་༘࿐಄ How to Breathe ˖ִֶָ. ..𓂃
pairing: Teylan x Solali (Teylali)
word count: 2.5k
ao3 link
Chapter Two: When Okul invites Teylan to help them prepare pigments for the murals which will be painted, he finally feels able to open up and enjoy himself.
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𑣲˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀⊹ ࣪ ˖ִֶָ. ..𓂃ᥫ᭡ ࣪ ་༘࿐಄⋆˙ˊ˗˖᯽⟡ˎ 𑣲˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀⊹ ࣪ ˖ִֶָ. ..𓂃ᥫ᭡ ࣪ ་༘࿐಄⋆˙ˊ˗˖᯽⟡ˎ
CHAPTER TWO: 'Opinsung
TRY AS HE MIGHT, TEYLAN could not get the image of the Zeswa rider out of his mind.
Solali.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the bright swirls of her paint. Between his fingertips he could almost feel the ridges of her braids. Each breath of wind over the plains seemed to carry the lilt of her voice, her laughter, a kind of song to Teylan’s ears.
Thoughts of the girl—a near stranger—brought a furious blush to Teylan’s cheeks. A fierce and brave friend to the direhorses would want nothing to do with him, he knew. More often than not, Teylan would go an entire week without stepping outside even once. Not that he would’ve been permitted to venture off during the time he spent with Mercer.
And that was the larger, more nagging dilemma. The thing which would always hang between him and other Na'vi–real Na'vi.
Teylan had willingly, knowingly, given away the position of HQ. No, he had not exactly expected such a violent outcome. But even the most dim-witted person alive without so much as a crumb of context could’ve predicted that sharing anything with Mercer wouldn’t be a good idea.
Which made Teylan ever dumber than that hypothetical dimwit.
The sun stretched over the plains, warming what little skin of Teylan’s back and arms peeked out from beneath his vest. He briefly wondered what it might be like to dress in the more traditional styles, exposing even more of his flesh to the midday heat. But then the caress of the sun brought his mind right back to his direhorse instructor.
Solali. Sol. Even if the link to the Latin word for sun was not at all intentional, Teylan thought it was quite fitting. Solali had been bright and easy-going and cheerful. Within the fleeting moments they spent together, he almost forgot about all the harm he had caused.
Almost.
“Teylan!” Ri'nela called. His chin snapped up as he plastered on a wobbly smile for the other Sarentu bounding toward him. Per usual, though, Ri'nela knew all his tells. “What is the matter, yawntu?” she murmured, dropping into a crouch beside Teylan.
“Nothing,” he lied, willing his smile to deepen, to appear to be something convincing. He failed—miserably. “Did you need me?” Teylan asked, desperate to shift the focus away from his own ridiculous feelings.
Though Ri'nela’s brow bunched, she mercifully played along. That dynamic developed between the two long ago, and he knew he could only escape her questioning for so long. “Okul was looking for you. They said they wanted to show you something.”
“Me?” Teylan croaked, eyes widening. “Okul hardly knows me.”
Ri'nela merely shrugged, as if being requested by a Na'vi from another clan—by name, no less—was the most natural thing on Pandora. The smallest of grins tugged at Ri'nela’s lips as her golden eyes seemed to sparkle. “It would be impolite to keep them waiting,” she said softly, nudging Teylan’s shoulder.
He stood, albeit begrudgingly, and set off in the direction Ri'nela had indicated. The path took him through rocky gorges and between groups of chattering Zeswa, Aranahe, and eventually Kame'tire. Okul stood at the very edge of their gathered clan, hands on their hips, staring at a collection of empty pots. Teylan stepped up behind them, waiting to be noticed, but nothing seemed to break the healer’s concentration until he awkwardly cleared his throat.
“Ah!” Okul crooned, whirling around. “Ma'Teylan, there you are!”
The Sarentu suddenly felt rather shy. “Ri'nela said you needed me?” he asked, voice quiet.
“Srane, srane. Za'u, ma'eylan,” Okul urged, waving him forward. A sly smirk danced upon their lips. “Heh. 'Eylan…Teylan. Was that intentional, you think?”
He shrugged, gulping. “I-I really couldn’t say.” Probably not, he thought, considering his betrayal of those who had been nothing but kind and loving to him.
“No matter,” Okul chirped with a wave of their hand. “I asked you here to assist me with a very important task,” they grinned.
Teylan’s heart raced. He could only manage a breathy, “Oh?”
Okul laughed, though nothing seemed particularly funny at present. Teylan’s cheeks warmed. “Would you like to learn how to mix some pigments, ma'eylan Teylan?”
The Sarentu’s shoulders loosened a fraction. He hadn’t been sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t…that. “Sure, okay,” he nodded, allowing Okul to tug at his arm, directing him where to sit behind the scattered jars. Okul grabbed a thick bundle of fabric, laying it before them. With a flick of their wrist, the bundle rolled out atop the short grasses, displaying a colorful menagerie of vials, pots, dried sprigs, pressed flowers, and a few items Teylan couldn’t even name.
