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The wood here is dry and smooth against your knees as you lean over the dock, splashing the sea water over your heated shoulders. The wood has begun to warp from your years of fishing; two circular dents about the size of your knees, and two more beside it similar to your feet - a sort of signature to this far-off, idyllic fishing spot you so favour. The day is hot; the sun is unforgiving with its heat, but the waves carry its rays to the shore, fracturing the light like one of Tsahik's crystals. You can feel the tickle of sweat at the parting of your hair, dripping down the nape of your neck. You rise, a sigh of resignation escaping from your lips as your back straightens with a pop. You pull at your net, the rope picking at the calluses of your roughened palms as you work out the knots and pluck it from the flaking wood that splinters the dock. Your shoulders have broadened over the years, muscle thickening as you threw the net, hauled the crates of fish, fought the bigger prey with a spear; your stature had begun to mimic your father's, and you wait in itchy anticipation for tattoos to adorn your arms. You imagine it now, looking into the shimmering horizon: mighty hunts beyond the reef, toughened skin marred with impressive scars and jewellery decorated with razored teeth. The net blossoms in the air as you toss it, the rope striking the water in an audible slap before it sinks below.
It was in your periphery, as you turned into the throw, that you spotted the Omatikayan girl floating in the shallow waters of an isolated piece of beach. She has done this often in the few days since the forest people arrived -- she lingers in observation, fawning over some mediocre bit of nature that you could not understand her fascination with. You supposed you had outgrown the wonder of the reef - but still, she watches the water carry the sand as if it were riveting, feet kicking out of the water. It seems so primitive.
A tugging at the net brought you back to your fishing. There is a relief in your shoulders as they roll and loosen as you pull at the rope, fighting against the fish. You whisper your gratitude to Eywa, plucking the fish from the net and tossing them into baskets. It was a cyclical duty, the repetition of which would have others your age moan and complain, but it was mindless enough; it is therapeutic to work with your hands and not think too hard about things. Hours could pass before you even realised.
The midday sun was considerably more tolerant. Once more you are on your knees, pawing at the water; it is cool against your skin, and your muscles ache for a weightless soak. Droplets run down your forearms, dance at the end of your elbows. You run a wetted hand across your sweaty face, and your ears curl toward the sound of sloppy footsteps to your right; Tonowari's son is whispering to a couple of other boys as they walk, snickering behind their hands and pointing to the distant shoreline. You mumble your annoyance under your breath, palming water into your face once more. Skxawng.
"Look at her", you hear him laugh, "what is she doing? These tree na'vi are wrong in the head."
Another boy - Rotxo, you think his name is, replies, "she is a freak."
This is not your business, you tell yourself; they are not your people, she is alien, she is not true Na'vi. You stand to pick up the net, ignoring the way your fingers tighten around the rope, whitening at the knuckles, ignoring the way your stomach churns at their words, at your own words. Your ears flicker toward her soft voice as she regards them in ignorance, "Hm? What did you say?"
'Freak', they laugh, pulling at her tail and grasping at her arms. The girl's ears are flat against her skull as she curls in on herself.
You throw the net; it is half-assed and fruitless. Your eyes are closed and your jaw is clenched. Beyond the noise of your grinding teeth you hear another set of footsteps, this time fast and weighted. "Stay away from my sister!" A boy growls, and you open your eyes with a defeated sigh: two more Omatikayan kids, baring their teeth at the gaggle of Metkayina boys. The one that throws the first punch is tall but lanky, and though he is fast he takes as many hits as he throws. The other's shoulders are as broad as your own; he turns solidly into his punches, balances his weight on his feet well. They will do fine enough, you had thought, before watching Rotxo drag one of the Omatikayan boys through the sand by his hairy tail.
The net has sunk to the sea floor, no fish ensnared. You hiss in frustration as the rope falls from your hand and into the water with a sad splash, and you break into a jog toward the boys.
Rotxo's taunt is swallowed up by a breathless grunt as your body hits his; he flails in the sand like a beached fish, mouth gaping incredulously. You face Ao'nung, heart beating with a sudden adrenaline, and your breathing stutters. "Just because you are the son of a clan leader does not mean you are entitled to treat others like this. A son of Tonowari would behave better." Ao'nung is almost foaming at the mouth; you feel the spittle hit your face as he hisses. "You father would be disappointed in you."
The adrenaline coursing through your body did little to prepare your face for Ao'nung's charged fist; your lip split with a heated sting, and his knuckle collided into your nose with a sickening crack. Your tongue was overwhelmed with the taste of iron, and the saltiness was not so dissimilar to the sea.
You tried to breathe through your nose. You choked on blood instead.
