CherrieBerry

The wind over the western frontier felt different.

It carried salt and something older—stories whispered through stone and tide. You noticed it the moment your ikran dipped lower, wings slicing through the mist as the coastline stretched wide beneath you. This land was not like the forests of home. It was harsher. Wilder. And waiting.

You leaned forward slightly, fingers resting against the base of your ikran’s neck, grounding yourself. Behind you lay everything familiar—your family, your clan, the towering trees that had watched you grow. Ahead of you… responsibility.

As the eldest daughter of Jake and Neytiri, you had always known this day would come. You just hadn’t expected it to feel so heavy.

They saw you before you landed. A group stood along the ridge—tall figures silhouetted against the pale sky. Their braids and markings were unfamiliar, their stance guarded. The Sarentu. You had heard the stories. Survivors. Fighters. Something in between legend and memory. Your ikran landed with a sharp cry, claws digging into the rocky ground. You dismounted in one fluid motion, straightening to your full height. And you felt their eyes.

Of course you did.

You had your mother’s face—sharp, striking, unmistakably Na’vi. But everything else told a different story. Your broader shoulders, your stance, even the subtle differences in your features… you carried your father’s origin in ways your siblings did not.

You had grown used to the looks. Still, it never stopped meaning something. One of them stepped forward. Not the tallest, not the most imposing—but there was something about him. His movements were careful, observant. His eyes lingered on you longer than the others’, not with suspicion alone… but curiosity.

“Teylan,” someone behind him muttered, as if grounding him.

So that was his name.

You speak your name, voice steady despite the unfamiliar tension in your chest. “Daughter of Jake Sully and Neytiri. I was sent to help.” A flicker passed through the group at your father’s name. Of course. The man who fought sky people. The outsider who became Toruk Makto. You wondered, briefly, which part of him they saw when they looked at you.

Teylan stepped closer. Up close, you noticed the small details—the way his ears angled slightly back when he studied you, the faint tension in his jaw like he was trying to read something beneath the surface.

“You do not look like them,” he said, not unkindly. Just… honestly. A corner of your mouth lifted.

“I get that a lot.” For a moment, silence hung between you. Then—unexpectedly—his lips twitched. Not quite a smile. But close.

The Sarentu did not welcome easily. You learned that quickly. Days passed in a careful rhythm. You trained, you listened, you proved yourself in the ways that mattered—not through words, but through action. Hunting in unfamiliar terrain. Learning their paths, their signals, their quiet way of watching everything before making a move.

And always… you felt his presence. Teylan was never far. At first, it was subtle. A glance during training. A shift in position when you entered a space. But over time, it became something else—something quieter, steadier. He began speaking to you more.

Not in long conversations. Not at first. Just small things.

“You favor your left side when you strike.”

“You move like the forest, even here.”

“You listen before you act.” Each observation landed deeper than you expected. Because he wasn’t just looking at you. He was seeing you.

One evening, the sky burned gold over the cliffs, the ocean stretching endlessly below. You stood at the edge, arms crossed, letting the wind pull at your braids. “You miss it,” Teylan said behind you.

You didn’t turn.“Of course I do.”

“But you came anyway.” That made you glance at him.He stood a few steps back, posture relaxed but eyes sharp as ever. There was something different in his expression now. Less guarded. More… open.

“I didn’t have a choice,” you said.

“That is not true.”

You tilted your head slightly. “No?”

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “You could have refused. Found another way. Followed your own path.”

You studied him for a long moment. “You don’t know my family.”

“Then tell me.” The simplicity of it caught you off guard. Most people didn’t ask. Most people assumed.

You exhaled softly, turning your gaze back to the horizon. “My father believes in fighting for what matters. My mother believes in protecting it. I…” You hesitated. “I think I’m still figuring out which one I am.”

“Both,” Teylan said. You looked at him again.He met your gaze fully this time. No hesitation. “You came here to protect,” he continued. “But you stayed. You fight. You learn. You adapt.” A faint softness touched his expression. “That is both.”

Something in your chest shifted. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t overwhelming.

Just… steady. Like the beginning of something you hadn’t expected to find here.

The wind carried salt and something older. But now it carries something else, too.

And for the first time since you arrived, the western frontier didn’t feel quite so distant from home.

The Sarentu did not change all at once. They shifted in pieces. The first to openly test you was Nor. It happened during training.

“You hold it wrong.”

You didn’t even turn. “I don’t,” you replied calmly, adjusting your grip anyway—just enough to provoke him.

A scoff.Then suddenly—movement. Nor lunged.

Fast.

You pivoted, blocking his strike with a sharp crack of wood against wood. He pushed harder than necessary, testing your strength, your balance—your patience.

“You fight like a forest child,” he muttered.

“And you fight like you’re trying to prove something,” you shot back.

That earned you a real reaction. He pressed forward again, more aggressive this time, but you didn’t yield. You met him strike for strike, your movements fluid, grounded. Not quite Sarentu… not quite Omaticaya.

Something in between. Something your own.

The clash ended with both your weapons locked between you.

Close. Too close for comfort. Nor’s eyes narrowed slightly. Then, unexpectedly, he huffed a quiet laugh.

“You don’t break easily.”

“Was that the goal?” you asked.

“Maybe.”

From the edge of the clearing, you caught sight of Teylan. Watching. Of course he was. His arms were crossed, posture still—but his eyes tracked every movement. When Nor stepped back, lowering his weapon, Teylan’s shoulders eased almost imperceptibly. You pretended not to notice.

Ri'nela was… different. She didn’t test you. She studied you.

“You carry tension here,” she said one evening, fingers hovering just above your shoulder.

You blinked slightly. “I always carry tension.”

“That is not something to be proud of.”

A small smile tugged at your lips. “I wasn’t aware I was boasting.”

Ri’nela hummed softly, guiding you to sit. Around you, soft glowing plants cast shifting light across her careful movements as she worked. “You are the eldest,” she said after a moment. “You were shaped to endure more.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. She understood anyway.

After a pause, she added, quieter— “Teylan watches you when you are not aware.”

Your head turned sharply. “He watches everyone.”

“No,” she said simply. “Not like that.”

Heat crept faintly up your neck. You looked away. Ri’nela said nothing more—but the knowing look in her eyes lingered long after.

If Ri’nela observed, Tamtey talked.

Constantly.

“You fly differently,” he said one afternoon, walking far too close beside you as you checked your gear.

You raised a brow. “That’s vague.”

“It’s not vague. It’s specific.”

“It is literally the opposite of specific.”

He grinned. “You dive steeper. Faster. Like you trust the fall.”

You paused. That… wasn’t wrong. “Is that a problem?” you asked.

“No,” Tamtey said easily. “It’s just interesting.” He leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice—poorly. “Teylan noticed it too.”

You froze for half a second. Then kept walking. I’m sure he notices many things.”

“Oh, he does,” Tamtey said, far too pleased with himself. “But not about everyone.”

You shot him a look.

He only grinned wider.

From across the clearing, Teylan—who had absolutely heard that—turned abruptly and busied himself with something that did not need doing. Subtle. Very subtle.

Solek was the hardest to read. He didn’t smile. Didn’t offer easy approval. But he watched. Always.

“You hesitate,” he told you one morning, after observing a hunt.

You frowned slightly. “I succeeded.”

“That is not the same.” His gaze was sharp, unwavering. “You calculate too much. You carry responsibility before action.”

You stiffened. “That is how I was taught.”

“And yet,” Solek said, stepping closer, “this land does not wait for certainty.” His eyes flicked briefly—past you. To Teylan. Then back again. “You are not here because you are the eldest,” he continued. “You are here because you are capable. There is a difference.”

The words settled heavily. But not unpleasantly. Like truth often did.

After he dismissed you, you exhaled slowly, rolling your shoulders.

“You did not hesitate,” came a quiet voice behind you. 

Of course. You didn’t turn this time.

“I did.”

“No,” Teylan said, stepping beside you. “You considered. Then acted.”

A small glance toward him. “That’s hesitation.”

“It is control.”

Your lips pressed together, faintly amused. “You’re very determined to disagree with Solek.”

“I am very determined to be correct.”

That earned a soft laugh from you. And for a moment—He just looked at you. Not studying. Not analyzing.

Just… looking.

Then, as if realizing it, he glanced away quickly, ears flicking slightly back.

You noticed that, too.

Later that night, as the camp settled into quiet, you found yourself sitting among them—not apart, not observed, but included. Nor arguing with Tamtey. Ri’nela softly corrects both. Solek silent, but present.

And Teylan—Just close enough. Not speaking much. But every so often, when something made you laugh, or when your voice carried across the circle— His gaze would lift. And linger. Just a little longer than it should.

The first time one of the Sarentu survivors called you “Ma,” it felt as though the entire forest stilled.

The sound came from Teylan—half-asleep, trembling in the wake of a night terror. He was taller than you, all long limbs and growing strength, but in that moment he folded into himself, trying to make himself smaller. Safer.

You did not hesitate.

You guided him gently down, gathering him into your arms as your own mother once had. You rocked him slowly, humming beneath your breath, an old Trr’ong song, one you had not sung in years. One neither you nor So’lek had heard in what felt like a lifetime.

