Rating: T, for mild violence
Spoilers: One 9-second Promo for 8x01
Pairings: Grissom/Sara
Disclaimer: The characters on CSI are not mine. This story is.

Author's note: There is nothing deliberately spoilery in this, although I have seen the promos for S8 on youtube. One of them grabbed hold of my imagination and wouldn't let go. This is the story of what could happen to Sara in 8x01. I'm sure after the episode airs, this will just be another AU one-shot and I'm more than happy with that. :-) Many thanks to the wonderful mingsmommy, without whose nudging and beta skills this story would likely never have been posted. If there is anything worth remembering about this story, it's probably because of her.

Kuwanyauma's Story

My name is Kuwanyauma, and this is my story, which I tell to you so that you may pass it to your children. Listen well, and remember the night I became a woman in my tribe, the night that I met my totem spirit and delivered my first kill:

Tonight is a night straight from one of Grandfather's stories. There's a smell of rain in the air and flashes of heat lightning in the distance. The wind is rising from the direction of the big city, carrying bits of debris out into the desert to be swept along, adding color and shape to the dust devils that form there.

It is unsettling to have anything out here in this great, dry expanse that does not belong. We all feel it, like a discord to our hunting harmonies. And there is all manner of debris to be found unlooked-for here.

Tonight is my womanhood ceremony. Very few of our people remember the old ways now, but those that do live in the hills overlooking the desert in all it's parched glory. When the white men thundered into our lands, bringing their lights and noise, driving the small animals before them into the scrub like shepherds, our people fled to the hills where we could live in relative peace.

As time went by, so the stories say, the white men's tribes expanded, their cities swallowing up much of the desert and our hunting grounds. Many of our people left the hard-packed land of our birth and headed north, where it was rumored the game was larger and less scarce, and much easier to come by; or they headed south, towards more desert and hard living, and the occasional kind – or treacherous - stranger.

My family stayed. Through generations, we have lived in the hills west of the city, holding to the old ways, hunting for our sustenance – though it would be easy to go into the city for food, the dangers there far exceed those out here.

My grandmother tells the story of the Foolish Coyote to remind us of the dangers in the city. Foolish Coyote turns his back on the old ways and embraces the ease of white man's living, and the white men crush him beneath their machines. It is a story every child in our tribe is taught before they even learn to hunt. Indeed, if they cannot recite every nuance by memory before the family, they cannot complete their coming-of-age ceremonies.

I am proud to say that tonight I stood before my family and remembered every word. My mother and father stood with me, silent; yet I could sense their approval and pride. I received the blessings of my family - and so now, I am on my hunt for both a kill and a totem.

While it is our custom to hunt in groups, it is also tradition that a boy or girl on the eve of their maturity must earn the respect of the family by bringing back a solitary kill. So tonight, this night of such promise and foreboding, I head out into the desert to find my ceremonial kill – the kill that will make me a woman and give me my woman's name.

The desert whispers to me on thick, sticky winds that something is different about tonight. I'm sure every boy or girl who ventures out alone into the dark wasteland must feel this way; I try to tell myself that I am not unique, that the first creature I meet will be no different a totem than anyone else's. Hare and hawk, snake and scorpion, badger and bat; all the living creatures of the desert and hills are represented in my tribe.

But I know that mine will be different. I can just feel it; even above the rising storm and the chuff of the wind across the scrub, I can hear the promise of my ancestors on the night air.

I am wiry, strong, and I move quickly for my age – not even my brothers move as quickly – so I manage to cover several kilometers before I run across something that should not be there. I smell it first, a heavy scent that makes me wheeze; even over the dust kicked up by the rising wind, this smell is strong and stings my eyes. I try to hold back my sneezes, but this is the first time I've ever encountered something so pungently not-desert.

It's a good thing that the story of Foolish Coyote is so fresh in my mind. It's a good thing that the story goes into detail about what to expect from the white man's city, the dangers encountered and the smells and sounds of their machines.

Because this, this thing scarring my hunting ground and the promise of my beautiful desert night, this thing must be one of their machines.

