The Eldest
Cover by @angeliquecho
Sully family x eldest daughter reader
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An: Ty for your patience
Part 52 > Part 53 < Part 54
Until We Meet Again
Lo’ak watched as Jake helped carry (Y/n) into the marui.
She was alive.
Somehow.
Still coughing badly, still shaking, still breathing in those wet, ragged pulls that made her whole body jerk against their father’s hold, but alive.
Something in Lo’ak’s chest twisted.
He had been sure she was dead down there. He had seen the way Dad looked when he surfaced without her.
Had seen the way Mom broke all over again when she asked where (Y/n) was and Jake only shook his head.
He had believed it too, for those few awful minutes.
Believed she was gone.
So how was she here?
How was she alive when Neteyam wasn’t?
Jake lowered her carefully inside, settling her upright against him rather than letting her lie flat. She immediately folded forward with another harsh cough, one hand clutching at her chest and ribs like every breath burned. Water and mucus spilled from her mouth onto the floor and Neytiri gathered her hair back with one hand while the other rubbed slowly over her shoulders.
“Come on, pumpkin,” Jake said, patting her back as carefully as he could. “Talk to me.”
(Y/n) tried to answer and only coughed again, the sound thick and awful, and Lo’ak looked away because everyone was crowding around her now. Dad. Mom. Tuk hovering nearby with tears still on her cheeks. Kiri standing frozen at the edge of the room like she didn’t know whether to come closer or stay out of the way.
And Lo’ak stood there too.
Watching.
Not moving.
Not wanted.
His mind kept dragging him back to the rocks.
Look at this!
What the fuck did you do?!
All they had to do was leave. All they had to do was leave.
His jaw tightened.
Why did she get to blame him?
Why did everyone always get to blame him?
(Y/n) coughed so hard her body jerked forward and Jake caught her before she could fold too far, as Neytiri kept wiping the water from her mouth.
As if she was some hero.
As if she hadn’t jumped onto that ship too.
As if she hadn’t known exactly what she was doing when she rode Payakan straight into the fight with Si’riya.
Lo’ak’s hands curled at his sides.
He wanted to snap at her. Wanted to say that if she had encouraged Dad to fight the ship in the first place, maybe none of this would have happened. If she hadn’t stood there silent and scared while the Tulkun were being hunted, he wouldn’t have had to go warn Payakan. If she had done something earlier, maybe he wouldn’t have had to.
But everyone liked to say the messes he got into were his fault.
Always Lo’ak.
Always the screw up.
Never the golden daughter who ran headfirst into death and got praised for surviving it.
Ronal entered then, Si’riya just behind her, carrying a woven basket filled with healing supplies—cloths, herbs, salves—and the room shifted around the Tsahik at once.
“Si’riya explained what happened,” Ronal said, kneeling in front of (Y/n), her sharp eyes moving over her face, her chest, the way her breaths kept catching. Then her gaze dropped lower—and her expression hardened.
“Lay her forward slightly.”
Jake adjusted her carefully, and as Neytiri shifted the cloth around her shoulders, the damage became visible.
A large, angry gash stretched across (Y/n)’s back, torn and raw, blood still seeping sluggishly from it. Bruises bloomed dark along her ribs and shoulders, cuts scattered across her arms and sides—clear signs of a brutal fight.
Lo’ak’s stomach dropped.
Quaritch.
“She has been through more than drowning,” Ronal said sharply. Hold her still.
(Y/n) barely reacted as Ronal began working, exhaustion dragging her under even as pain flickered across her face. She coughed again, weaker this time, body trembling as Ronal cleaned the gash with practiced hands.
(Y/n) hissed faintly, fingers tightening in Jake’s arm.
“I know,” Ronal said, not unkindly. “Stay awake.”
She worked quickly, pressing cloth to the wound, cleaning away blood a thick herbal paste. Si’riya handed her strips of cloth, and Ronal began binding the wound tightly.
“Sit her higher,” Ronal ordered again.
Jake obeyed immediately, bracing (Y/n) upright as Neytiri supported her from the side. The movement made her cough again, wet and painful, her body jerking as she tried to breathe through it.
“Do not let her choke,” Ronal said. “Hold her forward.”
“I got her,” Jake said, though his voice sounded rough.
(Y/n)’s breathing was wet.
Lo’ak could hear it from where he stood.
That crackling, dragging sound every time she tried to pull air in, like her lungs were still half full of the ocean. She coughed again and gasped, her hand tightening over her ribs, face twisting with pain.
“It burns,” she rasped.
“I know,” Jake murmured, rubbing her back. “I know, baby girl.”
Lo’ak looked down.
No one said anything about her being reckless.
No one said she should have stayed put.
No one said she had almost gotten herself killed.
Ronal leaned closer once the worst of the coughing fit passed, placing one hand lightly at (Y/n)’s jaw to keep her attention while her other hand moved to her chest. “Look at me. Breathe.”
(Y/n) tried.
Failed.
Coughed again.
Ronal waited until she could draw in a shaking breath, then moved around behind her, Jake shifted slightly, and Ronal pressed her ear to (Y/n)’s back. The marui went quiet except for (Y/n)’s breathing and Neytiri’s soft murmurs.
