continuation of this, from Varang's pov
Varang was a solitary creature on most days. she prided herself on it, in a sense. she did not feel she required much attention. she did not need a mother or a father to raise her up. she was a woman now. an orphan too. she had no siblings, her only baby brother died in the eruption. she had few friends, it was hard to make them when you ruled like a blood thirsty wraith to keep everyone in line. she had allies, yes. warriors like Riku and Wukula. many seers she was training in the way of reading flames and embers and soot. attendings that aided in her brewing and healing and spells. but they were not... friends.
when she did not need to ensure her warriors were training. or her scouts were watching over the correct territory. or there was no need to go out for a raid. nothing required her. she would stay tucked in her yurt, keeping busy.
she had to. she had to keep busy. had to keep moving. because she still had soot in her lungs, and if she stayed still to long, she could taste it. smell it. feel it suffocating her. she could feel the weight of her duties and her power as Tsahik and the violence that promised to turn back on her if she ever once faltered and her grief bearing down on her shoulders. she would miss people. she would miss what she lost. she would miss the forest.
her hands would drift to her stomach. foolishly. she was barely a woman. not many her age had children yet. a fair few did not yet even have a true mate. yes, some started early, it wasn't rare. but it wasn't like it was demanded of her yet. she didn't have someone she would even lie with, let alone consider for a lifetime together. she had no reason to yearn as she did, other then the fact that she knew never could and that alone drove her mad.
so she focused. she sharpened blades. kept her various flames— whether they be her hearth, which was more for symbol, an undying fire, then intended for practicality, even if it did get used often for any number of things. or her lamps. or her cookfires, or the small braziers for her individual simmering pods and warming bowls made of stone or bone or clay —incense burnt at all hours. herbs steeped and simmered. spices burned. she was always at her morter or her hanging herbs or at her piles of bones she carved into weapons or woven into totems.
assistants fluttered around her. mostly older children, though a few young ones, typically siblings to her older mentees, and a few of the remaining of her elders, if only by a year or past so much as several decades. they brought new items in, brought old items out. delivered finished items. reported village news to her. suggested when she should make appearances. brought her teas to loosen her shoulders or dull pains. they knew her best. which wasn't much. but it was more then she could say for most.
she found herself watching the young ones, and wishing they were her own. some were orphans, yes. but she had never laid claim to any of them. it felt... wrong. not meant to be. her soul did not yearn to bind with theirs specifically. she just... loved the sound of their hushed giggles. their little feet patting over the flooring. or way their clumsy hands handed things over to her with sweet sincerity. or the earnest way they bowed their heads to her and called her Tsahik, even when she did not require it of them. or when she brushed their braids back behind their ears during a lesson.
she loved those soft moments. even if they did not... belong to her.
but today she was mostly alone. mulling over ifta pods until they became a paste in her wooden hand mill to create the base for her salves. the motion repetative, going over and over and over, pushing the wheel through the channel of the long bowl, crushing over the pods again and again. braids falling into her eyes. her focus locked onto the dull crunch of the pods and the grind of wood against wood.
she barely hears the commotion outside until she hears her moniker being called out. many voices calling for their Tsahik all at once. it pulls her from her trance.
she stands with a huff. composing herself quickly. she did not loathe her position, but there were days it was tiring. heavy. days when her anger was farther then she would like. though not hard to reach for. in a moment's notice, she could pull her fire to her lips with an impish smile and her shoulders set. and that she did.
she flings herself from the canvas drapes of her yurt and amongst the crowd.
"and what is it now?" she calls, stepping down to meet the scouts bowing at her steps. her warriors are trying to inspect the wriggling cloth sack they hold, holding their bows and staffs like they consider poking at it, before bowing out of her way. "what is this?" she demands, words thick and sharp. her persona taking over like a second skin.
the scouts cower some; they know what she is capable of. before lifting it higher for her to take it, but just as she moves to snatch it up, she gets a peek inside.
first she sees pink skin. clearly skin. whatever is wriggling is not quite animal. and then she sees a hand. her heart flutters. a tiny little hand. with three tiny fingers currently clinging to the sack. she lowers herself off of the carved steps leading to her yurt and leaning to peer into the sack in earnest.
a stripped little boy with big amber eyes looks up at her. his little ears peeking forward towards her, his hands burrowing into his mouth so he can chew them. his black little nose sniffs at her.
"we found him abandoned, Tsahik, on the western most border," one of the scouts murmurs, "he is demon blooded, and... touched by Eywa," the name is spat, "he breathes our air! bears our features! and yet Her forest children abandoned him. he reeks of them."
she hums, "they reject their so called goddesses blessing. the blessing she gives to a demon, while she turns her back to us," her voice held no heat, just distant curiosity. she's hardly focused on that right now. the way she should use this as fuel to her fires of hate. the hypocrisy. the politics. she's just looking at the little one, he hands moving to take the sack and hold him in her arms.
he seems matured some. not a newborn, she could assume. but he was so tiny compared to her. when she shifts him into the crook of her arm, he barely fills the one. his hands reach up for her, up to the beads that string from ear to ear. they are made of bone and charred rock and claws. death and destruction encapsulated. and yet he shows no fear. he just wants to touch.
