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first gift: the seeds
They don't bind Baku when they take him to his judgment, and he's grateful for the dignity that affords it him. Besides, he knows that even if he wanted to run, there's nowhere for him to go. If he wanted to slip away, he could. Without Nali he would stray from the path and quickly fall to the sun, no doubt. Without the sanhim, he would surely be able to live, but the shame would fester at his insides until the day he died.
The sun had just been peeking over the horizon when their group had started, and as the grasslands turn to sand beneath his feet, the shadows grow long and the winds slow. Despite Baku's apprehension, despite his shame, it's impossible to see these lands as anything but beautiful. Beyond the Southern Stones where he'd been born, the river washed into the grasslands; thick marshes buzzed with life. The landscape was broken up by craggy, overturned stones, but beyond that, the land was flat to the horizon, like a river's stone run smooth.
This far from home, the ground forms dunes undulating across the horizon, looming ever-larger as they snake into the distance. The land beneath his feet is ground to a fine, orange powder that shifts as he stumbles through it. The land that hides Baku's judgment feels softer somehow, even as shame curdles in his chest.
Nali croons something to the sanhim, pointing with one spike-studded arm towards the horizon. The sanhim nods and adjusts course in response to the maractus' advice, and the two of them plod on in shared silence. Baku trails behind them, hunched against the bright sun. The sanhim's ceremonial cloak is a deep red; as the grass becomes less and less frequent and the oranges of the desert are all the remain, he almost shines like a gem. Baku's gaze traces downward, to where the sanhim's staff makes circular imprints, in even sync with his footprints, and then further down the line to Nali. The maractus bobs evenly, the swings of her arms almost exaggerated, placing one stubby foot in the direct center of the sanhim's sandalprint each time.
Nali's been there his entire life. She's young for a maractus, only fifty and barely up to his waist. Baku's been told stories of how she taught him how to walk—the bright pinks of her flowers were too tempting, and she would proudly take one step backwards and another until he finally crawled after her.
She watched him when he was young. Baku swallows past the uncomfortably-tight knot in his throat. She didn't have to come here today. The sanhim knows the way, even if Nali knows the shortcuts. And between him and the sanhim, they could've carried enough water for the both of them. But Baku suspects she came for him, and that knowledge gives him the strength to keep walking after her.
The dunes grow taller and closer; they cast long shadows and tower over the three of them by the they finally reach their destination. Lost in a walking trance, Baku doesn't notice when Nali chirps something, and he crashes into the sanhim's extended arm. And then Baku looks up. What he thought was a great dune shifts and sways, and then sand begins to cascade down its base as the peak stirs. Red shards flash silver in the sunset as the earth stirs to life, and with a lazy tailflick the biggest krookodile Baku's seen in his entire life emerges, the gap between her yawning jaws as large as he is tall.
"Samira," the sanhim says solemnly, while Nali bows low next to him. "We have brought Baku of the Southern Stones for your judgment."
The sands around Samira's legs shiver as well, and another krookodile emerges, staring haughtily down at him. This one is closer to regular size, its wedged head as large as Baku's torso and its body twice his height, but his heart still catches in his throat—when he casts his gaze around the dunes, he sees dozens of pairs of beady black peeking back from the sand. There is a low, vibrating hiss. He can't tell from where.
"His tongue is heavy and his ears are young," the sanhim explains in response. "As such I must use the dancer's tongue for him to understand in full, and he must do the same to be heard. Forgive us the disrespect. Were it anything but asking your judgment, we would make do without it, but I fear he will only feel like justice is dealt if his words are also heard." He waits for a moment. Another hiss, this one higher-pitched; the sanhim's head tilts to the krookodile on the left. "Yes. That is likely part of why this happened. I cannot disagree."
Samira does not look at Baku. Slowly, impassively, she turns her head to the krookodile that emerged beside her and growls something in a low, vibrating note. The smaller krookodile's claws twitch in a short, gesticulated response, and then Samira turns to the sanhim and hisses. Nali chimes in then, and Baku watches mutely as the maractus waves her arms and chirrups in turn.
