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Somewhere on the coast, the ocean tumbles against the shore. Swamp reeds are water-swept as the gentle tug of the moon guides her inland. A summer storm riles her surface, and she roars.
Further inland, Tamtey prowls, on the hunt for rock-thorns. A steady rain patters the tree canopy, and heavy droplets plop below onto the Na’vi.
Tamtey searches alone; So’lek is out hunting, promising a juicy cut of soundblast collusus meat. He knows it is Tamtey’s favourite, especially slow-roasted. She had been left to keep herself occupied and endeavoured to start a weaving project. Koranu had taught her, so she knew what she was doing.
Tamtey stalks through the undergrowth, brushing away biting branches, ferns licking at her ankles. The smell of petrichor permeates the forest, and she breathes in a deep breath.
The rain drowns out any other smells, and in the thorny wilds, Tamtey is acutely aware of her vulnerability: she cannot smell predators. Soft clicking and various calls of the forest sound out in the distance, and a sharp bark comes from somewhere nearby. Tamtey swivels, only to find rustling leaves and ferns. She shakes her head and turns back to her hunt for thorns.
They are for the carding combs, broad, sharp-bristled brushes that align the fibres for spinning thread. She had discovered a weaving kit on one of her flights with Telisi, but was crushed when she found a part was broken.
She had left it in frustration, irritability at yet another thing going wrong blinding her to the possibilities of just fixing it. Night after night, however, she was haunted by what she missed, and her mind eventually had irked her enough, nagged her enough, that she came back, now finding herself on a quest to fix what's broken.
Cracking them off the stem, she collects the thorns in a small pouch, her fingertips careful, measured.
So’lek had taught her how to pick them correctly, guiding her to pluck them at the base, pushing them to the side to dislodge them.
The only difference is that So’lek is not here currently, and those were for thorn bombs: Na’vi and sky-people technology in a lethal mix, brutally effective. Nor had not been impressed when he found So’lek explaining the explosive to Teylan. He had snarled a disapproving comment. So’lek did not give the younger the merit of a response.
Something about that was sweetly satisfying to Tamtey and, though she loved Nor dearly, she had felt a smile creep its way up her cheeks. So’lek had glanced at her, and Tamtey had quickly averted her eyes. She’d felt a little like a child caught stealing.
A viperwolf howls through the rain. Lefnele, female, she thinks. The males don't howl on their lonesome.
The distant whip-snapping of tree branches in the wind echoes like gunfire.
Those thorn bombs were certainly lethal; Tamtey had experience with that. They were good at their job, but the way soldiers had been punctured and died slowly, howling— it still haunted her.
Tamtey had not the time to grant them a swift death, part of her mind whispers that she did not want to. When she had run out, she killed just as well with her own weapons, or her hands. Their deaths were swift, yes, but chillingly easy- especially at the hand of gunfire. The metal really had tainted her.
After that mission, she had returned to the resistance bloody and exhausted. The first thing she was met with was Nor, who had taken one look at her, her wild eyes, and muttered something disapproving about fire with fire, the stupidity of the sky-people phrase.
Walking into the infirmary, pain humming beneath her skin, she had found Alma, who had praised her. How impressive you make it look, she had commented as Tamtey was checked over by a nurse.
She had felt sick. In that metal box of the resistance HQ interior, she had felt Eywa’s voice silenced. Tamtey felt like she had been barred from the Great Mother, for the very sin of staying with the people who had saved her life.
Lost in her thoughts, she strifes left, crouching in the bush.
The horrific sound of flesh being torn is drowned out by rain, a soundless scream of pain tearing itself from her throat. She gasps, head snapping around to find blood dripping from a sharp, oversized nearby thorn.
The thorns had dug deep into an old bullet wound.
She wills herself not to cry.
With the assured deftness of a warrior, she wastes no time patching herself up. Small mutterings of self-chastising falling from her lips all the while.
She grinds the pulp of a dapophet under her blade’s hilt into her palm, working quickly, so as not for the poultice to be washed away by rain. She mixes in some spicy herbs, serving as an anti-bacterial, which will be spread over the wound to help its healing.
A pack of viperwolves mix now in full chorus, and a moon scarab flutters irritatingly close. She swats at it before spreading the poultice onto a broad leaf and plastering it over herself, moaning at the cool relief of the dapophet and the reliable disinfecting sting of the herbs.
Droplets of rain cascade over her skin as she tilts her head back, just holding the leaf in place, against her skin. She takes a final deep breath and secures it in place.
Now the threat is over, Tamtey finds herself shaking, the pump of adrenaline wearing off.