There was no thought of consequence as you reeled back your fist, knuckles popping and shoulders flexing as if you were about the throw a net deep into sea. There was an angry thudding at your temple, a tension that made your eyeballs bulge and teeth bite at your inner cheek. The skin splits as you bring your knuckle-white fist down onto Ao'nung's face, into his teeth. A mix of spit and blood leapt from his mouth, pooling at his chin. His lip was beginning to purple. "Tonowari will hear of this, Ao'nung!" You hiss, driving your fist into his shoulder, the both of you breathing hard. At the threat, Ao'nung begrudgingly resigned, eye twitching in bottled fury; he shoulders past you as Rotxo spits at your feet.
There is a tickle at your chest, a blossoming warmth; it alarms you, looking down, to see how much blood is dripping from your chin. You tentatively touch your face, pulling back at the sting of your lip and the deep ache at the ridge of your nose. Your fingers are bloodied.
You turn to leave, breath held as to not choke on your own blood in front of the Omatikayan kids; she catches your eye, then. The forest girl. Her five fingers reach out toward you, muttering something shaky and incoherent, but you pull away from her touch. A tiredness settles within you, and you pinch your bleeding nose as you retreat to the docks.
You sit once more at the edge, reserving a moment to compose yourself before seeking out your net, trying to stifle the anxiety that begins to bubble in your stomach.
You ease yourself slowly into the water, small waves kneading your stomach and blood melting into ripples of orange. This time, you anticipate the pain: the sea water laps up the blood and cleans your wounds; instinctively you flex your hand as your knuckles sting, cursing as a sharp, burning pain shoots up your wrist.
You allow yourself to float, kicking off a piece of choral; you guard your hand, holding it close to your chest as the water carries you. It is seamless, weightless; the blues of the sky and the sea melt into one another. For a moment, you can forget the chastisement from your parents, the reprimands - certain to happen - and forget about your cuts and bruises. For now, there is only you, the water, and Eywa. It feels like home; the cool water at your back and the sun that kisses your face, like a fire on a rainy day, the smell of salt and distant petrichor.
You breathe in, filling your lungs with that fresh, chilly sea breeze, and arch backward into the water to find the net. You reach for it with your better hand, gathering the rope in your arms before kicking off the seabed.
She watches you break the surface, the curls of your dark hair contorting in the sun's warmth as you blink away the water. Her eyes explore you like they do the sand, the sea, the little fish that swim at her feet and pulse beneath the eclipse; it is all wonder and delicate curiosity. She has cocooned herself within her leafy shoal, gripping at the seams as if to hide herself. That look of guilt and nervousness lingers on her face still. Her five fingers pick at themselves.
Your own eyes are strong and unblinking, unwavering teal; you watch her as if to understand a foreign fish or a new knot that your mother teaches you. But her gaze remains just as soft, just as innocent. "Kiri," A gentle voice says, "come."
Tossing the net atop the dock, you find purchase on the thick column of wood buried deep into the seabed, sand churning as you climb it. Pain blossoms at your wrist again as you lift your weight, and you instinctively hiss. The girl draws in a sharp breath as she watches, and a taller woman emerges from a nearby marui pod to steer her inside, speaking to her softly. She huffs in frustration as she breaks your gaze.
You sit on the dock's edge a moment longer, testing the limitations of your wrist. "Kiri," you repeat, swirling the word around your mouth with your tongue, as if to see how the name would taste.
The flavour of it is polluted by the lingering zest of blood.
The ocean disappears into the darkness, and the setting sun makes the distant islands burn a deep red in the horizon. The gentle sea breeze tickles at her cheek, and there is little warmth other than the sombre flicker of mounted firelight. Kiri pulls the shoal tighter around her shoulders.Her five-toed feet are familiar with the lubricous and barky terrain of the forest, but the splintered and sand-sprinkled slabbed wood of the docks rasps at her soft feet. She picks at the twine of her belt as she walks its length, anxiously readjusting the medicine pouch at her side as her feet begin to blister.
You had looked different from afar, Kiri thinks, as you worked through the knots of your net and waded through the shallow waters with a pointed spear. The Metkayina were broader, their bones strong and limbs finned; your thickened muscle and robust stature were admirable - you looked as much a warrior as you did a fisherwoman. And though your jaw was strong and hard-set, your cheek was soft and your chin was dimpled; your patterned turquoise skin reminded her of the fractured light that danced on the sand that she so loved to observe.
The gentle image of your skin dwindled away at the distant sound of grinding wood. Kiri stopped abruptly at your presence, toe stubbing the dock at the sudden flush of nervousness. The muscle in your thigh braced as you crouched for the weighted crate of fish; the torchlight accentuated the muscle on your back and highlighted the veins that ran along your forearm, and kissed your skin with a healthy glow. Kiri hesitated before she approached, coughing softly for your attention. Her heart had never beaten as fast, and she chews at her bottom lip in anxiety. She unclips the pouch from her belt and holds it to her chest as you turn. Kiri's gaze focuses on the dark bruise at your lip, stark and ugly against your skin, instead of your own eyes. You sigh before she has even said anything.
