Bones

Not because you thought pain was shameful, not truly, but because pain had a way of stripping a person down until they were no longer who they wanted to be. It made you curt. It made you quiet in the wrong ways. It made the world feel hostile and loud and far too bright, and by the time the cramp knifed through your abdomen hard enough to steal the breath from your lungs, you were already angry at the sky, at the water, at the heat, at the way your own body kept betraying you in a place as beautiful as Awa’atlu. One second you had been walking along the woven pathway between the marui with a basket of dried herbs against your hip, and the next you were gripping a support beam so hard your fingers hurt, head bowed, vision sparkling white at the edges.

The Metkayina village was never truly silent, and usually you loved that about it. Water lapped against root and rope beneath the platforms. Children shrieked with laughter somewhere out over the shallows. Wind moved through the hanging structures with a soft rushing sound that reminded you of breath inside a sleeping chest. On better days it made you feel held. On bad days, especially days like this one, every sound scraped against you until you wanted to crawl into the smallest dark place you could find and stay there until your body decided to stop being cruel.

You did not hear him approach at first. You only knew he was there when a shadow fell over you and a deep, steady voice said your name without urgency, which was somehow worse than alarm would have been. Alarm would have let you pretend this was dramatic, something sudden and external and noble. Calm meant he was seeing exactly what this was. It meant Tonowari was looking at the way your shoulders had locked, at the sweat at your temples, at the hand pressed low against your stomach as if you could physically hold your insides in place through force alone, and understanding that this was not a stumble or a dizzy spell you could laugh off. When you tried to straighten and failed, the cramp sharpened so violently you made a sound you hated, small and broken and involuntary.

Tonowari did not ask you foolish questions. He did not ask if you were okay. He did not tell you that you looked pale, or that you should breathe, or that you only needed rest as if rest had not become the background rhythm of your suffering years ago. He stepped in close enough for his body to block the hard edge of the sun and set one broad hand against the wooden post beside yours, not touching you yet, making space instead of taking it. “Can you walk?” He asked quietly, his voice pitched low so no one else would hear “Or do you need me to carry you?” The choice should have made you feel dignified. Instead, tears of pain and humiliation stung your eyes at once, because kindness had always been more dangerous to your composure than cruelty.

“I can walk” you lied, because that was what you always said first. He looked at you for one long moment, sea-green eyes narrowed not in suspicion but in assessment, and then another spasm bent you forward hard enough that your forehead nearly hit his chest. You would have fallen if he had not caught you. His hands were huge, warm, and impossibly careful as they settled around your arms and waist. There was nothing awkward in the movement, nothing hesitant or flustered. He simply gathered you against him as though your weight meant nothing, as though the trembling in your legs and the breath snagging in your throat were facts to be worked around rather than things to be ashamed of, and said, in that same even tone “Then today, I will walk for both of us.”

You should have told him to put you down. Pride screamed that you should. Pride had spent years convincing you that if you were only disciplined enough, quiet enough, angry enough at your own weakness, you might somehow earn relief. Instead you pressed your face against the curve of his shoulder because another wave of pain was cresting and you had no strength left for dignity. He carried you through the village with steady steps, saying only enough to keep others away. A glance from the olo’eyktan was enough to part the path. No one stared for long. No one asked questions. He took you not to the healer’s space, where there would be bustle and watchful eyes and helpful hands you could not bear, but to your maurui near the edge of the water where you spent your nights together.

Inside, the air was cooler. Shadow striped the woven floor. The sea beneath the platform moved with a slow, rocking hush that usually soothed you, though by then you were shaking too hard to feel soothed by anything. Tonowari set you down on the piled blankets with the same control he used when handling weapons or steering a skimwing through rough water. He knelt in front of you after, one knee against the floor, and waited until you forced yourself to look at him. “Tell me what you need” he said. There was no impatience in him. There was no false confidence either. He was not pretending he could fix something he did not understand. He was asking because he meant to listen.

