I never desired to be a Toa.”

I have to double-take to ensure I heard him right. “What do you mean?”

“I was content as a Matoran. Without any Toa to rely upon, we relied on ourselves, and each other. Entire militias came to be under my eye, and we defended against anything that came to do us harm.” He looks down. “It was not until we’d made a name for ourselves that we were worthy of a Toa’s attention.” He infuses more malice in the word than I’ve ever heard from anyone. It feels wrong.

“And…then you became a Toa?”

“I was offered the title, yes. And it sickened me.”

“But you wanted to protect your people! How better to do that than as…as a Toa!” I don’t know why I’m getting so invested. Why should this bother me?

“At the time they were worthless to me. Powerful, yes, more so than any Matoran could dream of, but also a hindrance. A permit to stagnate, to shirk greater duties and resign yourself. Why be better when Toa can be better for you?

I look him up and down, as if I need reminding of what he eventually chose. “But you became a Toa.”

“I was tricked into becoming one. I won’t name him, for the sake of whichever poor fool that reveres him, but he saw something in me. ‘The heartlight of a Toa, too large for the meager trappings of a Matoran.’ We argued for some time when I refused. I thought that’d be the end of it.” He held up his larger Toa hand. “But in the end he didn’t leave the choice to me.”

“I’m…I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be for.”

“Not for that, just…I’m happy you became a Toa.”

“As am I.” I think he can tell my Kanohi's starting to spin. “After a time.”

“What won you over?”

He winks at me. Maybe I don’t need the answer spoken. All he is, who he’s touched, it should speak for itself, but still…

“Is that it?”

“Inspiration is a powerful gift, more so than any feat or colored stone. It’s an honor to give, the greatest we can. You should know.”

My other hand clasps a hilt at my side. I pull it, raising a dagger to my chest. It’s frayed, but just clean enough that I can make out my Akaku staring back at me through the stains of rust and gray protodermis.

“Yeah…maybe I should.”

Dume taps my shoulder, gesturing to the docks below. Only one ship remains.

“I believe it’s time.”

I sheath the dagger and gaze at the Toa stone one last time. I hope it makes my embrace around Dume’s legs that much tighter.

“I don’t think ‘Thanks’ will ever be enough.”

Dume wraps one arm around in an awkward attempt to return it.

“It will not need to be.” He kneels down, putting us level. “When we meet again, it’ll be as a cross, old Turaga, and a very noble Toa. Of that, I am sure.”

He rises, and yet, not so much as to tower over me. The gap between us feels all the shorter. What I wouldn’t give to see how Mataku would look in comparison. To see the shadow he’d cast over either of us.

With that we depart, below and above. Futures set, and much work to do.

✦ ✦ ✦

✦ ✦ ✦

--Afterword to Tiarun’s Toa Talks and Travel Thoughts, Issue #459, written by Toa Colqi

From the desk of Kodan, Chronicler of Metru Nui

Here follows an account from Naho, Toa of Water; transcribed, collated and dramatised based on diary entries, interviews, and historical archives; regarding her life as a Matoran, her induction as a Toa, and her impromptu abandonment of her previously assigned Toa Team.

---

Naho spent much of her time in her hut tending to her specimens. While her job was to catch fish, this habit of hers was not what was expected of her.

On this particular coastline of The Northern Continent, two major industries dominated Matoran life; crafting and fishing. The Ta-Matoran crafted, and Naho's tribe fished. Naho tried to catch her fair share, but the fish were far too interesting. Studying them, admiring them, observing the unique creations which The Great Beings had gifted them; this was what she found important. Understanding these creatures deeply was her true aspiration.

As such, she frequently spent more time admiring the fish than catching them, much to the dismay of the authoritative Okesh. She acted as Naho’s de-facto boss, with the thrilling job title of “Mistress of Fisheries.” Naho could usually talk her way out of the odd lecture or two, but yesterday marked the last of Okesh’s patience.

Naho had spent so long yesterday trying to corral a tentacled Lightfish into a leaking satchel of seawater that she'd completely abandoned the quota. Its floating motion and gelatinous body made it hard to trap effectively. Only when Okesh roared her name loud enough to disturb the whole continent did she finally recognise just how long she'd been distracted. She had barely managed to convince Okesh that the Lightfish was simply to be used as a replacement for a lightstone she’d broken the other day.

But the verbal tidal wave about The Virtues had been worth it for Naho. The Lightfish had been only dimly glowing when she'd found it, but now it illuminated her whole room with a pale blue light. She sprinkled a few crushed flakes of dried fish over the top of its new clear protodermis tube, feeding it as much as she could to help it get back to full strength.

