The sun rises, and sets, and as the moon rises once more Maui can't find Moana in her falegoing over the day's trades with her sister. Nor is she in the Gathering Hall chatting with her people; nor down by the ocean, watching the waves as they roll peacefully onto the shore. Then he checks the Cavern of the Ancestors, but no luck. Normally when she's not in Motunui proper, he can find her in the Cavern, staring at the waves from atop a rock, arms crossed over her knees, or standing tall in front of crafts of the Chiefs of old with her hands laced behind her back and chest puffed with pride.
But she's not in the Cavern either, and he exits the rocky entrance befuddled. It's not until he spots a weary-looking Arihi, tired and hassled from a long day of negotiations, that an idea strikes him.
The pounding of a hammer upon apaas he approaches the newly-formed forge confirms his suspicions before he so much as pulls back the fireproof fabric that forms the threshold. Indeed, even at this late hour of night, the Chief of Motunui labors inside, draped in a thin sheet of fabric as protection against the spitting embers from the flames mere inches from her skin. Around her skull cinches a gift from her mother, protecting her eyes from the spit of the flames, the light from behind her dancing around her silhouette.
With a strength used to heft thick wooden crafts into the ocean and to churn seas, Moana lifts the hammer and strikes down with a sharp clangagainst the metal in her hands. Maui reclines easily against the thick poles supporting the material, coated in that same fire-resistant cloth, to watch her work.
Her hands still for a brief moment when his back thuds quietly against the pole. Then, the Chief huffs out a small laugh, and keeps pounding away. "You know that there's a forged ring outside. For knocking."
Even though she's facing away from him, he can hear her grinning. "I figured it was a mortal-only type thing. I get my fill of special privileges, being a demigod and all."
"You also get pretty full of yourself." Clang. She pauses to wipe the beading sweat off her forehead, one hand lifting to raise the fabric away from her eyes so she can swipe at it with the soot-free back of her forearm.
Maui raises an eyebrow at her clothes, turned midnight-black with ash and soot. "Arihi having a rough time?"
Moana snorts, glancing at her vestments - her simpler dress, not the ceremonial decor of a Chief - and glances ruefully at him. "You could say that. It's worse for her than it is for me, dealing with these stuck-up Chieftains," she growls, gesturing in irritation with the head of her hammer. The motion nearly sends a spray of sparks toward the pole, and with a small sigh, Moana dunks it in water and sets it aside. "I, at least, have standing. As the younger sister, they just figure they can walk all over her," Moana tells him, sprinkling water over the remnants of the bellowing flames; as the embers fizzle out, they spit their agreement.
"So La'ei needs pineapple cake immediately," he concludes.
"And Arihi needs a pot to make it, yep." In one sweeping motion, Moana hefts the handle of a metal pot, and turns fully to face him, a wry grin gracing her face. "La'ei's needs always come first."
"Uh-huh. Especially when it comes time to give Arihi gifts."
She snorts at him. "I am nothing if not a concerned aunt." Then she pauses. "Wait, am I really so transparent?"
"I've known you for four years now, Curly. So...yes."
"You wound me."
Grunting quietly, she hefts the pan upward and dunks it into the water, then shifts her grip from one palm to the other, shaking her sore wrist through the air.
Steam rises from the heating pail of water and blows in her face. This new material for crafting, apa, was - by stroke of luck - the primary trade of Tumu, one of the first peoples with whom Moana established trade. Though Moana strives for impartiality as the unofficial leader of the six tribes, the peoples of Motunui get along remarkably well with the Tumuans. Oftentimes, the two tribes share stories and customs long after negotiations conclude.
Moana twirls her handiwork slowly through the water for several moments, watching it idly in case it clangs against the metal side of the pail, then looks at him.
"So," she starts casually, which is enough to make Maui very, very suspicious. He knows that tone of voice. "Laki was remarkably amicable during negotiations today."
Taema's toenails. "Must've had a change of heart," Maui comments neutrally, wrapping his hands behind his back so she can't see his fingers fidgeting.
"Mhmm," she smirks at him. In one smooth motion, she lifts the pan from the pail of water and holds it close to her face. She runs a single finger over the curved edges, inspecting it for imperfections. "And I suppose it's got nothing to do with the sudden maelstrom Motunui experienced for a couple of seconds last night," she says, gaze flicking from her craft to him for a brief moment.
"Hey, what can I say? It's the rainy season."
"Yet there wasn't any rain. How odd."
She watches him flounder with something close to amusement for a couple of seconds before laughing at him. "Look," she says, setting the pot gently on the counter and crossing the room toward the entrance. "I appreciate what you did, truly. It's nice to know someone has my back." She graces him with a soft smile. "But I can deal with them on my own."
"Moana, they were plotting -"
"An assassination attempt?" Moana grins at him, and the smile turns abruptly from soft to feral, uncomfortably akin to the sharpened teeth of a tiger shark. "He wasn't exactly subtle. Rangi's been watching him for days."
Maui stares at her. Then he breaks into a huge grin. "There's my warrior face," he guffaws, clapping her on the back.
"Thanks!"
Seeing him satisfactorily chastised (or, well, as chastised as a demigod could be), she retrieves the pan, pulling out a pocketknife. The handle, Maui sees, is engraved with the tail and body manta ray. With it, she sets to whittling out the nicks and bumps where the apamelded together incorrectly.
He snorts and grabs a convenient chair from by the entrance of the forge-fale. Cracking a yawn, he flips it backward and flops down, hair splaying over his crossed arms and his chin. Faintly, he can hear Moana snort, then feels a warm draft as she re-stokes the fire, grunting as she hefts the hammer and pot once more.
Moana sings while she works. Several years ago, she'd told him that it was her grandmother that taught her to sing. Maui never met her grandmother for himself, but he would've liked to. With what Moana says about her, and how she talks about getting a tattoo of her own - well, he can't tell if he and Gramma Tala would love or hate each other.
Or both.
The tune she hums now is one he's well-familiar with. The exact number of hours he spent preparing that song for the precise moment a mortal dropped into the lap of his island is a secret he will take to the grave and beyond. She times the strokes of her hammer to her own humming, varying in intensity as she clatters along, reshaping the pot to perfection.
The rhythmic clanging of Moana's hammer, her voice humming gently beneath the crackle of the fire, lulls him to sleep.
And when he wakes, the sun is high in the sky. The forge is empty, the fire fully doused, the Chief and her craft vanished; but there is a thick blanket of apuleaves draped around his shoulders.
Deciding that Motunui will keep living without its patron demigod for a day, well-protected in the hands of its capable Chief, Maui rests his chin on his crossed arms and drifts slowly to sleep once more.