Lo’ak shifted his weight.
His chest felt tight.
He hated the sound of her breathing.
Hated that some part of him was scared for her even while another part of him was angry enough to burn.
Ronal listened for a moment longer, then pulled back, face grave.
“She breathed it in,” she said. “Her lungs are wet.”
Jake’s hand stilled against (Y/n)’s back.
Neytiri’s ears flicked back. “What does this mean?”
“It means she is not out of danger,” Ronal said. “She is not to lie flat. Keep her upright, or on her side if she sleeps. Prop her up. Let her cough. Do not force her down if her body is trying to clear the water.”
(Y/n)’s eyes were half-lidded now, exhausted, but Ronal tapped her cheek lightly. “Stay with us.”
“I’m awake,” (Y/n) rasped.
“Barely,” Ronal said.
Jake looked at her with a fear Lo’ak had seen too many times today. “What do we watch for?”
“If she chokes on vomit or cannot clear what comes up, turn her to the side,” Ronal said. “If her lips pale, if she becomes too drowsy and difficult to wake, if fever comes, if the cough worsens or breathing becomes harder, fetch me at once. Keep her warm. Small sips only when she is settled enough not to vomit again.”
Jake nodded at every word like he was trying to carve them into his mind.
Lo’ak watched him.
Watched Dad hold her like she might disappear if his grip loosened.
Watched Mom keep touching her hair, her face, her shoulder.
No one had held Lo’ak like that.
No one had asked if he was okay.
He had lost Neteyam too.
He had watched his brother die too.
Did his tears not matter?
Did his chest not hurt?
Did no one care that he could have died too?
Ronal rose, one hand resting briefly on Si’riya’s shoulder as she turned to leave. Si’riya lingered near the entrance, looking at (Y/n) with something tired and guilty in her face.
“Wait,” Jake said.
Si’riya stopped.
Jake looked at her, his voice quieter now. “Thank you.”
Si’riya only nodded once, then followed her mother out.
For a moment no one moved.
Then Jake adjusted (Y/n) carefully, keeping her propped upright, his arm still braced behind her. Neytiri wrapped a dry cloth around her shoulders and continued drying the ends of her hair with shaking hands.
“We have...” Jake stopped, his voice breaking slightly.
Lo’ak looked up.
Jake swallowed. “We have to tend to your brother.”
The words made the room colder.
(Y/n)’s eyes opened more fully, grief moving over her face again, but she was too weak to say anything before another cough took her.
Jake kissed the top of her head. “Stay with your sisters.”
“I’m fine, Dad,” she rasped.
“No, you’re not, kid,” Jake said softly.
For some reason that made Lo’ak’s stomach twist again.
Jake looked to Kiri, Tuk, then finally to Lo’ak. “Get me, your mother or Ronal immediately if she worsens.”
Lo’ak nodded because he was supposed to.
Because Dad was looking at him now.
Finally.
But only to give him a job.
Jake and Neytiri stepped out of the marui, leaving them in the quiet with (Y/n)’s ragged breathing and the grief waiting outside.
Lo’ak stared at his sister.
She was slumped upright, eyes closed, body trembling, still clutching at her chest like breathing hurt—bandages wrapped tight across her back, blood slowly seeping through in places despite Ronal’s work.
He should have been relieved.
He was.
Somewhere.
But all he could hear was her voice on the rocks.
I should have never trusted Lo’ak to fucking choose the easy way out.
His throat tightened.
Maybe he had chosen wrong.
Maybe he had gone back for Spider and dragged Neteyam with him.
Maybe he had left her.
But she had chosen too.
She had chosen to jump onto that ship.
She had chosen to fight Quaritch.
She had chosen to play hero.
And somehow he was still the one standing there feeling like the whole family had already decided where the blame belonged.
Lo’ak stood near the edge of the marui and felt the anger keep building.
It was not loud at first.
It sat low in his chest, hot and ugly, twisting every time (Y/n) coughed, every time Kiri and Tuk looked at her like she might disappear, every time his parents’ voices drifted from outside where they were preparing to tend to Neteyam.
Neteyam.
His brother was dead.
His brother was lying outside and everyone was gathered around (Y/n) because she had almost died too.
Almost.
That was the part that kept digging into him.
Almost.
She had almost died and somehow that meant everyone forgot he had watched Neteyam die right in front of him, forgot he had been on that ship too, forgot he had saved Dad from that wreck.
(Y/n) began coughing again, rough and wet, the sound dragging everyone’s attention straight back to her.
Kiri rushed to her side with Tuk right behind her, both of them dropping down as (Y/n) folded forward, one hand clutching at her ribs while the other braced shakily against the floor.
“How much seawater did you swallow?” Kiri asked, worry breaking through her voice.
“Let’s not ask morbid questions,” (Y/n) coughed out.
Tuk wrapped her arms around her carefully, crying again as she pressed herself into her sister’s side. “You’re going to be okay, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, I’ll be—” (Y/n) started, then coughed hard enough that her whole body jerked.
More water came up.