"Come," you say, setting down the crate with a thud before you rise, beckoning for her to follow as you walk the dock. The sounds of the evening clatter and murmuring melt away into the darkness; it is quieter here, and the tension in Kiri's shoulders lessens somewhat at the sight of the glowing choral and bioluminescent fish. Still, she cannot meet your gaze.
"I have something from home to help with your face," Kiri whispers, opening the pouch and gathering the leaves, roots and vials into her hands, holding them out for you to see. She can feel a heat in her cheeks as you inspect with your forefinger warily. Kiri notices the rudimentary bandage around your injured wrist, and a lump forms in her throat, mottled in guilt. You breathe deeply, and your ankles pop as you lower yourself to settle at the dock's edge. The gentle evening waves lick at your feet, and you extend a hand in invitation when Kiri hesitates to join you.
"Show me your forest medicine." Perhaps it was because the ice had been broken, perhaps it was because you had finally spoken to her, perhaps it was because it was now just the two of you, perhaps it was simply because she was passionate about medicine -- Kiri could not decide, but she smiled. She sat facing your left, her legs crossed as she settled her trinkets beside her on the worn wood. Kiri displayed them perfectly in line, from least useful to most, bringing them up for you to see as she softly chattered. She looks at you in an excitement she hopes does not translate into childishness. Sometimes you entertain her with an interested hum or an ignorant but sincere question:
"No, no. This is far better. It has similar healing properties but it stings significantly less. I do not usually have much of it because Lo'ak always gets himself into trouble, and Tuk scrapes her knees a lot."
Your laugh is lovelier than Kiri had predicted. It is soft and comes easily from the throat; it feels like a tender kiss to the cheek. She looks up from the paste she is kneading between her fingers and into your gentle gaze. "May I?" Kiri whispers, and though you eye it warily, you nod. She is gentle as she thumbs your lower lip, mindlessly reaching out with her spare hand to tenderly cup your cheek for purchase. Her touch lingers at the softness of your skin, and she licks at her dry lips beneath your pointed gaze, throat darkening in a blush.
"Thank you, Kiri," you murmur, a shadow of a smirk pulling at your lips. Her ears flutter at the sound of her name, and they fold when she decides she likes it. The remaining paste is wiped onto a piece of dried tree bark and she pockets it for later; she washes her hands in the cold sea water, and dips her own toes in to imitate you, facing the dark expanse of the ocean.
"I should be the one thanking you," Kiri laughs breathily, swallowing around the lump in her throat. She watches you lick at your lip in her periphery, pretending not to notice. Her ears fold once more. Your face contorts in disgust at the grassy taste of the paste. "I am sorry," Kiri whispers, gripping at the wooded edge of the dock, jaw tense, "it is my fault that you are hurt." You gently nudge at her side, craning your head to try and catch her eyes, but she stares miserably at the small fish disturbing the sand below.
"Do not apologise," you say firmly, resting your hand atop the younger girl's knee; your touch is coarse, yet warm and tender, and your three strong fingers are large enough to wrap around her leg. A soft gasp escapes her lips. She wonders what her hand would feel like in your own. "That skxawng had it coming. You had done nothing wrong. Tonowari will hear of his son's behaviour, I promise." Kiri wonders what good it will do since her father wants to kiss at the chieftain's finned feet, but she appreciates the sentiment nevertheless.
You rise, and mindlessly she begins to do the same, wanting to follow. "Come", you say, voice softer than before, reaching out a hand for her to take. You whisper her name when she hesitates, and Kiri feels as if she could melt into a puddle. "I must show you the shore in the dark. When the waves break on the sand, there is light - a blue glow. You must see it." Her hands are smaller in yours, silky and delicate, smudged with green forest medicine. Your tender grip makes her stomach flutter, a sensation new and odd to describe, and she lets you pull her gently along the dock and onto the beach, gently thumbing your scabbing knuckles. The sand is cold and it tickles her feet, and she giggles at the feeling. You look back to smile at her, skin aglow in the dark and curled hair dancing in the night's wind, and she returns it in earnest with a toothy grin.
You tell her your name as you walk, and Kiri repeats it delicately as if it were as natural as the waves kissing the sand; it felt comfortable on her tongue, and sounded idyllic in her voice. The shoal loosens around her shoulders as she laughs and stumbles in the sand, and she looks at her hand in yours in such an adoration it almost frightens her. The night is beautiful, she thinks, you are beautiful, and it feels so beautiful to be alive.