Sometimes, the stars talk to him.
Or, at least, he's started believing that they do. Did.
Whatever.
He's sprawled beneath the night sky, tracing the stars with a lazy flick of his gaze, listening. Watching. Like he's expecting something—anything.But they don't. Never do if he's being real.
With a grunt, he drags the edge of a jagged stone across the rock he's claimed as his calendar, carving another notch into its weathered surface. Another tally of days, nights, years—too many to care about, really, but it's something to do when you're a demigod stuck on a patch of dirt for what feels like forever. A millennium, give or take.
He's long past giving ashit.
His hook's long gone, swallowed by the Ocean's depths after that fiery clash with Te Kā. He can still feel the weight of it slipping from his grip, sinking down, down down—probably straight into Lalotai, that cursed underworld of claws and teeth.
Speaking ofclaws...
Maui's lip curls at the sudden emergence of a certain invasive thought of a sadistic crab that's missing its leg.
Bastard probably has it, knowing his luck.
On his chest, the tiny tattoo of himself—his own miniature echo—slumps with a bored little frown, mirroring the restlessness gnawing at him.
(Maybe it's punishment,a small part of him debates with himself.)
(Oh,a different part snorts.It's definitely a punishment.)
(Death by boredom. That's a way to go out after amillennium,right?)
(No.)
(...)
(Not cool enough.)
(Definitely not cool enough.)
(Not with all he's done.)
(Achieved.)
(Fought for.)
(Given.)
In the corner of his eye, he spots the way the water glints with a sudden shimmer, a flicker that's gone as quick as it comes. Maui squints as he sits up, leaning forward despite himself.
Probably nothing—just the Ocean playing its usual games (cruel thing), tossing light around like it's got something to prove. But there's a tug in his gut (and he damn sure trusts it more than the Ocean), faint and nagging, like the pull of a fish on a line he hasn't cast.
He snorts, shaking his head.
"You're losing it, big guy," he mutters to the night, voice rough and low, but his eyes don't leave the horizon.
Wind picks up then, warm and salty, tugging at his hair like an impatient hand. It carries a sound—distant, faint, but there.
A splash, maybe.
Or the creak of wood.
Somethingalive, cutting through the endless drone of the waves.
Maui's brows knit together, and he pushes himself up to his full height, towering over the beach he's owned (yes, owned—he's been here long enough that he's decidedly called thishisisland, much as he hated it) for the past millennium.
The little tattoo perks up too, peering out from his chest with a curious tilt of its head.
Whatever's out there, it's coming closer. The Ocean knows it, too—the way it ripples now feels less like a tease and more like a whisper, urging him to look. Tolisten.
A jagged smear of black clouds, flickering with the faint pulse of lightning churns far off in the distance.
A storm—brewing and brooding, but still too far to bother him.
He shrugs, broad shoulders rolling like the tide. "Seen worse," he grumbles to no one, the little tattoo on his chest mimicking the motion with a dramatic yawn.
—
("Ocean," Moana breathes out harshly, desperately trying to align the sails even as the winds fight against the action. She nearly loses her oar in the process, hands shakily reaching out to wrap her fingers around the handle tightly before tossing it into the middle of the canoe.)
(Better there than the Ocean. Stupid sentient puddle.)
(When another powerful wave nearly capsizes her entire boat, she yelps and onlyjustmanages to balance it.)
("Really need some help here! Key word;NEED!")
(Nothing.)
(Becauseof courseit doesn't do anything—last thing sheneedsis notdying—)
(A scream she didn't even know she could make tears from her throat when the boat finally capsizes, a concerningcrackand something that sounded like woodsnappingentering her ears for a brief moment before all she can taste issaltand her last breath is full ofsea water.)
—
Those dark clouds he'd brushed off?
Yeah, well.
They'd decided to pay his little island a visit, having swallowed the sky above it whole, unleashing a torrent of rain that pelts the shore like a thousand tiny fists. Lightning cracks the sky, jagged and bright, and the sea roars in answer, waves slamming against the rocks with a fury that makes even a demigod pause.
But just as quick as it comes, it's gone—a fleeting tantrum of nature, racing off to terrorize someone else. The rain slows to a drizzle, then nothing; leaving the air thick with salt and silence.
Maui hauls himself up, shaking water from his hair like a dog, the little tattoo of himself grumbling as it wipes its inked face. The beach is a mess, though that's no surprise—driftwood scattered, palm fronds torn loose—but something else catches his eye.