Kiri quickly gathered her hair back, one hand rubbing between her shoulders while (Y/n) gagged and spat onto the floor.
“Fine,” she finally rasped.
Tuk started sobbing harder.
Tears slipped down (Y/n)’s face too, mixing with the water still dripping from her hair, but Lo’ak could not stop seeing her on the rocks, could not stop hearing the way she screamed at him like he was the only reason everything had fallen apart.
Like she had not been part of it too.
Like she had not made her own choices.
His jaw tightened.
“Hard to play hero when you’re choking on seawater, huh?” he said.
The marui went still.
Kiri’s head snapped toward him. “Lo’ak.”
(Y/n) coughed again, throwing up more water before she could even answer.
Lo’ak should have stopped.
He knew that.
Some part of him knew it even then.
But the anger was already moving now, already spilling out before he could shove it back down, because all he could see was Neteyam on the rocks and his sister screaming in his face and Dad pulling her back like she was the only one breaking.
(Y/n) wiped at her mouth with the back of her shaking hand. “Say that again—” another cough cut her off, sharp and painful.
“All that yelling on the rocks,” Lo’ak said, voice hardening, “and now you can’t even get a sentence out without coughing.”
(Y/n)’s eyes lifted to his.
For a second he saw it.
Absolute fury.
Even half drowned, half shaking, barely able to breathe right, she looked at him like she wanted to tear him apart.
She shoved herself to her feet.
“(Y/n),” Kiri warned, moving with her as she swayed.
Kiri caught her before she could fall, gripping her arm tightly. “Lo’ak, this isn’t the time for this.”
(Y/n) stood there breathing too fast, anger shaking through her so hard it almost looked like the only thing keeping her upright. Lo’ak watched her swallow it down, watched her fight another cough and lose, watched her drop back down because her body would not let her do anything else.
“You really are a fucking idiot,” she rasped.
Lo’ak’s ears pinned back.
“Fucking trying to start something when—look the fuck around, Lo’ak.”
So he did.
He looked.
Tuk crying.
Kiri holding (Y/n)’s hair back.
His parents outside with Neteyam.
The whole family ripped apart.
And somehow it still made him angrier.
He shrugged. “You had no issue screaming at me on those rocks.”
(Y/n)’s face twisted. “What’s it matter?” she coughed again, pressing a hand hard to her chest. “Nothing gets through your skull anyway.”
The words hit harder than he wanted them to.
“One fucking second, Lo’ak,” she said, voice raw now, and something in her expression shifted, grief cutting through the anger for half a breath. “One.”
He remembered then, because of course he did.
That day she sat with him and talked about losing everything.
That one second.
The one she said could take it all.
“That one second has come and gone,” she said, tears spilling again as her voice shook. “But instead Neteyam lost it all instead of you.”
Lo’ak froze.
Kiri looked between them, horrified.
Tuk sobbed against (Y/n)’s side.
Lo’ak felt the words go straight through him, and for one second there was nothing underneath them. No comeback. No anger. Just the image of Neteyam gasping, Neteyam saying he wanted to go home, Neteyam going still while Lo’ak knelt beside him and did nothing.
Then the anger came rushing back, because it had to.
Because if it didn’t, he would fall apart.
“Big talk for someone sitting there coughing up the entire ocean.”
“Fuck off,” she snapped. “You dragged Neteyam further into that ship and not me.”
Tuk started crying uncontrollably then, her small body shaking as she clung tighter to (Y/n), and that seemed to cut through something.
(Y/n)’s shoulders dropped.
Her face changed.
Not softened exactly.
Just exhausted.
“Now cut it out,” she said, voice quieter, defeated.
Lo’ak opened his mouth.
Her eyes snapped back to him.
“I really do suggest you shut your mouth,” she said, each word rough and thin from the coughing, “or I will do it for you, and I don’t want to do that. Not before we bury Neteyam.”
Another cough tore through her and Kiri pulled her forward quickly, rubbing her back as she choked through it.
Lo’ak stood there for one more second.
Then he turned and stormed out.
The night air hit him cold.
He walked to the edge of the marui and sat down hard, feet hanging over the water, hands gripping the wood beneath him until his fingers ached.
For a while he just stared at the sea.
Then the tears came.
He tried to stop them.
Tried to swallow them down.
Tried to be angry enough that they would not matter.
But they came anyway, hot and silent at first, then harder, until his chest shook and he had to press a hand over his mouth to keep the sound in.
Because Neteyam was dead.
(Y/n) hated him.
His dad had looked at him like he had broken everything.
And Lo’ak did not know how to fix any of it.
Spider came up quietly and sat down beside him, legs dangling over the edge just like Lo’ak’s.
For a moment, he didn’t say anything.
Then, softly, “I’m thankful you and Neteyam went back for me. I’ll never forget it.”
Lo’ak didn’t look at him.
Lo'ak swallowed. “It was my idea. It’s no one’s fault. I mean… we found (Y/n) trapped under a big scrap of metal, but I convinced Neteyam we should get you instead.”
"And I don't regret it."
Kiri’s hand settled gently on her shoulder.