Suddenly, she heard heavy footfalls outside of her hut. Naho snapped to attention. Wheeling around, she checked her water clock. The measuring tube filled slowly with a perfectly calculated stream of water, hitting certain markers as the hours dripped by.

She should have been down at the beach with her fishing tackle long ago.

"Where is that Rahi-Bones?" growled a low voice outside, one Naho had heard far too much of the night before.

Quick as a rogue wave, Naho grabbed her fishing rod and bait box and clambered through the window. When Okesh barged in, tramping and stamping across the reed mats, looking for the tarry fisher, all she found was an empty hut, a hastily thrown open window sash and a glowing Lightfish jar dangling from the roof. She shook her head and groaned.

Dashing down the sloped edges of the headland, Naho was already letting her imagination run wild with images of strange deep-sea Rahi.

The eastern shore of the continent was a calm enough place, and Naho could guarantee peace and quiet when alone on this beach in particular. Moreover, this stretch of shoreline had the most interesting fish. She sat on a rock ledge about two bio from the water’s edge and cast her line into the gently lapping waters around the continent’s edge. She was determined to not be distracted from her duty this time.

After a while, she reeled in a Ruki fish. Then another. Then another. Her mind began to wander. Her eyes scanned the horizon for something to keep her occupied while something more impressive found its way onto her hook. It was during this distraction that a strange glint caught her eye.

Out in the water, catching the daylight, was a metallic object roughly twice as long as she was tall, with a rounded point and a flat edge. She could make out little else—that is, until it flipped and she saw a flash of red.

There was a Ta-Matoran, desperately clinging on, gasping for air.

She sprang to her feet, dropped her tackle and was waist-deep in water before she could blink. Her feet propelled her quickly through the ocean, and in moments she was climbing onto the metal plank. She pulled the struggling Ta-Matoran onto the board and balanced both herself and him to keep their shelter from flipping again.

“Fire-Spitters don't do well in the water,” said Naho between panting gasps.

The water-logged Matoran coughed as he shook his head. "No," he spluttered, "we don't."

His red armour was accented in scratched yellow metal. His Hau matched the golden eyes that shone out from underneath it. Despite his time in the water, he was still stained with ash, and his fingers were a silvery-blue from overexposure to the heat of his forge.

She recognised him from her village, but Naho had never interacted with him before. Though they lived in the same town, the Ta-Matoran and Ga-Matoran kept mostly to themselves, except at gatherings or to exchange food and supplies. There had always been a little suspicion between tribes, but out here away from the capital, the necessity of survival had elbowed out petty rivalries and left only a playful competition.

She looked down at the object they were using as flotation. Despite being made of metallic protodermis, it floated effortlessly, though it required balance to keep it from tipping. She, of course, was used to the motion of the waves from fishing with her fellow Matoran on outrigger boats, but she still had to take a second to get a feel for the board. She wasn’t surprised that the Ta-Matoran struggled, since he’d likely never been off-shore before. She patted it lightly, and her own armoured hand contacted the surface with a pleasing metallic ring. It was hollow, to her surprise. Strong enough to retain its shape with little flexing, yet light enough to be carried easily, even by a Matoran.

“It’s a nice table you’ve built,” she said.

“It’s supposed to be a lavaboard,” the Ta-Matoran groaned. “I thought I’d try it out on the water first, but it doesn’t even float right! It’ll never be good enough for a Toa…”

She glanced down at the mirrored surface of the board. “It’s floating now.”

The smith huffed and focused on shaking the water off his armor. Naho ran her hand along the surface of the board. The craftsmanship was flawless; clearly the problem wasn’t with the board. She looked back at the Ta-Matoran.

“Seems pretty well-made to me,” she said, slyly.

“Of course it’s—!”

Lhikan barely caught himself, and Naho grinned. He heaved a long, low sigh; sounding more like a pair of bellows than a Matoran.

“Perhaps… I could use some help,” he admitted.

Naho smiled warmly, clapping her hands against her knees as if to mark the beginning of her lesson.

“The waves are the hard part,” she said, mimicking the motion of the sea with her hand. “I can help you get the balance down.”

She pushed herself up on her hands, pulled her feet under her, and stood up. The board barely shook as she carried out the swift motion. She held out a hand to the despondent Ta-Matoran.

“Let’s get your knees under you first,” she said. “Find your balance before you try to get your feet flat.”