That question nearly undid you more than the pain had. Most people, once they heard enough to understand that your suffering returned again and again, began searching for reasons you had caused it or simple solutions you had somehow overlooked. They asked if you had eaten enough, slept enough, stressed too much, moved too little, thought too hard, bled too much, complained too much. They looked at recurring pain and wanted it to become a puzzle with a clean answer because your reality frightened them. Tonowari only waited. So you told him in broken pieces. You told him it was a sickness from your own body, tissue growing where it should not, pain that could feel like knives or fire or pressure so heavy it stole your breath, bleeding that left you weak and hollow, headaches that pounded behind your eyes, sharp bursts that came without warning and made you stop walking just to survive them. You told him that sometimes you hid because you became mean when it hurt, and sometimes you hid because you were afraid of becoming mean, and sometimes you hid because being seen while suffering felt worse than suffering alone.

His face changed while you spoke, but only in the smallest ways. His mouth tightened once. His eyes darkened. When you confessed, in a whisper made raw by embarrassment, that on the worst days you isolated yourself because you hated what pain turned you into, he exhaled through his nose and leaned back on his heels as though considering something grave. “You think pain makes you cruel” he said after a moment. “I think pain makes you wounded.” He reached then, very slowly, giving you time to turn away if you wanted, and brushed damp hair back from your face with a tenderness so deliberate it made your chest ache. “Those are not the same thing.”

You cried then, which was inconvenient and miserable and impossible to stop. Tears slid hot and humiliating down your face while another cramp twisted through you, and you folded around it with a low sound caught somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. Tonowari moved at once. He climbed onto the blankets behind you and drew you back against his chest so your spine rested along the solid line of him. One arm came around your middle, not pressing hard, just firm enough to anchor. The other hand spread over your whole back, warm through the thin fabric, a steady weight that did not cure anything and did not pretend to. “Breathe with me” he murmured near your temple when he felt you start to panic. “Not faster. Deeper. Again.” And because his voice was deep as tidewater and unshakeable as reef stone, you found yourself obeying.

The pain did not vanish. That was perhaps the gentlest part of it. He never treated relief as a test of whether you were trying hard enough. The cramps kept coming in waves, sometimes sharp enough to make your vision swim, sometimes low and grinding and cruel in a way that felt endless. Each time your body seized, his hand stayed where it was. Each time your breathing turned ragged, he counted softly until you could catch the rhythm again. He brought you water when you could keep it down. He cooled a cloth and laid it across the back of your neck when heat and nausea rose together. When blood soaked through more than you expected and horror flooded you, he took the stained cloth from your hands without the slightest flicker of disgust and said, with quiet finality “There is nothing of you that is shameful to me.”

That sentence stayed in the room like a second heartbeat. You turned your face toward him then, really looked at him, and saw not only the clan leader everyone else saw, not only the fierce warrior from the stories of reef and battle, but the man beneath all that. You saw the patience in him. You saw the discipline it took for him not to fill every silence with instruction. You saw the depth of his care in the way he kept adjusting, learning the shape of your suffering in real time so he would not make it worse. Tonowari, who guided hunters and settled disputes and held whole lives in balance with his judgment, was holding your pain with that same seriousness. Not as an inconvenience. Not as a weakness. As something real.

“I hate this” you whispered eventually, throat scraped raw, body limp with exhaustion after the worst of it passed. “I hate that it decides everything. I hate that I never know when it will hit. I hate that it makes me feel heavy and useless and angry at everyone.” He was quiet long enough that you thought perhaps he would let the confession lie there. Then he rested his chin lightly against the top of your head and looked out through the open side of the shelter to where evening had begun to color the water bronze and blue. “Then hate it” he said. “You do not have to forgive what hurts you.” His arm tightened slightly around your waist. “But do not mistake hating your pain for hating yourself.”