“It’s not his fault,” she said softly. “And it’s not yours.”
(Y/n)’s head snapped toward her, something sharp and bitter rising in her chest.
It is his fault.
The thought burned through her, loud and unforgiving. Because he was the idiot who always thought he was untouchable, like bullets would just miss him out of sheer luck—until someone else paid the price for it.
And it was hers too.
For believing Lo’ak would listen. For thinking he’d follow the plan. For trusting that when they had a chance to leave, they actually would.
Her mouth opened, ready to argue, to say something—anything—but all that came out was a violent cough.
Pain ripped through her chest, folding her forward as her hand clutched at her ribs. Tuk clung tighter to her side, crying into her shoulder, and Kiri quickly gathered her hair back, holding it away from her face as she coughed and gagged, her whole body shaking with it.
“Kiri, please,” she rasped when she could finally force the words out, her voice thin and wrecked. “I don’t want to play who’s right and who’s wrong.”
She tried to breathe again.
It caught halfway.
Her face twisted as another wave hit, and she bent forward, coughing so hard tears spilled down her cheeks. Kiri rubbed her back, murmuring softly, but it didn’t help. Nothing could. Not really.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
She was going to bury her little brother.
Her baby brother.
The one she promised would make it home if he just followed the plan.
She could remember that look on his face, looking at her like he believed every word she said. Like if she made a plan, it would work. Like if she promised they’d get out, then they would.
She could still hear his voice. “I love you, (y/n). Please be careful.”
She hadn’t thought anything of it then.
Hadn’t realized that was the last time she would ever hear him say it.
Oh, Eywa…
That was the last time she had ever seen her little brother alive.
A broken sound caught in her throat, and she swallowed it down before it could turn into something louder—something she wouldn’t be able to stop.
It took everything in her not to get up and go after Lo’ak again. Not to drag him back in here and force him to look at what happened. Not to hit him until her hands hurt, because anger was the only thing keeping the grief from swallowing her whole.
But Tuk was still holding onto her.
Kiri was still beside her.
Neteyam was still dead.
And no amount of screaming would change that.
She pressed a trembling hand over her mouth as another cough rose, tears spilling freely now as she tried to breathe through everything she couldn’t say.
“I don’t want to fight,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I can’t. Not right now.”
Kiri’s hand tightened gently on her shoulder.
Tuk only cried harder.
Jake could still feel the panic in his bones as he and Neytiri left the marui.
It did not leave with him.
It stayed under his skin, in his hands, in the tightness of his chest, in the way every instinct in his body screamed at him to turn around and go back to his daughter. Her coughing followed him out into the late afternoon, wet and ragged and wrong, fading only because he was walking away from it, not because it had stopped.
That made it worse.
He kept seeing the pink foam at her mouth.
The way her body jerked every time she coughed.
The way Ronal’s face had gone grave when she listened to her lungs.
She is not out of danger.
Jake swallowed hard and kept walking, but every step away from that marui felt like another mistake.
She could worsen while he was gone.
She could choke.
She could stop breathing.
He could come back and find Kiri screaming for him, Tuk crying over her, Lo’ak frozen in the corner because no one had known what to do fast enough.
No.
His stomach twisted so violently he almost stopped.
I cannot lose another one tonight.
Neytiri walked beside him in silence, her grief moving with her like something heavy draped across her shoulders. Jake could feel her breaking too. Could feel that she also wanted to turn back.
One child dead. One child barely breathing. Their family split open in two directions and both of them impossible.
Because his instincts were screaming stay with your daughter.
But reality was waiting ahead of him.
His son was dead.
Neteyam was dead and needed him too.
Jake felt like he was being split clean down the middle. One part of him was still in that marui, sitting behind (Y/n), holding her upright, counting every breath, watching the colour of her lips, ready to call Ronal at the first sign of her slipping away.
The other part of him was walking toward the shelter where his son lay waiting to be washed, prepared, loved for the last time with hands that should never have had to do this.
Father of the child who might still die.
Father of the child who already had.
He did not know how to be both.
When they reached the shelter, Jake stopped at the entrance.
Neteyam lay inside.
For a second the world went quiet again.
There were people moving somewhere outside, soft voices, the water beneath the village, the low murmur of the clan giving them space. But all of it seemed far away as Jake looked at his son.
His boy looked too still.
That was the worst part.
Neteyam had always been steady, always watchful, always, one step behind or ahead depending on who needed him most. But this stillness was different. This was nothing like the boy Jake knew so well.
Jake’s throat closed.
Neytiri stepped in beside him and her breath broke again, small and wounded, and Jake glanced at her because he thought if he looked too long at Neteyam he might not move at all.
This was one of their last tasks as his parents.
To prepare his body.
To clean away the blood and salt and battle.
To make him ready to be given back.
All energy was borrowed.
That was what the People believed.
All energy was borrowed and one day it had to be returned.
Jake had always understood it as a teaching, as something beautiful in the way Neytiri said it, in the way the clan lived with it, in the way Eywa held everything together.
But now he had to give his son back.
His hands curled at his sides.
Something in him rejected it so hard it almost became anger.
