Other Fan Fiction ❯ Tiger, Burning Bright ❯ Chapter One ( Chapter 1 )
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: YoukaiFate 
Miscellaneous: Other Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Sci-fi / Romance / Drama / Adventure | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 01.05.2010 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.9K | Visits: 236 | Status: Work In Progress
Miscellaneous: Other Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Sci-fi / Romance / Drama / Adventure | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 01.05.2010 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.9K | Visits: 236 | Status: Work In Progress
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, etc., of Avatar. This story is for entertainment purposes only, and not for profit.
Tiger, Burning Bright
A/N: I literally ran from the movie theater to pound this fanfic out. I couldn’t leave Trudy Chacon hanging like that. I struggled with the title for the last few days, as it’s unimaginatively unoriginal, but it fit so well, I finally gave up the goat and kept it. =)
Chapter One
A small form broke away from the brilliant explosion of the dying metal flyer as it fell in a sea of orange flames and dark smoke. Urging his ikran on, Tse’yan ducked flaming debris as Suthor reeled to avoid the spattering gunfire of the Colonel’s Dragon Ship, as the Toruk Makto had called it. The name meant little to Tse’yan, but the heavy guns mounted on the Colonel’s metal beast were deadly. He had watched them rake through the delicate wings of too many ikran, sending both rider and mount plummeting to their deaths hundreds of feet below. The People, too, could not withstand the power of those spitting bullets. Unlike the humans’ hand-weapons, these could pierce the hard bone of a Na’vi, killing him instantly.
But Tse’yan was not the Colonel’s target, and the gunfire turned away to focus on the Toruk Makto, Jake Sully. Pulling Suthor sharply to the right, Tse’yan sped after the falling body that trailed a smoldering line across the sky. Suthor didn’t like the smell of death and scorched meat, and instinctively tried to veer away. Tse’yan overrode the ikran’s will with his own, forcing it to obey him and dive closer. Leaning dangerously over the ikran‘s side, he dropped his bow so that he could grab and jerk the child to him with a desperate swipe at its strange leggings. The body fell hard against him, the force almost unseating him. Tse’yan grunted, and locked powerful thighs around his ikran, who screeched in alarm, spying another of the humming, metal flyers orienting itself on them.
“Down!” Tse’yan shouted, adding impetus to the mental link between them. He felt the sudden suspension as Suthor’s wings folded up, letting his body drop out of the metal flyer’s deadly blast. The ikran’s wings snapped back open just above the trees, and Suthor screamed defiance even as Tse’yan distractedly ordered him to return to the Tree of Souls. As soon as he dumped the child into the healers’ hands, he could rejoin the battle, which was still fighting in earnest behind him.
He silently urged Suthor to go faster, and felt the strain on his own arms and shoulders as the rhythm of the ikran’s wing beats increased. It was a shadow-sensation of the strong tsahaylu link between them. Cradling the sky child against him with one arm, he used the other to steer Suthor around the glowing nova of the wrecked Dragon Ship. Tse’yan’s lips curled back to expose his sharp canines in a fierce grin as more animals erupted from the forest. Eywa, the great Mother of All, had decided to take a hand in the battle, and the elation that filled him made him shout in gratitude and triumph. Their success was assured now that the Great Mother had decided to intervene.
The hard knot of tension along Tse’yan’s shoulders and back relaxed minutely, and he closed his eyes to send a prayer of thanks to the All-Mother as he let Suthor slow a bit. The ikran hissed, his longing to go back and join his winged brothers in the raging battle creeping across the back of Tse’yan’s thoughts. But their part in the battle was done, and he could feel the strain on the ikran’s tired muscles now that his battle-fever had worn off. He patted the ikran’s shoulder in sympathy, but directed him to swoop beneath the rooted arches so he could land just on the outskirts of the giant Tree of Souls.
Tse’yan glanced down at the sky child, and his brow knitted. He didn’t like the quick, choking breaths that condensed the clear surface of the strange mask the child had to wear, since it could not breathe the air of Pandora. The strange skin, a light golden-brown in color, looked pasty, and the numerous raw burns seeped a clear fluid with blood as red as his own. Hair as black as his fanned across his arm as the wind of their passage scattered it over his skin, and it was strangely soft, unlike the wiry tresses of the People. There was a crack in the child’s mask, and he wondered how much of the atmosphere was leaking inside to poison the sky child’s lungs. They were so fragile a species, unable to breathe true air or walk the high paths without their metal bodysuits. He did not understand why they even tried, but the dream walker Jake Sully had explained they were here to rip open the Great Mother for minerals they deemed valuable. A ridiculous reason, to Tse’yan, but then there was little any of the People could understand about the aliens who had come from the sky.