Her palms are filthy, mixed with blood, steady rainwater and a coarse grit of the poultice. The sight makes her queasy, and she steels herself, willing strength that has seemed to evade her recently.
So’lek would scold her if he were here, she is sure. For what reason? She doesn’t know, but the thought rings true nonetheless, and she finds it settling guiltily in her gut.
Inadequate. This is how she feels.
She lets out a slow breath, turning her gaze to the sky. Her chest aches: threatening, stirring, but she won’t let it tumble, won’t let those bindings fall undone.
With a smooth motion, she pulls out her knife and runs her fingers along the blade. She wipes the thorn sap across her thighs and cleans the dapophet off the hilt of it into her loincloth. Regaining her wits, she finishes the job swiftly despite the dull stinging of her wound. The flight back to So’lek’s cave is cooling, and she feels lighter once she lands.
Once home, her hands busy with the moss she will spin her thread from. To one side, her satchel lies by the fire to dry, contents packed away, and at her feet, a bundle of dried moss sits patiently.
A shiver runs down her spine as she works to remove the hard, lichen-like coating of the moss. The rainwater that drips onto her back is freezing, the wind helping none.
Her stomach growls impatiently, and she wonders when So’lek will be back.
Regardless, she works nimbly, running pinched fingers along the plant, crumbling its outside away. The inside is slowly revealed, a soft fibrous material not too dissimilar from human cotton. After not too long, a pile of soft, fluffy fibre collects, and once it threatens to topple over, she moves onto the next stage.
The pile is soaked in water, submerged slowly, air bubbles choked out, floating up like little promises. Waterlogged, she still has to fight its urge to float to the surface, so she places a thin cloth over top and weighs it down with stones to let it soak.
Under the thunder of rain outside, Tamtey reflects on how she had come back to the Sarentu after learning how to weave. Back when she was still innocent and bright. Her excitement had been palpable as she had displayed her weave with pride, and was met with generous praise. She was a bird with new feathers, and she preened.
She had turned to catch the fond gaze of So’lek, and her excitement had stretched into a wholehearted smile.
But So’lek had been injured by her, and her mind, impulsively unwelcome, offers up images of his burnt, battered body dripping with sweat from the heat, the same fond gaze ablaze with something else: fury.
She shudders, impulsively and wills the thoughts away, but more come hounding like a stampede. His tired gaze, his limp form after Wakula, unmoving— what felt like forever unmoving. The air suddenly feels far too thin.
She slaps herself, quick, sharp, to will herself back to the present. Her breaths come quick, shallow.
The cave in front of her blurs, and she slaps herself again, but this only triggers more trembling. Tamtey is scrabbling for purchase, falling, down, down into an endless pit, in this vast ocean of a place, its wide maw welcoming.
As a last resort, she pinches herself, hard, finally taking a deep inhale inward from the pain. She is crying.
Defiantly, Tamtey wipes her cheeks, willing her tears away. Her misery infuriates her, its presence a nuisance— it serves no one, so why can she not go a day without it baring its rotten teeth.
Eventually, anxiety gnawing at her, she forces out a breath and glances up. In the cave, his presence is everywhere, it remains lived in, and she feels foolish for allowing the fear of his death to come back. It’s residual, and it still haunts her.
Flicking herself in reprimand, she continues with the bowl under her hand. She had seen him this morning. How dumb could she be? He was likely on his way back now; she would see him again soon.
As the fibres dry over the fire, she fixes the darning comb, the thing she had gotten the thorns for. She makes quick work of it, rooting out the old putty that stuck the thorns to the comb, and she begins scraping away at the access, cleaning it out.
Her mind drifts, once again thinking of So’lek, this time of what he had told her before he had left this morning.
“Stay safe,” he had called to her as he headed toward the cave’s entrance.
This was not unusual. In fact, it was rather common for him: his standard farewell.
She had responded with a swift, “Of course, I always do.” Empty reassurance, she knew, but she had said it anyway.
He had turned at that, glaring at her, inclining his head. This is where his speech deviated— and had spoken uncharataristically openly.
“I mean it, Sarentu, you...” His eyes had narrowed, and his tail had thrashed, ears fluttering. He had held her gaze. “Your soul is like the ocean, Tamtey, deep, endless—always moving.”
He had paused, and she stared, questioning him.
“Recently, there are storms and great depths,” he swallowed, “I worry it will drown you.” He tightened a strap and finished with a declarative, “Stay safe, ma’ Tamtey, call me.” She had stared at him with wide searching eyes— he could not hold her look, glancing away at the ground, grumbling.
Nga nìhawng längu oer yawne, he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anything, not expecting her to catch it. But the cave echoed: her ears flitted, her nose flared, and her tail swished. She watched him, searching with her gaze, eyes squinted— he did not miss it.