Not my boy.
He could not give Neteyam away.
He could not return him like borrowed energy, like the years had simply been a gift that had ended, like Jake was supposed to bow his head and accept that this was the shape of the world.
His son was supposed to grow old.
Supposed to tease Lo’ak about being stupid until they were both fathers themselves.
Supposed to keep watching over Tuk, keep rolling his eyes at Kiri, keep making (Y/n) smile when things got too hard.
He was supposed to live.
And (Y/n) was in another marui coughing blood because of him.
Jake pressed a hand over his mouth, breathing hard through his nose as guilt rose up so violently he nearly gagged on it.
Because this was his fault.
All of it.
Quaritch had come for him.
The Tulkun had been hunted because of him.
The Metkayina had bled because of him.
His son was dead because the RDA wanted him, and his daughter was fighting for air because she had been raised to throw herself between danger and her siblings, because Jake had trained her too well, because he had taken a little girl and shaped her into something that he did not know how to change back.
Neteyam was dead.
(Y/n) might still die.
And Jake was standing there breathing.
He did not know how to live with that.
Neytiri moved first.
She went to Neteyam and knelt beside him, her hand trembling as she touched his hair. Jake watched her fingertips brush the braids back from his face with a gentleness that made his chest cave in all over again.
Then she looked at Jake.
Broken
Jake forced his feet to move.
He knelt on the other side of his son and stared down at him, his vision blurring before he blinked hard and reached for the bowl beside them. His hand shook when he picked up the cloth. Shook worse when he dipped it into the water.
For a moment he could not bring it to Neteyam’s skin.
He just held it there, dripping into the bowl, because once he started this would be real in a new way.
A father cleaning his dead son.
Jake’s face twisted, and he swallowed down the sound trying to climb out of his throat.
Then he pressed the cloth gently to Neteyam’s shoulder.
The water ran over blue skin, taking salt and blood with it.
Jake’s hand moved carefully—until his fingers brushed the torn edge of the bullet wound.
He froze.
The cloth slipped in his grip, water dripping unnoticed back into the bowl as his hand hovered there.
His breath caught hard in his chest, sharp and uneven, and for a second he could not move at all.
His son is dead.
Jake’s stomach twisted violently.
His fingers trembled as they hovered over the wound, then slowly, carefully, he forced himself to continue. He could not leave it like this. He could not leave his son marked by the thing that had taken him.
But his hands were shaking now.
He swallowed hard, jaw tightening as he tried to steady himself, but his breath kept hitching, uneven and shallow. His thumb brushed lightly along the edge of the wound, and the reality of it hit him all over again, heavier this time, crushing.
This is where it ended.
Jake’s vision blurred, and he blinked hard, but it didn’t help. The tears came anyway, slipping down his face as he worked, each movement slower than the last.
“I should’ve— ,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I should’ve—”
The words broke apart, useless.
Because he had been there.
And it still hadn’t been enough.
His hand pressed the cloth gently against the wound, cleaning what he could, but every touch felt like he was erasing the last proof that Neteyam had had lived.
His chest tightened painfully.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, softer this time, barely audible.
His fingers lingered there longer than they should have, unable to pull away, as if letting go would mean accepting it fully.
And Jake wasn’t ready.
He didn’t think he ever would be.
Jake kept his hands moving, cleaning his son, as if he needed to be gentle because his boy was tired and needed rest.
“I’m sorry,” Jake whispered.
Neytiri’s shoulders shook across from him.
Jake wiped another line of blood from Neteyam’s chest and he remembered the way his boy had coughed and spluttered, struggling to breathe as blood flooded his lungs.
He had known.
Some part of him had known.
The second he saw the wound.
He had known and still lied to him.
We’re going home.
Jake’s hand stopped.
His son had asked to go home.
And Jake had promised.
He dipped the cloth again because if he stopped moving he would break.
“I’m sorry, son,” he said, voice barely there.
He cleaned his son.
From his arms.
From his hands.
His hands.
Jake paused there, thumb brushing over Neteyam’s fingers, remembering them small and clumsy, gripping Jake’s thumb as a baby, then older, steady on a bow, steady on an ikran, steady on Lo’ak’s shoulder when his brother needed pulling back from another stupid decision.
His good boy.
His first son.
Gone.
Behind him, rushed footsteps and a cough broke through the quiet.
Jake’s head lifted at once.
His body went rigid.
Neytiri looked toward the sound too, both of them frozen for one terrible second, waiting to hear if there would be shouting after it, if Kiri would call for them, if Tuk would scream.
Nothing came.
Just silence.
Jake’s heart kept pounding anyway.
“She shouldn't be alone,” he said hoarsely, more to himself than Neytiri.
“Ronal will be called if she worsens,” Neytiri said, but her voice shook.
Jake looked back down at Neteyam.
Split in two.
His dead son beneath his hands.
His surviving daughter fighting to stay breathing .
He closed his eyes for a moment, jaw trembling, then forced himself to continue.
Because this was what he could do.
He could not bring Neteyam back.
He could not sit beside (Y/n) and count every breath.
He could not be in both places.
But he could clean his son.