Still… it felt right.

“I am here,” you whispered, brushing damp strands of hair from his forehead. “You are safe.”

The word came then—fragile, instinctive.

“Ma…”

You froze. Not from rejection, but from the weight of it. What it meant.

Across the shelter, So’lek saw it happen. He said nothing. But something in his chest tightened… and then slowly settled.

After that, it became natural.

They gravitated towards you without thinking, drawn by something they could not name. Ri’nela sought you out to braid her hair, asking you to weave small decorations through it with careful hands. Nor lingered nearby, quietly asking for your voice when doubt crept in. Tamtey asked for nothing at all—only your presence beside him, silent and steady.

You gave it freely. Because you understood. There were wounds no medicine could reach. After Teylan, the others followed.

“Ma.” “Sa’nu.”

The names came easier each time. And you never corrected them. Never told them they were too old, too strong, too anything for that kind of tenderness. Because you knew better. Survivors did not outgrow the need to be held. You hadn’t.

“You coddle them.” The voice cut cleanly through the moment, sharp, controlled, artificial in a way that never quite felt alive. Alma Cortez stood at the edge of the camp, her dreamwalker form unnervingly still. Watching. Measuring.“They do not need you to play mother,” she continued. “Not you.”

You did not look up, only pausing briefly in your weaving. “They need to feel safe,” you replied simply.

Alma’s expression tightened. “They are not children. They are not your children.”

“No,” you said softly, finishing the weave with careful precision. “But they are not yours.”

That ended it—for now. But the tension lingered long after she left.

So’lek found you later, away from the others. You sat in the stream, hands submerged as the water carried away the remnants of the day. Quiet. Guarded. He approached without sound, as always. And as always—you knew.

“You carry them as though they are yours,” he said, crouching beside you.

“They are not,” you murmured. “But they have no one who is.”

A pause. Then, softer—more vulnerable than you usually allowed: “And I remember what it was to have no one.”

So’lek studied you—the strength in your posture, the gentleness in your hands. The way both existed without contradiction. He reached out, brushing a stray bead back into place along your braid. “You are… different with them,” he said.

You huffed faintly. “Is that your way of calling me soft?”

“Yes.”

You turned to him, mock offence flickering briefly—but it faded the moment you met his gaze. There was no judgement there. Only quiet admiration.

“I like this softness,” So’lek said, his voice low.

Your breath caught. “You do?”

“It is not a weakness,” he replied. “It is… something we nearly lost.” His hand found yours, rough palm against rough palm. “You remind them what it is to be cared for. To belong.” Silence settled between you—but it was not empty. It was full. Steady. Safe.

“They call me Sa’nu,” you admitted after a moment, almost shy.

“I know.”

“It should not mean so much.”

“But it does.”

Your gaze drifted back towards camp, where distant laughter echoed through the trees. “I do not want to replace what they lost,” you said quietly. “I only want them to feel they are not alone any more.”

So’lek shifted closer. “They do not see you as a replacement,” he said. “They see you as what they need now.” His thumb brushed slowly across your knuckles. “And so do I.”

That made you look at him properly. Not as a warrior. Not as a survivor. But as himself. “You?” you asked softly.

He nodded once. “You bring life where there was only survival.” Your lips parted—but no words came.

The forest hummed around you.

Alive. Listening. Waiting.

“When the RDA are gone,” So’lek said quietly, as though testing the thought, “what will you do?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I… do not know.”

A small, rare smile touched his lips.“I think you do.”

Your heart stumbled. “…Say it.”

He leaned closer, his voice lowering to something meant only for you. “Perhaps you will not only care for those who were left behind,” he murmured. His gaze softened—open, unguarded. “Perhaps we will have little ones of our own.”

The world seemed to still. Your breath hitched, something fragile and bright unfolding in your chest. “You would want that?” you whispered.

So’lek did not hesitate. “Yes.” Simple. Certain. Like everything he meant.

Your fingers tightened around his. “Then we survive,” you said, steadier now. Stronger.

“For them,” he agreed. “And for us.”

From the distance, a voice called— “Ma!” You smiled before you could stop yourself.

“I should go,” you said.

So’lek released your hand, though reluctantly. “I will watch over you.”

You squeezed his fingers once before slipping away. “I know.”

And as he watched you return to them—kneeling among them, laughing softly, gathering them close as though they had always belonged to you— he allowed himself, just for a moment, to believe they truly did.

He stood where you had left him, the cool water slipping past his ankles, his gaze fixed on you amongst them. You did not stand above the Sarentu. You folded into them—into their laughter, their quiet questions, their unspoken needs—as though you had always been meant to fill that space.

Not as a leader. Not as a warrior. But as something far rarer.

“Sa’nu, look—” Ri’nela’s voice carried first, bright and eager as she held up a small cluster of woven fibres she had clearly attempted herself. Uneven. Crooked.

You took it as though it were something precious. “It is good,” you said gently, adjusting a strand with careful fingers. “But here—tighten this, or it will come apart.”

Nor lingered close, watching, before speaking low enough for only you to hear. “It is quieter today,” he said. “In my head.”

You glanced at him, something soft and knowing in your expression. “Good,” you murmured. “Then we will keep it that way.”

Tamtey said nothing, only settled beside you, shoulder brushing yours. That, too, was an answer.

So’lek exhaled slowly. He had seen many things in his life—war, loss, survival carved from nothing—but this…This quiet rebuilding.This fragile, stubborn healing…It was unfamiliar.

And yet, he found himself unwilling to look away.

“You stare again.” The voice came from behind him this time—sharp, measured. Alma Cortez stepped lightly across the ground in her dreamwalker body, though there was nothing natural in the movement.

So’lek did not turn. “I observe,” he said evenly.

Alma followed his gaze, her expression tightening almost imperceptibly. “They are becoming dependent,” she said. “It will weaken them.”

“No,” So’lek replied. “It will remind them they are not alone.”

“They cannot afford that kind of attachment.”

“They already have it.” That made her pause.

“They need discipline,” Alma insisted. “Focus. Not this… illusion of family.”

So’lek’s jaw tightened slightly. “It is not an illusion.”

Alma’s gaze flicked back to him. “You think this will last?”

“I think,” he said slowly, “it is the only reason they will.”

She did not answer immediately. And in that silence, the distance between what she understood—and what she refused to—felt vast.

“They are not children,” she said again, quieter now.

“No,” So’lek agreed, his gaze never leaving you. “But they should have been.”

That left her with nothing more to say.

By the time So’lek approached the group, the light had shifted.You looked up as he neared—always aware, always attuned—and something in your expression softened further.

“You have come to join us?” you teased lightly.

“I have come to see if they will allow it,” he replied.

Ri’nela brightened immediately. “You can sit.”

Nor gave a small nod.

Tamtey shifted just enough to make space.

You smiled at that—soft, pleased—and reached out, your fingers brushing briefly against So’lek’s wrist as he settled beside you. A small touch. But grounding.

“They were telling me about their training,” you said.

“Were they?” So’lek glanced between them.

“Yes,” you continued, amusement threading your voice. “Though I suspect some details were… altered.”

Teylan looked mildly offended. “They were not.”

Nor muttered, “They were.” Ri’nela laughed. And just like that—lightness.

So’lek watched you again, but this time from within it. The way your laughter softened the edges of everything around you. The way they leaned into it. The way he did, without even realising.

Later, when the others drifted away one by one—drawn by food, rest, or the quiet pull of evening—you remained where you were, your gaze following them until the last disappeared into the trees.

“You worry,” So’lek said quietly.

“I care,” you corrected. A pause. “…But yes.”

He shifted closer. “They are stronger than they were.”

“I know.”

“And they are not alone.”

Your shoulders lowered slightly. “I know,” you repeated, softer.

The sky dimmed above, the forest settling into its night-song. For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then, quietly: “If we have children…” Your voice wavered—not with doubt, but with the weight of hope itself.

So’lek turned slightly towards you. “They will not know this kind of fear,” he said. It was not a wish. It was a promise.

You studied him, something deep and searching in your gaze. “And if they do?”

“Then they will not face it alone.”

That settled something in you. He could see it. The same way he had seen it that first night, when a single fragile word had changed everything.

“Sa’nu!” The call came again—faint, but insistent.

You huffed softly, though your smile returned just as quickly. “They will not let me rest.”

“No,” So’lek said, a trace of warmth in his voice. “They will not.”

You rose, brushing your hands lightly against your thighs before glancing back at him.

The plains stretched endlessly beneath a sky painted in warm gold and drifting violet, the grasses whispering as they bent with the breeze. Out here, where the Zeswa clan ran with the wind and travelled with the great zakru, life felt wide and unbound—just as Eywa intended.

You lay back against the sun-warmed earth, fingers tangled lazily in the thick, coarse hair of Zakrus. The great beast huffed contentedly, shifting slightly but making no effort to move away. He liked the attention—no, he expected it.

“You spoil him,” a voice murmured nearby. You didn’t need to look to know it was Nesim.

“I spoil both of you,” you replied, eyes still closed, letting the sunlight soak into your skin.

A soft snort. “I do not require spoiling.” But you could hear the faint smile in her voice.