My first instinct is to run back to the hills and tell my family about what I've found; but I know that if I return without completing my hunt, I will bring such shame to my parents that I might be driven out. The old ways are hard, but they've kept us safe for generation upon generation. I can't violate the trust placed in me by turning my back on them.

So if I cannot go back, I have to go forward.

I'm shaken from my thoughts by the sound of a groan and a barely-muffled cry. It sounds so much like an infant in distress that I find myself chuffing softly to soothe someone I've yet to see.

I turn and look back the way I came, half expecting to find that one of the children from my extended family has followed me out here; there are one or two who might be adventurous and foolish enough to attempt it. But the hardpan behind me is calm and quiet; not even the stir of insects or rodents mars the perfect stillness, so I know the sound comes from before me.

I still do not see who is making the soft sounds of distress, so I circle the machine warily. It is brightly colored, the same color as spilled blood, and it makes me wonder if this is a sign that my search is at an end.

Truth be told, I would be grateful for that – my feet are becoming sore and my eyes are stinging from the overwhelming machine-smell. But the insistent whining so reminiscent of a hurt child leads me to continue circling the bright, smelly thing marring the valley.

I make one complete circuit and then I see it.

One of the white people, pinned to the desert floor as if by one of their own traps.

As I move closer, she (for so I can tell now, both from scent and sight) shifts her focus to my face, and for the first time – but not the last – this night, we lock eyes.

And, quite unexpectedly, something passes between us.

Whatever spirit of serendipity sent me across her path and laid her across mine never intended for either of us to harm the other. I set off in this direction because it seemed right; and however she ended up before me, it was not to be my prey. Weak and worn, there is still enough life in her for me to see that she is holding on for something; she is no one's prey, trapped or free.

In that, we are alike.

When our consideration of each other ends, I take a moment to study her in relation to the trap - for that is undoubtedly what it is, although of a type I've never seen before. Her limb is caught, pressed painfully to the ground, and I move closer to examine it, noting her grunt of surprise and sharp intake of breath.

If I spoke her language, or if she spoke mine, I could reassure her of my intentions. As it is, I can only show her through my actions I mean no harm. Lying on my stomach and stretching my nose towards her, I can smell her fear; pinned to the ground as she is, if I did mean harm, she could never avoid it.

I lick her hand as I would the head of a child, hoping to calm her, and then I begin the arduous process of digging her arm free.

The smell of her surprise comes through much more strongly than the fear now, although the fear is just below the surface; no doubt she's wondering at my intentions. I have heard stories of random acts of violence perpetrated by lone hunters once of my tribe; no doubt this woman expects the same treatment. I sigh deeply at the thought that so few can ruin the name of so many.

I've barely begun making progress in the hard-packed soil when the rain begins to fall; it's as though the sky itself is bewildered at my actions.

The rain is hard, perhaps unforgiving of the kindness towards this white woman that removes me from my responsibilities. Looking behind me, I note that we are in a well-worn gully; if I had realized this before I began digging, I would have simply helped her chew off her limb to get free instead of struggling beneath the trap as I was. I curse my own inattentiveness to the weather and my surroundings; at this rate, I will never live to become a mother.

Becoming panicked by the mud I feel swirling around my feet, I make a grab at the woman's hand and try to shift the position of her arm by pulling back and to the left. Her ear-piercing scream and the snap of dislodged bones settling dissuades me from continuing. I can feel the pain and anger radiating off of her now, and I find it clouding my thinking. Moving off to one side, I decide a second, longer look at the machine is necessary.

Looking back, I see that she's begun digging in the wet sand loosened by the rain with her trapped hand. With any luck, she will get her arm free before the run-off washes in.

A sharp crash from the clouds above shakes me from my reverie and I continue searching the other side of the machine. I can see now that there is less runoff on this side, meaning that the side where the woman's head remains close to her trapped arm will be more dangerous to return to. However, one of her legs is visible from beneath the heavy trap; just the foot and part of her ankle, but it's something to grasp when the time is right.

The timing will have to be exact.

