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Mists and Moss

Part 1 > Part 2

The night air around the Refuge is thick with the smell of kxan'epe, though less so at the edges of the cliff-face; Zamhil thought you would be able to get drunk merely off the fumes inside the woven, wooden structure before even tasting a sip of the drink. So she had situated herself outside, feet dangling off the side of the ikran landing point as she picks at long strands of grass to weave them together. She's only half paying attention. One ear stays pointed towards the entrance to the Refuge in case Anufi needed help. Though she preferred to help after the exiled Tsahìk had finished experimenting, if only to carry her to the hammock and fetch water from the small stream nearby.

She had never had kxan'epe herself yet. Did it truly help you forget things that had happened to you? Anufi didn't seem to forget. The few times Zamhil had tried to intervene she'd been wildly unpredictable, switching constantly from one extreme to another. Crying about her crimes against the Sarentu, to fury at Mokasa, to confusion as to why nobody came to see her.

A single meer deer bleats and runs off below her.

The grass she is braiding into a tangled mess does not stand undisturbed, swaying slightly in the wind that was suddenly fierce despite not even whispering all evening.

Rhythmic gusts blow a handful of locs into her face, and that's when she squints up at the sky. A shadow blotting out the stars, four sweeping wings blowing grass and pollen directly up her nose. The shape of a rider on its back. The way that, when the ikran lands, it does not look eager to stay, fidgeting, though not letting any noise escape its throat other than a low rumble of concern.

Her rider dismounts with a short grunt of pain, clutching something in one arm.

Zamhil's mind is full of questions already. Who is this ikran rider? Why had they chosen the Refuge? Didn't they know Anufi was forbidden visitors? She opens her mouth to speak, but the bundle is shoved into her hands and she has to adjust to hold it better.

Her nose, previously crowded by pollen, is hit by the smell of milk and sweat and caustic herbs, and something unmistakably new suddenly feels a lot more delicate in her arms.

"Is-"

"Take her. To your-" Another barely concealed wince of pain. "-to Anufi. Your Tsahìk. You are Kame'tire, yes?"

"Yes, but-"

"She is yours now. I- ah- cannot care for her."

Zamhil wishes this woman would let her speak. "Anufi-"

"Please."

That does it. She shuts her mouth firmly, nods once. She'd find a way. This tiny little thing, surely only days old, was now her responsibility. Never mind Anufi's.

One thumb pushes back the wrappings, a small whine leaving the little bundle as it started to mewl.

A gust of wind that nearly knocks the two over, and she is gone.

Into the night.

Zamhil looks down at the baby again. A tiny pink nose, only the size of her thumbtip. A pair of wide, wide blue eyes that stare back at her. A gummy little mouth that was starting to open, open, tiny chest pumping as she starts to cry.

Oh dear. This was not ideal. Neither she nor Anufi had milk to feed this miserable baby, if food was what she wanted. How did you know what they wanted? This would be so, so much easier if Anufi was not exiled; she could look over this wrinkled, crying, new little thing, know what she needed, or even give her to a mother who could actually provide for her.

Not this.

This was no good.

She rocks the baby, cooing to it, hoping that that would help, that it would calm the fussy little creature, that she didn't need milk yet. One tiny blue hand reaches for her top, wrinkled fingers brushing the woven moss.

It coos.

Zamhil sighs in relief.

It would need milk, yes. Food.

But not yet.

And not yet was good enough for her.

She rocks it more in her arms, letting it play with her top, gently pushing away the wrappings around its face to see it better. A few locks of soft, fluffy red-brown hair, a distinct colour she recognised from her own clan. Pale gray-blue skin, but slightly darker than she had grown up seeing. Than anyone would see in the clan. She frowns. Its hair seemed Kame'tire. And its eyes, well its eyes were subject to change. Warm light bathes its face just as the smell hits Zamhil's nose. Her feet had carried her closer to the Refuge without her realising it, and now the baby was starting to fuss again at the strong smell of the kxan'epe.

The young warrior winces.

But she rocks the baby closer, trying to soothe it, humming, any song she knew, anything. Anufi would be done soon. Hopefully. Wishful thinking, perhaps.

The reality of that makes her heart sink.

Anufi would need help, but so would the baby.

She could not help both at the same time, at least not to the best of her ability, and certainly not while trying to hide the baby from Anufi.

What would she tell her, even? How would she explain it? Anufi was Tsahìk- at least, she had been- she would know immediately it wasn't Zamhil's own. She could tell her she had found it crying near the base of the cliffs. But this baby, with its wide blue eyes and Sarentu mark, didn't seem to be much of a crier.

Her heart skips.

Sarentu mark?

A pair of gold eyes looks over the baby's face. There it was, clearer now in the dim light.