Moments later, her shadow fell over you, blocking the sun just enough to make you crack one eye open. Nesim stood tall as ever, posture straight, presence commanding—the very image of a Zeswa warrior. Her armor caught the light, and her gaze, sharp and observant, flicked briefly to the Zakru before settling on you.

“You are supposed to be resting,” she added.

“I am resting,” you said, reaching up without hesitation, fingers catching her wrist. “Come here.”

There was a pause. Nesim was not one to be commanded—not by anyone. And yet… her stance softened. With a quiet exhale, she lowered herself beside you, movements controlled but unguarded in a way only you ever saw. The Zakru shifted again, nudging closer as if making room for her, his massive head settling near your side.

“See?” you murmured. “Even he agrees.”

“I think he simply wishes for more attention,” she said, though her tone had lost its edge. You hummed, then gently tugged her down until her shoulder brushed yours. She resisted for only a heartbeat before relenting, allowing herself to lean—just slightly—against you.

For a while, there was only the wind and the steady rhythm of the Zakrus’ breathing. Your fingers drifted from his mane to Nesim’s arm, tracing the lines of muscle beneath her skin, the faint scars that told stories of hunts and battles. She tensed at first—instinct—but slowly, gradually, she relaxed beneath your touch.

“You are quiet,” she said after a time.

“I’m enjoying this,” you replied. “You should try it.”

“I am,” she said, almost defensively. You smiled softly, turning your head to look at her. Up close, the fierceness of her expression gave way to something more subtle—something softer, reserved only for moments like this.

“Liar.”

Her eye narrowed, but there was no real heat in it. “Careful.” Instead of answering, you leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss just beneath her jaw. That got her attention.

Her breath hitched—just barely—and her hand came to your arm, gripping it with quiet intensity. “You are bold today.”

“Only with you.” Another kiss, softer this time, lingering. Nesim exhaled slowly, tension slipping from her shoulders. Her grip loosened, her thumb brushing absentmindedly against your skin.

“You are… distracting,” she admitted.

You laughed quietly. “And you love it.” She didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she turned her head just enough to meet your gaze—and then, unexpectedly, she leaned in, pressing a brief, careful kiss to your lips. It was restrained, almost hesitant, but unmistakably hers. When she pulled back, her expression had returned to its usual composed strength—but her eyes betrayed her. “…Perhaps,” she said.

The Zakru snorted loudly beside you, as if unimpressed with how little attention he was receiving now. You both laughed—Nesim softly, you more freely—and you reached back to scratch behind his ear ridge. “Don’t worry,” you murmured to him. “There’s enough of me for both of you.” Nesim huffed at that, but didn’t move away as you settled together beneath the open sky.

The sun drifted higher, warming the plains until the air shimmered faintly above the grasses. Time moved slowly here—unmeasured, unbothered. The kind of stillness the Zeswa rarely allowed themselves, always chasing the next horizon. But not today. Today, Nesim had not moved. That alone felt like a quiet victory.

You shifted slightly, propping yourself up on one elbow to look at her. Her eyes were closed now, her breathing even, though you knew she wasn’t truly asleep—just resting in that careful way she did, always aware, always ready. Except… not quite as ready as usual. Your fingers brushed along her shoulder again, slower this time, tracing idle patterns. She didn’t tense. Didn’t correct you. Progress.

“You are watching me,” she said without opening her eye.

“Maybe,” you replied lightly. “You’re interesting.”

“I am resting.”

“And doing a very good job of it,” you teased. A faint flick of her ear gave her away.

The Zakru let out a low rumble, shifting his weight so his massive body pressed more firmly against your legs, effectively trapping you both in place. His tail flicked lazily through the grass. “Ah,” you said. “Now we cannot move. What a shame.”

Nesim huffed softly. “He has decided.”

“Then we obey.” Silence returned, but it was an easy one—filled with warmth and the soft sounds of the plains. A distant call of riders, the rustle of wind, the steady presence of Zakrus anchoring you both.

After a while, Nesim spoke again, quieter now. “This is… not unpleasant.”

You turned your head toward her, smile softening. “High praise.”

“You will not let me forget I said that.”

“Never.” Her eyes opened then, meeting yours—sharp as ever, but gentled at the edges. There was something searching in her gaze, something unspoken.

“You are… different here,” she said.

“Here?”

“In stillness.” A pause. “With me.”

You considered that, fingers idly brushing over the back of her hand now, letting your touch linger more deliberately. “I think,” you said slowly, “this is just another way of being strong.”

Her brow furrowed slightly. “Explain.”

“You fight. You lead. You endure.” You shifted closer, your voice softer. “But this—letting yourself rest, letting someone close enough to see you like this—that takes strength too.”

Nesim was quiet for a long moment. Then her hand turned beneath yours, fingers curling just enough to hold. “I do not do this with others,” she said.

“I know.”

Her grip tightened slightly, grounding, certain. “Only you.” The words settled between you, heavier than they should have been—but not unwelcome.

You leaned in again, slower this time, giving her space to pull away if she wished. She didn’t.

Your lips met hers in another gentle kiss—warmer now, more certain. Her hand came up to your jaw, not rough, but firm, steadying you as she returned it with quiet intensity. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to just that—sunlight, breath, closeness.

Then the Zakru made an impatient, rumbling sound, nudging you both insistently with his head. You broke apart with a quiet laugh, forehead resting briefly against hers. “I think we are being reminded,” you murmured, “that we are not alone.”

Nesim exhaled, something close to amusement slipping through. “He is jealous.”

“Of course he is.” You reached out, pressing both hands into the thick hide of Zakrus, scratching firmly. He huffed in satisfaction, settling again, though his eye remained half-open—watching.

“Demanding,” Nesim muttered.

“You love him.”

“…Perhaps.” You smiled at the echo of her earlier answer. The sun began its slow descent, painting the plains in deeper gold. Eventually, the clan would call, and the rhythm of life would pull Nesim back into motion. But not yet. For now, she remained beside you—no armor between you, no distance, no urgency. Just warmth, quiet, and the steady, grounding presence of something shared.

The light softened as the day began to turn, gold deepening into amber across the endless plains. The wind cooled just enough to carry the scent of distant herds, of earth and sky mingling in that way that always reminded you where you belonged. Nesim shifted beside you at last. Not away—but closer. Her shoulder pressed more fully against yours, her leg brushing yours where you lay half-curled against the Zakrus’ side. It was subtle, the kind of movement no one else would notice—but you did. You always did.

“You are thinking,” she said quietly.

You hummed. “Always.”

“About what?”

You tilted your head slightly, studying her. The setting light caught along the lines of her face, softening the sharpness she carried so easily. Out here, like this, she looked less like a warrior carved from stone—and more like something warm, something real.

“This,” you said simply.

Her brow knit faintly. “This?”

“This moment. You. Him.” You reached back, giving the Zakru a firm pat as if to include him. His tail flicked in approval. “It’s… enough.” Nesim was quiet again, her gaze drifting out across the plains.

“For the Zeswa,” she said slowly, “there is always movement. Always the next path. The next challenge.”

“I know.”

“It is strange,” she continued, “to stay.”

You smiled faintly. “And yet… you did.”

Her eyes shifted back to you, something steady and certain in them now. “I chose to.”

The words were simple—but they carried weight. You reached up, brushing your fingers lightly along her cheek, thumb tracing just beneath her eye. This time, she leaned into it without hesitation. A small thing. A big thing.

“I’m glad,” you murmured.

Her hand came to rest over yours, holding it there against her skin. “So am I.”

The wind picked up again, tugging gently at your braids, whispering through the grasses like a distant song. The Zakru rumbled low in his chest, content, unmoving—your living shelter against the cooling air. You shifted, settling more comfortably against him, and Nesim followed without needing to be asked. Her arm came across you—not restraining, not protective, just… there. Solid. Present. For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, quietly— “You will ride with me tomorrow,” she said.

You glanced up at her, a hint of teasing returning. “Is that an order?”

A faint smirk touched her lips. “An invitation.”

“Mm. Much better.” Her thumb brushed absently against your arm, a small, unconscious motion that made your chest feel warmer than the fading sun.

“There is a high ridge,” she continued, her voice softer now, “where the winds are strongest. You can see all the plains from there.”

“Sounds like your kind of place.”

“It is,” she admitted. Then, after a pause—“I want to show you.”

You studied her for a second, something quiet and fond settling in your chest again. “I’d like that.”

Another small silence.

Then you leaned in once more, pressing a slow, gentle kiss to the corner of her mouth—lingering just enough to feel her soften again beneath it. This time, she didn’t hesitate at all. Her hand came to your jaw, steady and sure, guiding you into a proper kiss—still gentle, still restrained in that very her way—but warmer than before, more certain. When she pulled back, her forehead rested briefly against yours.

“You are very distracting,” she murmured again, softer this time.

“And you keep letting me be.”

“…Yes.”

The Zakru let out a long, satisfied breath, as if approving of the arrangement, and settled deeper into the grass. The sun dipped lower.

The day began softly.