I find myself pacing in the rain; wet, hair plastered to my body, I feel heavier – and colder – than is helpful for what I'm about to attempt. There is no way to warn the woman about what is to come, so I can only hope that she's an intelligent person, not given to panic or lashing out.

As the steady rain begins to wash down the hillsides around us, the water builds into thicker swirls around the trap. My impatient wait is finally rewarded when the fast-moving runoff shifts the looser soil around the trap and water begins to push out from under it. Such a heavy thing, it is still subject to the same pressure that sends small animals running to the hills for their lives.

A part of my brain registers that hunting tonight would have been easy if I hadn't stopped to help this woman.

As the water rises around my feet, I dart forward and grab the woman's ankle and give three sharp tugs. She jerks as my teeth wrap around her, but seems to understand that it's in her best interest to back up towards me. I realize that this will only work if she's freed her arm and if she has enough air available to last through the submersion, but with the water rapidly rising around me, I can't wait any longer.

Miraculously, after two short minutes, the woman is free on the other side of the trap; she's long and lean and pitifully bedraggled as the water sweeps us along. As she splutters around in the choking mud, I try to make her aware of the need for higher ground. Whether she understands me or just has the same thought, she throws her arm over my back and together we hitch ourselves up from the fast-moving water to higher ground.

She can't go far (and truth be told, as heavy as she is in the rain, neither can I), so we get as far above the water line as we can and lay down near one another, both of us gasping for breath.

As we lay there, open to the desert night, the rain abruptly stops.

It occurs to me now, in retrospect, that the rain was a fierce friend to us. Moving in a matter of minutes what we alone could not in an hour, it enabled us to work in tandem to get free of the trap. Afterwards, it pushed us far enough away that we came to settle at the foot of the hill on which we now rest. The only problem now, of course, is that we are both soaked to the bone and exposed in the night air without a shelter in sight.

The woman is still breathing deeply, coughing up sand and water with every few exhalations. Her breath is hitching at times, as though from some great emotion, and I wonder how much longer her body heat will sustain her with so many great, cold breaths filling her lungs. As if in answer to my question, she begins to shiver and curls in upon herself, cradling her hurt arm against her chest.

Seeing that trying to move her to find shelter would be impossible, I curl up against her exposed back, hoping that between us, we can give one another enough heat to last until morning. I am more concerned about her than I'm comfortable admitting.

I'm not yet ready to question why I've done all that I have tonight.

As we lay this way, dozing for the next few hours, I become aware of another presence on the other side of the woman. I wake with a small start, careful not to disturb the heat-seeking reptile curled against her exposed neck and chest. It would be unfortunate indeed to waken either slumbering individual; the woman, because she would no doubt be as scared as I am right now, and the snake, because in his fear he would strike her.

I keep a watchful eye until sunrise.

Dawn brings with it a low, jarring hum across the desert. I lay my ears flat with the sound; it's not a native sound to my territory, but I recognize it as another man-machine. Slowly standing, looking off towards the last vestiges of night in the west, my back to the sound, I sense that the woman has woken. I look down; and as before, our eyes meet, and a strange synchronicity of understanding and desire for action passes quickly between us as she becomes aware of the rattlesnake curled at her chest.

We have not come so far to be undone by one snake.

She cannot act, since the only arm she can free is her hurt one. Any movement she makes will stir it and be her (and possibly my own) death. I move to a better striking spot, hoping against hope that nothing will wake the rattler before I am able to pin him.

As the man-machine becomes louder, the woman unthinkingly raises her head, and the rattler rises up. While it isn't the best course of action, I take the chance and strike at the snake before he can strike at the woman. Our fortune holds, and my teeth close sharply around his throat, marking him as my ceremonial prey this night.

I grin a little at the woman, a low growl of joy echoing from behind the rattler in my mouth. As if in understanding, she grins back, the space between her teeth standing out sharply in my mind for all time. As the machine thunders over us, heading towards the trap where she was pinned during the night, relief floods us both. She lays her head down, a slight smile still echoing our shared joy as her exhaustion claims her waking yet again, and I lope away to watch the unfolding events of her rescue.

