19.The Mourning Tree

The Tree of Souls rose from the earth like a memory older than language — vast, skeletal, alive with a quiet power. Its glowing limbs reached upward and outward in graceful arcs, swaying faintly, as if listening for voices now stilled. Pale bioluminescence shimmered across its bark, subtle and steady, like the hush of stars caught in living wood.

The roots curled across the ground like ancient fingers — not clenched, but open. Cradling. Reaching. Mourning. They wove through the soil with a reverence untouched by war, embracing the earth and the fallen alike.

Above, the tendrils of the Tree drifted on the wind like strands of hair — the weeping tresses of the Great Mother, heavy with sorrow, touched by the breath of all those who had come before. Each faint flicker of light in those tendrils was a whisper of memory. A soul returned.

Beneath them, the Omatikaya moved like shadows — silent, reverent, and broken. Their footsteps were slow, uncertain, as though the weight of grief had hollowed their bones. They didn't speak. Some held hands. Others walked alone. Many kept their heads bowed, not in shame, but in unbearable recognition of what they had survived — and who had not.

The Tree's gentle glow touched them like a blessing too soft for the brutality they had endured. It clung to their skin like mist — casting them in tones of pearl, violet, and faintest blue. It made their wounds seem dreamlike. It made the dried blood on their arms look like old stories. But the pain was fresh.

Even the youngest among them — those too small to fully grasp what had happened — were quiet. Wide-eyed, they clung to the legs of parents or older siblings, watching with a stillness far too ancient for their age. They did not cry. Perhaps they could feel what the Tree knew: that this was a night for silence.

There were no words for what had been taken.

Only silence.

Only ash.

Maria moved among them — though "moved" was generous. Her steps were the stuttering remnants of motion, pulled forward more by memory than intent. Her feet were torn and raw, every step a quiet protest from a body long past exhaustion. Her arms were streaked with dried blood — Nekawn's blood — which flaked from her skin in pale red dust each time she brushed against someone or something.

Her nails were split. Her muscles ached in places she didn't know could hurt. Her hair, once carefully woven in respect of the People's custom, now hung in loose, soot-stiff tangles. The braid at her neck had fused with blood and ash — a weight she could not untangle, and could not bear to cut.

She hadn't eaten. She hadn't slept. Her last tears had dried somewhere back in the ruins of Hometree, lost in the choking smoke and the frantic clawing of her hands through stone and splintered wood, screaming until her throat bled for bodies she would never find.

Grief had settled over the People like a second skin — clinging, choking, unshakable.

They had lost too much.

Too many names to whisper. Too many hands to bury.

And now, in this sacred hollow where Eywa still breathed — not in words, but in light and pulse and memory — they came to let go.

Not to move on. That was impossible.

But to stop running.

Tonight, they would kneel. Tonight, they would remember. Tonight, they would mourn.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The funeral was held beneath the Heartroot — the sacred cradle beneath the Tree of Souls, where the glowing roots curled low to meet the earth, soft as a mother's arms and just as unforgiving.

A wide platform had been woven by trembling hands — bark, vines, reeds, and cloth bound together with care. It had been built in silence. No songs had accompanied its making. No chants. Only the sound of weeping and the slow, steady rasp of knots being pulled tight.

Upon the bier lay the bodies of the fallen.

Too many.

Warriors with limbs still locked in defense. Elders whose last breath had come with the collapse. Sons whose faces had not yet lost their boyhood softness. Mothers who had not lived to hold their children one last time. And there, among them all, lay the Olo'eyktan — still and silent, the weight of leadership carried into death.

And at the center — Nekawn.

Maria sat beside her.

Unmoving.

The older woman's body had been cleaned, her wounds covered in fragrant petals and silken cloth. Her face had been turned gently toward the roots — the path back to Eywa. There was peace in her features now, but Maria could still see the horror that had preceded it. She had been there when the Hometree cracked and fell.

Maria had watched her mother die. Not her mother in blood, but in spirit.