You woke to warmth—steady, familiar, grounding. Itu’s arm was draped over your waist, his breath slow against the back of your neck. The light filtering through the woven walls of your alcove painted everything in gentle gold. For a moment, you didn’t move. You just listened—to him, to the distant hum of Hometree waking, to the quiet rhythm of a life that felt safe.

“You are awake,” Itu murmured, voice still heavy with sleep.

“I have been,” you teased softly, turning slightly in his hold. “You were holding me captive.”

A quiet huff of amusement left him, his fingers brushing along your arm in a lazy, absent motion. “Ah. Then I will not apologize.”

You smiled, leaning into him before finally pulling away to begin the day.

It was easy—being with him. The soft laughter as you both dressed, the gentle bump of shoulders as you moved around each other, the shared meal where your knees brushed beneath you. You spoke in low voices about the day ahead—his plans to hunt, yours to remain with Nefika and continue weaving.

“And later?” you asked, tilting your head.

Itu’s eyes softened instantly. “We fly.”

A grin spread across your face. “The floating mountains?”

He nodded. “Zomey has been restless. She will like it.”

“And my bonded will race her,” you added playfully.

“They will lose.”

You laughed, nudging him. “We will see.”

It was simple. It was certain. You would meet again before the eclipse of the day and fly together as you always did.

—

Hometree settled into its rhythm as the morning passed.

You sat beside Nefika, fingers working through fibers with practiced ease. The motions were familiar, soothing—pull, twist, weave. Nefika spoke occasionally, correcting or guiding, though her tone carried quiet approval.

“You are distracted,” she noted at one point, not unkindly.

You exhaled softly. “Only thinking.”

“Of him.”

It wasn’t a question.

A small smile tugged at your lips. “We are to fly later.”

Nefika hummed. “Then your hands should focus now, so your mind may be free then.”

You nodded, trying to ground yourself in the task again.

But something felt… off.

It wasn’t anything you could name. Just a subtle unease beneath your ribs, like a thread pulled too tight. You shifted slightly, glancing toward the open spaces of Hometree, listening beyond the usual sounds.

Then—footsteps. Fast. Uneven. You turned just as one of the Sarentu approached—Tamtey. They weren't supposed to be here. Your hands stilled. They looked at you like they didn’t know how to speak.

“What is it?” you asked immediately, rising to your feet.

Tamtey swallowed. “Itu—” Your heart lurched.

“What about him?”

“There was an RDA patrol,” they said quickly, voice strained. “Near the hunting grounds. He—he was not alone—Zomey—” The world narrowed.

“No,” you breathed.

“They attacked,” Tamtey continued, the words rushing now. “We found him—but—” You didn’t wait for the rest. The weaving fell from your hands as you turned, already moving, already running.

“—Zomey is dead—” The words chased you, but you were gone.

The air rushed past you as you leapt, your bonded answering your call instantly. The connection snapped into place—fear, urgency, your racing pulse all spilling into them.

Go.

They launched without hesitation. The world blurred beneath you—trees, cliffs, rivers—none of it mattered. You pushed faster, harder, ignoring the strain, ignoring everything except the direction Tamtey had given. 

Please. Your thoughts weren’t even words anymore—just raw, desperate feeling. Please let him be alive. Please let him be—

You felt it before you saw it.

A disturbance. A silence where there shouldn’t be.

Smoke lingered faintly in the air.

And then—you saw him.

Itu was kneeling. Still. Too still.

Your bonded landed before you fully registered it, your body moving before thought could catch up. You stumbled forward, breath catching as the scene came into focus.

Zomey lay crumpled nearby. Her form—still, unmoving—wrong in a way that made your chest seize.

“No…” Your voice broke. Itu didn’t respond. You rushed to him, dropping to your knees at his side. “Itu—”

His hands were still resting against Zomey, trembling faintly. His head was bowed, braids falling forward, shoulders rigid like stone.

“Itu,” you tried again, softer this time. Slowly—too slowly—he looked up. And your heart shattered. There was something hollow in his eyes. Not empty—worse than that. Filled with something too heavy to hold.

“They came from the sky,” he said, voice rough, distant. “I did not hear them soon enough.”

Your hand reached for him, gripping his arm. “You are alive.”

“She protected me.” The words hit like a blade. “I should have—”

“No.” Your voice was firm, shaking but unyielding. “Do not say that.”

His gaze flickered to you, then back to Zomey. “I felt her fear,” he whispered. “And then… nothing.” 

You swallowed hard, your own vision blurring as you looked at her. At the stillness. At the bond that had been severed so violently. Gently, you moved closer, pressing yourself against him, your arms wrapping around his shoulders. For a moment, he didn’t react.

Then—he broke.

His head dropped against you, breath hitching as his body finally gave in to the grief he had been holding back. You held him tighter, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading through his braids.

“I am here, ma yawntu” you murmured, over and over. “I am here.” The wind whispered through the trees, carrying the scent of smoke away. You stayed like that for a long time—kneeling beside loss, holding what remained.

Together.

The world did not move.

It felt as though Eywa herself had stilled everything around you—no wind, no distant calls, no rustling leaves—only the sound of Itu’s uneven breathing against you and the faint, fading warmth of a bond that had been torn away.

You did not rush him. Grief had its own rhythm. You would not break it.

Your hand continued its slow, grounding motion along his back, the other still cradling his head where it rested against your shoulder. His fingers remained curled against Zomey’s side, as if letting go would make this final in a way he could not yet face.

“She was afraid,” he said hoarsely after a long silence. You closed your eyes briefly.

“I felt it,” he continued, voice cracking. “Through tsaheylu. It was so sudden… confusion… pain…” His breath hitched sharply. “And I could not reach her.”

Your grip tightened slightly. “You were there.”

“It was not enough.”

“Itu—”

“I am her rider,” he snapped suddenly, pulling back just enough to look at you. The anguish in his eyes burned. “I am meant to protect her. She trusted me, and I—”

“You loved her,” you said firmly, cutting through the spiral before it could drag him under. “She knew that.” His jaw clenched, but he didn’t look away. “You think she chose to protect you because you failed her?” you continued, softer now but no less steady. “No. She chose because you are hers. Because your lives were one.” His expression faltered. Slowly, your hand moved from his hair to his cheek, grounding him, forcing him to stay with you. “She did not die alone,” you whispered. “She died with you. With your bond. With your love.”

The words seemed to crack something open in him—something quieter, deeper than the sharp edge of guilt. His shoulders sagged slightly, breath shuddering as he looked back at Zomey. For a while, neither of you spoke. Then, carefully, you shifted. “We should not leave her here.”

Itu’s eyes flickered. “No…”

“She deserves to return to Eywa properly,” you continued. “Not like this. Not after what they did.” At that, something steadied in him. A purpose.

He nodded once, slowly, “Yes.”

It took time.

You stayed beside him as he worked, never leaving his side. Together, you prepared Zomey with the care she deserved—removing what should not remain, arranging her with reverence, hands gentle despite the weight of what you were doing. Every movement was heavy with meaning. Every touch, a farewell. When it was done, you both sat back, the light beginning to shift toward evening.

“We will take her to the roots,” Itu said quietly. “To a place she can be heard.”

You nodded. “I will fly with you.”

His gaze softened slightly at that. “You do not have to—”

“I know,” you said. “I want to.”

A pause.

Then, finally—he leaned forward, resting his forehead briefly against yours. A quiet, wordless thank you.

The flight back was slower.

Different.

Zomey’s absence was a silence that echoed between you both. Where there should have been another presence in the sky, there was only open air. Your bonded felt it too—you sensed their unease, their confusion—but they stayed steady beneath you, strong and sure. When you reached the sacred place, the world felt… listening. The roots of the great trees curled deep into the earth, glowing faintly with life. The air was thick with something ancient, something knowing.

Together, you carried her.

Together, you laid her to rest. Itu hesitated before making the final connection—his hand hovering, trembling slightly.

“I do not know if she will hear me,” he admitted quietly.

You stepped closer, placing your hand over his, “Eywa will.”

That was enough.

He closed his eyes, making the connection. The moment it happened, his breath caught sharply. You felt it too—not directly, but through him. A shift. A presence. Something vast and gentle and sorrowful all at once.

His shoulders shook. “She is there,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I can feel… echoes… memories…” Tears slipped freely down his face now, but there was something else beneath them. Not just grief.

Connection.

You stayed with him the entire time, your presence steady, unwavering. When he finally pulled away, he didn’t collapse this time. He leaned into you. And you held him.

Night had begun to fall by the time you left. The stars emerged slowly above, quiet and distant. Itu walked beside you in silence for a while before speaking.

“I do not know how to do this again,” he admitted. “To bond… to fly… without her.”

“You do not have to know now,” you replied gently. He glanced at you. “You only have to take the next step.”

A pause.

Then, quietly: “With you?”

You reached for his hand, intertwining your fingers with his. “With me. We will honour her last flight together when the grief is not as sharp.” For the first time since you had found him, his grip tightened in return. And though the loss remained—sharp, aching, undeniable—you felt it then:

He was still here. And you would not let him face it alone.

The night wrapped around you both like a quiet witness.

By the time you returned to Hometree, the world had dimmed into soft blues and deep shadows. The usual warmth of home felt… different. Muted. As if it, too, understood what had been lost. Word had already spread.

