She was plagued with nightmares.

Waking up, shivering and drenched, Ingyentsim’s eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, panic having her by the throat. She didn’t like the dark now. But then, she now had many phobias, all of which she would have believed only a cub should have. Even most cubs grow out of their phobias. She wanted to laugh and immediately recognized the hysteria she was approaching. A soft pitter patter from rainfall sounded and she loathed the noise. It fueled her nightmares, gave them power and life. She hated the rain. She hated the wind. She hated the dark. But worse of all, she loathed rivers.

It was irony, a sick and twisted joke. She wasn’t like this before the storm. Ingyentsim had been a happy lady and very proud of the new honor she was given. The responsibility of Eywa’s blue flute had been passed upon to her, after her predecessor passed on. It was a great honor and she swelled with pride.

It seemed Eywa found her unworthy.

Ingyentsim could finally see, partially, though her back was tense, her thoughts still plagued by the lingering dreams. Her breath was still harsh but had slowed down considerably. Slowly, she picked her way against the cave walls. She wasn’t going to drown here. There won’t be another flood. The rain will stop. She knew this wasn’t punishment for obtaining the flute; that was an arrogant thought that she battled out of her mind. It was an ongoing battle, these moments after waking. The moments before sleeping.

Thoughts of lightning cracking, wind tearing, rain pouring. A wrong step, slipping into rapids that should have not been there. Have brief relief from being torn from her pride and, while clinging to a weakening limb, digging a hole and shoving the flute there, praying that it wouldn’t be torn back up from the ground, like her home was being, like her family was. The branch snapped, she was pulled under water again, and her head had been struck.

She remembered all of this; she hadn’t forgotten, fortunately. She remembered the water being sucked into her lungs, the burning panic. She remembered the screams and cries that contested with the sound of the wind. The crack of limbs and the moan of the earth. Oh, how she wished she could forget it all. That the rock had knocked the memory out of her mind. She didn’t know where she was or which way was home; she had been a very sheltered lion. She didn’t know how to survive on her own. She didn’t know where the sacred flute was. Yes, she wished her head had split her skull, something to make her forget. Her fond memories of home were no where to be seen; the moment she called one up, it was immediately replaced with the face of someone she knew, someone she cared about, being pulled away. Her fond memories were hiding from her, allowing her to see the drowned lions, the injured lions. The lions whose necks were in the wrong way, those with glazed eyes, those impaled with splintered wood.

The rain finally stop and with it, so did her memories. A dry sob escaped her throat and she pressed her head against the cool stone wall. Strength. She needed strength and courage again. She pleaded to herself to find it within herself, to keep going. She had to find home. Hope was a small ember in her stomach but she tried not to despair. The trek had been long and she no doubt there was still a long way to go. But she had heard and all was not lost; the Na’vi were rebuilding. Her pride was still there. Hope was still there. Hope was the breath she breathed in, the motivation between each step. Hope was what got her through her nightmares when she is both asleep and awake. Hope is what kept her from stepping off a cliff. Hope was her lifeline that had been fraying, attached by small threads until news of the Na’vi being rebuilt had reached her.

Her breath had calmed. Her fears soothed and lying in wait at the back of her mind. Her fears were never truly gone. But she would be strong. She will push on. And she will never allow those fears to seep out for the world to see, leave her naked and exposed, vulnerability bare. She dressed herself with a smooth expression and stern eyed, unfeeling, unyielding. Picking her way out of the cave into the dawning morning, she stared at her green companion, who was already ready to go. Lijen, he called himself. She had met him almost a week time past and his intentions were still unclear to her. He insisted he could never leave a damsel in distress, despite her insistence that she was not distressed. He travelled. He knew the lands well. And though he haven’t heard of the Na’vi, he knew the land by description. He knew of the storm.

He would help her home. And when she arrived home, she would bid him farewell. Before reaching the borders. No doubt, he heard her shouting, in the midst of her nightmares. She didn’t doubt the reason he was awake was because of her noise. He learned to give her privacy. But he knew to much. No, before they reached her home, he would have to leave.

She wasn’t anxious to be home. Home was shattered. She was shattered. She wondered if anyone could tell her from the innocent, playful lion without a care in the world to what she had become now. Picking up the pieces of her life seemed impossible, improbable. How would she be able to carry on? Another goal, perhaps. Once she got home, she was find the flute. She will fulfil her duty to her pride. And after that… the bleakness opened up a pit in her stomach. She didn’t want to think about after that. She was dangling from a cliff, holding onto her frayed rope of hope, after all.

"Are you ready to go home?" Lijen asked with a slight smirk.

Ingyentsim gave him a flat look. She chose to not speak to him unless it was necessary. He flirted with her but he was not of her pride. She would not fall for his charms. There was too much to do to be caught up in his beat.

Lijen hummed in response before shrugging, deciding to follow his silent companion. Ingyentsim was grateful for the silence. Soon, it would be time to dismiss him. Soon, she would know her way back. Soon, she would be home.
[w.c.: 1,111]