The blue paint smeared across the child’s closed eyes was a warrior’s marking, and yet odd, for no warrior would cover both eyes like that. The alien-ness of those markings, the abnormality of the clothing, which covered it foot to neck, leaving only the child’s shoulders and arms bare, even the two, tangled metal necklaces the child wore struck him as wrong even as he felt anxious about the sky child’s worsening condition. For this sky child had joined the People in battle against its own kind, and Eywa grant that the People might return some of that selflessness and be able to heal her.
Suthor chittered, and Tse’yan lifted his head as the ikran banked, his wings sweeping up to gentle their landing. People were running to meet them, and he easily picked out the red-beaded priestess, Mo’at. He called out to her, and a path was cleared for the regal Omaticaya. Disengaging his queue from Suthor, Tse’yan slid down the ikran’s side, swinging the child up into both his arms.
“What has happened, warrior?” Mo’at demanded, her pointed ears swiveling back in agitation as the excited mutters arose around them.
“The sky child is wounded,” Tse’yan said brusquely, tilting the child so Mo’at could see its face. Reaching out, Mo’at’s slender blue fingers trailed over the fissure in the clear mask, and she frowned.
“It is Trudy,” Mo’at murmured distractedly as she checked the burns along the child’s side. She looked up into Tse’yan’s set face. “These wounds are grave. She is dying. Even our air is poisoning her.”
“Eywa---” Tse’yan began, and Mo’at gave him a sharp look.
“You know She does not interfere lightly,” the priestess warned. “The Mother of All may decide it is best the sky child return to the earth, or She might be unable to help at all, as Trudy is not of the People. She could not help the doctor Grace, even with the People’s prayers.”
“But we can at least try,” Tse’yan argued fiercely, for they owed the child that much.
“Yes. We can at least try,” Mo’at conceded. The pale blue markings glowed across her proud features, betraying the emotion her cool voice hid so well. Turning with a sharp gesture, she ordered, “Come, Wentacaleyah warrior.”
Tse’yan followed the Omaticaya shaman as a path was cleared for them by the Na’vi, their curiosity and concern showing in agitated murmurs that rose in their wake. The great tree spread its shadowed canopy around them as they approached the mossy verge of the Tree of Souls. The white filaments sparkled with a growing radiance as he gently laid the child---or woman, rather---on the bank. For all that she was tiny, no taller than a child, she was a fully developed, if not overly-developed, female.
The moss glowed beneath her sprawled body, and tiny filaments were already reaching out to touch her skin. They could not penetrate her thick clothing, and Tse’yan quickly divested her of the constricting garments, using his knife to tear the last of the rags away as the feathery tendrils grew up over her in a delicate white net. He brushed a bit of her hair back from her cheek just as the filaments reached her shoulder. She gave the first reaction he had seen from her---a quick, startled gasp---as the filaments touched the back of her neck, burying themselves beneath her skin. Her body stiffened, almost trying to jerk away, and then went limp as her head lolled. He snatched his hand back, surprised when the filaments continued to grow over her, trapping her completely from head to toe within a thick cocoon of pulsing white radiance.
“Eywa has claimed her,” Mo’at reverently pronounced.
“Will she live?” Tse’yan asked tersely, his voice low.
“I do not know,” Mo’at replied honestly. “Her fate rests in Eywa’s hands. I have never seen the web cover one of the Sky People so completely, but then, there is no avatar for Trudy’s consciousness to pass on to.”
Tse’yan frowned. He had not seen the transference himself, but had been told of the two that had taken place, one successfully, one not. But then, Dr. Grace had been too weak for even Eywa to guide her soul into the avatar body. It was still hard to comprehend how the Sky People could construct bodies that were like, and yet unlike, the Na’vi, and then move their awareness from one body to the other. “Dreamwalker” was one of the names---one of the more polite ones, actually---for the strange aliens who had invaded their world.
Tse’yan’s tail lashed in helpless aggravation. There was nothing more he could do to help. As Mo’at said, the woman’s fate rested in Eywa’s hands. The priestess suddenly laid a gentle hand on his arm, and he reflexively tensed beneath the light touch. She smiled at him, her amber eyes slitting a little as her ears flicked twice in amusement. “There is something you can do, restless warrior. Add your prayers to mine, and maybe Eywa will lend us Her ear.”