Then, in the next moment, his tail tip thrashed again, and he was gone. Mounting Ìley with a swift movement, he dove off the floating mountain.
Nantangtsyìp tìzevankxnga, she thought. Cruel dog.
Yawne, he had said, yawne, yawne, yawne. What went on in that elusive mind of his? Nefika had called her yawntu, but that was not the same. She meant it in the kindly affection of a nurturing elder. Tamtey’s Na’vi was not so shallow as to take So’lek’s yawne the same way.
It was something different. You are too dear to me, he had said, low and gravelly, enough to halt her brain and bring a sweet warmth to her cheeks. No, it was not the same as Nefika’s.
Her mind had tumbled because of that längu, too. He had uttered it with a raw self-directed irritation that revealed it far too honest to be a casual statement.
She takes a breath, returning to the present, her pulse galloping from the memory. Despite herself, she finds a small smile inching its way up her cheeks. She bites it back and makes her hands busy again.
The sap she had collected while she was out, she places to one side, a collection of small chalky rocks to the other. She picks up a rock and grinds it with the base of her knife in a bowl, pouring the powder into another.
She mixes the sap and the powder and picks it up, fingers reaching, about to scoop a dollop, before she stops. Chucking the bowl down and crouching over to a small bowl on a shelf, picking it up, and shaking a layer of fine shimmering blue dust into the mix.
Excited to see it shine, she whips it in, turning the white paste a pale mute blue, the shimmer lost in the mixture. Dull and boring.
She hisses, frustrated. She ruined it; she ruins everything. It was an innocent enough goal, but she failed again.
Irritable, she continues on, smearing the paste over the stone base and scrubbing her hands in a nearby bowl. Drying them speedily, she goes to place the thorn teeth on the comb, spacing them with deft fingers.
Finished, she places it under the stovetop, covering the openings with plates and sealing the hot air in. This creates an oven, with smoke able to escape through the top and small holes in the plates.
She lets out a sigh once it is done, huffing, when suddenly Tamtey’s ears flood with the sound of flapping.
Ìley.
An ikran’s screech sounds out through the night.
She swipes her hands on her thighs and heads over to the cave's entrance. Peeling back a juvenile rib plant to find So’lek standing beside his bonded.
In the glow of the eclipse’s light, his quiet beauty sings. He tends to Ìley with a gentle hand, his mind elsewhere as he coos softly at her. Tamtey cannot help but swoon.
His voice carries low rumbles over to her, and he is so focused, so caring it digs deeper than a palulukan claw in her gut.
He does not speak out as he undoes Ìley’s harness, hauling the bags attached to the ikran onto his shoulder. As he pads over, his heavy gaze catches on Tamtey, and she is breathless.
The air, knocked out of her lungs, leaves her reeling. She kicks herself internally, schooling a mischievous smile onto her cheeks. “Caught the whole forest there, So’lek?” he scoffs, glancing down at her waist, still wrapped in a large leaf from her scratch in the forest.
She steps toward him, oblivious to his worried gaze. Flicking a strip of the bags he carries, she quips, “Seems a little heavy for you.”
He bats her hand away, assessing the wound as he speaks, “The whole forest would not fit into this bag, Sarentu. Do not be a fool.”
He meets her gaze, startling her. He gestures with his gaze, asking, may I? and she nods. He has placed down his bags and is now peeling away the layer, revealing a deep, angry gash. She hisses as he prods at it. “How did you get this?”
"It's nothing, I caught it on some thorns while I was out,” Tamtey dismisses, and So’lek offers her an unimpressed stare.
“I would believe you better if you had said the thorns attacked you,” he drags her to sit on a mat, grabbing a bowl of water. It laps against his fingers as he carries it. Tamtey is quiet, and So’lek continues, “Your mind is elsewhere—talk to me, Sarentu.”
The silence of the room is stifling. The fire crackles, and it sounds all too much like the blazing aftermath of hometree, like incendiary RDA and roaring flames.
“I’m fine,” she lies, “I patched it up pretty well, no?” He hums low in affirmation.
“It is good, are these Kame’tire herbs?” She nods, fidgeting. His fingers, cold from flying, brush against her waist. They clean soothingly, working to patch her up well.
In the quiet, she thinks she hears the chopping of motor blades, head snapping up to the cave entrance. In the next moment, the cries of Ìley and Telisi call out in the night, and the quiet returns. She had imagined it, but there is nothing.
So’lek tosses her another glance, watching the restless Sarentu. He had replaced the poultice and rewrapped it while Tamtey was lost in her thoughts.
