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It was taught to the Sarentus, in class, about sex education. There were a bunch of things they taught them but what Tamtey remembers the most was a video played on a screen with little dots on it and a human woman speaking on and on about having crush and romance and what not. But what she recalls the most, is the warnings. That we need to be careful of men, much older men. And of women too, because it does not matter the gender, the older they are, the more likely problems would arise.
It was Teylan who asked in the class, “What if I liked… say, Ri’nela or Nor? They are older than me.”
And then the discussion went on and on about the age of consent, in which people can finally think properly for themselves and it had to be eighteen — as for why that was, no one ever really asked. Ri’nela did not like that idea but she knew better not to speak against Alma when Mercer was there. She always had something in her own mind, the reminiscences of what once was: the Na’vi way, their way. And Tamtey hated how she envied her knowledge: she, too, longed for something she had no recollection about.
Tamtey also remembers about the days they had to read hundreds of pages of a book called Rebecca and why it was bad to throw your life away for someone your father’s age. It included, not graphic, scenes of house fire and gunshots and drowning and a whole deal of human court drama. She liked the book just fine but what did the RDA wanted them to learn? She would never think of liking someone her father’s age. She did not even know him — and it made her sad — let alone marrying someone who could even be friends with him. And, if hypothetically calculated based on human’s minimum consenting age, which Alma insisted to be eighteen and cannot, should not, must not be less, the minimum of her father’s age when she later became a consenting adult would be thirty-six. And who in here were thirty-six or above? She shuddered thinking about it. She would never, in her life, even think of liking Mercer. The thought of it made her stomach churning, in a very, very bad way.
“Are you going to go foraging?”
Ri’nela’s voice startles her. Shaking her head to clear her mind, she turns to Ri’nela, seeing her beautiful face which often makes her feel small, and says, “Uh-uh.”
“Right. So’lek is waiting for you.”
Tamtey throws her a timid smile and tells her she will go to where So’lek usually can be found as quick as an ikran being called. Ri’nela prays for her safety and Tamtey thanks her for it, saying, “Samesies.”
Often she does this: human words, human things. It is alright, she knows, but it does sometimes feel wrong. Computers, SIDs, whatever it is Teylan is interested — Ida Lovelace included, those guns and rifles, all those, she tries her best to abstain from more. Humans are not inherently bad, but it is not her culture. This is her culture: hunting, foraging, songcords, bow and arrows, stories told in songs and not books and writings. But perhaps it is the Sarentu in her to just love stories, even when it is not told in songs of her ancestors and of the fellow travelers. That she, too, loves Shakespeare and the dramas, of the witches and Hermione and Rosalind and Desdemona. Is this a dagger which I see before me? She just loves these things, stupid and trivial and extremely human, something So’lek would probably not quite like. Perhaps. She never really asked.
But So’lek is So’lek. He is older and wiser and knows better. He is who she wants to be and who she wants to be with and it befuddles her much to the very brim of her heart. This feeling, something she wishes she can get rid of as soon as possible.
He is the depiction of what she will say perfection — despite all of his imperfections. He is her guide in this world, her dear friend, her rescuer, her guardian angel, her stupid, stupid crush. And she knows she no longer wants to believe what she learned at TAP, but it is just bound to happen, see? She often meanders around in her head and she finds herself thinking, Hey, So’lek is whoever they were warning her about: someone her father’s age.
She is now twenty one, she can think for herself according to the standards humans made her think in, but sometimes, just sometimes, she wants someone else to think for her. What to do and what not to do, what to like and what not to like. Because, why and why whenever she thinks for herself, the only thing that matters always leads to So’lek, who is her father’s age? Why can’t she like… she doesn’t know… maybe, say, Itu? But Itu is Itu and as much as she admits he is just as beautiful as the rising sun, he is Itu and she cannot like him in that way. Everything goes back to So’lek and sometimes, just sometimes, she wants to punch herself in the face.
She has done so many things in the course of two and a half years now. Fighting off the RDA while learning about her very own culture and way. But why, oh just why, she cannot think straight about this matter? Because look at this man, ladies and gentlemen. How can someone lay eyes on this aesthetically pleasing view, breathtaking and stunning man, and not fall in love? He is just that person, the man.
“I see you, So’lek,” she greets him, fighting her heart not to leap from her ribs.
“I see you,” he greets her back.
“How are you doing?” She asks.
“Good,” he says. “Let us go. We cannot waste time.”
“Come.”
And maybe, just maybe, Tamtey thinks of herself as delusional. He probably does not like her in that way. Not like de Winter to I or Romeo to Juliet or Lysander to Hermia. But he did rescue her from the RDA, did he not? By himself, going through all those fire and explosions for her? Would he do it, if it were Ri’nela? Or Teylan? But it was her, wasn’t it, that they captured? And he would die for her, it seems. Thus it is true that, Shakespeare. Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
“You are not speaking clearly,” So’lek mutters, almost as if he is annoyed at all the jumbled words she mumbled. “I did not catch all the words you just said.”
