Whare Potae (The House of Mourning)

Chapter Three

Author's Note: I got an unexpected evening to myself tonight. I got home earlier than usual from work and discovered that my husband had gone out to play Magic the Gathering with some friends. What's a poor, lonely newlywed to do but curl up in bed, turn on the Moana soundtrack and write some fanfiction? The only thing missing here is a glass of wine, but I've been fully sober for a year now, and so I'll have to make do with a hot chocolate instead.

And now, back to our story.

Chapter Three

Three days later, her entire body aching and sore, Moana emerged from the Tohunga's home, led by her mother and leaning on her father's arm.

"Ow," she mumbled, wincing. "Ow, ow, ow ow ow ow owwww. I can't...ugh, even breathing is hard."

"It's...very unusual for someone to get several years' worth of moko all done in the same sitting," admitted her father, shaking his head and looking impressed.

Moana's mother laughed. "You are, without a doubt, your father's daughter, Moana. Neither of you do anything by halves."

Moana just groaned and straightened up as best she could, trying not think about the incredible pain in her everything.

"Right," she muttered. "Well, uh...assuming I can still sit up straight in the boat, I gotta get going. I've wasted too much time already. Ugh, maybe we should tie me to the mast, or something? My...my poor back."

The Tohunga, everyone had agreed, had done incredible work. Across Moana's back now stretched the sails of a great canoe, decorated with the shapes, stripes, and braided bands of her people, the same ones her father and his father before him had worn in their own tattoos. There were manta rays too, each with wings outstretched, swimming across both of Moana's shoulders; permanent reminders etched in her skin of her beloved grandmother, Tala.

Moana's face was, as of yet, mostly untouched, except for the stylistically chiseled fishhook that curved around the brow of her left eye. That tattoo was honestly the one of which Moana was the most proud. While the others were all links to her past, all signs of her connection to her family and her ancestors, the fishhook was for Moana alone; a reference to her own, individual identity, and a symbol of what she, Moana of Motunui, had given to her people.

It also stung so badly that her vision was blurry, which made her just a little nervous about trying to sail.

Several of the villagers of Motunui were already clustered around the beach when Moana arrived. They were carrying sacks of provisions and extra ropes, beaming encouragingly at their limping Chief as she made her way to the canoe.

Aware that she was center of all available attention, Moana plastered a confident, hearty smile on her face, trying not to look any of her people in the eye.

"Moana," murmured her mother, placing a hand on Moana's shoulder. "No one is going to force you to do this. If you don't' want to go, you don't have to. No one will think any less of you; certainly not me or your father. You've already had plenty of adventures for one lifetime. You don't have to force yourself to have any more."

Moana looked around at the happy villagers, comforted by their certainty that their Moana would save their island just the way she'd done before. As far as they were concerned, with Moana at the helm, everything was under control.

Then Moana thought of Maui, shackled to the walls of his underworld prison.

"Actually," she sighed, nodding to herself, "I...I do have to go. D-don't worry. I got this. Everything's going to be fine."

Nevermind that I have absolutely no idea how to get to Rarohenga, she thought desperately to herself, or that I don't have a clue how I'm going to talk the goddess of the underworld out of taking her anger out on Maui AND all the surrounding islands once I do get there. Yeah, this is going to go great. Everything's absolutely under control. Sure.