He could do this last thing.
So Jake dipped the cloth again, wrung it out with shaking hands, and gently wiped Neteyam’s face, his thumb brushing carefully beneath his son’s closed eyes.
“You should have had more time,” Jake whispered.
The words broke apart at the end.
Neytiri reached across Neteyam’s body and placed her hand over Jake’s, both of them holding still over their son for a moment.
Jake bowed his head.
His shoulders shook once.
Then again.
But he kept the cloth in his hand.
Kept cleaning.
Kept giving his son every bit of care he had left, even as part of him listened for his daughter’s coughing in the distance, terrified that before the night was over, he would be asked to prepare another child.
Neytiri’s hands trembled as she dipped the cloth into the water.
For a moment she could only stare at it, at the way the ripples moved across the surface, so small and ordinary while her son lay still in front of her. Her body was doing what it was meant to do, kneeling beside him, reaching for water, reaching for cloth, preparing him with care because that was what a mother did.
But her mind would not follow.
Her mind stayed on his face.
On his closed eyes.
On the awful stillness of his chest.
Neteyam had always been quiet when he slept, but never like this. Never this still. Never with blood cooling on his skin and his braids damp with saltwater, never with Jake across from her looking at him like the world had ended and he had no idea what to do.
A sob tore out of her before she could stop it.
Then another followed, and another, until her shoulders shook with them as she pressed the cloth to Neteyam’s arm. She cleaned him slowly, wiping a with shaking hands, tears falling freely down her face and dripping onto his skin.
“My son,” she whispered, voice cracking.
She bent forward, breath catching in sharp, uneven pulls, trying to keep her hands steady, trying to do this one last thing for him, but the grief kept hollowing her out from the inside. It felt like something had reached into her chest and torn out part of her, leaving only a raw empty space where her son had been.
Her boy.
Her sweet boy.
Her child who would never open his eyes again.
She looked across at Jake.
His gaze was fixed on Neteyam.
Not moving.
Barely blinking.
He was holding the cloth in one hand, but his eyes stayed on their son’s face like if he looked away Neteyam would disappear completely. Neytiri reached across the space between them and laid her hand over his, needing something, needing him, needing any warmth that might make the pain hurt less.
It did not.
His hand was there beneath hers.
But it did not help.
Nothing helped.
She looked back at Neteyam and cupped his face carefully between both hands, thumbs brushing over his cheeks the way she had done when he was small.
But he did not lean into her touch.
Did not blink.
Did not breathe.
His eyes remained forever shut.
Neytiri’s mouth trembled.
She leaned down and pressed her lips to his forehead, holding them there as if she could leave some part of herself with him, some warmth, some protection, some piece of a mother’s love that death could not take.
Her tears fell onto his face.
Great Mother, she pleaded silently, eyes squeezed shut against his skin. Hold my child.
Her breath shook.
Make sure he knows no fear. No pain.
Her hands tightened gently around his face.
Hold him for me until I can.
A silent sob broke through her.
Do what I could not. Take care of my boy.
A sound tore from her, raw and wounded, and then arms gathered her from behind, pulling her carefully back against a chest she knew as well as her own heartbeat. Jake’s arms wrapped around her and Neytiri finally broke fully inside them.
“Great Mother, why?” she sobbed, turning into him, fingers clawing at his arm, his shoulder, anything she could hold. “Why?”
Jake held her tighter, his own breath breaking against her hair.
“Why can’t you let me have my son?” she cried, the words tearing out of her with the kind of pain that had no shape, no end. “You gave him to me. Why must you take him so soon?”
Her body shook violently as she sobbed, grief ripping through her until she could barely draw breath.
“I am not ready,” she said, voice breaking into something small and helpless against Jake’s chest. “I am not ready to say goodbye.”
Jake’s hold tightened around her.
“I know,” he sobbed, and the sound of his voice breaking made her cry harder. “I know.”
His face pressed briefly against the side of her head, his arms locked around her like he was trying to keep both of them from falling apart.
“I can’t let him go either,” Jake said, voice thick and wrecked. “But he’s gone now, Neytiri.”
“No.”
Jake shook against her. “He’s gone.”
“No,” she said again, turning her face toward Neteyam as if saying it enough times might pull him back. “No.”
“You once taught me,” Jake said, and his voice cracked so badly he had to force the words out slowly, “that all energy is only borrowed, and one day we must give it back.”
Neytiri’s face twisted. “No.”
“We have to give him back, Neytiri.”
“But my son,” she sobbed.
“I know,” Jake whispered, his own tears falling now as he rocked her against him. “I know.”
“My son,” she cried again, reaching blindly toward Neteyam even as Jake held her, like some part of her still needed to touch him, still needed to prove he was there, still needed one more moment before the world asked her to let him go.
Jake shifted with her, letting her reach, letting her hand settle over Neteyam’s chest.
There was no heartbeat beneath her palm.
Neytiri made a broken sound and collapsed forward again, Jake going with her, his arms still around her as she curled over their son.
“I cannot,” she sobbed. “I cannot—.”
Jake pressed his forehead against her shoulder, his own body shaking now.