Tamtey purses her lips and says, slower and clearer this time, “This season you turn forty-two. I— we want to give you presents.”
“And why is that?”
“Because you turn forty-two,” Tamtey says, frowning.
“Yes, and why do you have to give me a present when I turn forty-two?”
“We do not give gifts when it is someone’s birthday?” She asks, now questioning herself, why does she never know this.
"Birthday?"
"When someone turns one year older, what do the People do?" Tamtey asks, remembering that birthday is not something common in Na'vi, but at least year counting is, just like knowing what season they were born in.
“We pray for them,” he says. "Most of the time."
“Pray for them,” she repeats, nodding along. “Like happiness and peaceful life ahead?”
“Yes,” he replies. “And since I am getting older... pray for my health. My knees might snap with age.”
The deadpan seriousness in his voice and his face makes her burst out laughing. She cannot control it, So’lek is always like this. Intentionally unintentionally funny and she likes him so much for it.
“Okay,” she says, after her laughter died down but not so much that her breath still hitches here and there. “I wish for your knees not to snap mid-hunt.”
He looks at her with a comedic expression, comedic in So’lek way, “Thank you, Tamtey.”
The mention of her name, and not Sarentu, makes her feel weird. It is not that uncommon anymore but it still works wonders. Something in her stomach moves, the stomach bug, the butterflies, the explosive energy in the back of her head.
“Samesies,” she grins at him one second and the other she curses under her breath. “I mean, yes, you are welcome.”
Tamtey knows So’lek well but also not at the same time. He has a history of forty-two Pandoran years and she is what, twenty-one. In theory she would be his age but damn that sleeping pods. She has missed so much of his story, of his wandering in the forests, his agony and misery, what has hardened him. Of course she knows about his journey, but she has never known them in such detail. She wants to know him, in a way he knows her — she cuts herself in half and lets him know every single cell of her. She bleeds out her memories and her thoughts. It feels as if she has stripped herself bare in front of him but he is still there, above in the sky, unreachable.
Lovely, she thinks. Now she wants to cry.
“But can I give you something?” She asks. “For your turning one year older?”
“Hm, and what do you want to give me?”
“Surprise, surprise,” she says flatly. “We have to go back. The others also want to give you something.”
What was he like when he was a child? He must have loved the forest and the animals so so so so much. He has an empathy as deep as the deepest part of the sea, he must have known to be nice and kind and helpful. Or was he the reckless kid, the I do not want to listen to you, Father! What was he like when he was a teenager? The guy the girls secretly liked because of how bad he was? Or was he the brooding kind, like he is now, the I have to meditate type of boy? She wants to know about it so much the insides of her stomach hurts. Would he be friends with her if she were there when he was a kid?
When they arrive, she darts to take the present she has prepared for him. She hands him a wooden box, wrapped up with a fabric she weaved herself — she finally masters it. He takes it, their hands brush lightly and it causes her blood runs through her vain somewhat speeding up. She clears her throat and tells him, you can open them now, after all of them finally gave him their gifts.
So’lek makes a face and then opens up the wrapped surprise, surprise, and he thanks Teylan for a self-made modified grip for So’lek’s knife. He thanks Ri’nela for a very beautiful bead, it is almost translucent but also not at the same time, the color teal steals his attention. And to Nor for giving him blade sharpener. He opens the last box, which is Tamtey’s, and takes out the present. An amused look runs across So’lek’s face, as well as bemusement.
He lifts it and inspects it, the carved wood, crafted in such a way to resemble something he has never really seen before. “Thank you, Tamtey," he says, sincerely. His face, though, still confused. He asks her, lifting the figurine towards the Sarentus, "But... what is this? If I may know.”
Ri’nela snorts, as well as Teylan and Nor, who try to stifle their laughter.
“I did not know you would give him that, Tamtey!” Ri’nela makes an amused remark.
“So, what is this?” So’lek asks. “An… ikran?”
Tamtey grins at him. “It is a chicken.”
“Ah…” So’lek nods. “So this is chicken.”
“Very well made it seems,” Teylan laughs.
So’lek, though, looks at it pensively and something about it makes Tamtey want to just lunge herself into him and— well, she does not know what to do after that. Hug him? Kiss him? She shakes her head.
“So that is you,” Tamtey says eventually. “Chicken.”
He grins at her, almost out of character, and says, “Thank you.”
The way he looks at her, it feels as if she can do anything in this world and there will be consequences but now she couldn't care less, could she? With how he stares at her? And, she deludes herself again, true that Shakespeare. Love is merely a madness and she could no longer fight against it.