Absentmindedly, she begins sniffing, having caught the scent of something. Her tail tip, with a mind of its own, flicks gently against the rock.
So’lek stands, heading over to the discarded bags. Grumbling softly, he explains, “The txampam were noisy today, they all moved in groups, so shoot one down, and you get the thundering dance of another.”
She scoffs at him, flicking him a half-present, disbelieving stare. Her hand wrings the other anxiously. She is forgetting something, and it is irking her.
A flutterflower has made its way up to the cave, and its graceful wings tremble in the wind. It lands on So’lek's tail, which is upright and tall, keeping him balanced as he crouches, sifting through the bags. His tail flicks, and the creature floats away.
Tamtey's foot begins tapping.
“As my arrow flew, then a pack of vekreng hounded me—I was not best pleased—Tamtey?”
She is rushing, heavy-footed, over to the stove. She had remembered her carding combs were still in there, that So’lek needs the oven to cook.
With an irrational desperation to be considerate, to not be a nuisance to him, she makes for the oven plates. She reaches out to remove them with uncovered, frantic hands.
“Tamtey don’t—!”
Before So’lek can stop her, her hand clasps around a plate. With a jerk, it is flung away from her, her fingers scorched where they had grabbed it, overconfident. The plate shatters on the smooth stone of the mountain cave, and the sound cuts through the silence of the room.
So’lek’s steps echo hurriedly, coming toward the sound, and he calls out to her, “Ma’ Tamtey—" he is interrupted by a choked plea. The easy comfort between them had vanished in an instant; peace is ever fragile after war.
"It's fine. It's okay, let me handle it. I’m fine," she babbles, crouched beside the debris, shaking. The plate had fallen out of her palms—she had dropped it, instincts failing her. Tamtey had failed again. She had failed. Again. She had only wanted to help.
If she had been a little tougher, less flighty, less scattered… Ma Eywa, nawma sa’nok. Forgive me.
She grabs desperately at the pieces, trying to put them together again.
“Txoa oer…” she is muttering now, sky-accented Na’vi falling from her lips, as she splits her shaking palms on sharp shards, “Ma’ Eywa! Fyawìntxu oer…”
And then he is there. So’lek cradles her hands gently.
She gasps out a sob, crying out in Na’vi before realising that she does not remember the simple word, ‘I’m sorry’, and all of a sudden, she is back in TAP, walled in by metal, shut out from Eywa. An angry man shouts at her again. Tamtey is tainted and cannot cry out to the Great Mother, she will not answer. Rejected by her Clan and scorned by humans, they have torn her from her home and left her suspended, without an anchor.
She looks up at him with wild, desperate eyes, and So’lek feels his heart break. It shatters into more pieces than those broken at her palms as she speaks, voice wailing, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—!”
He takes the pieces out of her hands, unfolding the grip that had cut them deep and placing them softly on the floor. Like a soft stroke of sunlight, he soothes her.
From her hands, red drips onto the floor.
Coaxing, considerate, a pointer nudges her chin to look at him. His eyes are soft, and too much, like he can unravel all she has woven, she looks away.
“Ma ‘Tamtey, look at me.” Her breath shudders, her throat tightens, a few small gasps escape her, along with her tears, and her palms throb. Like a guiding hand, the wind whistles through their sanctuary, offering a moment of calm.
Her eyes glance back to the floor, the blood, the plates, and it's all too much, all again. The peace is lost. crumbling, her chest trips over a sob, and she is breathing hard and heavy, hyperventilating again.
“I—I can’t—!” she chokes, sad and reeling. She wants to, she so desperately wants to, but her body is frozen.
So’lek takes in a breath, and Tamtey flinches, expecting harsh reprimands, but he only breathes out, slow.
“Follow.” He asks, a command, but not controlling. His callused hand falls softly on her belly, and she is inclined to meet his gaze. It holds no less weight than before— So’lek’s concern is evident, tinged with a deep note of something else.
Slowly, he takes a deep inhale and releases it, prompting her to mirror it.
She can smell him this close, skin against skin. Every open-mouthed inhale drinks in the scent.
He smells warm, earthy, like soil, but earthy in a different way too, animalistic, comforting. He smells like home, and to her post-panic mind, it washes over her like an antidote, calming the surface of her crashing storm.
Like a spell, she feels a rush spread through her body, of an emotion unnamable. Her small hairs stand on edge, and her chest is full with the weight of something soft. It is something like comfort, marked by the ocean's depth, painted with her melancholic blues. It is something like relief.
Hit with the urge like a punch to the gut, she is filled with the compulsion to wrap herself in this comfort, in So’lek. She flushes at the thought and speaks softly instead.
