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“Alright, I’m ready,” said Yangchen, stepping out from behind the finned-caribou hide that partitioned the tent.
Kavik squinted at her. She was dressed in the blue furs of the water tribe, in a knee-length parka with a moon motif on the front panel. Her hair had been swept up and folded into a bun, with two strands on either side of her face hanging in braids and adorned with bone beads. Her arrows were completely covered by the warm mittens on her hands and the thick fringe over her forehead.
She looked every inch a Northern Water Tribe girl—even her eyes, normally a dark gray, seemed to have taken on a slightly icy hue, as if they were reflecting the arctic world around them—but there was something off about the disguise.
Kavik snapped his fingers as he figured it out. “You look like my gran-gran!” he said. Then his thoughts caught up with his mouth, and he said, “Wait, that didn’t come out right.”
Luckily, Yangchen seemed more amused than offended. “How was it supposed to come out, then?”
Kavik poked the bun at the nape of her neck. “Your hair. No one younger than my gran-gran wears their hair like that.”
Yangchen frowned. This had been her favorite way to do her hair, in one past life or another. She hadn’t even thought about it before tying her hair up—her fingers had remembered all on their own.
Thinking back on her time training in Agna Qel’a, however, she realized Kavik was right. She would stick out if she wore her hair like this, and it was very important that she blend in for the sake of the mission: Today, she was meeting Kavik’s extended family in Long Stretch.
And if everything went well, they would never suspect that “Ilagik” was the Avatar.
Yangchen peeked out the tent flap: the tundra greeted her, wide open and vibrant and abuzz with the frenetic energy of late summer. The sun was obscured by a light mist, but she could make out a bright spot low on the eastern horizon. “We have some time before we have to leave,” she said. “I can try again.”
“Let me help you,” Kavik offered.
Yangchen raised a skeptical eyebrow at him.
“My cousin taught me how to braid when I was little,” he said defensively, as if he were offended that she doubted him.
Yangchen shrugged, and flounced onto the nearest bedroll. “Ok then. You do it.”
Kavik took off his mittens and sat behind her. He pulled out the beads, untied the ribbons, and unpinned the fake fringe. Then he began to comb her hair. He started at the bottom, gently running his fingers through the strands and gently teasing apart tangles. Gradually he worked his way up to the roots of her hair.
Without meaning to, Yangchen leaned back into his touch, her eyes drifting shut. Having her hair brushed felt nice, nicer than she would have expected. It wasn’t an experience she was accustomed to; the last time someone had brushed her hair would have been back at the Western Air Temple. The older Air Nomad girls taught the younger ones how to deal with hair after they turned old enough; growing one’s hair out was an important marker of growing up. Yangchen didn’t remember whose hands had brushed her hair and taught her how to hold the comb, only that it hadn’t been Jetsun.
Yangchen winced.
“Sorry,” said Kavik, thinking the motion had been in response to something he did.
Yangchen suddenly noticed that there wasn’t much braiding going on. “Are you playing with my hair?”
Kavik paused guiltily, “... maybe.”
“Keep doing it, it feels nice.”
Kavik was happy to oblige. He ran his hands through her hair some more, watching the silky strands slip through his fingers.
“Tell me about your cousin,” she said. “The one who taught you how to braid.”
Kavik began to separate her hair into sections. “I have a lot of cousins, but my favorite is Yuka. Every year, we used to see each other at fish camp, and we’d all go everywhere together like a pack of porcupine seals. Yuka is the oldest, and Kalyann and I used to think that cloudberries sprouted wherever she walked. She’s really smart, and she always had the best ideas for games.
“One summer, she was teaching my girl cousins how to braid their hair, and I cried until she let me learn too.”
Yangchen grinned as she imagined Kavik, baby-cheeked and innocent and tearful about being excluded.
“Real tears?” she inquired. “Or were you a master liar even then?”
“Very real tears,” Kavik assured her solemnly. “I would never lie to Yuka.”
Yangchen snorted, not believing him for a minute. “Will I get to meet Yuka?”
“I hope so. I heard she’s married now; hopefully she didn’t move away.”
“Do you mind if I use a little hair grease?” Kavik asked, holding up a small jar.
“Umm...” Yangchen was willing to eat meat, if that was what was available. She was aware that the clothes she wore and the tent they were sheltered in were made from the hides of dead animals… hides which had been carefully waterproofed with the same animal fat Kavik now held up, no doubt. And yet, it still made her uncomfortable, the idea of rubbing cooked animal remains directly on her person.
She was about to say yes anyway, for the disguise and because it wasn’t really a big deal, when Kavik surprised her.
“It’s from Taku,” he said, twisting open the lid. Instead of the stench of animal fat, a fruity and sweet aroma filled the air, taking her by surprise. “I think it’s some kind of fruit oil.”
Yangchen’s shoulders relaxed. “Sure.”
Kavik rubbed the grease onto his hands and began to massage it into her hair. Whatever fruit it was, it was familiar. The scent called her back to some other place, in some other lifetime, but Yangchen resisted, focusing on the soft patter of rain on the tent and the gentle tugging of her companion’s hands through her hair; he was massaging her scalp now, digging his fingers into the roots of her hair; this was even better than the brushing.
No one touched Yangchen anymore, outside of occasional bouts of physical combat. In the western air temple, she had grown up in close proximity to dozens of girls, with whom she’d had very little physical boundaries. Her sisters and she had piled on the same beds, and huddled for warmth during festivals at the northern temple, and tackled each other both on and off the air ball court. And of course Jetsun had always been her greatest source of comfort, holding her close and anchoring her to the present when she was wracked by the grief and anguish of a thousand past lives. After Jetsun had died and Yangchen had left the temple, she’d been left with almost no one. Just a lonely figure at the top of an air spout, suspended in front of an audience.
(Except for Nu Jian, when she still had him. Nu Jian couldn’t hug her, but at least she could hug Nu Jian.)
When had Kavik become the exception to her isolation? When had Kavik become the one that casually lifted her up and spun her around?
She was almost sad when he finally began braiding her hair, but they did have somewhere to be, and a long ride ahead of them.
Kavik froze a thin sheet of ice, and held it up to her when he was done.
“What do you think?” He asked.
Kavik had braided the bulk of her hair into one long braid and pulled it into a loop that dangled from the crown of her head. He’d also redone the face-framing qilliqti that she had tried to do before. Yangchen had struggled to thread the thin braids through the beads, and her earlier attempt had been frizzy because of it. The hair grease combined with Kavik's skill had made the braids sleek and elegant.
Yangchen turned to thank him, and then immediately dodged a greasy finger aimed right for her nose. Another greasy hand came at her, and she grabbed Kavik’s wrists.
“Stop that!” She laughed.
“But you like my hands,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows.
“I’m trying to give you a hug!”
“Oh!” It was Kavik’s turn to be surprised. “Okay.”
She hugged him. And then she directed his greasy hands back at his face.
“Hey!”
.
.
.
(They were slightly late to dinner with Kavik’s parents.)