From my vantage point at the top of the low hill, the sunlight reveals the machine half-buried in silt gathered by the runoff through the gulley. There are white people everywhere below, their machines now silent – but still no doubt deadly. Two of the white men dig at the sand around the trap, and I lay my kill down long enough to yell loudly to catch their attention.

Startled, the older one looks up at me and I try to indicate with my head that the woman is close by. As I glance back, a cloud of small white butterflies with orange wing-tips rise from the scrub, startling us both. I see the man start up the slope through the bright cluster of fanned wings, heading in my direction and the direction of the sleeping woman. The wind catches his scent and carries it to me, so like her own; her mate, I think.

Receiving such a clear sign from the spirits that everything will be well, I carry my kill back home to my waiting family, where I will receive my woman's name based on the account of my night. There will be questions for days, I'm sure; her smell alone coating my hair will raise hackles and arguments. But in my heart I know that my totem suits me. She may be a different sort than what we are used to, but her spirit was so strong she should have been born a coyote.

I would have been proud to have her as a sister.

So this, my children, is the story of the night I became a woman and earned my name: Kuwanyauma, "Butterfly Showing Beautiful Wings". Remember well, when you next see a white man, that they are not so different from you. As they do not hunt your children, so you do not hunt theirs; and if they do, remember that not all of them are wise as we are, and find a place in your heart to forgive them, if you can. For hatred only breeds harm, as my white woman could tell you.

Epilogue

I come out to the desert every year on the anniversary of my kidnapping. Gil doesn't like it and never has, but I always come alone. This year, when he protested, I offered to bring the kids with me; I never thought I'd see him with nothing to say, but I guess he wasn't prepared for that.

Or maybe he wasn't prepared for the fact that I was serious.

He thinks I come out here to dwell on Natalie and how close I came to dying. He refers to it, even after all these years, as my "Ordeal" or "The Night You Were Taken". I can almost hear the capitals in his voice, and for some reason that always brings a smile to my face. It's such a Grissom thing to do.

But the truth is, the desert doesn't remind me of Natalie at all. I don't think about her much when I come out here, except as a fleeting reminder of how I got here in the first place. No, what I remember most are what the doctors like to call my "hallucinations" – my body's way of dealing with being trapped and alone and near-death.

Apparently, Native American shamans externalize their strength into totem spirits that guide them away from danger and towards safety, and comforts them for their entire lives. That's what I've read, anyway, and what Griss emphasizes every year before I make my trip back to Nevada in his bid to keep me safe.

But if the coyote was just a figment of my imagination, I wouldn't still have the small scars on my ankle that even my ER doctors classified as canine, would I?

And really, I can see in his eyes that he knows I'm telling the truth. He's such a crappy liar.

It's been 10 years now that I've come out to the desert, alone, with carefully-wrapped lamb's meat in heavy butcher's paper. Not even for Gil would I handle raw meat, much less keep it on my person this way, but I do it for her. The average lifespan of a desert-dwelling coyote (so Gil says) is about 12 years; we don't have much longer to spend together, my "totem guide" and I, and I'd like to make the best of it. So every year, I come out to the desert to the spot where they found me, and I curl up in my sleeping bag and wait.

And in the morning, I end up brushing off hair that I know isn't mine, and I feel renewed for another year.

I hope I get to say thank you this year.

Author's Note #2: The name "Kuwanyauma" is taken from the Hopi name meaning above: Butterfly Showing Beautiful Wings. When I first thought of writing this story from the coyote's point-of-view, it occurred to me that coyotes would not likely be up-to-date on modern vernacular, so I went with my gut instinct and wrote it in the carefully tribal way you see above. I have nothing but the greatest respect for Native Americans (especially the Hopi) so I hope that nothing in this has offended anyone. :-) Coyotes are prominently featured in Native American stories, most often as intelligent tricksters with inventive behaviors.

One thing of note is that coyotes kept in captivity (by zoos or individuals) often live to be 22+ years old, whereas coyotes living in the wild often die before reaching a decade; in my heart, I can't help but hope that Sara's presence helps Kuwanyauma live a long, happy life. :-)