“Thank you,” she swallows and opens her mouth to speak, but is interrupted by a finger.
“No apologies, it is no burden.”
Slowly, their eyes meet once again and it is heavy. They are intimately close, and So’lek shifts Tamtey’s fingers between his soothingly.
He does not know the weight of his actions, how he is like her raft in moments like these. She nods, ears pinned to her head sheepishly, tail swishing happily, able to spring back to life far quicker than she.
Tamtey clears her throat, “Well, uhm. ah—“ she closes her mouth, opens it again, “I really…” A slow exhale, “I really need to take the combs off the fire.”
“Not before I have bound your hands,” he chastises, “Sit.”
“But—” She whines.
“No ‘buts’ Tamtey,” he annunciates slowly, “Your combs will survive a moment longer, sit down.”
She plonks, defeated, onto the floor and he, hands gloved with leather, removes the plates. He returns not long after with a collection of healing supplies.
His fingers are rough, but his touch gentle as they take her hands into his once again. Tamtey's chest swells with overwhelm. Guilts sit threatening behind her eyes, her sinuses, but the relief at the final loss of loneliness soothes heavier.
The cuts are assessed, and Tamtey glances away, her cheeks dancing a flushed glow. She feels so precious in his care like this.
Unbeknownst to her, her tail flicks him happily, once again, to which So’lek lets out a low hum.
Like brushing rain thistles, their thighs touch, and each brush feels like lightning to her. He is crouched just to her side, shoulder to shoulder, while she sits, knees up to her chest and palms offered.
Once the wrap is finished, he returns her hands with a final gentle rub of his thumb and a stern look that seems to ask, will you be okay? Tamtey cannot trust herself to offer a verbal response, so she doesn’t. Instead, she offers a meek smile, blinking softly in gratitude, holding his gaze.
To be in his presence is to be in the cradle of a vast mountain range, in its still and solemn power, its might, your own worries seem nothing. This must have been betrayed in her face, because he averts his gaze, ears pinning to his head instinctively, before he flicks them back in place.
So’lek begins talking as he reaches for the shards on the floor, “You were weaving before I left?”
Tamtey is startled, but smooths her words skilfully, like she is suddenly remembering who she is, and must prove her own dignity. She had been a fumbling mess, and now, coming to, she feels awfully embarrassed.
Walking over to where So’lek had placed her comb, she replies, “Oh yeah, I was inspired, suddenly, y’know?” She turns the objects in her palm, admiring her own handiwork in a deliberate effort to avoid looking lost, “The moss should be mostly dry, so you’ll get to see this master spinner in action.”
So’lek offers a sarcastic mhm before continuing, “Oh, I’m sure.” He gathers the final shards into a small basket, tucking them away. “Maybe an Aranahe will take you in as their apprentice for good this time.”
This draws out a small laugh from Tamtey, and So’lek finds himself smiling in response.
Quiet settles between them, and they complete their tasks content in the other’s company. So’lek uses a small reed brush to sweep any loose shards into a corner, and Tamtey begins carding her dried moss fibres. The combs work well, aligning the fibres for weaving smoothly, breaking any knots.
Once the space is tidy, So’lek begins preparing ingredients for cooking. The gentle click of pottery sings through the cave.
The wind jostles Tamtey’s charms— tied strings of shells and beads— hung proudly as a flag over her hammock. They were decorations So’lek had reluctantly permitted, hung over the small space Tamtey had claimed for herself in his cave. It bursts with colour.
This soft twinkling chorus fills the space alongside the gentle rustling of leaves and weave, as So’lek unwraps his hunt. The permanent song of ikran sounds through their softly waning evening, and So’lek begins to hum a Sarentu tune. Tamtey’s heart throbs, her lungs fighting for a breath of air.
Tamtey has rigged her fibres up to a small apparatus, called a drop spindle, that looks like the children’s spinning tops from TAP. From the fibres, a light yarn is twisted that feeds into a hook at the pendulum’s head. Around the top of the spindle, a disk sits, like a horizontal halo. The thread runs over this disk downward, wrapping around the longer pole at the bottom, where a cake of yarn forms.
The drop spindle hums silently, spinning the thread dutifully as she guides it with pinched fingers where she holds it. The process calms tamtey.
With a soft swell, the smell of So’lek’s cooking fills the room, fragrant herbs, salty fats, and the balanced lick of umami. They soothe her senses, her stomach letting out a traitorous growl, loud enough that So’lek picks it up.
“Your body betrays your impatience, Sarentu,” his usual low growl, but that’s it. He continues working, not looking up, and she glares at him, feeling almost forgotten. The earlier chaos has settled into a tense hum that sits unaddressed.