You felt it in the way voices hushed as you passed, in the glances—soft, sorrowful, respectful. No one stopped you. No one spoke. They didn’t need to. Grief was understood here.

Your hand never left Itu’s.

Your alcove felt smaller somehow. Or perhaps it was the absence that made it feel that way.

You paused at the entrance, turning slightly toward him. “You should rest.”

Itu didn’t answer at first. His gaze drifted across the space—lingering on the woven blankets, the small things you had both left behind that morning, untouched. Unchanged. Like the day had not shattered in between.

“I left this morning,” he said quietly. “And she was alive.” Your chest tightened. “I thought about the hunt,” he continued. “About returning to you. About flying later.” His jaw clenched faintly. “I did not think it would be the last time I would feel her.”

You stepped closer, “You did not know,” you said gently.

“I should have,” he whispered.

You didn’t argue this time. Instead, you reached up, resting your forehead against his—just like he had done before. “You came back,” you murmured. “You are here. With me.”

A long pause.

Then, slowly, his hands came up—hesitant at first, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to hold onto anything anymore. But when they settled at your waist, they tightened. Not desperate. But grounding.

“I do not feel her,” he admitted, voice barely above a breath. “It is… quiet.”

You swallowed, heart aching at the emptiness behind those words. “I know,” you said softly. “I have heard others speak of it. When a bond is broken…” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “It leaves an echo. A silence where something once was.”

His grip tightened slightly, “It hurts.”

“I know.”

You guided him down to sit, pulling him gently with you. The two of you settled together, the familiar closeness returning in a quieter, more fragile way. For a while, you simply stayed like that. Then, after a long silence, Itu spoke again. “I do not think I can fly,” he said. The words were steady. Certain. Not a question. Your chest ached—but you nodded.

“Then you will not.” His eyes flickered to yours, searching—almost bracing, as if expecting disappointment. But there was none. “You will when you are ready,” you added. “Or you will not. Either way… you are still you.” Something in his expression softened—just a little.

“You make it sound simple.”

“It is not,” you said honestly. “But you do not have to decide everything tonight.”

A faint exhale left him—almost a broken laugh, “You always say that.”

“And you never listen.” That earned the smallest ghost of a smile. It didn’t last long. But it was there.

Later, when the night deepened and exhaustion finally began to settle into his bones, you lay back together—just as you had that morning. But everything had changed. Itu hesitated before pulling you close again, as if unsure whether he could reach for comfort after what had happened. You didn’t give him time to doubt. You shifted into him, tucking yourself against his chest, your arm draping across him as you had done countless times before.

“I am here,” you murmured again, softer now. “Ma yawntu.” His arms wrapped around you more firmly this time. Not loose. Not uncertain. Holding. As if he needed to remind himself you were real.

“I was afraid,” he admitted into your hair.

Your heart skipped. “Of what?”

“That I would not come back.” A pause. “Or that I would… and there would be nothing left of me to give you.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hand coming up to his cheek again. “You are still here,” you said, steady and sure. “All of you. Even the parts that hurt.”

His gaze searched yours, “And if they are broken?”

“Then I will sit with you while they mend.”

Silence. Then—he leaned into your touch.

Sleep did not come easily. Not for him. You felt it in the way he stirred, in the tension that would creep back into his body, in the quiet moments where his breath would hitch as memory returned unbidden. Each time, you held him. Each time, you grounded him back into the present—into you. At some point, in the deepest part of the night, his grip loosened just slightly. His breathing evened out, not peaceful—but resting. You stayed awake a little longer, listening.

To him.

To Hometree.

To the distant, ever-present hum of Eywa. And silently, you made a promise. To Zomey. To him. You would help him find the sky again.

Even if it took time.

Even if it hurt.

The forest did not welcome you. Not at first.

It breathed around you, alive in a way the sterile halls of the TAP facility never were. The forest you should have felt at peace in instead felt distant, watchful. Every root seemed placed to trip you. Every sound made your pulse spike. You moved through it like something misplaced.

Like something wrong.

“Stop.”

So’lek’s voice cut through the thick hum of Pandora.

You froze instantly. Stiff, as if prepared to be scolded.

He noticed.

“You move like prey that expects punishment,” he said, stepping past you. His stride was silent, assured, each foot placed with intention, with knowing. “The forest is not your enemy.”

Your jaw tightened. “It feels like it is.”

He glanced back at you, sharp eyes catching yours. There was no mockery in them, only quiet assessment.

“That is because you were not raised in it.”

The words landed heavier than you expected.

“I am aware.” You looked away first and sighed in frustration.

Training was the obvious next step after your freedom from TAP. Finally, you had the freedom to learn the things that should have been taught in youth.

Still, you felt cautious, not wanting to part from the other Sarentu—not like Tamtey. Not quite as confident to hit the ground running like them, but still striving to learn. To correct what the Sky People broke.

The natural choice for a trainer was So’lek.

Training with So’lek was not gentle. It was not cruel, either. It simply was.

He showed you how to listen, not just hear. The subtle shift in insect calls. The way leaves stilled before a predator passed. The rhythm of wind that carried scent and warning alike.

“Again,” he would say when you missed something.

And you missed a lot.

Your arrow flew wide. “Again.”

You stepped too loudly over a fallen branch. “Again.”

You misread tracks, confusing prey for predator. “Again.”

Each correction was immediate, precise. Never harsh, but never softened.

At first, it frustrated you.

“You don’t have to watch me like I’m going to fail every second,” you snapped once, breath uneven after yet another failed hunt.

So’lek didn’t react right away. He crouched instead, fingers brushing over the disturbed earth where your target had fled.

“You are going to fail,” he said calmly. “That is why I watch.”

Your ears flattened.

“That’s not encouraging.”

“It is truth.”

He stood, turning to face you fully now.

“And truth will keep you alive.”

It wasn’t just survival he taught. It was connection.

“This is where you struggle most,” So’lek said one evening, as twilight settled into the forest like a held breath. “Ri’nela said you struggled to connect to the tarsyu with your siblings.”

You sat beside him near the base of a massive tree, its roots curling like protective arms. In your hands rested a small, glowing seed—one of Eywa’s countless quiet miracles.

“I don’t feel anything,” you admitted, staring at it. “Everyone says it’s… there. A presence. A connection. But…”

You clenched your fingers slightly.

“It’s just… light. She does not sing for me.”

So’lek watched you for a long moment.

Then he reached out—not for the seed, but for your wrist. His grip was firm, grounding.

“You are trying to force it,” he said. “Connection is not taken. It is given.”

You huffed softly. “That doesn’t help.”

His thumb shifted slightly against your skin, subtle but enough to steady you.

“Close your eyes.”

You hesitated.

“Trust me.”

Something in his voice made you listen—low and certain, warm. You closed your eyes.

“Breathe,” he instructed.

You did.

“In the facility… you were taught control, yes?”

You nodded faintly.

“Here, you must learn release.”

The forest seemed louder without sight. Alive. Surrounding.

“Do not reach for Eywa,” So’lek murmured. “Let Eywa reach for you.”

You tried. You really did.

But all you felt was yourself—your heartbeat, your breath, your doubt. How you were too influenced by the Sky People. How Nor was right: Eywa does not want what was tainted by metal.

“I can’t—”

“Stay.” 

The word wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t a command. It was… steady.

So you stayed.

And for just a moment, something softened.

Not a voice. Not a vision. Just… a feeling.

Faint. Warm.

Gone almost as soon as you noticed it.

Your eyes snapped open, looking at So’lek with wide eyes and an even wider, excited grin. “I did— you… wow.”

So’lek was already watching you.

“You felt something.”

It wasn’t a question.

You swallowed. “Maybe.”

A small pause.

Then, quieter, “Yes.”

Something in his posture shifted—not pride, not quite. But close.

A trait you shared with your Sarentu family was your inability to sit still.

You pushed boundaries. It became a pattern.

“Don’t go alone,” he told you.

You went anyway.

The forest seemed less hostile now, less suffocating. You wanted to prove—to him, to yourself—that you could handle it.

That you weren’t just TAP-raised. That you belonged.

The word echoed bitterly in your mind.

You tracked a small creature through dense undergrowth, movements quicker now, more confident. Your arrow was drawn, ready to fly.

Before you could release it, the forest changed.

Too quiet. Too still.

Your breath caught.

Too late.

A snarl split the air.

You barely had time to turn before something lunged at you.

Crouching and curling into yourself, you dropped to the ground and braced for an impact that never came.

So’lek moved like a strike of lightning.

The creature hit the ground hard, his blade already buried deep. The struggle ended almost as quickly as it began.

Silence returned—or at least, you assumed it did. All you could hear was your pulse roaring in your ears.

“You disobeyed.”

His voice was low. Dangerously calm.

You swallowed and looked at him challengingly. “I had it under control.”

“You had nothing under control.”

You flinched.

He stepped closer—not to threaten, but still intense. Grounded in a way that made your instability feel glaring.

“You ignored the signs,” he continued. “You let your confidence blind you.”

“I just wanted to prove I could do it!”

“To whom?” he snapped.

The question hit harder than anything else.