Finally, the sanhim turns. "She wants to hear your words, Baku," he says. His face is unreadable. "She wants to hear why you did such a thing."
With trembling legs, Baku walks forward until he's standing before Samira. Each of her inhalations is large enough to pull his hair forward; each exhale cloaks him in a warm, moist breeze. He manages a shaky bow.
What he wants to say is, I'm sorry. What comes out instead is: "Greetings, oh great one, Samira of the Sands." When he pulls up the respectful greeting that the sanhim passed to him, Baku's voice finally quavers.
Samira blinks back, unimpressed.
Why you did such a thing.
It isn't an answer that he'd like to admit.
On the winter solstice of each year, the peoples of the desert gather in his home in the south, along the banks of the river. From the northern foothills marches the darumaka troop; from the eastern plains comes the sonder of maractus. The krookodile must come from the western dunes, although the way they rise and vanish into the earth makes their movements impossible for anyone to track. The solstice is a time for coming together and growing apart: two of the desert peoples bring the relics of the Dragonmother, which they have safeguarded throughout the year; when the night is over, the relics are passed to their neighboring peoples, to be guarded for the next year. The same, too, is done with the desert's children—those who wish to take a companion and stay in the oasis of the Southern Stones are invited to do so. The peoples of the Southern Stones are not permitted north of the river, so those that choose to stay with the humans must choose to stay with the stones. As such it is a great gift, to have a desert child choose you.
This was Baku's tenth solstice. He was old enough. So when the sun touched the edge of the sky and it came time for the children to gather, he stepped forward alongside the other children of his clan with pounding ears, trembling hands clutched around a berry. Baku waited as two darumaka toddled past, their footprints briefly glowing orange in the sunset sands, and his excitement slowly faded to dread as they paired off. Mila beamed, bending down and offering her berry to a sputtering darumaka; when the two young maractus filed past solemnly, they went to Aruno and Harana while Baku stood still like a statue, his unclaimed berry suddenly like a stone that threatened to pull him under. Then came the sandile—just the one this year—and Baku was the last child. The other five were already sharing their meal together; there was just him left; there was no one else for it to choose. It slipped close to him, its short legs wobbling as if overcompensating for the firmness of the ground, and he saw its nostrils flare as it inhaled the scent around his hands. The sandile leaned in, dark eyes gleaming—
—And then it turned away.
Baku took half a step after it, but the sanhim's hand was on his shoulder, firm. "This was her choice," he said, a pang of regret in his words. Was that pity? "You must respect that, Baku."
The rest of the celebration felt grim. Baku watched the familiar sight as an outsider while everyone chattered and danced and ate. Utamo, the weaving elder of their village, cracked his stern lips into a smile as one wizened hand roved over the silvered hide of a darmanitan, marveling at the new rivers that time had carved in both of their skins. Nali grabbed Harana and her newfound maractus by the hands and introduced her to the other maractus, and four of them marveled at the stack of fruits laid out on the festival table. His aunt Livari, toddler on her good hip and Mila at her side, translated the desert tongue for her daughter from the darumaka who had chosen her.
And all the while Baku festered, silent, while one thought crystallized: that sandile hadn't known what it was doing. That was the only reason it hadn't chosen. And it had been close—it'd leaned in, after all. As the night wore on, the pit in his stomach only grew. Could he be lonely like this for an entire year? When the sun rose, his clan would return to the south, with five new children. Five, not six. Everyone was already whispering, surely, about foolish Baku who couldn't even get a pokémon if he was the last boy in the plains.
No. It had been so close. It hadn't known any better. If he just could make it see—
The courage finally filled him when they were gathering themselves to leave. Baku chased after it, feet pounding on the reeds by the bank. It moved with an almost exaggerated slowness through the river, trailing behind the adult krookodile; together, their scales formed a glistening streak of red that moved upstream.
"Wait!" Baku shouted, and then a krookodile's head snapped towards him, beads of saliva dripping from its maw. And in that moment, despite the enormous creature in front of him, he noticed the lack of stones beneath his feet, the trampled grasses around him, and he realized what he had done.