He glanced back at the shore for a moment, before looking up with a renewed determination, and taking her hand. He wobbled, but she steadied him. He shook, but she managed to get him onto his knees. After a minute or so of gauging his balance, he planted his feet, and she pulled him up. She looked into his fiercely glowing eyes and chuckled.

“See, the board works fine.”

He laughed too, awkwardly keeping his hands out to the side to keep his balance. “Well—” he said, wobbling again, “it is well-made.”

She extended a fist. “I’m Naho! I fish.”.

His arms were busy waving around, but he managed to bring one in to tap his fist against hers.

“Lhikan. I… work the bellows, mostly.”

They spent a long while out on that board. Lhikan learned a lot about the art of surfing, and Naho learned even more about her bizarre companion. Ga-Matoran didn’t surf as often as Ta-Matoran, but the main difference was that one group understood water while the other understood lava. Naho warned Lhikan that lava would be different from this practice run. He understood, and they both agreed that his idea was a good first step; it would give him a basic idea of how the board felt under him.

Every time Naho brought up any detail of the craft, Lhikan spent perhaps a minute or more than he intended explaining the technique that went into every curve and notch and the purpose of these details. Naho noticed that as he spoke about his blacksmithing, he became more animated, and seemed to handle the bobbing motion of the waves more easily.

Eventually, as they took a break back on the beach, Lhikan asked why she had come out here so far from the village.

“Most of the Ga-Matoran fish on the other side of the village,” he observed.

She nodded. “That’s why I’m here. I got a lecture from Okesh yesterday about missing my daily fishing quota.”

“Okesh…” he mused. “She’s the really intense one, isn’t she?”

Naho chuckled, agreeing, then froze. “My quota!” she said suddenly, jumping to her feet. “I’ve only caught a quarter of what I need to. If I go back to the village with anything but a full fishbox, Okesh’ll kick me all the way to Karzhani.”

Lhikan looked out to the horizon. “It’s getting late… and I don’t like the look of those clouds.”

Naho began walking back to her fishing spot. “Doesn’t matter!” she said as she passed behind him. “I have to do my duty, rain or shine.”

The blacksmith looked back at the dark clouds gathering in the distance, and thought for a moment, before grabbing his board and laying it down in the water. “Then get your gear, and we’ll head out.”

Naho stopped, looking back at him with a puzzled expression. “We?”

Lhikan nodded without hesitation. “We’ll get it done twice as quickly with the two of us,” he said. “Consider it repayment.”

Naho smiled and ran up to the rock ledge where she’d dropped her tackle. With a net in his hand, and a spear in hers, they paddled back out. Lhikan pulled himself closer to her on the board and observed the first strike, having fished only a little in his time and needing the guidance. Naho’s aim was good, but each time she struck at a fish, the Ruki got away so easily it was as if the spear had barely touched it. It didn’t take him long to notice the issue.

“I can’t speak to your technique,” he said, offering his hand and motioning to her spear. She handed it over to him and he inspected the tip. “But this isn’t a fishing spear, it’s a hunting spear.”

Naho stared blankly at him for a moment. “There’s a difference?”

Lhikan chuckled. “Fish are slippery,” he said, fiddling with the spear tip and removing it from the haft. “You gotta have a tip that holds onto them right. One with barbs...” He dug around in her tackle box, and after a moment, pulled out a sleek spearhead with barbs curving backwards from the tip, made to look like crashing waves.

“That thing?” she asked. Lhikan nodded. “I always used it for cutting reeds…”

The Ta-Matoran stifled a laugh. He began tying the replacement to the shaft, his movements quick and confident. Naho had seen Ga-Matoran less skilled with fishing gear.

“How do you know so much about fishing spears?” she asked.

Lhikan looked up for a moment with a grin. “Who do you think makes them?”

He pointed to a stamped mark on the base of the blade. A series of hexagons, Matoran letters that spelled out Lhii. His Maker Mark. She hadn’t noticed it there before.

He handed back the complete spear.

“There you go,” he said, smiling, “a fully functional fishgig.”

Naho gripped the spear and nodded in appreciation. They returned to their work, and Naho immediately noticed the difference the spear tip made. Previously, every fish slipped off her spear before it could leave the surface of the water, but now the barbs held strong, wedging between armour plates and hooking underneath scales and fins.

“Don’t you ever get bored making speartips?” she asked while waiting for another fish to pass by. “When you can make a work of art like a lavaboard or a Toa Tool, why spend your time with a pointed stick?”

“Well,” he began, tossing out the net, “if I don’t do it, someone else has to. That means they don’t have time to do the things they enjoy. Plus it’s practice, regardless.” He looked back at her and shrugged. “How am I supposed to make a Toa Tool if I can’t make a fishing hook?”

