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“And what of your family, Tamtey? You’ve spoken so little of yourself. Or even the Sarentu, if you don’t wish to get too personal? I know it’s only been a few days, but- I believe, short of Wawen, you have managed to learn more of me than most ever even wonder.” He admits, scooting closer to the Sarentu.
The Trr’ong’s singular Sarentu visitor had been an absolute delight. A surprise tagalong to the Tlalim clan acting as an escort through known Mangkwan territory, they’d intervene with his botched intervention of helping the wind traders scare off a waiting warband. They’d arrived with stories of the far-west horizons, gossip of the refined Aranahe and boisterous Zeswa and mysterious Kame’tire, trading stories and recipes and remedies for shelter and food.
For three days, Tamtey has stuck close to So’lek as he’s introduced them to his clan, his friends, his mentor, his parents — or beckoned for him to follow.
For three days, he’s played as their shadow — answering more questions, getting dragged into pointless conversations and circular banter, and laughing more than he has in the last thirty years.
It’s only been three days. It’d be bold of anybody, even moreso of him, but. He nudges their pink finger with their own, a tiny point of contact that somehow still brings violet to his cheeks.
It’s never been this easy with someone before.
Tamtey looks at him, and their sad smile twists sardonic, and he can’t help it.
His stomach lurches.
“My clan is gone, So’lek.” They say, plainly as breathing.
Despite the dancing light of the fire, the bioluminescence of the forest slowly peeking through the evening air, the gentle blue Naranawm above - Tamtey’s eyes have gone flat. The bright green of new growth is sullen and rotten.
For some reason, this sways him closer.
“...In what way?” He tries, still smiling, even if it’s crooked now. “Are they far-traveling?”
“When the Tlalim call me the Sarentu, it’s not just a reference to my clan. It’s not plural. It’s a definite article. I’m the last of my kind. The,” And he can hear the capitalization, the weight of the word, and it sits so heavy in the air between them it wipes the smile straight from his face. “Sarentu.”
“...Tamtey,” He manages, but their name is all they can say. There’s a cold horror slowly filling his core. The fire’s no longer warm.
His hand inadvertently slips over their own.
Somehow, Tamtey’s still smiling. It’s just gone flat now, all brightness edged out of it - muscles pulling a familiar shape, the twitch of a dead bug’s leg.
“My — vendetta, with the Mangkwan? As you called it? Runs deeper than just a grudge against parasites. The Sarentu are not a big clan, you see. There were maybe a hundred and fifty of us spread across the Western frontier, some far-traveling members on the fringe. Not many are built for the lifestyle of the nomad.” They admit, and the words are dead. The story is dead. This is a clinical observation, a dull fact of life.
An absolute truth.
“They came to the Western frontier. And they found our moot. All of us, gathered in one place. And when we didn’t have enough goods to placate them, when they wouldn’t take our stories or our wisdom as trade,” Tamtey shrugs, and — it’s nearly imperceptible, but they’re starting to shiver. “They took our lives. All our lives.”
“...Your- your war paint, it’s not actually war paint,” He tries, and it’s been plainly written on their face the whole time and nobody’s said anything. “It’s mourning paint.”
Tamtey’s mouth pinches. Their flat eyes wobble, shimmering again in the firelight.
Eywa, those are tears.
“...Yawne,” He breathes.
The Sarentu takes a stuttering breath, the tips of their ears flicking and flushing violet with the nickname, and their hand flips up underneath his own.
So’lek’s palms are sweaty, but he can’t bring himself to mind as he squeezes their hands.
“There’s- a not-so altruistic reason I came out here.” They admit, diverting their eyes. “To the East, to the Trr’ong, specifically.”
So’lek remains silent, dipping his head for them to continue.
“The first of the Sarentu was the Storyteller. We took his name when our clan was founded. His name was Entu, who was the first Toruk Makto,” Tamtey carefully recites, and they look back up to their face, and all So’lek can do is nod. Every Na’vi knows these stories, and if he’s being honest, he doesn’t quite trust his ability to speak at the moment. “This part is a little less well-known, but — the Na’vi who broke the rocks that held back the river? To quench the fire that nearly destroyed the Tree of Souls? Hawnutu'un? He was Trr’ong.”
Tamtey laces their fingers together. Theirs perfectly cradle his own, three within their four. So’lek feels his mouth go dry, and he’s distantly aware he’s stopped breathing.
He’s so glad they don’t care about his sweaty palms.
“My destiny is in these mountains,” They- it’s not an explanation, an assurance. An absolute confidence that tugs at his heartstrings to the tune of the truth. “I will find Toruk. The Sarentu will return to their roots as Toruk Makto. I will rally the clans, and we will put out the Mangkwan’s fires for good.”
And Tamtey’s eyes shimmer in the firelight, inclining their head - pressing their forehead to his, so there’s no more than a hair between their faces, sharing the very air they breathe. So’lek draws in a stuttery breath, if only just to scent them.
Tamtey smells of sìltsyurasyul, sweet and clean.
“Will you join me, So’lek? Fly with me? Help me avenge my clan, as your ancestor helped mine?”
(Someday So’lek will regret this
When Tamtey shows him what exactly it means to be the Black Cape, the infamous Death on Wings, his stomach will flip. When they pull out the metal spear and drive it through hearts without blinking, his chest will clench. And when he finally learns what the depths of grief have driven them to, to wrench themselves from the natural cycle and condemn themselves to death as many times it takes for the Mangkwan to die?
Every bit of his soul will wish he made a different choice that night, that he didn’t give his heart to one mad with grief.
But tonight? With tears overflowing their eyes and streaking down their cheeks, pooling on the edge of their zeyrel, begging him for his help and his hand? There’s no rational answer other than)
“Yes,” He murmurs, and leans in to press his lips to theirs.