“I can wait, I’m not a child,” she replies, focused on the hypnotic rhythm of the spindle. Shifting in her seat, she wheedles out a small compliment, “—does smell good though.”
So’lek looks up at that briefly, before nodding sideways, acknowledging himself, “My cooking is always good.”
“Humble.”
“I am very humble”
“Oh, I’m sure…” drawing out the emphasis on the final word, sarcasm dripping, “Humble and honest too.”
“I would never lie to you, Tamtey,” he pauses, musing, massaging a vinaigrette into the ribs of the salad leaves. Retracing his words, he continues, “Nobody… can promise never. But you are the only one I show honesty like this to.”
Her breath stills, a smile stretching her cheeks, “A lie of omission is still a lie, kurkung,” she grins cheekily. Asshole.
He falls quiet, chopping various fruits and vegetables with a deft hand, and she worries she’s overstepped. The sound of his sharp, swift chop-chop-chop’s break the silence.
Tamtey is nervous for a moment until she sees the subtle smirk plastered on his face. His knife gestures to the food as he looks up at her.
“This dinner can always go to Ìley,”
“You wouldn’t!” She hurries over to him, dropping the spindle gently, gently as you can drop something, and steals a small piece of meat. “There, now I’ve had some, you’ve technically given me dinner. I win,” her argument thin she continues, “Ìley would swallow it whole, wouldn’t even taste it. I appreciate your cooking”
“Ìley appreciates my cooking, don’t doubt him.” So’lek flicks her forehead lightly with his fingers, turning back to his cooking, leaving Tamtey to herself again.
Her arms fall to her sides, defeated, and she glances upward, taking a deep breath in, exhaling.
Tamtey returns to her yarn, craving the mindless comfort of its spin. She holds it too impatiently, the fibres thinning and thinning, until with a silent tear the yarn splits under the tension— spindle clattering to the floor.
She hisses at it.
There. Another demonstration of her inability to do just about anything. Her insecurity festers and burrows itself deeper, it whispers lies into her ear and makes her stomach churn. Her ears pin to her head.
She attempts to stretch it off, release the tension.
Her palms reach up— joined to the sky, her soft muscles ripple in quiet strength, her tanhì dance in the cave light. She looks like a just-woken nantang, yet, this is not a new day, nor is her long, festering wounds something that sleep could just heal.
The frustration hums its way through her now, but she dismisses it, channelling the negative energy into action.
She tidies as he cooks. But soon this is too endless, too undefined a task. She goes to hang decorations to add to her collection, but they twitter too loudly. She continues anyway.
Like a prowling predator, her tail thrashes, her teeth bared at the objects as she works. Small noises of frustration, animalistic and honest, slip from her. Amidst her own irritation, she had not noticed the vulnerability and comfort So’leks’ home brought her.
Yet he watches her as she works, and does notice, affection fond in his worry, like the gentle lap of a bubbling stream against a raw gash.
He pauses his cooking for a moment, caught in the sight. Pearlescent shells clack against one another as she deftly weaves a flax string, tugging them together. Her brows are furrowed together, tugging at her painted features, kissed by the hand of colour.
Clearly, she is furious, yet there is something beautiful in her anger, So’lek thinks. He scolds himself for the thought.
Leaving the meat to slowly cook in its pot, he heads over to where she is sitting.
At the sound of soft footsteps, Tamtey glances up: a glare tinged with frustration which softens as she realises herself, notices him.
The air is gentle between them, and it sings, downed as a feather and floating, apprehensive. Cavernous echoes amplify the soft dripping of rainwater, as the background static of a downpour thunders mutely outside.
“Something is bothering you,” He comments, crouched beside her, back to the wall facing out into his cave.
“Don’t you have food to be watching over?” She is thorny, tail lashing frustratedly.
“Mawey, it is cooking,” he chides, teasing, met with a sharp turn of her head, back to her work. She ties her knots with a fiery precision, movements sharp and harsh. He is not going to get an answer out of her when she is like this, so he changes his tactics.
“I have never seen bindings like these,” he picks up a small chain of beads, shells and feathers, the charm seemingly completed. Turning it this way and that, he admires the handiwork, running a gentle finger over the texture of the woven cord.
“Oh?” Her response comes suspicious and measured, “Would you use something else, Wise one? Am I doing it wrong?”
So’lek opens his mouth to retort, and closes it, overriding instinctive anger with patience; she is upset but not at him. He knows this is true, despite what it seems.
When he speaks, his words are exasperatedly affectionate, “Tamtey, it was a compliment, I wanted to learn how you tie them.”