She thought for a moment as he returned his attention to the net. She’d never really considered the idea. Maybe she wouldn’t have spent so much time yesterday trying to herd the Lightfish into a satchel if she had more experience with catching fish in general. Then she began to wonder how many individuals had been inconvenienced by her lack of focus?

Naho hefted her fishgig, weighing it in her hands with a newfound appreciation.

Then Lhikan pulled up his net, and Naho’s jaw dropped in awe.

Inside the net was a bizarre kind of Rahi she had never seen before. It was about the shape of the Lightfish she’d caught the other day, only with six tentacles that branched out from the sides of its body instead of the underside. Each leg was a different colour, but which tentacle was which colour seemed to switch at random intervals. Its body was mostly organic, with two bulging eyes on the top of its head. It curled and writhed with a unique motion that she couldn’t quite compare with anything she’d seen before. With its glistening eyes, it observed both of the strange creatures that held it captive, boiling the water on its red tentacle and freezing the droplets on its white one.

Naho’s face lit up. She lowered part of the net into the water to keep the Rahi as comfortable as possible, then immediately took out the tablets she kept in her tackle box, and carved as much as she could about the creature into the wet clay of the slab. Finally, she nodded to herself and hid the tablet back in her box.

“Should I put this one into the box?” asked Lhikan.

She shook her head. “I couldn’t bear to see something so unique taken out of the world for something so trivial as food.”

She looked back out to sea for a moment, before tipping the net over. Lhikan relinquished his grasp on it, and watched her release the strange tentacled being.

The Hexapod seemed to hover in the silvery water for a moment, before thrashing wildly. Naho noticed that its black leg was forming rocks around it like natural armour, but the rocks had become entangled in the net. As gently as she could, she held the Rahi’s leg still with one hand and cut the net with the head of the fishgig, setting it free.

The Rahi began to move more naturally, but with a swift motion she didn’t expect, it snatched the speartip out of her hand. The metallic object seemed to adhere to its skin, and it slowly slid up the creature’s arm. Eventually, the blade settled over the midline of the Hexapod’s body, creating a barbed spine to protect the creature. She’d have to add this behaviour to her notes when she got back home.

The Rahi seemed to stretch for a moment, getting used to its new armour, before gently wrapping a tentacle around Naho’s hand. She smiled as it looked up at her, and then it disappeared into the depths.

“You fish up a lot of interesting things?” Lhikan asked.

Naho watched the strange creature swim away into the hazy distance before answering.

“Sure. Most of them could even swim,” she said, shooting a jovial smirk his way.

Lhikan scoffed, but he was smiling.

The moment was cut short as the board began to rock more unpredictably than before. Naho looked to the sky and the sea seemed to drop out from under her.

“Hey, Lhikan? Remember those clouds you mentioned?”

The clouds had silently rolled in overhead and now the wind was picking up. Naho wordlessly began to paddle the board back towards shore, and Lhikan quickly followed her lead. The waves rose higher and higher as the squall hit, and the two Matoran were buffeted more and more with each passing second. As they neared the shore, the waves began to crash around them. A breaker twice their height was headed right for them, and they paddled desperately, trying to outrun it, but the wave swept over them, and they were thrown into the ocean.

The impact knocked the breath from Naho, and she couldn’t tell which direction was up. In the dizzying flurry of bubbles and swirling water, she caught glimpses of Lhikan struggling, and then something blue and white approaching them at speed from below. She tried her best to stabilise herself to get a better look, but before she could, she saw the blur snatch up Lhikan before she felt the other arm wrap around her waist. The water rushed past her quickly until it suddenly disappeared, and she realised they were high up in the air. A shock hit her as they landed, and she was set down in the sand with a gentle, if undignified, swiftness.

Looking up and catching her breath, she laid eyes on a Toa of Water. She stood tall, leaning on one leg and with a hand on her hip, her armour coloured like a breaking wave in blue and white accents, eyeing the pair with a disapproving amusement.

“One of yours,” she said, motioning to Lhikan and speaking to someone behind Naho. “The one you were looking for, I’d wager?”

Following the Toa’s gaze, she found herself staring upside-down at a Toa of Fire wielding a warhammer larger than any Naho had ever seen. Spinning her body around to look at the Toa the right way up, it was clear that he was trying to keep a straight face behind his mask.

Lhikan shook the water from his own mask before taking in his surroundings.