You opened your mouth to speak, then quickly closed it again.

Because you didn’t know.

His gaze softened slightly—but enough.

“You do not need to prove your worth by risking your life,” he said.

Your chest tightened.

“You don’t understand,” you muttered. “The others… they belong more. Ri’nela has the certainty of a Tshaìk, Nor knows how he needs to be strong—not to even mention Tamtey. They belong. They are Sarentu. I’m not.”

There it was. The truth you hadn’t wanted to say. Still you refused to bring Teylan into this. He is different, he is allowed.

“I’m not like them,” you continued, quieter now. “I don’t know what I’m doing half the time. I don’t feel what they feel. I just—”

Your voice faltered.

“I’m not really Na’vi. More Sky Person… alien.”

The words hung between you. Heavy. Wrong.

So’lek stepped closer again, but this time slower. Deliberate.

He reached up, his hand coming to rest against your cheek.

The contact startled you.

“You are Na’vi,” he said firmly.

Blinking up at him, you shook your head. “No, I—”

“You are Na’vi.”

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It carried certainty like weight.

“TAP did not change what you are,” he continued. “It only delayed what you could become.”

Your breath caught.

“You think the others are stronger because of how they adapted,” he said. “Perhaps that is true—for now.”

His thumb brushed lightly against your skin.

“But strength is built, Sarentu.”

His gaze held yours—steady, unwavering.

“And I see yours growing.”

Something in your chest cracked open.

You hadn’t realised how much you needed to hear that.

“How can you be so sure?” you whispered.

A pause.

His lips quirked into a small smile, a look you had not yet seen on the older man’s face.

“Because I have watched you choose to try,” he said.

Your breath hitched.

“Again. And again. And again.”

The faintest hint of something softer touched his expression.

“That is not weakness.”

The forest no longer felt so distant.

After that, something changed.

Not suddenly. Not dramatically.

But subtly, like roots growing beneath the surface.

So’lek still corrected you. Still pushed you. Still expected more.

But there were moments now—brief, quiet, but yours.

Where his hand would steady yours on a bowstring a second longer than necessary. Where his voice would lower, just slightly, when speaking only to you. Where his presence felt less like observation and more like something… closer.

You didn’t name it. Neither did he.

Not yet.

But it was there.

Growing.

Just like you.

Pain, you had learned, came in many forms.

There was the sharp kind—the kind So’lek trained you to endure. Scrapes from bark, the sting of a bowstring snapping against your forearm, the dull ache of muscles pushed too far, too fast.

That pain was simple. It passed.

This was different.

It started small.

A misstep.

You had been moving too quickly again, too focused on keeping pace, on proving that you could keep up with So’lek without correction.

Your foot caught on a root hidden beneath the undergrowth.

You went down hard.

The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, a sharp crack of pain flaring up your side as you hit the forest floor. For a moment, the world narrowed to nothing but the rush of air you couldn’t pull in.

So’lek was beside you instantly.

“Stay still.”

His voice was controlled, but there was something tighter beneath it.

You tried to push yourself up anyway.

“I’m fine—”

“Stay. Still.”

The command landed firmer this time.

You froze.

Not because of the authority in his tone—

But because of the hand at your side.

Careful.

Assessing.

His fingers pressed lightly along your ribs, and you sucked in a breath as pain flared sharp and sudden.

“There,” he murmured. “You feel it.”

“I said I’m fine,” you insisted, weaker this time.

“You are not.”

His gaze flicked up to yours, steady, unyielding.

“You are injured.”

The word sat heavily in your chest.

Injured meant weak.

Injured meant slowing down.

Injured meant—

A memory slammed into you before you could stop it.

White walls.

Cold light.

A voice—clinical, detached.

“Subject response inadequate. Increase stimulus.”

Your breath hitched.

Hands gripping too tightly.

Restraints.

Pain, not as consequence—but as control.

Your vision blurred.

“No—” you muttered, more to yourself than to him.

You tried to pull away.

So’lek didn’t let you.

His grip shifted—not tighter, but firmer. Grounding.

“Look at me.”

You couldn’t.

Your chest tightened, breath coming too fast, too shallow.

“I said look at me.”

Something in his voice cut through the spiralling edge of memory.

You forced your eyes up.

He was close.

Closer than before.

“There is no one here but me,” he said, low and steady. “You are not there.”

Your hands were shaking.

You hadn’t even noticed until he reached for them.

His larger ones enclosed yours without hesitation.

Warm.

Real.

“Breathe,” he instructed.

You tried.

It came uneven at first, catching in your throat.

He didn’t rush you.

Didn’t let go.

“In,” he said quietly.

You inhaled, shaky.

“Out.”

You exhaled.

Again.

And again.

Until the forest began to return.

Until the white walls faded.

Until the past loosened its grip on your chest.

You hadn’t realised how close you’d leaned into him.

Not until you became aware of it.

Your forehead nearly brushed his shoulder.

Your hands still held in his.

Your breathing still syncing with his steady rhythm.

The closeness hit you all at once.

You pulled back slightly, startled.

“I—sorry.”

The words came out too fast.

Too automatic.

Something flickered in his expression.

Gone almost as quickly as it appeared.

“You have nothing to apologise for,” he said.

But he let go of your hands.

Immediately.

The absence of warmth was sudden.

Jarring.

He stood first.

Of course he did.

Control, as always, settling back into his posture like armour.

“You will not continue training today,” he said.

Your brows pulled together. “I can still—”

“No.”

Firm.

Final.

“You will rest.”

“I don’t need—”

“You do.”

His gaze pinned you in place again.

And for once—

You didn’t argue.

He helped you back to camp.

Not hovering.

Not soft.

But present.

Always just close enough that if you faltered, he would catch you.

And once—

Only once—

When your step slipped slightly on uneven ground—

His hand found your arm.

Steadying.

Lingering for half a heartbeat longer than necessary.

Before pulling away.

That night, the pain in your side dulled to a constant ache.

But it wasn’t what kept you awake.

It was your mind.

The memory.

The way it had crept in so easily, so suddenly.

The way you had lost control.

Again.

You shifted slightly where you lay, staring up through the breaks in the canopy.

Weak.

The word came unbidden.

Familiar.

Unwelcome.

A soft sound of movement pulled your attention.

So’lek.

He wasn’t far.

Of course he wasn’t.

Sitting near the edge of the camp, half in shadow, ever watchful.

You hesitated.

Then—

“Couldn’t sleep either?”

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

He didn’t turn immediately.

“I do not sleep as deeply as others,” he replied.

You huffed faintly. “Convenient.”

A pause.

Then—

“You should be resting.”

You shifted onto your side, wincing slightly despite yourself. “I tried.”

Silence stretched between you.

Then, quieter—

“Does it ever… stop?”

He glanced back at you now.

“The memories.”

There it was.

Laid bare between you.

His expression didn’t change much.

But something in his eyes did.

“They become less powerful,” he said.

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No.”

A beat.

“It is not.”

You swallowed.

“I hate that it still affects me,” you admitted. “After everything. After being free. It still—”

You exhaled sharply.

“Feels like I’m still there sometimes.”

The words felt heavier out loud.

More real.

More shameful.

“I should be stronger than that.”

So’lek stood.

Crossed the small distance between you.

For a moment, you thought—

Maybe—

But he stopped just short.

Close enough to be felt.

Not close enough to touch.

“Strength is not the absence of pain,” he said.

Your eyes lifted to his.

“It is the ability to continue despite it.”

You let out a quiet, humourless breath. “That sounds like something you’ve told yourself.”

A flicker of something—recognition, perhaps—passed through his gaze.

“Perhaps.”

Silence settled again.

Thicker this time.

You searched his face.

Waiting.

For something more.

For the same grounding presence from before.

For the warmth.

For—

It didn’t come.

He stepped back.

Deliberate.

Measured.

Distance re-established as if it had never been broken.

“You will sleep,” he said.

Your chest tightened.

Not from pain this time.

From something else.

Something sharper.

“You don’t have to keep your distance,” you said quietly.

The words surprised even you.

But they felt… true.

His posture stilled.

Only for a moment.

Then—

“Yes,” he said.

He did not look at you when he added—

“I do.”

You watched him return to his place at the edge of the camp.

Further now.

Not by much.

But enough.

The space between you felt… intentional.

Carefully maintained.

Your mind turned it over.

The way he had held your hands.

The way he had steadied your breathing.

The way he had been there—

Fully.

And then—

Gone.

Not physically.

But… withdrawn.

Controlled.

Restrained.

Not because he didn’t feel it.

But because he did.

The realisation settled slowly.

Quietly.

He wasn’t distant by nature.

He was choosing to be.

And that—

Somehow—

Hurt more than if he had never stepped close at all.

You turned onto your back again, staring up at the canopy.

The ache in your ribs pulsed softly.

But it wasn’t the only thing you felt anymore.

There was something else now.

A crack.

Small.

Barely visible.

But there.

In him.

In you.

In whatever this was becoming.

And for the first time—

You understood.

It wasn’t just you learning to navigate the forest.

It was both of you—

Learning how close was too close.

And neither of you had the answer.

Yet.

You noticed it more after that night.