Zamhil could almost feel her heart sink further, past her ankles and into the ground beneath her feet.

This baby was Sarentu. And Kame'tire. Tiny. Probably hungry. But an impossible, inconceivable union between a dead clan and their murderers.

Did her mother know? Did her mother understand, as she gave her that mark, that her child would be known now only for its dead heritage, and not for the disgraced clan of herbalists and killers?

Was that, perhaps, her intention?

She definitely could not get Anufi to believe it was hers now, not with that mark, not ever. She would not help with the baby, she would not accept its existence, and if anything Zamhil didn't want her to scare it. She sighs and leans against the wooden wall, brushing a single curl out of the baby's face. It hadn't hurt anyone. This child did not bear the sins of its unknown parent. And it did not hold the responsibility of its mother clan. It would not have to be a storyteller, if it didn't want to.

The smell of kxan'epe was less overpowering now; Zamhil could hear Anufi tidying up, and, begrudgingly, she heads into the structure to assist. That was her job here. To help Anufi. And now, to help this child.

The ex-Tsahìk doesn't notice it immediately, how Zamhil only has one arm free, or how she can't stand still- always moving, rocking side-to-side. How she seems both more tired than usual and more intent on getting Anufi to get in her hammock faster.

What she does notice is the tiny bleating noises coming from the bundle that the warrior holds in her arm.

"What is that?"

Zamhil's heart drops for the third time this night.

What is that.

Not a question. A demand.

A demand they both knew the answer to.

“It is… not mine… A taronyu landed outside and gave it to me.”

The Tsahìk looks unimpressed, perhaps scorning its size, or its entire existence.

“We have to care for it- it’ll die otherwise-”

She kicks herself internally. Anufi probably had years more knowledge about this than she did. She would know that.

But the older na’vi simply turns over in her hammock and ignores the two, the baby now starting to whine louder.

“Anufi…”

“It was given to you. It is your problem now. It should not eat from the hands of a murderer.”

Zamhil allows the old woman that. She had every right to decline looking after this miserable bundle of blue skin and inherited guilt.

But part of her wished she would have the help of a Tsahìk in raising the baby.

She makes to leave, to look in the food stores for plant milk, anything for the poor thing to eat, though she looks over her shoulder to see if Anufi had changed her mind.

She had not.

It looked like she would be raising this baby alone.

Well, she could do that. It was reassuring herself as much as anything. That she wouldn't let this tiny thing die. That this baby, no matter how impossible or how strange, would not die on her watch.

She promised herself that.

It starts to whine again.

Right. The baby. Feed it.

There’s empty baskets under full ones, baskets full of fruit, some stale, some overripe; Anufi ate erratically and so the whole place was a disorganised mess. She rubs her temples.

This was not going to be easy.

She starts to tidy up, reorganising, while the baby mewls in her arm. It’s heavy and upset but Zamhil hopes and prays silently to Eywa that she would be able to find some- any kind- of milk. Just to give her something to feel full- she’d heard that you could transfer nutrients through Tsaheylu. That would help- there had to be a reason that infants rarely got plant milk. She tries to lift a particularly heavy basket with one hand- and it tips, fruit pushing at the lid, as she tries to rebalance it, tries to fix it.

She fails.

Fruit falls everywhere, under surfaces, into crevices and nooks, and the baby starts to cry. Again.

A feeble, one-handed attempt is made to collect it, but she gives up on that, opting to tidy up after the baby was asleep. It would be far, far easier that way.

How long would it be before it started talking? Crawling? Trying to be independent of the two people already living here? Before they had to baby-proof the entire Refuge?

With one hand Zamhil bounces the baby, trying to soothe its crying, while the other hand searches for that precious container of plant milk.

She finds it.

It’s in a tall jug, the same kind Anufi used for kxan’epe, though this one did not smell of the strong alcohol. It definitely had plant milk in; the smell was distinct even among the fruits and brewed drinks piled up in the store. Her heart lifts for the first time that night. She could feed the baby. She could sleep, even if for a short while. It wouldn’t die. Relief sweeps over her like mist over vale; this was the first good thing to happen all night. After Anufi had holed herself up in here it had been uneventful and tiring, but this was better. The baby was safe.

Now, how to feed it?

She tries gently tipping the jug- no, that wouldn’t work. It was too big. So she finds small, carved cups, dipping them into the milk and putting them to the baby’s mouth, trying to get it to drink. The first few tries are unsuccessful, and the precious liquid spills onto the blanket it was wrapped up in. That would have to be changed. Not yet, though. She focuses on feeding it; small amounts of the milk, then she connects the two kurus and starts to eat a fruit in between giving the baby sips of milk. This could work. At least until she could move onto solids. That wouldn’t be too long. Hopefully. Ideally. Maybe a few months. That would be most ideal, but probably not most likely.