Something in you cracked open at that. For years you had blurred the two together until they became inseparable. The bad days were not just painful; they were indictments. They told you that you were difficult, fragile, selfish, dramatic, weak. They made you feel as though your body had become an enemy camp you were forced to live inside. Tonowari did not speak like someone trying to flatter you out of your feelings. He spoke like someone stating a truth as plain as tide and moon and current. In his world, wounds were tended. They were not moral failings. In his arms, for the first time in longer than you could remember, your suffering felt like something that deserved care rather than punishment.

By the time darkness fully settled, the worst of the cramping had eased into an ache you knew would linger for hours. You were still tired enough to feel hollow. Your head still throbbed faintly. Every part of you felt wrung out and unsteady, like cloth twisted dry by hard hands. Yet you were no longer alone inside it. Tonowari shifted only enough to pull a blanket over both of you against the cooler night air. When he asked if he should leave so you could rest, the question startled you with its gentleness. You turned within the circle of his arms, laid one trembling hand against the tattooed plane of his chest, and admitted the truth in a voice so small it barely carried. “Stay” you said. “Please stay.”

Lamb:I'm sorry, everyone! Ha - ha! My rat-dad is always saying I need to work on being less of a sore loser!

Her mind was desperate, filling with where she had to go: home. Back to the Resistance. Sanctity of the metal place… defensible.

Safe.

Her eye closed against the wind, yet Katir’s eyes were clearer, her hands trying to claw into her face to keep her eye shielded, but she could feel how hot and sticky her hands were…how slippery as well with the force of the air against her flesh. Her head thumped with pain… her head felt light, but she focused on seeing through her Ikran’s eyes to keep her grounded. It lessened the pain but… she still felt woozy.

Katir screeched out… shaking her from as a haze drifting over her mind to realise how quickly they were almost there. Tsyuta distinctly realised how Katir was reacting to her pain and desperation to pound her wings through the air to get to the HQ.

Landing almost knocked the wind from her, Katir letting out another horrendous shriek before she pulled her kuru free and staggered to the airlock. Her breaths echoed in her ears louder than the changeover, but the sight of Ri’nela on the other side, no doubt coming to investigate the sound of her distressed Ikran, was a blessing.

“Oh…” she couldn’t help the relief in her voice.

“Tsyuta!” Ri’nela gasped, horrified as she realised what she was seeing before she threw herself forward, capturing her into her sweet embrace in her alarm. “So’lek! Alma!” Her voice cut through the air.

Tsyuta gladly sank into Ri’nela’s arms, her legs wavering.

“Sarentu?!” So’lek got there first before Alma also gasped. “What happened?” His voice was deep, written in concern as he touched her chin, but Tsyuta groaned at the attention there. It made her head throb worse.

Alma’s arms looped around her other side, pulling her weight from Ri’nela without tearing her away, but guided them through the base at a very brisk pace. To medbay. Her feet barely caught up.

“K-Ka’nat…he got angry…” She got out with slurred words, finally closing her eyes to shut away the worst of it. “…he ordered…this. One of their… their warriors…” She couldn’t turn to see So’lek’s expression, but didn’t have the energy to either. She felt sick.

“So’lek, start securing all the airlocks and call everyone in. We’ll lock down the HQ.” Alma commanded.

There were no arguments. She felt him leave before she smelt the familiar medical disinfectant reach and the voices around before she felt the coarse texture with a mild cushion to it. A gurney. She sat, though her shaking hand clutched at Ri’nela.

“Hajir should be well enough to help,” Alma said, adjusting the gurney’s head to a high angle. “Ri’nela, stay with her and do what the medics ask of you. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Tsyuta accepted the help to lie back, allowing Ri’nela to lower the bed further down for when Hajir would examine it. She knew her eye was gone… trying to look about hurt too much to signify anything less than that what was left needed to be removed. Her first week out in the open… and they stab her in the head.

Her heart ached, unable to stop herself from the sobs that bubbled up in her throat as much as she wanted to.

“<Cry, Tsya.>” Ri’nela whispered soothingly, her nickname soft. “<Let it out. We don’t need to hide that.>”

There were loud clicks that made her flinch. The Airlocks. Oddly, it was relieving. The Aranahe couldn’t get in. She was safe in here. Her hand gripped her tighter. Then, she heard the laboured breaths of Hajir, his voice echoing to Nalin and others for supplies. Ri’nela shifted a little, but didn’t let go.