Baku's arms fall slack to his sides now as he looks up at Samira. He had miles and miles of desert to plan his defense and this is all he can think about. "I don't have a defense," Baku says quietly. "I didn't realize I had left the Southern Stones. I didn't realize I had set foot on the Dragonmother's Gift." The words come more easily than he'd expected, once he understands what actually must be said. It had all happened so quickly: the sanhim had declared that because the lands were guarded by the krookodile, they would be Baku's judge instead. The other humans he could convince, maybe, but not this ancient creature who stands before him, already older than he'll ever be. Baku's only defense is the truth, and for him it is paper-thin.
Samira shutters one red eyelid solemnly, and then the other, and then turns her head back towards the krookodile at her side—that one must be the one who found him, he realizes belatedly. At one point, Nali puffs up her chest and chimes in; both of the krookodile turn to look at the maractus with ponderous eyes. They converse too quickly for Baku to understand, and finally, Samira straightens and hisses back at the sanhim.
The sanhim's shoulders seem more slouched than usual. Baku imagines for a moment that it's from the solstice ceremony, when the leader of the darumaka pressed the Dragonmother's white relic into his hands. Surely the stone was so heavy that it began to press him into the earth. All that's left is for Baku to wait with bated breath before the sanhim passes back the translation.
When the sanhim does, it is like his face is carved from stone. "They have heard your plea. The grasslands beyond northern banks are sacred grounds, the last gift from the Dragonmother to the desert peoples. Among the krookodile, it is known that to tread on them means death, but Samira recognizes that the old stories may have been forgotten for us in the south."
Baku's ears burn with shame: that is a kindness she assumes of him. He'd learned the lessons when he was young. The Southern Stones were for him and his, but every child knew not to cross the river.
"That much is understood when considering what must be done next." The sanhim swallows, and even through his stern mask Baku can see the beginnings of anguish. "You are young, and you have not had the life of a krookodile to learn the ways of these lands. To permanently remove you from the stones would represent a burden the desert cannot bear. But to Samira and her kind, it is undeniably clear that we of the Southern Stones have failed in raising you to respect the ways of this land. So she proposes this: they will raise you instead, and teach what we could not."
The weight of his words crash in on Baku all at once, and his composure drops immediately. They will take him? But he needs his home, and his friends, and—"Father, please," Baku croaks.
The sanhim's face wrinkles, but he does not falter. "You will be permitted to visit on the solstice, and at that time your judgment will be reassessed, but your lesson must be learned." He swallows once again. "She will return for you at sunrise. So shall it be."
All eyes turn to Baku. His eyelids suddenly sting when he blinks, and the dunes blur.
"So shall it be," the sanhim repeats expectantly.
Baku shouldn't have done it. That much is clear. He wants to scream and beg for his innocence, to explain to Samira that the people of the Southern Stones were not to blame. His father, the sanhim, please, spare him the humiliation of having to return home to the people he leads empty-handed, because his own son could not follow in his footsteps.
"So shall it be," Baku echoes instead.
He would later realize that Samira offered them a kindness—krookodile prefer to travel at night, when the baking sun could not pierce their scales and warm their blood. But they waited to set out until sunrise. Perhaps the kindness was for the sanhim instead, but all Baku knows in the moment is that the two of them can spend one last night beneath the stars.
Nali has wandered off into the moonlight; Baku can only barely see her hazy outline, silvery and lilting against the dunes. So that just leaves him and the sanhim.
Here, in the firelight, with his cloak draped across both their shoulders, he's just Father again. He twists his fingers around one another like he's trying to tie a knot with his knuckles, and he stares into the fire even as Baku tends it with a small stick.
"I didn't mean it," Baku says at last. His voice cracks. Father has to know this, if nothing else. He can't imagine what Father thinks of him now, and he doesn't want to, but Baku needs him to understand: he knows he shouldn't have done it. He knows he did something monstrous. He can be better. He will be better. It wasn't Father's fault.
"I know, little flurry," Father says, and he pulls Baku a little closer. "I know."
