A/N: I wasn't expecting to have another chapter written by now, let alone posted, but I'm getting more inspiration for this than I had initially thought I would, so…here's chapter two. The title of this chapter means 'brother' in Hawaiian. Also, I have never attended a military funeral, but I did research on them, so…I tried my best with the beginning scene. Anyway, thank you to everyone who favorited (I know that's not a word, but whatever) followed, or reviewed this story after I posted chapter 1. Reviews are still (and always) appreciated.

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to George R. R. Martin and Her Interactive, except for Petty Officer 1st Class Samuel Collins. He is mine. And is based off of my friend Sam who I mentioned in the author's note of chapter one.

"We gathered here today to grieve for our fallen brothers. They lost their lives defending their country—our country—and as such, will be buried today as the heroes that they were in life."

Sansa watched solemnly from her place at the fringe of the funeral ceremony as the chaplain gazed out over the thousands of American flag-adorned caskets that lay side by side across the bloodstained beach.

"Each and every one of us here today has cause to mourn, and yet we must not let our grief keep us from our duty as officers in the United States Naval Forces. There is still an enemy lying in wait across the Pacific, and it is now our responsibility to complete the task that these brave men died trying to finish. We must fight our hardest, be our bravest, and win this war—for them."

At their superior officer's command, two thousand sailors snapped to attention and gave the final salute to their fallen comrades as the lone bugler standing at the chaplain's side began playing Taps. When the echo of the final notes faded, there was a moment of silence, and then the crowd dissipated, returning to their stations, or, for the seven hundred sailors who had been injured in the attack, back to the hospital.

Sansa took the handles of Petty Officer 1st Class Samuel Collins' wheelchair and slowly followed her fellow nurses and their respective patients to the medical ward, deep in thought. We are not the only ones seeking revenge for this disaster, she mused quietly, a chill running up her spine. He is out there somewhere as well.

They were nearly to the doors when Collins spoke up, breaking her from her reverie. "Would you marry me if I asked, Miss Stark?"

Sansa looked down at him in surprise and gave a quiet laugh of disbelief. "I think you need some rest, Petty Officer Collins."

He frowned slightly at that and shook his head. "Call me Sam. But I'm serious. At least agree to a date." He paused for a moment and then began again, his voice low and rough with audible grief. "This attack...and now that Kahale's dead..." he sighed and ran a hand across his face. "It's all reminded me that there are too few good things left on this earth. And you're one of them." When she still hesitated, he gave her a weary smile. "Come on...just one date. Can't you at least humor a dying man?"

"You aren't dying," she replied reflexively, then sighed and smiled slightly. "But very well. I can't see that one date would do any harm."

At that, his smile brightened and he looked up at her as Myranda took control of his wheelchair. "In that case, Miss Stark, I'll be waiting for you tonight beside my berth at 19:00 sharp with a bedpan just waiting for you to empty it."

Sansa laughed, a true, genuine laugh, and she waved his comment away as she left the hospital, rolling her eyes and biting her lip to contain her mirth. Though he still made the occasional reference to the belief that he was slowly dying, Officer Collins had recovered surprisingly well—mentally—after the amputation, and Sansa had a feeling it was more out of guilt than anything. She knew he wasn't the only soldier who felt that he didn't deserve to have survived the attack.

Once outside, her thoughts returned to the burned man that she had encountered in the jungle and Makoa Kahale's words echoed in her mind. "As the rain there doused the flames that had half-consumed him, she gave him an appetite for revenge that rivaled her own."

She hadn't remembered running after he had spoken in his terrible rasping voice, but before she realized what was happening, she had been halfway to the hospital, tripping over her own feet in her haste to get away from the terrifying presence of Kāne 'Ōkala.

Now that she had had time to think about her actions, she felt vaguely guilty, at the very least because her dear mother had taught her better manners than to run screaming from a handicapped man. She snorted. As if 'handicapped' was the word to describe him. She had caught but a glimpse of his face, having been more focused on his feet during their conversation, but what she remembered was horrifying.

Nevertheless, when she found herself returning to the place that she had seen him, she didn't turn back, because something—curiosity, disgust, attraction—drew her to him; something that she couldn't resist.

When she reached the clearing, she found herself very much alone and huffed in frustration. Of course, she hadn't exactly expected him to have stayed in that very spot for three days awaiting her return, but she had allowed herself to hope that he too felt whatever it was that she did that had made her come back. Just as she was about to turn around and return to the hospital, her hopes—fears—were confirmed.

"Manu li'ili'i."

She gasped audibly and whirled around, her hand flying to cover her now pounding heart. And there he stood, leaning against a tree for support, what could almost be called amusement written across his hideous features.

"I'm American," she managed to whisper, hoping that the statement would be enough to alert him to the fact that she spoke very little Hawaiian. At that, another thought crossed her mind and she frowned. "Aren't you?"

He laughed, a terrible noise that sounded like the harsh grating of metal against stone. "No. I was born far before Hawai'i became a part of America." His mirth subsided slightly and he added in a mutter, "Though gods know I don't know when that was. I'd give anything to be able to read the last two hundred years worth of newspapers."

Sansa stood stunned as he mumbled to himself and took the opportunity to push aside her revulsion and get a good look at the infamous Kāne 'Ōkala of legend. He was a tall man, well over six feet if not closer to seven, and his broad shoulders pushed through the tattered rags that he wore as clothing. At least he's modest. He could be rampaging naked through the jungles. She bit back a laugh at the absurdity of the thought.

Though the burns that covered his body were truly as awful as Kahale's story had suggested, his eyes, deep grey and dark with anger, had survived the worst of the flames and he even had one eyebrow left which was currently cocked slightly at her as she stared. He still had half a head of dark stringy hair that fell to his shoulders and the section of his jaw that remained unscathed was covered in a thick beard that tapered off into a mass of red mottled flesh and exposed bone.

When she shuddered involuntarily, she could hear him snort and her guilt returned, churning sourly in her gut as she looked away from him and once again, down to his feet. There was a moment of silence between them before she found her voice again.

"What does it mean? Manu li'ili'i?"

His eyebrow rose higher and he looked her over for a moment before replying. "Little bird. I called you little bird."

Her brow furrowed in confusion. "Why?"

This time, she was sure that the look on his face was one of amusement.

"Because you were so quick to fly away the other day when you saw me. What had you been expecting, little bird? They do call me Kāne 'Ōkala for a reason."

Rough-skinned man. Yes, that did make sense. Although, if she were to answer his question truthfully, she had been so shocked because frankly, she had agreed with Collins—Sam—on his opinion on the story's merit.

She was trying to think of a way to respond when a familiar voice floated through the trees in their direction. "Sansa! Sansa, where are you?"

That was Myranda, which meant that Sansa's break had long since ended. Usually, her friend was lenient with making her return on time.

Looking back up at the man before her, she schooled her features and then said calmly. "I have to get back."

"To your sailor?" There was a slight edge to his tone.

"What?"

"The blond in the wheelchair. Have to go back and tend to his…needs?"

She blushed at the crude insinuation as he reminded her that she had in fact agreed to a date with Collins that evening.

"That is none of your concern," she replied curtly, then turned on her heel and stomped off through the jungle, her face burning with shame and embarrassment at the childish way that she knew she was acting. However, that awful Kāne 'Ōkala had struck a nerve and she had no intentions of remaining to continue their conversation. As she stormed off, she thought she heard him chuckle, and then a single familiar word reached her ears in his broken, rasping voice.

"Sansa..."