“I know,” he said again.
Neytiri held Neteyam’s face in one hand and Jake’s arm with the other, trapped between the son she had lost and the mate who was breaking with her.
And all she could do was cry.
Cry for the boy she had carried.
Cry for the son she had raised.
Cry for the child Eywa had given her and taken back before she was ready.
(Y/n) bit down hard on her tongue to stop herself coughing as they swam out with Neteyam.
The taste of salt and blood sat thick in her mouth.
Every breath still hurt. Her chest burned. Her ribs ached. Her lungs felt wrong, wet and raw and too tight, but she forced herself to keep moving beside the sled while her father guided the ilu towing it through the water.
Neteyam lay on it.
Wrapped and ready to be given back.
Her little brother.
The brother who had made her a big sister.
The brother who had always been stuck in her shadow and never once resented her for it, who had stood beside her through everything when the world had tried to wedge distance between them—but being siblings had always beaten all of that.
He was that same brother who had looked at her like she hung the stars when they were children, who had trusted her plans, her promises, her certainty, right up until the very end.
She kept one hand on the side of the sled as it glided through the water.
Lo’ak was on the other side of her.
Kiri and Neytiri were opposite them, both holding on too, while Spider moved close by on another ilu with Kiri.
(Y/n) did not look at Lo’ak.
She could not.
Not without wanting to finish what grief had started and tear into him until she had something else to feel besides this.
But she bit her tongue and held onto the sled and said nothing.
Because this was Neteyam.
Because this was her little brother’s last journey.
Because whatever rage was clawing at her ribs, whatever part of her still wanted to drag Lo’ak under and demand why, Neteyam would not have wanted this.
He would have wanted peace.
He would have wanted his family together.
He would have wanted her to let him go without poisoning his last goodbye with another fight.
So she stayed quiet.
Even as tears slid down her face and vanished into the water.
She would have given anything to be in his place.
Anything.
She was the eldest.
Fully grown.
Fully trained.
She had known exactly what could happen the second she and Si’riya launched themselves into that fight. She had made peace with it the moment she stepped onto that ship.
So why wasn’t it her in that sled?
Why wasn’t it her body being taken down to the reef when Neteyam had so much life left to live?
Neteyam, who was kinder than she had ever managed to be.
Neteyam, who was patient when she was harsh, gentle when she was cruel, steady when she was all jagged edges and bad instincts and the kind of anger that could rot a person from the inside.
He had been better than her in every way that mattered.
A better sibling.
A better son.
A better person.
(Y/n) had always known there was something wrong in her.
Something monstrous.
Not in the way the RDA was monstrous, not in the way Quaritch was, but something dark all the same. Something in the ease with which violence came to her.
Neteyam had no such nature.
He had been good.
So why was she still here and he wasn’t?
Why?
The question kept circling and circling until it felt like it might split her open.
The reef below them glowed gold when they reached it, long waving tendrils stretching upward from the seafloor and casting soft light over all of them. The sight of it should have been beautiful.
It only made her want to scream.
This was the end.
The end of the time she had with her brother and it felt so painfully short.
Her whole body shuddered when they stopped.
Jake slipped from the ilu first, moving to the sled, and together they all helped guide Neteyam from it. Every touch had to be careful. Every movement slow. The water held him, but not enough to stop the finality of it.
(Y/n) reached out and cupped his cheek.
Cold.
Her lip trembled and she bit down on it hard enough to hurt because if she let the sob out now she did not know if she would stop.
“Goodbye,” she whispered.
The word barely made it out, she said it so softly no one else was able to hear it.
Goodbye. Goodbye, little brother.
Her hand lingered one second longer, thumb brushing gently across his cheekbone.
Then she made herself move back.
Tuk swam to her side and reached for her hand, and (Y/n) held it tightly, so tightly Tuk whimpered a little and (Y/n) loosened her grip at once.
She dipped her head into the water as her parents took Neteyam down.
Jake and Neytiri guided him together, pushing his body deeper toward the glowing reef.
Tuk clung to her hand and watched too, small fingers shaking in (Y/n)’s grasp.
A cough rose in (Y/n)’s throat.
She swallowed it.
Held it back so hard it hurt.
She would watch.
She would keep watching.
She would not look away from him.
She wouldn't dare blink, she wouldn't dare miss a second.
This was the last time she'd ever physically see her brother.
Her parents let him go and Neteyam kept sinking, slowly,, until the golden tendrils reached him. They curled around him softly, folding over him, until her brother disappeared inside them.
Until there was nothing left to see.
That was when the cough tore free.
(Y/n) doubled over in the water, gasping as the first cough ripped through her chest, then another, then another. She jerked her head up out of the water, choking as she tried to drag in air, but it only made the coughing worse. She struggled to keep herself upright, treading water while her lungs seized and burned, the spasms so violent she could not pull a proper breath between them.
Tuk panicked and grabbed at her arm.
Kiri moved at once, one hand catching (Y/n)’s shoulder to steady her.
(Y/n) gagged and spat into the water.
The first thing that came up was seawater.
The second was streaked red.