And now she sat beside her, her hands resting on her own knees, useless. Every part of her ached to lie beside Nekawn, to wrap around her like a child again and pretend this was a nightmare she could be shaken from.

She had dressed her.

Braided what was left of her hair with trembling fingers.

Whispered nonsense into the folds of her garments — words in Na'vi, in Ukrainian, in a language only grief could speak.

Tsu'tey stood behind the mourners. His presence was like a stone pillar — unmoving, immense. His shoulders were bare, his arms crossed behind his back, but his head was bowed. He had stood at many funerals. He had spoken words of comfort to mothers and led sons into war.

But this...

This was different.

He had fought with Nekawn. Had trusted her counsel, even when it challenged him. He had watched her open her arms to Maria like kin, even when others could not.

Now she lay wrapped in flowers, and there were no words strong enough to lift that loss.

Mo'at stepped forward last.

She held her staff like a lifeline, planting it into the ground as though drawing strength from Eywa herself. Her face was streaked with tears. Her voice, when she spoke, cracked like old wood.

"We give you back to Eywa," she said, voice small yet carried by the silence. "So that your spirit may sing with the voices of the ancestors. So that you may rest among the roots and grow again, in those who remain."

A trembling murmur rippled through the crowd — an echo of her words, spoken by some, mouthed silently by others.

Maria did not speak.

She couldn't.

Her breath felt trapped in her chest, as though it would betray Nekawn by leaving her body.

Then came the beads.

One by one, the mourners stepped forward, placing a single bead — carved from stone, shell, or bone — on the chest of each fallen.

A final gift. A farewell.

The shape and color of each bead told a story: courage, healing, joy, love. Names, memories, legacies — pressed into silence.

Maria's hands shook as she placed hers on Nekawn's chest. It was a pale bead, streaked with gold — one Nekawn had once given her. A mother's gift returned to a mother's heart.

Then, with reverence, the platform was lifted by many hands and carried forward, toward the shallow waters at the base of the Tree of Souls.

The water shimmered, brightening as the vines above stirred.

When the bier touched the surface, the Tree pulsed.

A wave of bioluminescent light rippled down through the roots, as if Eywa herself were drawing breath.

And then, the platform was slowly released — slipping into the water like a promise.

The glow deepened.

The spirits would take them.

The People bowed their heads.

The wind whispered through the leaves, rustling the long grasses.

And the forest wept.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hours later, as the night deepened and the firelight dimmed, the People gathered again.

They stood not in circles of comfort but in clusters of necessity — grief carved sharp in every face. The children clung to their mothers. The warriors leaned on each other's shoulders. The elders sat in silence.

Above them, the Tree moved. Its bioluminescent tendrils swayed in a breeze too faint to feel — as if even Eywa herself stirred restlessly, unable to be still in the face of such loss.

Mo'at stepped into the center. She walked slowly this time, not because her body faltered, but because the moment demanded it. Her presence gathered the eyes of the clan like gravity.

When she spoke, her voice was steadier than it had been before — not from healing, but from purpose.

"We have lost more than words can name," she said, her voice clear, cutting through the quiet like flint against stone. "Too many fallen. Too many left behind."

A stillness followed. Heavy. Listening.

"But still — we draw breath. Still, we gather. And while we live, we must not drift. We must choose a path."

Her gaze swept slowly across the crowd. She saw Saeyla, her side bound in woven cloth, jaw clenched with pain. A pair of twins who sat pressed together, their hands tight in each other's after they had buried both parents.. The youngest warriors, blood still crusted in their braids, staring at the ground with jaws set hard enough to crack.

Then, she turned — first to Maria, and then to Tsu'tey.

Her voice softened.

"Come."

Tsu'tey stepped forward.

His movements were quiet, unadorned. He wore no ceremonial paint, only ash smeared from battle, dried and flaking. His braids were undone. His shoulders, once held like a blade's edge, hung heavy beneath the weight of all he had seen.

The People parted for him, not out of reverence, but recognition.

Not because he was above them — but because he was of them.

Mo'at's eyes met his, and when she spoke, there was no pretense of lineage. Only truth.