A tired sigh brushes past the fruit. The baby would need a name. She liked the moss of Zamhil's top but prrwll was not the best name for a baby and she knew in her heart that it would be one mocked. By Anufi if no-one else. A wave of tiredness crosses the tsaheylu, though she doesn't know whether it's the baby's or hers. That was enough to tell her she needs to sleep, but she wouldn't yet.

Perhaps.

And before she knows it the baby is crying again, the pale light of dawn seeping through the woven ceiling and Anufi is reorganising the food stores.

That she had just fixed.

Zamhil groans.

At least the older woman didn't seem to care about the baby grizzling behind her; maybe that was a double-edged knife. No help, but no interference. That would be good. She didn't want Anufi trying to help her parent this little thing. Not yet. Not now. Maybe when she was less volatile.

It would help if she knew how old it was. It seemed new, only a few days old, but for all she knew about babies it could be weeks.

The tiny thing grumbles slightly. Its blanket was starting to smell of sour plant milk; that made sense. Zamhil had fallen asleep before she could change the wrappings. One hand pushes herself up, and she goes to find a new blanket. She was already feeling the exhaustion.

This was not going to be easy.

Days, weeks pass as the baby grows. It- she- starts to cry less, starts to babble. The plant milk system works easier and easier. She's happy, cooing, but Zamhil only grows more and more tired, still trying to look after both her charges. The baby doesn't help. She knocks over everything, chews everything else, she isn't even sitting up and she already gets under the feet of both the other inhabitants. Rolling over, pulling at things, cords, beads, anything her little hands could reach. Gripping onto Zamhil's ankles with all the force and conviction of a starving thanator.

She still didn't have a name, nor had she had her first communion.

Neither would be the same kind of celebration as they had been for every other child of both her clans.

Zamhil slides her hands under her back, lifting her up and holding her close as the sun starts to become obscured by the mountains.

“You're very talkative, ma ‘evi.”

A small chirp from the baby.

“Your name…” She brushes a red-brown curl away from the pair of eyes slowly starting to lose their blue. “You will be called Mo'tsey. May your voice carry many stories to all who listen.”

What was she saying? The Sarentu were dead and she lived with an exile. It would be cruel to let her think she would ever be able to share the stories of her clans.

Still.

It was good to hope.

Time does not wait for anyone, and soon it has been over a month since Mo'tsey came to them. Not much had changed. She still got in everyone's way, still pulled on fistfuls of beads, Zamhil's songcord, anything left within the reach of her tiny arms.

Zamhil, meanwhile, sometimes found herself guilty of wishing Mo'tsey had never come to them.

She was exhausting. Cluster feeding meant late nights and early mornings. After that she'd been quick to cry at anything for seemingly no reason. But she seemed so… Unaware of it all. She didn't care what torment her caregiver had to go through to raise her. Yesterday she had pulled down a whole stack of baskets- empty, thankfully. The crash had shaken her to her core.

And now here she was.

Lying on the floor chewing a string of beads.

Sickeningly adorable.

Like she hadn't forced Zamhil to reorganise the entire pantry yesterday.

Like she could get away with anything.

And Zamhil knew she could.

Because she would let her.

Maybe Anufi would have stronger words to say about this- she often did- but she wasn't choosing to say them. So Mo'tsey continued to cause trouble, and Zamhil continued to let her get away with it.

But today was special.

Today, Zamhil would start the long journey to Ancestor's Rest for Mo'tsey's first communion.

The first half of the way would be the worst; the only way to get to the Refuge without an ikran was the tree-root bridges that stretched over the stone swamp and reached almost to the Hollows.

A tiny bit of her wondered if she could simply leave the little menace at the Kame'tire home for someone else to mother her.

That thought was squashed quickly as she lifted Mo'tsey to put her into the baby carrier, blue eyes now a gemstone green and wide with curiosity. She'd made a promise to the Sarentu ghost that she would look after the baby. So that was what she would do.

Even if it would be a difficult day's travel to Ancestor's Rest.

The wind whistles outside the small cave. Zamhil would be sleeping for days after this. But for now, heavy arms hold a rather unsure baby up to the glowing tendrils of the mushroom-like structure, moving her little bare kuru to connect to Eywa for the first time. The point glows stronger, Mo'tsey's eyes widening and a smile spreading across her face.

Zamhil copies her; she knew about returning baby smiles.

Mo'tsey's eyes light up and she beams. It was not only Eywa making her smile this widely. Even if she was a menace, she loved those who took care of her. And that was something special, even if this event was a sad imitation of the usual celebrations. It was heartening that she didn't want or need anything fancy or special to feel happy; only the comfort of her adoptive family.