“Toa Dume!” he exclaimed, scrambling to his feet and wrapping himself around the lower half of the Toa of Fire.

“Little Lhikan,” Dume said with a warmth befitting a Toa of Fire. “I assume this was a misguided attempt to test out the board?”

Lhikan detached himself from the Toa and seemed to shrink for a moment.

“Forgemaster Taga told you?”

Dume nodded with a sage smile.

“He told me you had hammerscale instead of brains. Then I noticed that the Lavaboard you were working on was missing, and I put one and two together.”

The reminder of Lhikan’s forgemaster at home jogged Naho’s own memory. She checked her surroundings, and found only her tackle box and the surfboard. Her overstuffed catch-box was nowhere to be seen.

“No!” she cried out, “all the fish! Okesh will use my head as an anchor if I don’t fill my quota today.”

The Toa of Water looked down at the Matoran.

“I think a storm blowing your catch into the sea is a good enough reason to miss a quota.”

Naho shook her head.

“I’ve already missed one quota,” she said. “I need to do my duty, even if I have to sit in this storm during the night. I can’t have others picking up my slack again.”

Dume watched, nodding to himself with a sage smile.

“Unity and Duty,” he observed.

He stood his hammer head-down in the sand as he knelt down to her level and took Lhikan by the shoulder, looking between both of them as he spoke.

“Fire and water may conflict in nature, yet you two share one thing in common. The heart of a Toa.”

He stood, grabbed his hammer and the board from the ground and spun on his heels to address Naho again.

“Keep that spirit within you, little one.” He motioned for the others to follow him back to the village.

Lhikan lingered behind for a moment to address Naho.

“I need to get back. But I promise I’ll see you again… I’ll bring a new spear tip,” he chuckled.

“And I’ll teach you to swim, Fire-Spitter!”

He gave her one last look and a wave as he sped out of sight, following the pair of Toa. Naho was left on the beach to gather what she could before the daylight ebbed.

---

Naho couldn’t believe it. She had become a Toa.

Dume had decided to give up his powers, passing them on to create a new generation of Toa, and she had been picked as one of them. Lhikan had been chosen as well, but somehow that didn’t surprise her as much. She wondered if Lhikan had put a good word in with Dume about her.

Her head was spinning as she left the ceremony. Maybe it was a side effect of the Toa Power now surging within her, or maybe it was just hard to keep track of all the sudden changes to her life.

“Naho!” called a voice from behind her. It was deeper now, but it was still familiar.

“Lhikan,” she said with a relieved sigh. She caught him up in her arms in a tight embrace, and he gladly returned the hug.

“Can you believe it?” she asked.
He laughed as they pulled apart. “I’m working on that part, I’ll let you know when I get there.” His golden eyes glowed brighter than ever, powered by fiery Toa Power.

“Where are you headed then, Bellows?” she asked. “Dume’s sending me to join a team who needs a new member.”

Lhikan rubbed the back of his neck. “Dume’s sending me to train at The Fortress with Toa Aidau.”

Naho’s eyes widened. “Dume’s old partner?”

Lhikan nodded. “He says he wants me to hone my combat skills. Says that Aidau will need me out there.”

Naho nearly bounced out of her armour. “He’s a legend!”

The Toa of Ice was a hero of The Barraki War, rivaled only by Dume himself. Few Toa were as famous or as powerful as him.

Lhikan chuckled. “It’s an incredible honor.”

Naho suddenly realized what this meant. Lhikan was being sent to the opposite side of the world, far to the south. “How long… how long will you be down there?”

Lhikan breathed a long sigh. “I don’t know…” he said finally. “But this is a big opportunity for me, I can’t just pass this up.”

She took a long moment to process. Eventually, she nodded. “I understand,” was all she could say. He rested a hand gently on her shoulder, and for a moment she was snapped out of her daze.

“Hey,” he said. “I promise, we’ll see each other again.”

She tried to smile. “Yeah, for sure. We’ll see each other again.”

This was good for him. She should be happy for him. But still, she felt a pang of pain stabbing deep into her heart. She hugged him one last time and to her surprise, when she tried to pull away he only held on longer.

“I’ll miss you, Bellows,” she whispered.

---

Naho found herself half-buried in a solid wall of ice before she could blink. Pain radiated out across her whole body.

When the Ko-Matoran said they’d broken open an iceberg and released a monster, she thought they meant something maybe twice her size. A Rahkshi or a Frost Beetle, perhaps. She wasn’t expecting something five times her height capable of knocking her across the field with no effort.