"This is Tsu'tey," she said, her voice carrying to the furthest roots. "Not born of my womb, but of our People. A son of this land, of this fight. A warrior shaped by pain — and by love."

She paused, letting the weight of those words rest over the crowd.

"He bled for us. Stood when others fell. Led when all paths were dark."

A murmur moved through the People, quiet and wind-soft.

"He did not retreat." an elder said, voice hoarse with age.

"He carried the wounded when no one else could stand." whispered another.

"He wept with us." said Saeyla.

Tsu'tey's fists closed briefly, knuckles pale. Then he raised his gaze — not to Mo'at, not to the clan, but to Maria.

Their eyes met.

Something passed between them. Not words. Not promise. But something older. A kind of knowing.

"I will serve the People," he said, his voice rough, as if torn from the pit of his chest. "Not with command, but with care. Not with power — but with presence."

Mo'at stepped forward. She placed her hand over his heart, her fingers splayed against his chest.

"Then rise," she said, "as Olo'eyktan. Let the People see you — not as the one who survived, but as the one who will lead."

At that, the wind moved again — not cold, but warm, threading through the leaves like breath. The Tree brightened, pulsing softly, as though acknowledging the moment.

Beneath them, the roots hummed — slow and deep. Like a heartbeat.

Tsu'tey bowed his head.

And in the hush that followed, a new name took root. Not just in sound — but in soul.

And a new name took root in the silence.

Olo'eyktan.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The forest was still.

Not silent — never silent. The tendrils of the Tree of Souls still stirred softly in the wind, brushing one another with a sound like distant sighs. Somewhere in the undergrowth, small nocturnal creatures rustled, their faint calls barely audible. But the stillness that held the glade was not born of sleep.

It was born of grief.

Of reverence.

Of something broken learning how to remain.

Smoke still hung faintly in the air, a ghost of what had been lost. The stars above were pale, dimmed not by clouds but by sorrow — as if the heavens themselves had drawn inward in mourning. The ground was still marked with the prints of weeping feet, the trampled circle where the dead had been honored. Here, even light felt hesitant. Even the breeze moved slowly, unsure whether it was welcome.

Maria sat beneath one of the thick, arching roots of the Tree, its massive form curling over her like the bones of a giant hand reaching from the sky. She had not moved in hours. Perhaps not all night. Her arms were draped around her knees, but not with intention. Her posture was slack. Exhausted. Hollow.

Her eyes were open, but distant — like windows with no light behind them. She stared upward, her gaze loosely tracing the curling branches above, but not truly seeing them. Not seeing anything.

The glow of the Tree painted her skin in shifting hues — soft violet, pearlescent white, hints of blue — but the color could not reach inside her. She looked carved from moonlight and ash.

She hadn't cried again.

She hadn't slept.

She hadn't spoken.

Tsu'tey had watched from afar.

He had waited.

All night.

Watched as the fire burned low and the warriors curled into sleeping circles, shoulders touching like wounded animals huddling for warmth. He watched as Mo'at retreated to her place among the roots, returning to prayer. As the final funeral beads were braided into cords. As the hush of mourning settled over the Omatikaya like a second skin.

And still Maria hadn't moved.

Not to eat. Not to drink. Not to lie down. Not to scream.

She had simply... gone still.

That frightened him more than her weeping had.

Now, as the faintest grey of morning crept into the sky — brushing the leaves with silver, softening the edges of the grief-stained night — Tsu'tey stepped forward.

He moved without sound, the instincts of the hunter guiding his steps. But there was no intent to startle or stalk. Only care. Caution. Reverence.

He stopped a few feet behind her and hesitated.

She hadn't noticed him.

She hadn't noticed anything.

"May I sit?" he asked softly.

Maria didn't look at him. Not right away. Her head shifted, just slightly, but her eyes never met his.

She nodded.

It was small. Barely a movement. But it was enough.

He lowered himself beside her — not close enough to touch, but near. Close enough to be felt if she needed him. Close enough that she would know he wasn't going anywhere.