“Our supplies,” Okul murmured, running their fingers over the stash with reverence.
“You have quite the collection,” Teylan admired, folding his legs before him and leaning toward the goods. It was as if the whole of Pandora had been laid at his feet—only in miniature.
“Ah, srane. Much was collected by my karyu, Siul,” they said, a soft, sad smile creasing the corners of their green eyes. “But some…some I gathered myself, it is true.”
Teylan, understanding what it was to lose a mentor, yet hating himself for recognizing the feeling at all, felt an overwhelming urge to be of comfort to his new friend. “Siul had a keen eye, I think.”
Okul’s chin suddenly snapped up, face alight with a brilliant smile. “Hah! You are right there, Sarentu!” Though their rapid change in demeanor was rather disarming, a sort of wheezing chuckle slipped past Teylan’s lips. “Let us begin, tutewan.”
The herbalist showed Teylan all matters of supplies, artfully describing the pigments they produced. Though, they explained, it was not a simple effort of combining ingredients to produce a new hue. Elements had to be carefully selected and matched so that the essential components of each did not counteract one another, creating a concoction quite unlike what had been intended. Okul walked Teylan through a number of such combinations, explaining the nature of binding and thickening, drying and even burning.
To his surprise, Teylan followed along with interest. It was not unlike the operation and repair of electronics, how each part melded together in order to construct the greater whole. As Okul watched over his shoulder while he ground together crumbling pumice stone and the brightly-colored shoots from a blood leaf tree (or a reypaytun utral, according to Okul), he allowed himself to draw comparisons to how SID worked through the layers of a data wall, breaking it apart until the user gained access to the files within. Okul cheerfully commended Teylan’s efforts, dubbing him ‘the greatest numeyu they’ve ever had.’ Teylan secretly flushed at the compliment. To be praised by another Na'vi did something funny to his chest, mending years of wounds which had been slowly, painstakingly created by those who were supposed to protect him.
Though, he reminded himself, they had been his original abusers, no matter how long it took him to come to terms with that particular fact.
Okul’s kind words also reminded him of the gentle encouragement he had received from Solali only days ago. How her eyes had smiled along with her lips, the glow of her auburn hair beneath the midday sky. The hue was not unlike the dye currently being mixed beneath Teylan’s pestle. What a strange coincidence.
The pair moved onto the next mixture, a much more fluid process now that Teylan was familiar with the right angle at which to grind the materials. Okul loomed over him still, hands clasped behind their back. “There, ma'eylan, sìltsan,” Okul hummed. “You must find the right concentration of petals and the binding sap. See how they combine?”
A lovely shade of gold took shape beneath Teylan’s diligent attention, strikingly similar to the shine of an enchanting set of eyes. “Such a vivid color,” Teylan breathed, unable to keep his lips from splitting into a grin. “A screen could never do it justice.”
Okul straightened, returning their student’s smile, but then their gaze drifted beyond Teylan. “Go on, Teylan, mix in the—what was it, catalyst?” Okul asked, sounding out the English word, clipped by their accent. “It will strengthen the pigment, allowing it to stick to anything you paint it on. Is that not so, Sarentu?”
Though Teylan’s ears swiveled at the name of his clan, he knew the title had not been intended for him.
“No longer a techie, Teylan?” a familiar voice teased.
He would never have it in him to be annoyed at anything his friend said. “Tamtey!” Teylan gasped, nearly forgetting the bowl in his hands to throw his arms around her. He awkwardly fumbled with his work, Okul’s hand drifting to his wrist should he need support. “You came!”
“Told you I would,” she smiled, knuckles dragging across Teylan’s cheek in a warm, familiar gesture.
As he continued to work in the activator, he asked, “Can you believe everyone’s here?”
“Quite a sight, isn’t it?” Tamtey mused, gazing longingly at one of the slumbering Zakru nearby.
“Even the Resistance came!” Teylan added before he could think twice. “I mean, I know they aren’t a clan, of course, but still…everyone.” Okul gently took the bowl from Teylan’s grasp, setting to scraping the paste into a small pot. “And,” Teylan argued, reminded of Tamtey’s earlier comment, “this is tech. Sort of.”
Okul glanced over their shoulder, brow bunching beneath the usual smear of their green paint. “Tech,” they murmured. “I like this word. Tech.”
Tamtey huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “And how have things been at The Hollows, 'eylan?” she asked, unconsciously sliding closer to Teylan, her arm snaking about his waist. He welcomed its grounding weight.
“The people have been happier since you found us, ma'Tamtey,” Okul nodded, corking the tiny pot. “You are missed, you know.”
“You flatter me,” Tamtey chuckled by way of dismissal, but Teylan could have sworn her cheeks darkened.
Okul’s voice was smoother than normal when they said, “The Games bring us all together again. They will be quite the spectacle, now that our Sarentu have returned to these lands.”