The fire pops and shifts. Baku don't have anything else to say. Everyone knows he didn't mean it, and yet here he is.
A weak smile cracks Father's lips and he says, "This is a lesson. Not a punishment."
Baku stares glumly at his knees. Even with the fire to his front and Father's warmth to his sides, he still feels cold.
Father's grip tightens encouragingly on his shoulder when he continues: "Samira is an old friend. I have known her since I was younger than you are now. She once took your aunt Livari as her companion, and journeyed across the sands into our stones each week to see her and seek her company, show her the world. Your aunt got to cross the river because of Samira. Did you know that?"
He's prodding for an answer, but Baku can't make the words come.
Not to be discouraged, Father continues: "She will be kind to you, little flurry. She will make sure you do not melt. And she taught my sister so many things. Imagine all the sights you'll see with the krookodile, Baku. When we meet again you'll have so much to tell me! The dunes are a beautiful place, and you'll have so many adventures."
"I don't want adventures." Baku sniffles. "I want you."
Father's smile fades, and he grows silent. Then, wordlessly, he pulls Baku into his arms and holds him close to his chest. His chin presses Baku's curls down tight to his head, and Baku grabs his forearms, clutching them fiercely. Baku buries his face in the insides of Father's wrists, inhaling his scent with shaky gasps, and bite back tears.
"Oh, little flurry," Father whispers huskily into the crown of Baku's head. When he swallows, Baku can feel his throat contract. "Do you know when I first fell in love with your mother?"
Wordlessly, Baku shakes his head.
"We were so young, barely your age. On the winter solstice, during the night, it snowed. It was a truly beautiful sight to wake up to in the pink sunrise that followed. Everything was so soft, and the air was so still." Dimly, Baku's aware of how he's gently rocking him back and forth, marking the rhythm of his words between them. "I found her in the dawn with her hands cupped around the Dragonmother's black heart, the stone covered in snow, her body angled so her shadow could hide it away from the sun. She turned to show it to me, and when she did she was so gentle that not one flake melted, or even moved. I remember the way her voice lilted when she said that the way the stone embraced the snowfall made her think the white and black could be reunited, if only for a moment." Even though Baku can't see his face, he can hear his smile. "I was foolish even then, Baku, though as a boy I thought I was wise. I proudly asked her if she knew that the snow would melt no matter where she put it, that this stone would always be black. Instead of scorning me where I stood, she told me the story of Sun Sister and the Three Gifts. Do you remember that one?"
Baku remembers it. He even remembers when Mother told it to him herself. And he shouldn't be wasting time on stories now, not when the time he has left is so strictly measured. But an aching part of him wants to hear the familiarity of the words, to curl up and close his eyes and lose himself like Little Sister almost did. So instead he asks, "Could you tell it again?"
If Father is surprised by Baku's answer, he doesn't show it. Instead, he smiles, and begins speaking with the same ceremonial cadence with which he spins the solstice retellings. This time, the story's just for Baku:
When the world was younger than you are now, Little Sister opened her eyes, and for the first time she was alone. She shivered; there was an emptiness in her side and a coldness in her palm. For as long as she could remember, she had held her twin sister by her side. Although the two of them had known nothing save for one another in the darkness before the world, she had been content, for there was nothing else she had known.
But this time, she opened her eyes and saw a brilliant light in the sky. For a moment, she hesitated. If she chased this light and her sister returned while she was gone, would her sister then wander off to look for her? Was it not more pressing to find her only companion? But the light was so unlike anything that she had ever seen, and even as she took a step into the darkness to see where her sister had gone, she could now see her shadow cast ahead of her, framed by that light.
Perhaps, she reasoned, her sister would also seek out the light. And then the two of them would be together once more.
So she braced herself, and for the first time, she began to walk with direction. Before long, she reached a vast chasm, one that she could not possibly cross. Seeing this, she hesitated. When the Dragonmother had given all the peoples of the world gifts, Little Sister had been forgotten. Her oldest sister had always protected her from the dark, and Little Sister had always been afraid to venture out of her sister's shadow. But she could not hesitate now. Kneeling down, she dipped her head to the grass beneath her feet, and she closed her eyes, and she whispered, 'Please hear me, oh great grass. I need to reach the light beyond you and use it to find my sister. Could you lend me your aid?'