“Oh.” She replies, and a small glowing bug floats in-front of her eyes, she follows it with her head, arms falling limp with the work in hand.
With a steeled determination, she turns to face him, silently, gesturing to the space in-front of her on the mat, and he sits obediently.
Slowly, Tamtey guides him through the movements.
It is quiet in the cave but for the calls of the floating mountains.
So’lek aches to question her, prod further at her worries, release her from her burdens. It is infuriating, but he waits.
It is not his place to pry, but to be there when she needs him. So, he listens and lets her show him the knot, her fingers brushing against his; a whisper, a small tap as he goes to feed the cord through the wrong loop.
He watches as the tension slowly deflates from her shoulders, washing her in a wave of long deserved relaxation.
And, he notices as her tail remains still twitching, ears flickering at any small sound.
A small braid falls in-front of her face as she explains a certain way she weaves the cord, and she huffs at it irritably, only for it to fall right back. It’s so innocent it's an invitation, and So’lek stirs.
“With this section here, the binding becomes really useful,” she comments, tone mellow, and content, happy at the distraction, demonstrating with her fingers as she speaks, “See with the feathers? The usual bind the Aranahe does works, but they don’t— I don’t know— sway? Wave in the wind?
“But I was fiddling around and found the way the Kame’tire bind a portion of their animal scares allows the feathers to move and keep good structural integrity—” she interrupts herself with a sigh, “I’m rambling, sorry.”
A small smile catches on the corner of his mouth, and he tucks the braid behind her ear, before he focuses back on the trinket he is working on.
He repeats her motions, binding it round and securing. A slight variation on the knot she had just tied as she spoke. “Your rambling is welcome, so, you would tie it like this?” He lifts the charm up, a small carved bark piece tied to a collection of feathers at the bottom, as explained, the feathers rustle proudly in the wind.
His smile catches, and her mouth stretches into a smile, almost disbelieving. “Yeah, like that…” She looks at him, eyes posing a question he is guarding the answer to, head tilted to one side. She bites her tongue and prompts instead, "It's pretty, right?”
“Yes, I see why you like them,” he agrees, looking at Tamtey. In the dim light of the cave, she shines, picking at the skin around her fingers, averting her eyes as he catches them with his own.
Rhythmic clinks sound as she swiftly weaves beads into her charm. A breath of wind washes through the cave, and she shivers slightly.
Tamtey bites her lip, considering something, before deciding it’s necessary to speak.
“I’m sorry for lashing out at you just now, So’lek,” she pauses, realising a breath, “I- I was, I am, just, really, really angry- angry at myself.”
Somewhere beside her, a woven charm falls from its hanging, another sudden gust of wind proving its hold insufficient. Tamtey flinches, but continues speaking, “In the aftermath of it all, it's been—” her breath catches, unsteady like a storm at sea, “really, hard.”
Soft droplets pool in her eyes, and she wipes away tears, frustrated. “Oh, shit… I—I’m—I didn’t want to—” they fall freely now, and she tumbles, restrictions unbound, “I’m just lost So’lek! Its all gone, gone and gone to ashes, and I’m trying to fix it, but no matter what I do, it gets worse. And all I see is my failure, my tainted hands, I was raised on it, the sky people’s metal and violence and Eywa shuns me for it. She shuns me for not doing more, I wasn’t enough to save Aha’ri and—”
She feels the grounding press of a firm hand to her shoulder, rubbing gently where it meets. “Ma Tamtey, Aha’ri’s death is not your fault. Eywa knows this, the Great Mother does not shun any of her children”
Tamtey is wailing now as she speaks, dreadful cries ripping themselves from her heartbroken chest, “She does So’lek or else why would—why do I feel— so lonely?”
He shushes her, eyes soft, and pained. She is so shattered like this, and he can see the crashing depths of the ocean, eating away at her as they do chalked cliff-sides.
A crack of lightning whips the night, followed loyally by thunder filling the cave with his assured growl. Tamtey looks at him, eyes desperate, breath coming in short gasps.
“If— If a cub—strays far enough from its nest, for long enough, will— do you think—a mother still knows it’s hers?” Tamtey is stuttering, breath shuddering, and heavy.
She has worked herself up into a fit again, and she breaths out a growl. Dragging her palms over her face, she lets out a miserable oìssss. She stands up with a start, hands lashing out in a gesture suggesting something like I just can’t.
So’lek reaches out for her, stepping over and grabbing her arm. He turns her to face him and pulls her into an abrupt hug. Tamtey’s arms flail out beside him while she finds her balance, they settle, wrapping around him.
She breaks into another fit of sobs at the contact, and he rests his chin on her head, rubbing soothing circles into her back where his hands rest.
