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In the Speaker’s Chamber, Mavuika paced.
She wasn’t sure why the simple question was causing her such distress.
Xilonen had dropped by early in the morning. “So, first day off after the war,” she’d commented. “What do you want to do with it? And don’t say ‘work’, or I’ll drag you out of here myself.”
What did she want to do with her day off? She hadn’t really thought that far.
“Come on,” Xilonen said. “There must be something you’ve been wanting to do.”
But that’s the thing. There wasn’t, not really.
She’d known the war was coming, ever since Mualani’s acknowledgement as one of the Six Heroes. Well, honestly, ever since Xilonen’s acknowledgement a couple years ago, but somehow Mualani becoming the fourth hero had tipped the scales. Things were speeding up. So while she’d spent a lot of time preparing for the war, she’d also made sure to do everything she wanted to do. She’d visited the summit of the Great Volcano of Tollan, flying out over the clouds to look at Natlan from on high. She’d visited all the buildings said to have been designed by her sister Hine, getting the best picture she could of what the girl had become. She’d gone to all six tribes, in the brief pause after Ororon’s ascension, when she’d known the war was imminent, to experience their atmospheres for the last time. She’d saved the Scions of the Canopy for last, visiting all the people she’d grown up with, in this second childhood of hers. She’d said goodbye to them, then, though she hadn’t worded it that way.
After the invasion, she’d attended the celebrations. She hadn’t set up the memorial herself; there were too many people who wanted to be involved. But she’d visited it, paying attention to each name inscribed there. She knew a lot of them, but felt almost worse about the ones she didn’t. They’d given their lives for Natlan, and she didn’t even remember who they were.
She couldn’t attend each of the private memorials. But she had gone to Chuychu’s. She could never tell anyone about it, but she’d known (or suspected) that Chuychu would die. Chasca was the sixth hero, after all, and it wasn’t hard to imagine what kind of tragedy Chasca would have to transcend to inhabit her ancient name of “Vuka”. Part of her had wanted to keep the pair of them at the Stadium, when she’d sent them away, Chuychu already exhausted from her earlier exertions. Maybe then the doctor wouldn’t have died. But then it was unlikely that Chasca would have ascended, and without the sixth hero, the plan would never have worked. The two thousand casualties might well have become twenty thousand.
No, she’d done her best to save Natlan, and it had worked. The cost had been steep, but it was worth it.
Her part in paying that price was always going to come after the war. She’d known—she’d always known—what the cost of her deal with Ronova would be. The time would come for the reckoning, and she would give her life for her nation. She was okay with that; she could die happy, knowing that her land was safe. Still, it had made the celebrations a little bittersweet.
But now it was over. The Captain had decided to die in her place. She could hardly call that a tragedy for him; after five hundred years of suffering, the man deserved the peace he seemed to have found. She wouldn’t have let him take her place otherwise.
That was six days ago. Since then, she’d busied herself with work. There was so much to do, after all. But the administrative workers had all banded together to insist that she take a day off. She wasn’t sure which of them had brought in Xilonen, but her presence put a stop to any thoughts Mavuika might have had of quietly finding some work to do even now.
“You sure don’t like sitting still,” Xilonen commented, from where she lounged next to the sacred flame. “And you still haven’t answered my question. Unless you plan to spend the whole day wearing circles in the floor.”
Mavuika stopped. Xilonen was right. She had to do something, something not work-related, to convince herself that this peace was real.
“I think I’ll go to the training grounds and practice for a while,” she decided. Training usually cleared her mind.
Xilonen sat up. “Nuh-uh. No way. You aren’t doing anything war-related today.”
“What happened to doing what I want to?” Mavuika asked, half-joking.
“Is that really what you want to do? Or is that just the only thing you can think of?”
She frowned. “Did you have any suggestions?”
“I can think of plenty. Everything from riding on the Spiritway up to the Upper Sanctum to finding a tree to laze around in. But it depends on you. Do you want to be alone? Then find somewhere quiet to process everything we’ve just gone through. Do you want company? Go to the People of the Springs and listen to one of their performances, or come watch the dancers at my tribe, or head to the Flower-Feather Clan and beat every one of them in a race. Go to the Collective of Plenty and sneak some food from the orchards, or paint some graffiti at the Masters of the Night-Wind, or visit some of your old friends back at the Scions of the Canopy. It’s up to you. But no practicing, no battle reports, no work, no war. We all need to get used to peace, and you most of all.”
“I’m not sure what I want,” she admitted, after a moment.
“That isn’t surprising. We’ve all made sacrifices, but you most of all. We all lost someone, but you lost everyone. But it’s about time for you to find out what you want to do.”
“I know it is.”
Xilonen got to her feet. “How about this? You and I can go for a walk, just start walking wherever, and if you think of something you want to do, we can do that. Or you can do it without me. I’m not here to nag you, just figured you’d need a little help getting adjusted.”
“A walk sounds nice,” she agreed. Still, she couldn’t let Xilonen have her own way completely. “You know, while we walk, maybe I could tell you about my ideas for new features on my Flamestrider.”
Xilonen groaned. “What have I gotten myself into?” But she smiled, and a little of Mavuika’s tension faded.