Once you saw it, you couldn’t unsee it.

The distance.

Not the physical kind—So’lek was still there, still training you, still watching with that same sharp awareness that missed nothing.

But something had shifted.

Subtly.

Deliberately.

Where his hand had once steadied yours, now it stopped just short. Where his voice had softened in quiet moments, now it remained even—controlled, measured. Where there had been something unspoken growing between you—

There was now space.

Carefully maintained.

It was infuriating.

“You’re overcorrecting.”

The words left your mouth before you could stop them.

So’lek didn’t look up from where he crouched, examining the tracks pressed into the damp earth.

“I am correcting what needs correcting,” he replied evenly.

“That’s not what I mean.”

Now he looked at you.

Waiting.

You gestured vaguely between the two of you. “This. You.”

His expression didn’t change. “Be clear.”

Frustration flared hotter.

“You’ve been different since—” you cut yourself off, jaw tightening. “Since I got hurt.”

“I have not.”

“You have.”

The words came sharper than intended.

He stood slowly, turning to face you fully.

“In what way?” he asked.

Like it was a simple question.

Like it wasn’t obvious.

“You pull back,” you said. “Every time things get even slightly—” you hesitated, searching for the word. “Close.”

Something flickered in his gaze.

Gone almost immediately.

“You are imagining patterns that are not there.”

A short, disbelieving laugh escaped you. “No. I’m not.”

Silence stretched.

Tight.

You took a step closer.

“You don’t touch me anymore unless you have to,” you continued. “You keep everything… controlled. Like you’re afraid of something.”

“I am not afraid.”

It came too quickly.

Too firmly.

You seized on it.

“Then what is it?” you pressed. “Because this isn’t just you being a mentor. It’s something else.”

His jaw tightened slightly.

But he said nothing.

And that—

That was the final push.

“You act like I’m not ready,” you said, voice rising despite yourself. “Like I’m the one who can’t handle things.”

His eyes narrowed, just slightly. “You are still learning—”

“No,” you cut in, shaking your head. “Not that.”

You stepped closer again, closing the distance he kept trying to maintain.

“This.”

Your chest felt tight, words coming faster now, sharper.

“You act like I’m not ready—but you’re the one afraid.”

The silence that followed was immediate.

Heavy.

So’lek didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

For a moment, you thought—

Maybe you’d gone too far.

But then he exhaled slowly.

And whatever had been there—

Whatever had softened, even briefly—

Was gone.

“You are mistaken.”

His voice was quieter now.

Colder.

More distant than you had ever heard it.

“I am not afraid,” he repeated.

You frowned. “Then why—”

“This conversation is over.”

The finality in his tone hit like a wall.

You stared at him. “So that’s it? You’re just going to shut it down?”

“Yes.”

Anger flared, sharp and immediate. “That’s not an answer.”

“It is the only one you will receive.”

You let out a frustrated breath, pacing a step back before turning on him again.

“You can’t just decide that!” you snapped. “You don’t get to act like something’s there and then pretend it isn’t!”

His expression hardened.

“There is nothing there.”

The words landed like a blow.

You recoiled slightly.

Because you knew—

You knew that wasn’t true.

“You don’t mean that,” you said, quieter now.

“I do.”

Flat.

Certain.

Final.

Something in your chest twisted.

You turned away before he could see it fully settle in your expression.

“Are we done training?” you asked, your voice steadier now—controlled in a way that felt unfamiliar on you.

“Yes.”

Of course.

Efficient.

Detached.

You nodded once.

Then started walking.

You didn’t wait to see if he followed.

He didn’t.

Distance changed things.

Not all at once.

But enough.

Training became… functional.

Efficient.

So’lek still corrected you. Still watched. Still expected more.

But he no longer lingered.

No longer allowed those quiet moments to stretch into something softer. Every interaction had a purpose now—clean, precise, contained.

You adjusted.

You had to.

If he was going to treat you like nothing more than a student—

Then you would become one he couldn’t fault.

You trained harder.

Listened sharper.

Moved cleaner.

Where you once hesitated, you now acted. Where you once doubted, you pushed through it. The forest no longer felt like something watching you—

It felt like something you moved with.

Not perfectly.

But enough.

Enough that others began to notice.

The call came at dawn.

Urgent.

Sharp.

RDA.

The word alone was enough to set everything into motion.

You were already moving before the full message had been relayed—body reacting faster than thought, faster than memory.

Not the same as before.

Not frozen.

Not afraid.

Focused.

Smoke cut through the treeline.

Dark.

Wrong.

You slowed as you approached, senses sharpening automatically. The forest here felt disturbed—too loud in some places, too quiet in others.

Signs.

You saw them.

Broken branches.

Scorched earth.

Tracks—heavy, mechanical.

Your breath steadied.

Think.

Not react.

So’lek wasn’t beside you.

The realisation hit—but it didn’t stop you.

It couldn’t.

You moved forward anyway.

Voices.

Human.

Harsh.

The unfortunately familiar language cutting through the natural sounds of Pandora.

You crouched low, slipping between cover with deliberate care. Your bow was already in your hands, arrow notched but held.

You counted.

Three.

No—four.

Armed.

Distracted.

Good.

You shifted position, recalling every correction So’lek had ever given you.

Wait for the right moment.

Do not rush the strike.

Let the forest guide you.

Your breath slowed.

In.

Out.

One of them moved further from the group.

Isolated.

You acted.

The arrow flew clean.

Silent.

True.

The soldier dropped before he could even react.

The others turned—confused, disoriented.

Too late.

You were already moving.

Not reckless.

Not panicked.

Controlled.

Another arrow.

Another hit.

You didn’t stay still long enough to be seen—each movement deliberate, each step placed with intention.

Like you had been taught.

Like you had learned.

A shot rang out.

Too close.

You ducked behind cover, heart kicking hard but steady.

Different.

This time, you didn’t freeze.

You listened.

Tracked.

Adapted.

The third soldier moved toward your last position—careless, overconfident.

You shifted behind him.

Silent.

Your strike was quick.

Efficient.

Clean.

The last one ran.

You let him.

For half a second.

Then you gave chase.

The forest moved with you now.

Not against you.

Branches no longer caught at your limbs. Roots no longer tripped your steps. You wove through them, part of the rhythm rather than fighting it.

You gained ground quickly.

Too quickly for him to react.

He turned—

You were already there.

Your arrow aimed.

Steady.

Unwavering.

For a moment—

You saw it.

The fear in his eyes.

The same kind of fear you used to feel.

Helpless.

Small.

Controlled.

Your grip tightened.

Then—

You exhaled.

And released.

Silence returned slowly.

Gradually.

The kind that settled after something had been disturbed.

You stood there for a moment, chest rising and falling.

Alive.

Present.

In control.

“You moved well.”

The voice came from behind you.

You didn’t startle.

You’d heard him approach.

Of course you had.

So’lek stepped into view, gaze sweeping over the scene—the fallen soldiers, the disturbed ground, the path you had taken.

Assessing.

Always assessing.

“You were not reckless,” he continued. “You adapted.”

You lowered your bow slightly.

“I handled it.”

It wasn’t defiance.

Just… truth.

His eyes met yours.

For a moment, something flickered there again.

Recognition.

Approval.

Something deeper—

Gone before it could settle.

“Yes,” he said.

A pause.

“You did.”

Others arrived soon after.

Na’vi from nearby clans, drawn by the disturbance.

They moved through the area with purpose, checking the aftermath, speaking in low, urgent tones.

You stepped back slightly, letting them pass.

Observing.

Learning.

A few glanced at you.

Then looked again.

Different this time.

Not uncertain.

Not questioning.

One of them—older, scarred—gave a small nod as he passed.

Respect.

It hit you harder than you expected.

You glanced toward So’lek.

He stood a short distance away, speaking with another warrior.

Composed.

Controlled.

Distant.

But—

When his gaze flicked back to you—

Just for a moment—

You saw it.

Pride.

Something had changed.

Not just in you.

In him.

It showed in small ways first.

The kind most would miss.

But you didn’t.

Not anymore.

“Your footing is off.”

You adjusted immediately, shifting your weight as instructed.

“Better,” So’lek said.

No correction layered over correction.

Just—

Better.

You stilled slightly at that.

Before continuing.

It wasn’t praise.

Not exactly.

But it wasn’t dismissal either.

And from him—

It meant something.

Training no longer felt like being shaped.

It felt like being refined.

There was a difference.

Before, he had watched for failure.

Now—

He watched for choice.

For instinct.

For how you adapted without being told.

“You hesitated.”

You glanced at him, brow furrowing. “I assessed.”

A pause.

The faintest tilt of his head.

“Explain.”

That was new.

You shifted your stance slightly, considering your words.

“The wind shifted,” you said. “If I had released it when I first drew it, I would have missed it.”

His gaze sharpened—not in correction, but in focus.

“And instead?”

“I waited.”

A beat.

“And adjusted.”

Silence.

Not heavy.

Not tense.

Just… consideration.

“Yes.”

The single word settled differently this time.

Not instruction.

Acknowledgement.

You felt it.

That shift.

Clearer now.

You weren’t just following anymore.

You were deciding.