She collected herself, peeled her body out of the crater it had left, picked up her fallen Aqua Blades, and faced the direction she’d come from. Looming over the field was a strange creature standing on six armoured limbs, lashing out at the assembled Toa who had come to drive it off.

She prepared to sprint back into the action, but an invisible hand pulled her to the side, just in time to dodge a spout of flame from one of the creature’s limbs. As she regained her balance, her teammate became visible again, and Naho saw the dimly glowing orange Huna of their Toa of Plasma.

“This is going well,” he said dryly.

Naho scoffed. “If we survive this, Uranga,” she said, rolling her shoulders to work out the pain, “I’m going to personally drag you to Karzahni.”

“If you kill this thing, Naho, I’ll let you.”

The two charged back at the Rahi, which seemed to be shrugging off most of the Toa's elemental attacks. It waved away Koha's lightning bolts and pushed through an ice wall from Koero like it wasn't even there. Kakku's sonic attacks seemed to catch its attention, and it kicked him across the ice in a tall arc towards the Matoran village. He tumbled through the roof of some poor Matoran's home with a crash that could be heard even at this distance. Uranga attacked a leg with his tonfa, but couldn’t make more than a minor gash in the beast’s armour. It thrashed a tentacle his way, and he disappeared swiftly using his mask power.

Naho shook the ice from her head as her thoughts collected slowly. Each Toa fighting the thing… all her addled mind could take in were the colours. Their Toa of Ice raised ice spikes to try and slow it down, but the six-legged beast was too dextrous, and its tentacles moved smoothly around the spikes. Or rather, the spikes seemed to move away from the tentacles. Naho blinked, looking closer. The armour on the Rahi was so dull and scratched, she could barely make out any colour on it. But it was coloured. In fact, each leg was a different colour—and the white arm was manipulating the icicles through an elemental affinity of its own.

Her heart stopped. She’d seen this kind of Rahi before.

She sprang into action, running over to the side of the beast where their leader was now wrapped in a tight blue tentacle, struggling to escape.

“Mantatu!” Naho called. “Put it to sleep!”

The Toa of Psionics wrestled an arm free and began hitting the leg that held her with her club. “Are you kidding?” she shouted between impacts. “It’s trying to kill us!”

Naho bellowed back, “Do it!”

Mantatu writhed for a moment, still trying to damage the beast with her club. “Get this thing off me first!” she called.

Naho rolled her eyes. She ran around the beast, coming up alongside their Toa of Lightning.

“Koha! I have an idea!”

The Toa of Lightning groaned. “Oh, great. Please tell me how you’re going to get me thrown into the sea this time, or thrown through a wall, or–”

“Stow it, Koha,” Naho said quickly. “I need you to blast the leg holding Mantatu.”

Koha paused and glanced up at their teammate. Naho saw a smile spread under Koha’s mask. “That… I can do,” she said.

Naho sprinted off to the other Toa. “Try to avoid hitting Mantatu,” she called behind her.

“No promises,” Koha said with a grin.

Lightning crackled in the air as Koha gleefully electrocuted the beast. The blast hit the blue tendril and the creature recoiled, and the tendril turned black. Koha threw another lightning blast at it, but the creature didn’t flinch nearly as much. It turned its attention to Koha.

“It didn’t work, genius!” she shouted to Naho.

The Toa of Water looked back and began to observe more closely. Koero’s ice was useless against the white leg. The leg Uranga had attacked had turned red, and now his plasma seemed unable to harm it. An idea began to form in Naho’s mind.

“Blast that one leg first,” she called to Koha. “Then the other one.”

Koha complied, aiming one of her tesla coils at the green leg, and one at the blue one. As the forked beam travelled up into the tentacle, the creature screeched. The tendril holding Mantatu seemed to turn an organic pink before swapping colours with the injured limb. Koha then returned to her first target, and the screech lengthened into a warbling yell.

The tendril holding Mantatu suddenly coiled in the opposite direction, dropping the Toa of Psionics to the ground. She landed with a grunt, brushed herself off, and then began concentrating. Her Kanohi Komau glowed a brilliant gold and began to assault the beast with mental blasts. A shimmering shockwave passed between the two foes as the word “Sleep” pounded itself into the mind of the Hexapod.

Naho ran around the perimeter they’d created, telling each Toa to stop harming the beast. Soon their weapons and powers fell silent, leaving Mantatu to bring the beast to heel. Slowly but surely, it lowered itself to the ground, weaker and weaker with each blast. Finally, it hit the icy ground, just missing the crop field, and Naho was able to approach without fear. The colours of the creature began to ripple in bizarre patterns as it sank into a deep sleep.