The grass stirred at her words, and a great spirit emerged: Aranu, the First Maractus. Aranu smiled kindly at Little Sister and then plucked a flower from his head and threw it to the ground. Immediately, it sprouted into an enormous branch that grew and grew until it spanned the chasm, sturdy and strong enough for anyone to walk upon it. Thus Little Sister and the First Maractus planted the First Seeds.
She walked further, and the grasses guided her, and soon she reached a dark tunnel that even the brilliant light above could not penetrate. Her frail eyes could not guide her through the darkness, and though she strained and strained, she could see nothing. Kneeling down, she clasped her hands to her heart and she whispered, and she whispered, 'Please hear me, oh great warmth. I need to reach the light above you and use it to find my sister. Could you lend me your aid?'
The air rumbled at her words, and a great spirit emerged: Melai, the First Darmanitan. Melai smiled warmly at Little Sister and exhaled a puff of embers for her to cup in her hands. When she held it, it burst into a bright light that she could carry with her into the dark. Thus Little Sister and the First Darmanitan tended the First Flames.
So she entered the darkness, with the fire to light her way, until she came to a vast plain. The horizon seemed to stretch on endlessly, and yet the light was further ahead still, and plunging out of sight. Little Sister felt desperation fill her—if she lost the light now, all this would be for nothing. Kneeling down, she bowed her head to the earth, and she exhaled, and she whispered, 'Please hear me, oh great earth. I need to reach the light in you and use it to find my sister. Could you lend me your aid?'
The earth trembled at her words, and a great spirit emerged: Zaathi, the first Krookodile. Zaathi smiled widely at Little Sister, and a tear slipped from her enormous snout. When it hit the ground, it blossomed into an enormous flood of water, so vast and powerful that it cut through the parched earth and surged towards the horizon. Thus Little Sister and the First Krookodile bounded the First River.
So she she was borne, and at long last, she reached the end of the world. She had drawn close enough to the light that she had to thrust an arm up to shield herself, for it was brilliant. As she grew closer, though, she lowered her arm—the sound of her sister's voice was unmistakable.
'Sister?' asked Little Sister. 'What are you doing here?'
'I realized,' replied Sun simply, 'why we were made.' And for a moment her sister's brilliant light faded, and her form was revealed a little. Radiant white wings glowed brighter than anything Little Sister had ever seen. Sun smiled sadly. 'You were made to do great things, and I, to illuminate you.'
This did not make much sense to Little Sister. 'Can I stay with you?' she asked.
'Look at all the beautiful things you have seen and done.' Sun pointed at the beautiful world that was beginning to form below them. 'All of that without me.'
'Good that I could not see without your light,' Little Sister replied petulantly. 'We should be together. That is how we were always meant to be.'
'But if we are always together, how could you do so much? How could my light guide you?'
'Come back with me,' Little Sister pleaded, petulant. 'We belong with one another.'
Sun was brave and strong, but she never had it in her heart to refuse her younger sister. So she alighted. No sooner had her feet touched the earth than the radiance faded from her and her wings fell away. Little Sister was overjoyed, and held Sun close to her, and the two of them slept soundly.
For a few days, all was well. Little Sister was happy. But in the darkness, she heard a great cry of anguish. Little Sister looked back to where Sun slept, but Sun did not stir. The crying continued, and finally, Little Sister braced herself and felt her way back through the darkness again.
Soon, she stumbled across a dessicated husk. She felt leathery bark crumble away beneath her hands, and she sensed Aranu's presence beside her. The First Maractus mourned the dying of the First Tree; his sorrow was so great that all the grasses had withered away as well.
Melai soon joined them, although her face was shrouded in her shadow and even her gleaming eyes could barely illuminate the dark and the cold around them. Without the brilliant light above to guide her, the First Darmanitan could not produce flames.