And he—

He was letting you.

The distance hadn’t disappeared.

It had… changed.

Refined.

More controlled.

More deliberate.

“Again.”

You released the arrow.

It struck clean.

True.

You didn’t look at the target.

You looked at him.

He was already watching you.

Not the shot.

You.

Something tightened in your chest.

Not discomfort.

Something else.

Something heavier.

“You anticipated the movement,” he said.

“Yes.”

A pause.

Then—

“You are no longer reacting.”

Your breath caught slightly at that.

Because that—

That meant more than any correction he had ever given you.

“I know,” you said quietly.

The words settled between you.

Different.

Not student and teacher. Not quite.

Something else.

The tension shifted with it.

Subtle.

But undeniable.

Before, it had felt… restrained.

Like something neither of you were meant to acknowledge.

Now— it felt inevitable.

You noticed it in the way he held your gaze a second longer than necessary.

In the way silence between you no longer felt like absence—

But presence.

In the way every step closer carried weight.

And still—

He kept control.

You stepped closer without thinking.

Just slightly.

But enough.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

The space between you narrowed.

Not accidental.

Not careless.

“You don’t correct me as much anymore,” you said quietly.

“No.”

“Why?”

A pause.

Not avoidance.

Deliberation.

“Because you do not require it in the same way.”

That wasn’t the full answer.

You could feel it.

“And in the other way?” you pressed.

There it was.

That line again.

The one neither of you had fully crossed.

His expression shifted—subtle, controlled.

But not empty.

“That is not relevant to your training.”

You huffed softly.

“It hasn’t been about just training for a while.”

Silence.

This time—

He didn’t deny it.

But he didn’t step closer either.

“There are factors you do not yet fully consider,” he said instead.

Your brow furrowed. “Like what?”

A beat.

“Time,” he said.

“Experience.”

Another pause.

Then—

“Age.”

The word landed heavier than expected.

You studied him.

“You think that matters.”

“I know that it does.”

There was no shame in it.

No uncertainty.

Just fact.

“But it doesn’t change this,” you said, gesturing lightly between you.

His jaw tightened slightly.

“It complicates it.”

You took another small step forward.

Closing the space again.

“And that’s enough for you to keep your distance?”

His gaze dropped briefly—

Not to the ground.

To you.

Closer now.

“Yes.”

Simple.

Final.

“You still don’t trust me with it,” you said softly.

His eyes snapped back to yours.

Sharp.

“That is not what this is.”

“Then what is it?”

The question lingered.

This time—

He didn’t answer.

Not with words.

Told you enough.

It wasn’t doubt.

It was choice.

You started noticing things you hadn’t before.

Not about the forest.

About your people.

It began with observation.

“You are staring.”

Ri’nela’s voice broke your focus.

You blinked, glancing at her. “I am not.”

Her brow lifted slightly.

You exhaled. “Fine. I am.”

Her gaze followed yours briefly—towards a mated pair speaking quietly at the edge of camp.

Understanding dawned quickly.

You shifted slightly, suddenly aware of how obvious it must seem. “I was just… wondering.”

“About courting?” she asked, not unkindly.

You hesitated.

Then nodded.

Ri’nela paused before speaking. “There is knowing first. A recognition. Then a decision.”

“A choice,” you murmured.

“Yes.”

A choice.

Your gaze drifted across the camp.

Landing, inevitably—

On him.

So’lek stood apart as he often did, speaking with Tamtey and Nor. Composed. Focused. Untouchable.

“You already know,” Ri’nela said quietly.

You blinked. “Know what?”

She didn’t look at you.

“Who you are watching.”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t need to.

That night, you found him alone.

Of course you did.

“You avoid the others more than usual.”

Your voice cut gently through the quiet.

So’lek didn’t turn immediately.

“I am where I need to be.”

You stepped closer. “That sounds familiar.”

Now he looked at you.

Measured.

Waiting.

The space between you settled quickly into something charged.

Not uncertain.

Not fragile.

Just… full.

“I spoke with Ri’nela,” you said.

A slight shift in his posture. “And?”

“She helped me decide something.”

His gaze didn’t leave yours.

“And what did you decide?”

You held his eyes.

“That it is not hidden,” you said. “Not denied.”

A pause.

“And not avoided.”

Silence. 

But not empty.

You did not need to name what you were speaking about. 

He knew.

“You believe I am avoiding something,” he said.

“I know you are.”

The words didn’t spark anger this time.

Only stillness.

You stepped closer.

Close enough now that you could feel the steadiness of his presence. The quiet control he held so tightly.

“Why?” you asked, softer now.

For a long moment—

He said nothing.

Then—

“You were not ready.”

The answer landed differently than you expected.

Not dismissal.

Not deflection.

Truth.

“And now?” you asked.

His gaze shifted—subtle, but unmistakable.

Taking you in.

Not as a student.

Not as something fragile.

As something else.

“You have changed,” he said.

Your breath caught slightly.

“So have you,” you replied.

A quiet tension stretched between you.

Not uncomfortable.

Not uncertain.

Just… waiting.

“I held distance because it was necessary,” he continued. “Because anything else would have influenced your choices. Your growth.”

You frowned slightly. “You think I would have chosen differently?”

“Yes.”

The certainty in his voice made your chest tighten.

He stepped closer.

Closing the last of the space.

“And that would not have been fair to you,” he said.

Your breath stilled.

“I waited,” he added, quieter now, “because you deserved the choice—unclouded.”

The words settled deep.

Clear.

Intentional.

Real.

You searched his face.

And found no hesitation there.

No distance.

No restraint—at least, not in the same way.

“You don’t have to wait anymore,” you said softly.

Something shifted in him.

Not breaking.

Not losing control.

But… releasing it.

His hand lifted—slow, deliberate.

Giving you time to step back.

To refuse.

To choose.

You didn’t.

His fingers brushed your jaw, then settled, warm and steady against your skin.

Different this time.

Not grounding.

Not corrective.

Intentional.

Your breath caught as you leaned into the touch without thinking.

Without fear.

His gaze softened—just slightly.

Enough.

“You are certain?” he asked.

You didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

That was all it took.

The distance between you disappeared.

His other hand came to your waist, drawing you closer—not rushed, not forceful, but firm in a way that made your breath hitch.

Your hands found him just as easily, gripping lightly at his arms, grounding yourself in something real.

When he kissed you, it was not careless.

Not overwhelming.

It was controlled.

At first.

A quiet, deliberate meeting.

A question answered.

But the longer it lingered—

The more that control shifted.

Your grip tightened slightly.

His hand followed the movement, pulling you closer still.

The restraint that had defined every moment between you didn’t disappear—

But it changed.

No longer distance.

No longer denial.

Now it was something shared.

Balanced.

Sarentu Clan

Among the Sarentu - Sully!Reader

𝗥𝗶'𝗻𝗲𝗹𝗮 𝗧𝘀𝗮𝗸𝗮𝗿𝗲𝗺 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗦𝗮𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘂

𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯

𝗧𝗮𝗺𝘁𝗲𝘆 𝗢𝗹𝗼'𝗲𝘆𝗸𝘁𝗮𝗻 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗦𝗮𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘂

𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯

𝗧𝗲𝘆𝗹𝗮𝗻 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗦𝗮𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘂

𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯

𝗥𝗮𝘀𝗶 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗦𝗮𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘂

𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯

𝗡𝗼𝗿 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗦𝗮𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘂

𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯

𝗦𝗼'𝗹𝗲𝗸 𝘁𝗲 𝗘𝗹𝘂𝘀𝗮 𝗞𝗶𝗿𝗼'𝗶𝘁𝗮𝗻 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗦𝗮𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘂 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗧𝗿𝗿'𝗼𝗻𝗴

Unclouded Choice - Sarentu!Reader

Sa'nu - Trr'ong!Reader

Aranahe Clan

𝗘𝘁𝘂𝘄𝗮 𝗧𝘀𝗮𝗵ì𝗸 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗔𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗮𝗵𝗲 𝗖𝗹𝗮𝗻

𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯

𝗡𝗲𝗳𝗶𝗸𝗮 𝗛𝗲𝗮𝗱 𝗪𝗲𝗮𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗔𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗮𝗵𝗲

𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯

𝗜𝘁𝘂 𝗛𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗔𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗮𝗵𝗲

Holding What Remains

Zeswa Clan

𝗡𝗲𝘀𝗶𝗺 𝗢𝗹𝗼'𝗲𝘆𝗸𝘁𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗭𝗲𝘀𝘄𝗮

In the Stillness, With you

𝗠𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗻𝗴 𝗧𝘀𝗮𝗵ì𝗸 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗭𝗲𝘀𝘄𝗮

𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯

Kame'tire Clan

𝗔𝗻𝘂𝗳𝗶 𝗧𝘀𝗮𝗵ì𝗸 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗞𝗮𝗺𝗲’𝘁𝗶𝗿𝗲

𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯

𝗢𝗸𝘂𝗹 𝗛𝗲𝗿𝗯𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗞𝗮𝗺𝗲𝘁’𝘁𝗶𝗿𝗲

𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯

Mangkwan Clan

𝗪𝘂𝗸𝘂𝗹𝗮

𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯

𝗭𝗮𝗿𝗶