"Come dance with us, Takanuva," Kopaka says.
Takanuva startles: his eyes fall on the Toa before him for a moment before turning again to the Ko-Matoran festivities. Further away from them Nuju looks thoughtful.
"I never learned any Ko-Koro dances," he replies, quietly, sheepishly.
"They can be taught," Kopaka just says without batting an eye, his welcoming hand extended.
It's familiarly cold when Takanuva accepts it.
He is pulled to his feet, but does not yet join the celebrations. His brother takes him a little to the side so their slowness won't be bothersome to those much more confident in their dancing.
"Your right arm," Kopaka instructs, showing him the right movement; Takanuva mirrors him. The Toa of Ice's gaze turns half-lid. "Right arm."
The Toa of Light looks down.
Ko-Koro dances are rhythmic, harsh, heavy, powerful, Takanuva finds out as he follows along - like breaking ice into enormous blocks: motions that in Onu-Koro are lighter become heavy enough to sink in the snow, strikes that in Ta-Koro are faster turn slower to build up momentum, swings that in Po-Koro are more calculated appear sharp enough to cut through stone; they maintain a certain minute grace despite it, like certain Le-Koro leaps or the ways they move their hands in Ga-Koro, and the Toa of Light tries his best to imitate it. The songs they dance to are instead thin and crystalline despite the strict pronunciation of their dialect, their pitch high and strong like wind through the icicles as the Matoran circle the bonfire.
The warm glow flicks across the spectacled white mask with a brilliant flicker, and as Takanuva watches it entranced a thought runs through him - are Ice and Light not the same element?
"Very well," Kopaka praises gently, "Very well."
He fixes his eyes on Takanuva and sees him.
It stuns the younger Toa when he realizes it, just for a second: he sees him. He doesn't see through him, past him, before him, he just sees him - he sees Takua, he sees Takanuva, when it would be so easy to superimpose someone else on him, someone whose armor was also grey and white, who was not quite as he seemed, who was much more than what he seemed, if one in a way so different from the other.
(But was it so different, in the end?)
"Very well," Kopaka repeats with the voice he has when he smiles without showing it.
Takanuva straightens his spine.
Nuju breaks their concentration, chittering and chirping and clawing at the air: Kopaka nods, whistles something that sounds in intention like 'coming, Turaga', and kindly pushes his brother among the cheering Matoran who welcome him without questioning his presence as another song commences and with it another dance.
Takanuva stumbles, unsure. Kopeke pulls his arm and shows him how to start before his Ice brother can do so himself; Ehrye yells out the chorus to the song, to teach it to him, but he messes up a line or two in his hurry before he gets it right, and so it has to start again.
Kopaka sings, too. His voice is powerful, rolling out of him like an avalanche.
Takanuva just listens at first, dancing as best as he can, slowly forgetting to look at his feet and arms and starting to have fun. He meets Nuju's eyes: the Turaga smiles calmly, content.
He starts off murmuring the chorus so softly that he can barely hear himself, volume rising slowly with each repeat; at last he's bellowing it out, syllables a little wrong but voice clear, by his brother's side, dancing just like him, singing just like him, in a crowd of whites and azures and greys that reflect the bonfire's shining light into a thousand stars like quartz prisms, until his throat feels sore and he's stumbling and laughing while holding onto the Toa of Ice's arms breathless and so very happy.
"You're a good dancer, Takanuva," Kopaka smiles at him.
"Thank you, brother," Takanuva replies, and among the dozens of things he is thanking him for on the forefront are welcoming him in his loneliness, and seeing him.