"why hello, little vrrtep," her words, though cruel by definition, are so soft, cooed like a petname, "who are you? hmm?"
the boy smiles back, chubby cheek scrunching under his eyes, his tail flicking over her arm.
the scouts look to her. typically, her good mood could not be trusted. she was a good actor. so they ask, "what are you going to do with him, Tsahik?" they bow their heads further, "is our... assistance... required?"
she knows it is fair of them to ask, with her typical way of handling things of Eywa. destroying them. making an example of them. but to be asked if she wants help in disposing of this baby... her gut simmers with something acrid.
"No," she snaps firmly. "you will leave me, all of you. I will take the boy. you will hear my words in the morning."
she wasn't even thinking. not anymore. the boy's little toes tickled at her wrist. his head leaned into her breast. he was cooing, wriggling, becoming uncomfortable, likely hungry. his hand was still trying to reach her jewelry. she bows her head to the babe so he can reach, a smile, a true smile, gracing her lips.
"I need time to decide," she lies through her teeth. teeth that are quickly covered by a little hand. the baby squeals a sweet little laugh as she bites her lips at them. she's already turning around. heading back into her yurt, paying no mind to the reactions of the crowd. her word was final, she knew that. so at worst they would linger outside like fools. and that was not her problem.
"you are dismissed," she murmurs to her littlest ones still inside. watching them quickly wrap up their things before scurrying away, but not before each snuck a look at the babe in her arms. he's curious and full of energy. still patting and reaching for her. one murmurs that he looks stranger, another argues he is cute, a third just watches as she hangs her herbs. and then they are gone.
and her focus is on the baby. she sits on her pallet, laying him against her knees, and truly inspects him.
ignoring his size, he reminds her of a Na'vi infant nearing their first cycle, so she assumes he is around the same. while he is pink skinned with blonde curls, that is just about where his human features end. he is painted in tan forest stripes. big amber eyes, bigger ears that are curiously scanning the room. a black little snout. a kuru that just barely has enough hair grown around it to finatly cover it with a braid. and the average build for a child his age, again, she reminds herself, of the relative size due to him being human. he's chunky with baby fat. not as chunky as he could be. but he's a healthy boy.
he's in nothing but a cloth article that covers his bum, of what she can assume is human design. leaving all the rest of him on display. and she is swooning for it.
he is so tiny. so very tiny. she has longed to hold something this tiny and call it hers for so long. she can't help but tickle at his chest and his belly and armpits, earning a wave of giggles from him. his tail smacking against her. his little feet kicking up a storm.
she doesn't know what to say to him. what do you say to babies? she doesn't quite know anymore. not right now, with a baby actually in her lap.
"you have had quite the day, hmm?" she starts, lifting him to face her, "I believe you are hungry, you seemed displeased earlier. you could have been out there for hours with no one to care for you."
she settles him closer to her chest, standing to retrieve items to constitute a formula— the Mangkwan had many, many orphans. if he could breathe their air, she could assume they could eat their food. and she knew how to make the closest thing they could to a mother's milk. all too well truly —deer tallow for fats to thicken him up, vonti weed stems to squeeze for a rich milky base liquid, kirsvish syrup to sweeten it slightly, keep it from getting too thick, and ensure he got all the nutrients he need, and a gourd to mix it in.
"Mama will make you something, hmm?" she hums, bestowing the title to herself, earning a coincidental coo from him. or perhaps it wasn't. Varang let's herself believe the later, that sweetly mischievous smile returning to her as she sets him down in a pile of blankets. he fusses almost instantly, his lip puckering, hands reaching for his tail to self sooth. he is so pitiful as he whimpers like a little nantang pup for her.
she feels her heart aching, and yet her smile twists to one of pitying amusement as she strokes a finger against his hairline, "oh, oh no, none of that," she tucks him into the blankets better, "mama needs her hand, ok, little one? and then you will eat and mama will hold you and all with be well?"
the little one doesn't respond, how could he? so he just pouts at her, his whimpers slowing but not stopping. those big amber eyes of his all wide and wet. little hands reaching once more.
she relents for a moment. letting herself have this one moment she's always wanted. she lays down beside him, pulling him close against her chest. curling his knees up and his head down, so he lays like a newborn, something he accepts immediately. she could guess he was starved of such affections, leaving him desperate.
"never again, little thing," she takes a hand of his and brings it to her lips. "you are mine. I have been praying for you for many many moons. and the Ashes have given you to me. so you will never know lonlieness again."
she rubs his back, as he quickly begins to fall asleep, in circles. again and again. his kuru laying over the back of her hand. she keeps him wrapped up otherwise. she can get up when he is resting, so he can wake to a warm bottle and her arms— mama's arms —around him and a soon to be full belly. she feels pride in that. she will provide for him like a good mama.
the little one cuddles against her chest, putting one of her beads in his mouth. she allows it, he can't do any harm with the one sprouting tooth she can see. and his eyes flutter shut. he let's out a few more little coos, before he goes still and quiet.
she smiles. kissing his hair.
he fits. right here in her arms. in her soul.
they bind together instinctually.
Kexskawnitik. named after the mighty mountain that, in one way or another, gave her her baby boy. who placed them on the same path to find one another. Kexska. her mighty little boy. he will be so strong. so brave. her heir. her prince.
tears fill her eyes, for the first time in a long time she doesn't fight them. she let's them slip down her cheeks, turning ashen white as it runs through her painted tears. she only keeps them from dripping Kexska. she doesn't want him to carry her sadness, only her pride and joy. otherwise, they flow free.
"you have saved me, little ember," she whispers into his blonde curls, "you have kept my flames from collapsing into smoke. sealed the hole in my heart. soothed an ache I feared I would live with. and for that, I will give you everything I have and more."
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