He nodded once, in brusque thanks, and then settled himself beside the regal priestess. Bowing his head, he prayed.
Tiger, Burning Bright
A/N: I literally ran from the movie theater to pound this fanfic out. I couldn’t leave Trudy Chacon hanging like that. I struggled with the title for the last few days, as it’s unimaginatively unoriginal, but it fit so well, I finally gave up the goat and kept it. =)
Chapter One
A small form broke away from the brilliant explosion of the dying metal flyer as it fell in a sea of orange flames and dark smoke. Urging his ikran on, Tse’yan ducked flaming debris as Suthor reeled to avoid the spattering gunfire of the Colonel’s Dragon Ship, as the Toruk Makto had called it. The name meant little to Tse’yan, but the heavy guns mounted on the Colonel’s metal beast were deadly. He had watched them rake through the delicate wings of too many ikran, sending both rider and mount plummeting to their deaths hundreds of feet below. The People, too, could not withstand the power of those spitting bullets. Unlike the humans’ hand-weapons, these could pierce the hard bone of a Na’vi, killing him instantly.
But Tse’yan was not the Colonel’s target, and the gunfire turned away to focus on the Toruk Makto, Jake Sully. Pulling Suthor sharply to the right, Tse’yan sped after the falling body that trailed a smoldering line across the sky. Suthor didn’t like the smell of death and scorched meat, and instinctively tried to veer away. Tse’yan overrode the ikran’s will with his own, forcing it to obey him and dive closer. Leaning dangerously over the ikran‘s side, he dropped his bow so that he could grab and jerk the child to him with a desperate swipe at its strange leggings. The body fell hard against him, the force almost unseating him. Tse’yan grunted, and locked powerful thighs around his ikran, who screeched in alarm, spying another of the humming, metal flyers orienting itself on them.
“Down!” Tse’yan shouted, adding impetus to the mental link between them. He felt the sudden suspension as Suthor’s wings folded up, letting his body drop out of the metal flyer’s deadly blast. The ikran’s wings snapped back open just above the trees, and Suthor screamed defiance even as Tse’yan distractedly ordered him to return to the Tree of Souls. As soon as he dumped the child into the healers’ hands, he could rejoin the battle, which was still fighting in earnest behind him.
He silently urged Suthor to go faster, and felt the strain on his own arms and shoulders as the rhythm of the ikran’s wing beats increased. It was a shadow-sensation of the strong tsahaylu link between them. Cradling the sky child against him with one arm, he used the other to steer Suthor around the glowing nova of the wrecked Dragon Ship. Tse’yan’s lips curled back to expose his sharp canines in a fierce grin as more animals erupted from the forest. Eywa, the great Mother of All, had decided to take a hand in the battle, and the elation that filled him made him shout in gratitude and triumph. Their success was assured now that the Great Mother had decided to intervene.
The hard knot of tension along Tse’yan’s shoulders and back relaxed minutely, and he closed his eyes to send a prayer of thanks to the All-Mother as he let Suthor slow a bit. The ikran hissed, his longing to go back and join his winged brothers in the raging battle creeping across the back of Tse’yan’s thoughts. But their part in the battle was done, and he could feel the strain on the ikran’s tired muscles now that his battle-fever had worn off. He patted the ikran’s shoulder in sympathy, but directed him to swoop beneath the rooted arches so he could land just on the outskirts of the giant Tree of Souls.
Tse’yan glanced down at the sky child, and his brow knitted. He didn’t like the quick, choking breaths that condensed the clear surface of the strange mask the child had to wear, since it could not breathe the air of Pandora. The strange skin, a light golden-brown in color, looked pasty, and the numerous raw burns seeped a clear fluid with blood as red as his own. Hair as black as his fanned across his arm as the wind of their passage scattered it over his skin, and it was strangely soft, unlike the wiry tresses of the People. There was a crack in the child’s mask, and he wondered how much of the atmosphere was leaking inside to poison the sky child’s lungs. They were so fragile a species, unable to breathe true air or walk the high paths without their metal bodysuits. He did not understand why they even tried, but the dream walker Jake Sully had explained they were here to rip open the Great Mother for minerals they deemed valuable. A ridiculous reason, to Tse’yan, but then there was little any of the People could understand about the aliens who had come from the sky.