Half-buried in the sand where the waves lap hungrily, lies an outrigger canoe. It's a wreck—ugly little thing—splintered and battered, its hull cracked from stem to stem like it's been chewed up and spat out by the storm.
He ambles over, curiosity piqued, kicking at a cracked oar with his foot.
"Well, ain't that a sorry sight," he mutters, crouching to inspect it closer. No markings he recognizes, other than the koru symbol that's been painted in red on what remains of the sails in a spiral.
The Ocean ripples then, a deliberate little dance that pulls his gaze. It swells, gentle but firm, and from its depths, something—ah, no,someone(wait—SOMEONE?)—emerges.
A figure washes ashore, limp and soaked, carried by the water like a gift it's reluctant to let go of. The waves cradle her carefully, nudging her onto the sand before retreating.
She's out cold, hair plastered across her face, clothes dripping with the sea's embrace. The water lingers a moment longer, swirling around her like it's making sure she's safe, before it slinks back to its depths.
Maui stares, one eyebrow arching high. The little tattoo on his chest perks up, leaning forward with wide eyes, as if it's just as baffled as he is, though it sucks at hiding it.
His gaze slides back to that wrecked canoe half-sunk in the sand. It's a pitiful thing, sure—splintered wood, torn sails flapping like wounded birds—but it's aboat.
A boat.
His ticket off this cursed spit of an island after a millennium.
His tattoo on his chest claps its tiny hands, practically bouncing with glee, and Maui can't help the slow grin that tugs at his lips.
Maybe the gods haven't given up on him yet.
He steps over to the unconscious girl, sizing her up like she's a puzzle he doesn't care to solve just yet. She's out cold, soaked to the bone, andnot his problem—not when freedom's sitting right there in the form of a busted-out canoe!
With a grunt, he scoops her up—light as a feather to a demigod (tohim)—and sets her aside on a patch of dry sand, far enough from the tide's reach.
"Sleep it off, kid," he mutters, brushing his hands together like he's done some grand favor. Which he totally has, what do you mean hehasn't?
The Ocean ripples faintly, almost disapproving, but he ignores it, eyes locked on that boat now; the koru symbol spiraling in red across what's left of the sails catching them.
Neat.
Hers, probably.
Not anymore!
—
It's...dark.
...
Not dark as in when she closes her eyes, or covers them with her hand, but dark as inblueand the taste of salt on the end of her tongue.
Weightlessness.
She's always loved the Ocean for the way it made her feel like she was floating.
(Except when it was literallydrowningher.)
The way her thoughts would latch onto the idea of being embraced by the sea—such a vast and plentiful thing that was always laid open to be explored.
...
But it can also be frightening, she's learned.
To be embraced by it in something that's notgentleandfriendly,but instead a harsh and rapidly tightening squeeze that threatens to drown the very soul out of her own body with little more than a single wave that throws her down to its depths.
The storm, the abruptness of it, had been enough to make her want to turn back and head home.
Would have, too—had it not swallowed her and her canoe whole.
But now, lost in limbo; mind barely coherent on her surroundings as consciousness gradually finds her, she feels more than the sea water that she had felt fill her lungs, the saltiness enough to make it feel like she was burning from the inside.
She feels the sand against her skin, between her fingers, in her hair and her clothes. Grainy and smooth—a feeling that brings her an ungodly amount of relief that almost has her sinking into it completely.
Relief.
"Quit your whining!"
Moana jolts, muscles tensing as her body grows aware again—aching and sore and way too quickly for comfort—and the presence ofsomeoneelse here (wait,whereis she?) with her is enough to cut through the haze instantly.
She winces then, the back of her head hitting somethinghardandstonebehind her.
Through bleary eyes and the sharp pain still shooting through her head, she makes out the—wow that's big—silhouette of a person that she almost mistakes as her dad with how tall he towers. But he's too different, too much larger than her dad to be him.
At first, she wonders if he's the one that saved her from the storm, that maybe he—
She pauses, eyes narrowing as the pain in her head settles near instantly.
She sees her canoe, not as torn apart as she'd assumed it'd be after being capsized and thrown about in the storm.
(Likeshewas.)
And—the man, whoever he is, he— he's holding her oar andwait.Is he pushing her canoe out onto the sea?
Is— Is he STEALING HER BOAT?