Her next milestone is one Zamhil could not help but dread.

Crawling.

The last thing she needed-

The last thing Anufi would tolerate-

Would be the little menace crawling.

Getting into the food stores on her own.

Grabbing even more things, even more beads.

Getting under Anufi's feet.

Again.

It happens slowly; rolling onto her tummy and trying to push herself up. Trying to reach toys just that little bit out of her grasp. Small, purposeful little movements that Zamhil was too tired to pay much heed to.

Then when she's put down for a nap and Zamhil leaves to organise the food store, it's not long before she feels a tiny hand on her thigh.

She looks down.

And there is Mo'tsey, holding herself up on her leg, having clearly tried to crawl up onto it.

“Aba.”

“You're… Crawling.”

There’s that gummy little smile. She was proud of herself.

“You're a menace.”

“Guiiuuuuu~”

“You can't cute your way out of this one.”

Mo'tsey just smiles wider.

“Shit, maybe you can.”

She giggles.

A proper giggle. And then again. A delighted little sound, soo happy with Zamhil's clear effort to not find her cute.

The young warrior's exhaustion lifts for the first time in six months.

Mo'tsey, her baby, now bigger and stronger than when she had first come here. Crawling and laughing.

Part of her hadn’t expected her to make it. Maybe hadn’t believed she could keep her alive, that the plant milk would work. She puffs her cheeks and Mo’tsey giggles. Anufi would have loved to see this, and Mo’tsey was inexplicably obsessed with the other inhabitant of the Refuge. She’d roll around, trying to grab onto her ankles, cooing at her, smiling- Anufi ignored it, of course. This didn’t deter her much. She remained persistent and now the problem would be even worse that she was crawling.

Maybe the Tsahìk would remain indifferent.

Maybe.

Unlikely.

Mo'tsey wakes to sunlight glittering among the dying embers of the fire, now a little older, a little stronger, a little more daring.

But no-one was here greeting her.

That was Incorrect.

So she pushes herself to her feet, determined to find someone to give her attention.

It's tiny steps at first. A little fist grips onto the lichen that clings to the wall. One foot before the other, like she had seen Anufi and Zamhil do. It was hard, and it felt a little bit like her legs didn't know what to do, but she keeps going. She'd spotted Anufi earlier; she was down by the food place, a location that she wouldn't struggle to reach.

Later on, neither her nor Zamhil would know why it happened.

But Mo'tsey lets go of the lichen-

A few nervous steps forward, arms out, tail flicking wildly to stay balanced-

And clings to Anufi's leg.

She doesn't notice.

A look of deep offence crosses the baby's face.

“‘Nufi!”

That does it.

Anufi looks down at her, something new, something she hadn't felt for a while flickering across her face. Maybe joy.

Maybe wonder.

“... That is my name..”

Mo'tsey's face brightens. “Nufi!”

For the first time, some of the fog in her mind begins to clear.

“... You are speaking my name.”

A beam across the child's face. Standing. Holding on to Anufi's leg like it was the last tree on Pandora. Tail wagging for balance and joy and everything in between.

“Nufi!!!”

Her heart lifts every time she speaks. The realisation creeping in, stronger than doubt, stronger than guilt.

Her first word.

And it had been Anufi's own name.

She repeats it with wonder to match the child's.

“Anufi..”

Mo'tsey brightens even more at this, green eyes wide and a gummy smile plastered over her face.

“Nufi! Nufi! Nufi!”

Then Anufi tentatively wraps one hand around Mo'tsey's waist, supporting her with the wooden prosthetic.

The effect is immediate.

Her smile spreads into something more, something- not new, but almost all of this felt new to the Tsahìk.

Mo'tsey starts laughing, squealing with joy and wrapping tiny chubby arms around Anufi's neck.

“NUFI! NUFI!”

Her heart melts. That was it. She knew she would love this child, now ten times more, to make up for lost time.

“You have a name..” She murmurs, thoughtful. “Mo'tsey, yes?”

Mo'tsey peers up at Anufi at the mention of her name.

“Zamhil named you well. Mo'tsey… Mokri… Ah, the voice of the People, yes?” Her eyes catch the Sarentu mark. A little on the nose, in her opinion, but a good name nonetheless.

“Nufi.”

“Yes.”

Mo’tsey leans back to study Anufi’s face better, batting at it with one hand. Experimenting with how much she could bother her before she was put down.

“Nuuuufi.”

“That is my name.”

She babbles sweetly, one hand pulling at the locs that frame Anufi’s face.

To her credit, the Tsahìk does not object.

She could get used to this.

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