He didn't speak.

He didn't reach for her.

He simply sat, and waited.

For a long time, there was nothing but the soft rustle of the Tree's breath and the quiet rhythm of the forest stirring awake.

Then Maria spoke, her voice hoarse and low. Barely audible.

"She said she'd wait for me," she murmured. "And I wasn't fast enough."

Tsu'tey turned to her, his face shadowed with anguish. His jaw tightened, but his voice remained gentle.

"You were." he said.

Maria let out a breath — not quite a sigh, not quite a sob. A bitter, broken thing. "She was already gone."

"She saw you," he said firmly. "She knew you were there. That is what matters."

Maria didn't respond.

Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment, but there was no peace in it. Just retreat.

"I don't know how to carry this," she whispered, voice cracking. "I thought I had lost things before. But this is different. This is... this is like my soul's gone quiet."

Tsu'tey's brows drew together.

He looked away, toward the Tree's gently glowing tendrils, thinking.

Then, after a long pause, he said, "After Sylwanin... I stopped singing."

That caught her attention.

She turned, only slightly, but enough to glance at him through the veil of her hair.

Tsu'tey's gaze remained distant, fixed on a point in the darkened forest.

"I used to lead chants," he said quietly. "With the younglings. With the old warriors. I had a loud voice — too proud, maybe. I thought it meant something." He paused. Swallowed. "But when she died, I opened my mouth to sing, and nothing came. Only the taste of ashes. I thought Eywa had taken my voice."

Maria looked down at her own hands — trembling, blood-streaked, bandaged, empty.

"I understand that," she whispered. "I haven't touched my songcord since... since the fire."

She didn't say Hometree.

She couldn't.

The word was too final.

Too dead.

Tsu'tey nodded slowly, his hand drifting to the pouch at his hip where his own songcord lay tucked away. He hadn't touched it either. Not since the day they'd begun burying the dead.

"You will again," he said. "And you will bless us with your voice again."

Maria's brow furrowed. "How do you know?"

His eyes found hers — steady, grounded.

"Because you are still here."

Those words landed with weight.

Simple. Uncomplicated. But honest.

Because you are still here.

She closed her eyes again. But this time, a tear slipped out. Just one.

She didn't brush it away.

And he didn't reach for it.

They let it fall, together.

Tsu'tey didn't speak again for a while. He let her sit with the ache. Let her cry without noise, without spectacle. Let her feel her sorrow without fixing it.

Finally, when the wind shifted and the air grew cooler, he said quietly, "When I saw you... on the ground, with her... I thought I had lost you too."

Maria turned to him.

Her expression cracked.

There was something raw in her face — not just pain, but guilt. The kind that carved deep.

"I couldn't lose you," he added, his voice smaller now, the strength stripped bare. "Not you."

Maria blinked.

Something inside her seemed to falter.

She opened her mouth — and then closed it again. Her lips trembled. Her breath hitched.

And for a moment, it seemed like she might shatter.

But she didn't.

Instead, she leaned into him.

Not with desperation. Not with drama.

Just a quiet shift.

Her shoulder brushed his.

A small point of contact.

Deliberate.

Present.

Enough to mean: I'm still here. I'm not gone yet.

Tsu'tey didn't move for a long heartbeat. Then, gently — reverently — he leaned his head until it touched hers. His temple against her crown. His breath brushing the top of her braid.

There was no kiss.

No sweeping embrace.

Only warmth.

Only presence.

Only the silent, aching knowing of two people who had bled in the same night and somehow still had something left to give each other.

They sat like that for a while — unmoving, wrapped not in words, but in the fragile trust of shared survival.

Above them, the sky began to change.

The stars faded slowly. Pale light crept across the horizon, softening the jagged edges of the glade. The smoke began to lift. The tendrils of the Tree swayed higher.

And for the first time since the fall of Hometree...

Maria breathed without trembling.

—————————————————————————

If you're still here reading — thank you. I'd love it if you left a little 🌿 in the comments so I know I'm not alone 🤍