“Tsyuta,” Hajir’s voice was close now, “I need to take a look, can you please drop your hand?”

“Hurt…” She sniffled.

“I know. I’ll give you some pain medication in a moment, but I need to see what damage has occurred. Can you tell me what struck you?”

Tsyuta swallowed thickly. “Spear.”

“S-spear?” Hajir sounded shocked. “Shit… You removed it.”

“She could hardly keep it in,” Ri’nela said, a tad snide.

“I know,” Hajir said, swiftly. “We can put you under for this exam, or do you want to stay awake?”

“Under… but Ri’nela stays.” She whispered.

“Okay..”

-

Ri’nela never felt her heart beat so much as she held her friend's hand. Staying out of the way as the doctors set up, sedated Tsyuta and got to work. It pained her a little that she had to help change her out of her clothes and into a gown, a mask of Pandoran air strapped onto her face. Something clean and sterile, but it would mean she wouldn’t get an infection. Alma hovered outside the medical bay, preventing anyone from coming in as they operated, like Teylan and Nor, who protested but both backed off for Tsyuta’s sake, for the procedure to go smoothly.

Ri’nela had to wash and wear a gown over her attire, masked up but that also meant she had the full view of their work. Scans of her head were taken first to assess how deep the wounds went; limited to just the eyeball, it seemed; her optical nerve was intact, which was noted down. Probably for the possibility of a functional prosthetic in her future. Her eyelids had some damage done and the socket itself wasn’t damaged. By the angle, Hajir had commented that she had tried to react by going backwards, which was they the damage wasn’t worse. It was a huge relief to know that there was no damage to her brain.

Alex appeared, changed into sterile clothes, masked up and with a covered tray, which was set down.

“What’s that?” Ri’nela asked.

“A modified orbital implant,” Alex said, his tone cool and serious, which given the situation, was a relief. “<Right now, it’ll hold the eye muscles and protect the remaining optical nerve. Until there’s a decision on if she wants it removed or sewn shut or for me to develop a prosthesis for her to use, this is the best solution.”

Ri’nela nodded. A prostheses may restore her vision, but it meant she’d have to live with a sky person device in her skull… for good. She couldn’t blame Alex for wanting to give that choice. Tsyuta deserved that choice. Teylan would opt for the device without a doubt. Nor would reject the choice and let her go without the eye as any of The People would in the same situation but… Ri’nela couldn’t make that choice. Not yet. Not until Tsyuta was well enough to decide for herself. The Resistance could give her that time where the Na’vi couldn’t.

Her mind still stalled on the reality. Why would the Aranahe do this? Why would Ka’nat wish to harm them? She was helping them. Etuwa had asked for the aid, and they gave it. This was supposed to be a mission to rekindle a connection between the Resistance and the clan, but now…

Ri’nela couldn’t see how this could be repaired.

At worst, they had tried to kill her. At best, they half-blinded her.

“Where’s So’lek?” Ri’nela asked, calling to Alma.

“Outside, keeping any Aranahe visitors away in the lockdown.” Alma said, “He’s got a radio on him to call us when that happens.”

Ri’nela let out a sigh of relief. Good. That was good. So’lek… he knew how to handle the other Na’vi.

It took a full hour for the procedure to be done, and Tsyuta was set to rest with a plastic shell bandaged over the eye and wheeled to a more private area, which was screened off. The removed eye, Ri’nela had requested to be put in a jar rather than burned. Maybe they could do something petty with it. But that was for later.

Nor and Teylan didn’t hesitate to crowd the bedside while she slept. Each took her hand and murmured to her. Ri’nela lingered, but she found herself drifting to Alm, who was examining the map of the Kinglor forest very intently on her tablet.

“What do we do now?” Her voice was not as strong as she wanted. She felt exhausted. Mentally and emotionally.

