Through The Valley • Ao'nung

Chapter 32

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̶̶̶̶  «̶ ̶̶̶ ̶ «̶ ̶̶̶          Rogue        ̶»̶ ̶̶̶ ̶ »̶ ̶̶̶  

[edited]

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In the cold evening, At'anau walked toward the empty shore where she had often seen her brother storm off—and sometimes gone herself to hide.

She blinked consciously, trying to clear the hot tears streaming down her face, narrowing her eyes when she spotted him talking to the person she wanted least to confront at that moment.

Lo'ak had explained himself to Ao'nung—why he spoke for him, how forgiveness wasn't something he needed to yearn for, and how he held space in his heart to let go. Ao'nung watched, admiring how deeply the siblings cared for one another despite their differences.

He respected the weight they placed on each other's wellbeing and felt the gravity of the bad image he had created. Teasing and pestering had always been his way to irritate them, but this... this had crossed a line. And after Lo'ak explained that the girl carried the empathy of her mother, he understood: a single apology would never match the value of her forgiveness.

Ao'nung couldn't explain why it affected him so much, or why he craved the girl's forgiveness when it wouldn't benefit him. Yet his stomach twisted as he remembered her eyes earlier—so different from the icy disdain she now held—and how, hours before, they had shared stories and soared through the skies together.

"Lo'ak."

Both boys turned at the sound of her voice. At'anau leaned against a palm tree, arms crossed, tilting her head to signal it was time to return home. Lo'ak let out a sigh, gazing at the sea one last time before saying goodbye to Ao'nung, who nodded silently.

The girl's eyes lingered on her brother before shifting beyond his shoulder, and Ao'nung saw the unfamiliar hardness in her gaze.

She placed a hand on Lo'ak's shoulder, making the reef boy momentarily insignificant, and Ao'nung realized he needed to speak with her before night fell, before regrets haunted his sleep.

"At'anau," he called, voice hesitant and foreign in his mouth.

"Do not talk to me." She turned sharply, braids swinging, her maya-blue eyes cutting into him.

Indifferent, aggravated, her stare was lined with malice—proof that Ao'nung had once again underestimated her.

He froze beneath her gaze, swallowed hard, and fell silent, forgetting what he had intended to say.

She sneered, looking him up and down in disgust. Her littlest brother's low call went ignored as she spat at his feet. "Coward." Her canines caught the moonlight before she withdrew, leaving him to muster the courage to approach her—or her family—again.

At'anau nudged Lo'ak forward. He caught Ao'nung's low-hung head in his periphery before turning and walking toward his own marui pod.

Watching her brother's back, At'anau broke the cold silence. "I'm sorry I didn't get to you sooner."

Lo'ak shook his head. "It's not your fault."

She swallowed. It truly wasn't. But her reckless decisions—going beyond the borders, seeking adventures—had put her sibling in danger.

If only she had stayed on the island, she could have noticed his absence sooner, alerted her parents quicker, launched a search party in daylight, and avoided the scolding that came later. She wouldn't have to wrestle with Ao'nung's foul behavior toward her brother; she would simply add him to her blacklist.

Later, after helping Lo'ak settle into sleep and asking if he needed anything, At'anau laid beside him, emotions exhausted. Neteyam watched from a distance, respecting her space, as she let out quiet sighs. He noticed a single tear slip along her cheek into her hairline but refrained from asking as she turned onto her side, surrendering to slumber.

The next morning, Jake and Neytiri escorted At'anau to the chief's marui, where her whole family awaited her.

She felt defeated. Her family, and the boy in front of her, blamed her for a mistake they assumed intentional. She almost understood Lo'ak's decision to take the blame himself.

Before the chief and Tsahik, At'anau knelt. "Olo'eyktan," she murmured, barely daring to meet their eyes.

"I have been ignorant of the Metkayina ways," she continued, sensing the siblings' eyes on her. "I have come to apologize."

She briefly wondered why Ao'nung averted his gaze when this should have been the moment he had been waiting for.

"I should have respected your authority as chief and sought permission," she said, "and I am willing to accept any consequences for my actions."

Jake stayed quiet, satisfied with her words, unaware that Ao'nung refused to watch her humility. To see her apologize—something he knew she didn't truly mean—was uncharacteristic for her. And yet he found himself understanding her perspective, despite knowing she had erred.

Ao'nung realized he had developed a respect for her recklessness and wanted, in some way, to stand equal with her, even if she now wished nothing to do with him.

Tonowari stood over her, towering, intimidating. At'anau bit her tongue, resisting the urge to defend Ao'nung in front of the chief.

"Upon your arrival in Awa'atlu, I assigned my son to teach you our ways," Tonowari said, turning to Ao'nung. "It seems he has failed."

At'anau remained silent, not daring to look at Ao'nung.

Tonowari placed a hand on Ao'nung's shoulder. "But he promised to prove himself. He shall show me he can teach a rogue like your daughter to respect and master even the simplest aspects of the Metkayina way."

Jake, slightly irked at Tonowari's phrasing, nodded and tapped At'anau's shoulder, signaling she could rise and accept her consequences.

Ao'nung watched her stoic eyes move from his to her father's as she nodded, accepting her fate.

At'anau wondered what Ao'nung had told his father to earn his acknowledgment, but it didn't matter—she would now be bound to him until she could prove herself, and the boy would remain glued to her side.

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