“What now?” asked Koero. “I don’t see how we can carry the thing away.”

Naho shook her head at his blunt thought process. She had only seen this creature once before and it wasn't aggressive; something in her gut told her there was something deeper happening here. She concentrated, and placed a hand against the armour of the Hexapod, right between its beady, black eyes. Her Zakar glowed for a moment as she channeled the power of her mask. As the creature slept, Naho began to explore.

She saw flashes. Breaking waves in the night. Undersea vistas. Its memories and dreams, laid out like the pages of a book. A nightmare bubbled to the surface. She saw a different species of bizarre six-armed creatures; bipeds, armed on each appendage with blades and claws; chasing the Hexapod through the water of the south as the icebergs around it melted to reveal an army. More and more of them fell out of the ice and hundreds of foes began chasing the creature. Rhotuka spinners cut through the night air as they tried to destroy the poor beast. Next she saw the Hexapod lying on a glacier, exhausted from its chase, but still in danger. It summoned its water and ice elements and froze itself to keep itself safe. The first memory it had upon waking up was a Matoran icepick aimed at its face.

She felt terrible for the Rahi. She wanted to ease its pain, to help it in some way. She pulled herself out of its dream and looked up at the steadily breathing mass. It was covered in layers of cobbled-together armour; some seemed to be from shells of deep-sea Rahi, some parts were noticeably Matoran-made. Then she noticed something over the spine of the beast, a small series of fins. Three points raking backwards from the face, perfectly carved to look like breaking waves.

Her breath caught for a second. She looked closer, and saw Matoran glyphs stamped into the metal. It read simply “Lhii.”

“It’s you,” Naho whispered. “Not just the same species, the same one I saw.”

Koero tapped his bladed shield impatiently with his opposite hand. “Did you find a schematic for a crane in its head? How do you suggest we get rid of this thing?”

“I’ve seen this Rahi before.” she said, “This exact individual. For all I know, it’s the only one of its kind.”

“Okay,” Mantatu said, standing with her arms crossed, “it’s still a threat. We should—”

“It’s scared!” Naho shot back, defensively. “It’s scared and it’s hungry. Something chased it away from its feeding grounds and it didn't know what else to do.”

She stared at the thing, placing a hand on its armour and listening to its breathing. She looked up at the injury that Uranga had left on its leg. She stood on the blue tentacle, and laid a hand against the livid burn. She closed her eyes, and the snow around the creature melted as she summoned her elemental power. A gentle torrent of water streamed up the tendril in a spiral pattern until it pooled under her hand. The cauterised tissue filled with the silvery liquid until it matched the contour of the rest of the flesh surrounding it. The depth of water created a shimmering blue hue that seemed to solidify until only more healthy flesh remained. In a matter of seconds, the wound was gone.

The beast began to stir. The rest of the Toa raised their weapons, but Naho made a motion to calm them as she climbed down. The Hexapod raised itself off the ground before looking at the assembled team. Each one seemed hesitant, guarded. But at the front of the group was Naho.

The Hexapod looked at her with eyes that glimmered with thought. It twisted its body in a strange way, scrunching its face momentarily as if contemplating. Slowly, gently, it reached its blue tentacle out to her. She held her arm out and the creature pressed its tendril to her hand. Now that she was a Toa, she could feel the elemental energy brimming beneath the skin of the tendril. She felt a harmonious feedback from it. It made a calm bubbling noise before crawling slowly across the ice and slipping back into the ocean.

“What was that?” asked Uranga.

Naho turned. “It remembered me. I simply helped it realise we meant it no harm.”

Mantatu blew out a frustrated snort. “I could have done that,” she said as she crossed her arms.

“Could have,” Naho said. “But would you?”

Mantatu stared at Naho with a silent malevolence that seemed to bore into her skull. Psionic Toa possessed power that she didn’t like to think about. Naho's Mask of Dream-Walking was the closest she ever wanted to see Psionic powers in action, and it was one of the least destructive powers in their repertoire.

“May I remind you,” Mantatu said, her voice low and cold, “You should listen to your superior. My plans are the default, not yours. If you undermine my authority, the whole team could suffer.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” she asked, pointedly.

They stood face to face for a long moment. Eventually the waves of disdain began to subside as Mantatu shot out a dismissive scoff.

“Come on,” she said, “we have houses to repair.” She walked through the crowd of assembled Toa, shouldering past Naho as she did.

They began making their way back to the village. On the way, they encountered their Toa of Sonics limping hurriedly back to join the fight.