Alma’s head turned, ears twitching down. “I don’t know yet. There’s no current gesture sent by any of the warriors, nor did the Aranahe send a healer. I’m concerned, given Etuwa hasn’t shown up, but… given this was done on Ka’nat’s orders, she may not have been able to get here.”

“She was helping her take down an RDA base. Maybe she got hurt?” Ri’nela suggested.

“I think so too. She’d never want this.” Alma straightened up, her tail swishing high uneasily. “That now leaves us with a problem.”

“Oh?”

“Where do we go from here?” Alma inhaled deeply. “None of you are going back to the Aranahe… not until they’ve sent something to acknowledge the incident. If they’re turning hostile… we have to consider moving bases.” Given the expression beneath the worry on Alma’s face, it wasn’t something she wanted to do. Mayhap in an emergency. Today felt like that.

“We can do that?”

“I can’t put people at risk staying in Aranahe Territory,” Alma said swiftly. “I’ll need either you or Nor to take over the watch at the door while I talk to So’lek about options of where to go.”

“There are options?” Ri’nela asked carefully, probing for more information.

“Two… but one means asking permission from the Zeswa to move onto their land. We’ve had to take down and rebuild this HQ somewhere in the Upper Plains, which is hard to do on a good day, not surrounded by RDA patrols. Now, with the right permission and structure, we could do it. Possibly an in-depth cave system for us, since without the jungle, we can’t hide it in plain daylight. ”

“And the second?”

“The Clouded Forest.” Alma looked more reluctant to admit that one. “We have a storage facility in a mountainside. It’s defendable but…. It’s a long way away. The clan isn’t one to be trusted either. Reclusive and doesn’t do well with humans.”

“The Clouded Forest is a risk for humans. Here is a risk for us Sarentu.” Ri’nela summarised. So the first option would be the Zeswa. “If Anqa drops me off at the Zeswa Upper plains, I can see about trying to talk to the Olo’eyktan and Tsahìk, whoever they are, for permission and a place.”

“Nesim and Minang, sisters.” Alma answered, “That’s not a bad idea. They dislike avatars and humans, but your voices will be heard. Given the situation, they may be sympathetic, given Nesim lost her eye a few months back when the RDA first came to this region.”

“You know them?”

“Not personally. So’lek visited the land but never met the two, but met with some of their traders at a close outpost to get an idea of what to expect.”

Ri’nela nodded softly. “What about the alliance with the Aranahe? If the action against Tsyuta was singular and not as a clan action against the Sarentu or Resistance as a whole?”

Alma sucked on her teeth for the longest of moments. “I’ll need to talk with So’lek on that matter. Their numbers would benefit the resistance and to fight against the RDA and their outposts in the Kinglor forest. If—I wish this didn’t happen. I’d never have pushed for any of you to the Aranahe if I thought they’d harm you.”

Ri’nela reached out, patting her arm. “I know, Alma.”

Alma didn’t look satisfied, turning around and looking more towards Tsyuta’s gurney with a dent between her eyebrows. “Why hurt her? What was too accomplished in harm? I knew he didn’t like the resistance…. But you’re Sarentu. Respected. I don’t understand why…”

There was no answer it seemed, but it was all in their head. Why. Why do something to drastic without a concept of the fall-out? What if Tsyuta had been killed? The thought ached her heart the more she thought about it. Tsyuta could have been killed. Two more inches and she would have died.

They wouldn’t have known either, not until they delivered her body to their doorstep. Ri’nela’s throat thickened. For a second, she felt like she was eleven… the smell of gunpowder in the air, the sickening thud of a small body hit the floor…. And the blood. So much blood…. Dead in an instant. Aha’ri lost forever, and they watched. Now, they could have lost Tsyuta and not be there for her.

Alma’s radio crackled, and Ri’nela’s head turned, well aware that Nor and Teylan’s attention turned as well.

“Alma, I’m permitting Etuwa to enter the HQ, if that’s okay with the Sarentu.”