The blue paint smeared across the child’s closed eyes was a warrior’s marking, and yet odd, for no warrior would cover both eyes like that. The alien-ness of those markings, the abnormality of the clothing, which covered it foot to neck, leaving only the child’s shoulders and arms bare, even the two, tangled metal necklaces the child wore struck him as wrong even as he felt anxious about the sky child’s worsening condition. For this sky child had joined the People in battle against its own kind, and Eywa grant that the People might return some of that selflessness and be able to heal her.
Suthor chittered, and Tse’yan lifted his head as the ikran banked, his wings sweeping up to gentle their landing. People were running to meet them, and he easily picked out the red-beaded priestess, Mo’at. He called out to her, and a path was cleared for the regal Omaticaya. Disengaging his queue from Suthor, Tse’yan slid down the ikran’s side, swinging the child up into both his arms.
“What has happened, warrior?” Mo’at demanded, her pointed ears swiveling back in agitation as the excited mutters arose around them.
“The sky child is wounded,” Tse’yan said brusquely, tilting the child so Mo’at could see its face. Reaching out, Mo’at’s slender blue fingers trailed over the fissure in the clear mask, and she frowned.
“It is Trudy,” Mo’at murmured distractedly as she checked the burns along the child’s side. She looked up into Tse’yan’s set face. “These wounds are grave. She is dying. Even our air is poisoning her.”
“Eywa---” Tse’yan began, and Mo’at gave him a sharp look.
“You know She does not interfere lightly,” the priestess warned. “The Mother of All may decide it is best the sky child return to the earth, or She might be unable to help at all, as Trudy is not of the People. She could not help the doctor Grace, even with the People’s prayers.”
“But we can at least try,” Tse’yan argued fiercely, for they owed the child that much.
“Yes. We can at least try,” Mo’at conceded. The pale blue markings glowed across her proud features, betraying the emotion her cool voice hid so well. Turning with a sharp gesture, she ordered, “Come, Wentacaleyah warrior.”
Tse’yan followed the Omaticaya shaman as a path was cleared for them by the Na’vi, their curiosity and concern showing in agitated murmurs that rose in their wake. The great tree spread its shadowed canopy around them as they approached the mossy verge of the Tree of Souls. The white filaments sparkled with a growing radiance as he gently laid the child---or woman, rather---on the bank. For all that she was tiny, no taller than a child, she was a fully developed, if not overly-developed, female.
The moss glowed beneath her sprawled body, and tiny filaments were already reaching out to touch her skin. They could not penetrate her thick clothing, and Tse’yan quickly divested her of the constricting garments, using his knife to tear the last of the rags away as the feathery tendrils grew up over her in a delicate white net. He brushed a bit of her hair back from her cheek just as the filaments reached her shoulder. She gave the first reaction he had seen from her---a quick, startled gasp---as the filaments touched the back of her neck, burying themselves beneath her skin. Her body stiffened, almost trying to jerk away, and then went limp as her head lolled. He snatched his hand back, surprised when the filaments continued to grow over her, trapping her completely from head to toe within a thick cocoon of pulsing white radiance.
“Eywa has claimed her,” Mo’at reverently pronounced.
“Will she live?” Tse’yan asked tersely, his voice low.
“I do not know,” Mo’at replied honestly. “Her fate rests in Eywa’s hands. I have never seen the web cover one of the Sky People so completely, but then, there is no avatar for Trudy’s consciousness to pass on to.”
Tse’yan frowned. He had not seen the transference himself, but had been told of the two that had taken place, one successfully, one not. But then, Dr. Grace had been too weak for even Eywa to guide her soul into the avatar body. It was still hard to comprehend how the Sky People could construct bodies that were like, and yet unlike, the Na’vi, and then move their awareness from one body to the other. “Dreamwalker” was one of the names---one of the more polite ones, actually---for the strange aliens who had invaded their world.
Tse’yan’s tail lashed in helpless aggravation. There was nothing more he could do to help. As Mo’at said, the woman’s fate rested in Eywa’s hands. The priestess suddenly laid a gentle hand on his arm, and he reflexively tensed beneath the light touch. She smiled at him, her amber eyes slitting a little as her ears flicked twice in amusement. “There is something you can do, restless warrior. Add your prayers to mine, and maybe Eywa will lend us Her ear.”
He nodded once, in brusque thanks, and then settled himself beside the regal priestess. Bowing his head, he prayed.