But Zaathi was nowhere to be found. In the silence between Aranu's cries, Little Sister could still hear the rushing of the river.
Heart heavy, she trudged home, and shook Sun to rouse her.
'Sister,' she said. 'You were right. The world needs you. You must go be who you were meant to be.'
But Sun, tightly curled, did not stir. She had spent too much time in the earth's embrace, and the darkness had sapped her strength. She still glowed faintly, but her body was like it had turned to stone. Little Sister shivered. The darkness was growing only colder, and Little Sister's mind was numb with despair.
The thought of the river bearing her to the horizon, never faltering, ever constant, gave Little Sister strength for what she needed to do next. Sun would need to be returned to the edge of the world, and Little Sister would need to be the one to do it. She could not ask the others, who had already lent her so much.
So, with her sister on her back, Little Sister climbed across the vast chasm and felt her way through the dark tunnel. It took nearly all of the strength she had to reach the river, where her hardest task awaited her:
Arms trembling, Little Sister hugged Sun close, and then cast her into the river that led to the edge of the world.
"Little Sister and Sun love each other very much. Their cyclic dance gives us everything we know. In that moment where the sun embraces the horizon, the world is full of their color, their beauty, their joy. But it is not like that forever. That was when I understood why your mother cradled the snow."
Baku chokes back a sob.
"Little flurry, the things we love are only ours to hold, not to have," Father whispers into his scalp. "One day, we must let them go."
In response, Baku clutches him tighter.
At some point, he falls asleep in Father's arms.
When Baku awakes, Father is breaking down the remains of their camp, scattering the burnt scrub brushes into the dunes, folding his cloak back up around his shoulders. He stoops carefully, slowly, but eventually his work is done. Wearily, he picks up his staff, and he is the sanhim again. "It's time."
What Baku wants is to run away. Not even to save himself; just anything to save his father the shame of having to accept this judgment Baku has brought upon himself, upon their people. He knew long ago that he would have big shoes to fill, but now with this stain Baku knows he'll never fill them. But that should be his shame to bear, not the sanhim's.
What Baku wants to do is tell him all the things he wishes a son could say. He wants to reassure the sanhim that this isn't his fault, that he'll learn his lessons well, that one day the sanhim will be proud of him again. There's a hollowness in Baku's heart, but it can't stop him from seeing the way the shame he created craters the sanhim's shoulders.
What Baku does instead is echo, "It's time."
His face is like a mask. The rest of the morning blurs. Samira emerges from the sands. She exchanges quiet words with the sanhim. Nali throws her arms around Baku's leg, her spines carefully withdrawn. Baku does not cry when the sanhim bids him farewell; all his tears came the night before.
The sanhim shakes his cloak out and wraps it around Baku's shoulders. Baku's heart catches. This is a gift he is not meant to receive until he is a man. Baku looks up, mouth cracked open in protest, but the sanhim says, "This cloak is not what makes me sanhim to our people, Baku; nor will it make you a leader to theirs. But what it will do is keep you warm, little flurry, and it will keep us with you." He finishes arranging the cloak around Baku and takes a step back. "May the sands be kind."
Samira circles in front of them, the fins on her back rippling in the sunrise. Baku look to the sanhim before he can stop himself, and the sanhim jerks his chin forward in response.
Baku shouldn't have asked him. Soon Baku won't have him to fall back on. Carefully, Baku swings one leg over the krookodile's waiting back—the gap between her fins is large enough for him to lay down in, so he kneels unsteadily on the slow-heaving scales. It's cooler than he expected, rows and rows of rippling muscle, and then she plunges forward, halfway submerged in the sands. Her tail swishes out a low, sweeping rhythm.
He keeps his back straight and his eyes straight ahead.
.
crit requests: hit me with anything! I'm always down to rework stuff. Please note that I was trying to keep the battle over second-person POV contained to the envy of eden, so I lovingly/hatefully converted this entire fic to third-person in two hours, and I probably messed that up + would love those translation bits to be pointed in particular since I know they're distracting but I've gone blind to them.