“A mother always knows Tamtey. I have watched countless families and they always know. Always.” He asserts this, whispering it fervently into her scalp, “You are not tainted ma’yawntu, it will be alright. The atokirina love you so, do you forget their kindness?”
“N-no,” she sniffles out, fingers curled tight around his chest guard.
“Then hear them Tamtey: the purest spirits dance at your presence. You are not forgotten,” he leans back to cradle her cheek, “The only one who forgets you is yourself.”
She lets out a shudder of a breath, staring at So’lek breathlessly. His face is tender, squeezed with compassion, pressed together, his lips twitch. Tanhì litter his cheeks in a symmetrical pattern that brightens the monotonous, usual, structural deadpan he holds. Bold stripes on his skin trace downwards to between his eyes, where his skin creases in solicitude. His features all protect eyes that reveal his inner world so plainly, his deep love for all that he holds dear so obvious to see.
Though tanhì means stars, the real guiding light to Tamtey are those eyes, because never once do they waver. He will care, always, and this truth gives her such reassurance that she does not know what to do with herself.
He continues, “You work hard, do not discredit yourself Sarentu. Your successes are vast,” he lets her fall back against him, cradling her close. So’lek’s tone is teasing as he speaks, “Besides, the Kinglor forest sings for your work; I would know, I hear it every night.”
She giggles wetly, burrowing her face further into him as if she wished to be glued there, and he hums lowly.
Eventually, Tamtey pushes herself off him with a steely will, wiping her damp cheeks frantically.
“Right. This yarn isn’t going to spin itself. A deft weaver needs her protein, y’know, that meat smells delicious,” she singsongs, pointedly sniffing the air. Eyes red from tears, but spirit reinvigorated, she blazes, fires from the watery depths, So’lek is forever amazed that she manages.
“It should be ready now. Come, I will feed you ohakx ioangtysìp,” hungry little beast, “I worry you’ll bite my fingers off in this state.”
“Careful So’lek, keep poking this palulukan, and I just might,” she bares her teeth at him, hissing enthusiastically. She bounds with a spring in her step as they make their way over to the cooking station.
So’lek is smirking as he speaks, uncovering the dish and setting it out in bowls. “You seem more like a läkri, harmless with their tsyeytsyìp.” Little bite, he teases, low and amused.
“I am not a stagfly ant!” She retorts, incredulous, receiving a food bowl from him gratefully, “Are you calling me annoying?”
“I would never,” he hums, eyes flickering, “I think incessant is a better word.”
“So’lek!” Tamtey flicks him with her tail as they settle down to eat, food steaming. Aromatic smells of herbs and spices cloud the air in a warm savouriness, mingling with the fatty meat.
It is as delicious as it smells as they dig in, and Tamtey lets out an involuntary hum, to which So’lek notes with pleased pride.
The moment is calm, and outside the rain has eased into a light drizzle. Light painting shifting dancers onto the wall, the fire crackles, keeping them warm.
Tamtey is relaxed. For the first time in months, she feels like her body has been released from that prison of tension, cold metal falling into the abyss, leaving her free. She flexes her toes and watches as a little sparkle of tiny sporedancers float down, her ears flitting in childlike wonder. Their tiny wings flap in a gentle rhythm like the ebb and flow of the ocean waves.
The night is settled, the viperwolves have ceased their cries, and the soft groan of ikran snores rumble the cave. A lullaby to the forest, the bioluminescent shrubbery glows, and Tamtey, lifted of a weight, feels sleep coax her like a blanket.
In the soft company of So’lek and with a stomach full of food, comfort drags her into pleasant drowsiness. He takes her bowl from her and pats her on the shoulder, with a soft command of hahaw, sleep. She nods, gathering a bundle of woven blanket that Nefika had gifted her, after Tamtey had praised hers incessantly.
“So’lek?” she calls hesitantly, quiet. He responds with a low hum, prompting her to go on, walking back over, and crouching beside her to listen. He watches her intently, gaze impossibly tender.
In the face of such affection, the sleepy Na’vi flusters, “N-nevermind.”
“Ask, Tamtey, what is it?”
The blankets rustle as she worries them.
between her fingers, weighing her words. Determined, she grabs onto his wrist, “Will you stay?”
His glance is startled, “Tamtey— are you sure—?”
She holds his gaze pleadingly, looking like a sight for sore eyes, balanced features painted in the very picture of fragility. In this moment, she appears like a delicate flower he is wary to treasure.
Her gaze must tell him something, for he finally concedes. Settling in beside her.
“I cannot say no to you,” he sighs, “Rest well tsamsiyu, you have earned it.”