“Well if it isn’t our resident comet,” Mantatu spat at him. “Welcome back, Kakku.”

He rubbed the back of his aching head. “What’d I miss?”

---

“Hold still,” Koero called out in a surly tone as he blasted the roof with a fresh layer of permafrost.

Naho, holding up a roof beam inside the building Kakku had wrecked, growled in frustration.

“If you'd stop freezing my hands, maybe I'd stop moving.”

In a moment, Koero had repaired the roof, and he climbed down from his perch on the adjacent building.

Naho pulled her hands free and shook the ice from her hands. Walking out of the house, she found the Matoran all running in one direction. Koero dropped down beside her and observed the crowd with the same confusion as the Toa of Water.

“What's got them spooked now?” Koero muttered.

Naho’s eyes followed the crowd of Ko-Matoran across the ice as it trailed down a slope to the long-neglected docks at the base of the glacier. Out to sea, she saw the metallic hull of a ship catching the last rays of twilight, cutting through the waves towards them. Naho took off running before Koero could comment.

Arriving at the dock, they pushed through the crowd of curious Matoran just as the boat was being tied to the rickety jetty. The rest of their Toa team already stood at the head of the pier, ready to welcome whoever was aboard. As Naho and Koero joined them, they were shocked to see six more Toa disembark the ship. A broad-shouldered Toa of Iron stepped forward, addressing Mantatu.

“Greetings, sister. I am Toa Isen, of the Toa Kori.”

Mantatu barely nodded. “Mantatu, of the Toa Nohim. What brings you here?”

“We’re travelling south, stopping at as many islands as possible. We’re recruiting Toa to aid in recovery efforts.” He observed the confused looks of the Toa before him, and clarified. “The Toa Fortress has been raided.”

Every member of the Nohim felt a chill, but Naho felt as though the world had frozen over. Suddenly petty concerns and grudges from past missions seemed trivial and far away.

“We don’t know who hit them,” Isen continued. “We don’t know the number of casualties, but we know it’s high.”

Naho pushed forward to stand right behind Mantatu. “Toa Lhikan?”

“I’ve not heard specifics. All I know is that Toa Aidau is missing, but they’re still searching the cliffs and outlying hills.”

Naho didn’t wait for him to finish. “I’m coming with you,” she said quickly.

Isen looked her up and down for a moment, before nodding and stepping aside to let her climb aboard. Before she could, however, Mantatu put a hand on her chest to stop her.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she hissed.

Naho spun on her heels, emotions flaring at the interruption. “My friend is out there,” she pleaded. “I need to find him.”

“Your friend is probably dead.”

Naho had reached her limit. “I would rather dig my friend’s armor out of a snow bank than spend one more day under your leadership… Mantatu.”

She shoved Mantatu’s arm aside and marched toward the gangplank, leaving her former leader fuming. Naho already felt lighter, despite the terrifying prospects ahead.

As she boarded, a clatter of footsteps behind her and a hand on her shoulder brought her about. She turned on the gangplank, ready to confront a scowling Toa, but instead she saw that Uranga had come up to her and held out his fist to her.

“I hope you find your friend,” he said. “I wish you luck... sister.”

Sister. It was the first time any of them had called her that. She nodded, returning his Toa Salute with a fist bump, and boarded the ship. Looking back, she observed each member of her former team in turn, and thought about her time with them. She had spent months stewing on just how militant and blunt Mantatu had been as a leader, and Naho had never really felt as though she belonged in her team. She’d seen enough Toa succumb to the same martial mindset, and she was determined to be on the side of compassion. A mercy mission seemed the perfect starting point.

As the sight of her former team dissolved into the misty distance, she began to focus on the one flinty spark of brotherhood that the Toa of Plasma had ignited in her. She thought about the Rahi once again; how it just so happened to come back on the day she heard news of the friend with whom she had first seen the beast all those years ago.

Whatever trepidation she might have had about her actions on that frigid dock under the piercing eyes of Mantatu, she felt it all melt away now. Naho had made her decision, and The Great Spirit had reminded her of the past in order to guide her into the future. It was Destiny. She would follow the Duty her heart laid out for her, and not the one that a club-wielding lunatic had shoved onto her.

Moreover, she knew Lhikan well. If the sea couldn't take him all those years ago, if Dume had chosen him personally to take on his Toa Power, then he could survive whatever happened at the Toa Fortress.

Slowly but surely, fuelled only by her gut, she became certain. She only ever relied on her gut anyhow. They had made a promise, years ago, and she was determined to keep it.

She would see Lhikan again.