The two shared another smile before Tamtey turned her gaze to Teylan. “And what were you making? Looked fun.”
With an air of importance, Teylan announced, “Okul wanted my assistance with mixing some paints.”
“Quite the artist you’ve become,” Tamtey teased, leaning into him.
“Some of the others, Ri'nela among them, will be painting murals to commemorate the return of the Games,” explained Okul, adding new ingredients to a fresh bowl. They swished the pestle around in a basket of water before setting to work once more. “The colors of every clan, joined again. Things are as they should be,” the Kame'tire murmured, watching the wind sweep over the sun-soaked plains beyond.
“As Eywa intended,” Tamtey added, giving Teylan’s side a squeeze.
Okul’s attention returned to Tamtey. “Will you join us, Sarentu? I know of some berries growing all around this camp. Their color is unmatched!” they coaxed.
Tamtey instantly nodded. “I’d love to,” she said brightly, her arm falling from around Teylan. He couldn’t help but miss her reassuring touch.
“Is that what the Zeswa were using yesterday to paint the Zakru?” Teylan wondered.
He hadn’t quite realized the question had been loud enough for his companions to hear until Okul answered, “Srane, ma'Teylan. The very same.”
And so Tamtey hurried off on her task, leaving Teylan to Okul’s tutelage once more. The two were working on a nice bowl of vibrant purple, a shade close to that of the markings along the wings of Carol, Tamtey’s ikran. Though, perhaps the dye was too bright. “Should we add some more blue?” Teylan asked, brow furrowing as his eyes found Okul’s.
With a hum, Okul said, “We could, 'eylan. Though, blue might make the dye difficult to see against the rock face. This eye-catching 'om is best, I think. We could work on a shade of blue next, if you like.”
Teylan appreciated their answer, the warmth embedded within their words. The smallest of smiles creased his lips. “You are very knowledgeable, ma'Okul,” Teylan remarked. “Do you paint often? I assumed that was something just the Aranahe were known for.”
A hearty laugh rumbled in Okul’s chest. “You are right, the Aranahe do like to be remembered for their artistry. But remember, Teylan: they have mastered silk. We Kame'tire are well-versed in the pursuit of painting.” They leaned over Teylan once more, fingers brushing against his knuckles. “Keep stirring, or it will bubble. Sìltsan,” they cooed as Teylan immediately did as he was bid.
They continued like that a while longer, adding several more colors to their growing stash. Okul would guide him in the right direction; Teylan would marvel at their seemingly endless wisdom and care. The Sarentu felt calm in Okul’s presence as they worked. He felt safe. Even if he had wanted to—which he didn’t, really—he couldn’t have stopped himself from blurting, “Okul, can I ask you something?”
The herbalist nodded, their hand stilling where it stirred. “Anything, ma'eylan Teylan,” was their gentle reply.
After a deep, bracing breath, he asked, “The Games are about taking chances, right?”
Another nod. “Nìlun.”
Teylan gulped. “Then…well, you see, the other day, when I arrived with some of the others, I rode a direhorse for the first time.”
Okul cocked their head.
“Oh, sorry!” Teylan gasped, his cheeks warming. “A pa'li, I mean.”
“Ah, srane,” Okul sighed, “magnificent creatures.”
“Yes, well, the thing is, I’m not so sure I liked it,” Teylan confessed, gaze falling to the pink paste in his grasp. “Only…I want to like it. I did like it. Does that make any sense?”
With a chuckle, Okul asked, “Ma'Teylan, are you wondering if you should seek out Solali?”
Teylan very nearly swallowed his own tongue. Maybe his entire heart, seeing how it suddenly seemed to be lodged within his throat. The pressure made it extremely difficult to splutter a response. One which was coherent, anyway. After running through what was likely the entirety of his Na'vi vocabulary, Teylan settled for, “How?”
Okul’s shrug was casual, but their grin was mischievous. “The 'eve was rather proud to have assisted a Sarentu with mounting a pa'li for the first time.”
“S-she…she told others?” Teylan croaked, probably as purple as the dye by now.
Again, Okul merely shrugged. “The clans share many txeptseng—and many stories—during the Games. Not only are we all glad to roam beside the Sarentu once more, but being the first to guide one of your 'olo in one pursuit or another has become a sort of challenge amongst the people.”
“Oh,” was all Teylan could think to say. His mind was rather occupied with the fact that Solali had shared their interaction with so many others.
That she was still thinking of him at all.
Though Teylan, of course, finished his work with Okul, he daydreamed more than he soaked up the herbalist’s knowledge. Carefully, casually, Okul encouraged Teylan to search for the pa'li rider within the crowded camp. And he would, just as soon as he gathered the courage to do so. But for now, he was quite content to ride the high of what Okul had revealed to him: Solali had not forgotten Teylan’s name as soon as they parted. She had not found his lack of experience shameful, something to be mocked. She had been proud to show him the ways of her clan.
He could work with that, he realized.
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