She stared at it, chest heaving, and watched the blood bloom around her mouth before the ocean took it and pulled it apart into nothing.
Kiri’s hand tightened on her.
Tuk was crying again.
But (Y/n) could only stare at where Neteyam had disappeared beneath the glowing reef and think, with a kind of sick hollow certainty, that even now her body was failing in all the wrong ways.
It should have been her.
Not him.
Never him.
She pressed a shaking hand over her mouth as another cough broke through, tears blurring the glowing water beneath her.
She had promised her little brother they were going home.
And he had believed her.
She had lied to him.
Jake caught her at the surface of the Cove of the Ancestors before she could dive.
His hand closed around her elbow fast enough to make her turn, and when she looked at him she saw the fear on his face before he had the chance to hide it.
“Don’t dive down there if you can’t hold your breath,” he said.
(Y/n) opened her mouth to argue and coughed instead.
The sound tore through her chest hard enough to fold her slightly in the water, one hand instinctively flying to her ribs as the burn flared up all over again.
Neytiri was at her side a second later, one hand rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades while the other steadied her arm.
“Your father is right,” Neytiri said softly.
(Y/n) coughed again, trying to catch her breath between them. “But—”
“(Y/n),” Jake cut in, gentler than his face looked, “you’re coughing because you drowned, kid. You swallowed too much water. You dive down there like this and you risk inhaling more.”
Neytiri cupped her cheek, thumb brushing lightly beneath her eye. “There will be another time.”
(Y/n) wanted to tell them there might not be.
Wanted to say that this was Neteyam, that she could not just wait for another time when this was the place he had gone, the place Eywa had taken him, the place she wanted to follow if only for a little while just to feel close to him again.
Instead another cough ripped through her.
She turned her head just enough that the blood hit the water and not Jake.
That frightened them.
Jake’s whole body tensed, his hand tightening on her elbow while Neytiri’s fingers slid from her cheek to the side of her neck, checking her, like she was making sure her daughter was still right there.
“Sit with your sister,” Jake said, and there was no room to argue in his voice now, only fear dressed up as steadiness. “I promise, once you’re better, you can come back.”
(Y/n) looked between them, chest heaving, eyes burning, and for one awful second she hated that they were right.
Hated that her own body had betrayed her so badly she could not even dive after her brother’s memory without coughing up blood.
But she knew they were right.
She would not make it down there without coughing.
Would not make it far before her chest seized and her lungs dragged more water in.
So she nodded once and let it go.
Kiri was waiting on the rocks when she climbed out of the water, wet and shivering and hollowed out in ways she could not explain. She lowered herself beside her sister and pulled her knees up, staring out at the sky where the light was beginning to change.
For a while she said nothing.
She only sat close enough that their shoulders touched and let the silence stretch.
(Y/n) tipped her head back and looked up.
And thought about Neteyam.
Tears slipped down her face so quietly she did not notice them at first.
Then she was thinking about the time she had broken all her ribs and Neteyam had held her up when even breathing hurt, one arm around her middle, face tight with worry.
It was very similar to how he held her up when she and Tisoha were shot out the sky.
She remembered his arms around her, strong and shaking at the same time, holding her upright.
He had held her up.
He had always held her up.
And now he was gone.
A sound escaped her.
Half sob.
Half laugh.
Because then she remembered the basket.
The old woven basket she used to shove both him and Lo’ak into when they were getting on her nerves, and how Neteyam would sit in there all offended while Lo’ak tried to climb out and she would just shove him back in again, threatening to leave them there until they learned how to behave.
Neteyam had hated it.
Or pretended to.
And later he would always laugh about it.
She pressed a hand over her mouth as the tears came harder.
She remembered him walking beside her while he practiced hunting, trying so hard to be serious, trying so hard to do everything right because he looked up to her back then in a way that had always made her chest ache a little. He wanted her approval. Wanted to impress her. Wanted to show her that he was getting better, stronger, faster.
She remembered him by the stream when they were younger, the two of them splashing each other while Lo’ak sulked because he had slipped on the rocks and blamed the stream for it.
She remembered Neteyam grinning at her from the water, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes bright and alive and so, so young.
She remembered the beach.
The one where he sat with her and begged her not to throw her life away, his voice so earnest it had hurt to listen to, because he had known her too well. Known the struggles she had. Known the way she would put herself between danger and the people she loved every single time if it meant they got to walk away.
Please be careful.
She had not been able to promise him that.
And now there would never be another chance.
The days she had with her younger brother were over.
No more walks.
No more Neteyam showing up beside her without asking because he had always somehow known when she needed company.
(Y/n) bowed forward, the sob finally breaking out of her as her shoulders shook. Kiri’s arm came around her at once, steady and warm, but it did nothing to stop the grief tearing through her.
“He’s gone,” she choked out, and the words sounded wrong in her own mouth, like they belonged to somebody else’s life. “Kiri, he’s gone.”
Kiri only held her tighter.
(Y/n) cried into her hands.
Because that was the cruelest part.
The world kept going.
The water still moved.
The sky was still there.
And Neteyam was gone.
Next >
By @sirscampi
By @loaf-with-jam
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