warnings: mommy issues / death / war / gory depictions / heavy angst / religious themes / kissing / grinding / cunnilingus / body kisses / praise / p in v / cumming inside / angst with a happy ending
authors: wow.. last chapter guys!! we made it so far im so proud of us!! thank you so much for being here with me through this journey and supporting me throughout it. thank you for reading and i promise there will be more to come!! i hope you like this one and... before u read... grab ur tissues guys
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the poison, the poisoned, the tainted, the cure, the cured.
A month had passed, a full cycle of Eywa that had transformed the very air you breathed. The relentless, cleansing rains of the Hallelujah Mountains had done their work, washing away the last vestiges of the ash and soot that had clung to you and Lew’eyn like a second skin. The grey pallor was gone, replaced by a deep, vibrant blue that echoed the warriors of the forest around you. The bioluminescence, once dormant beneath the grime of your home, now shimmered and pulsed across your skin, a constellation of light that marked you as one of them, a change that felt both like a blessing and a betrayal. You didn't look Mangkwan anymore.
The village was a hive of activity, a constant symphony of preparation. Soldiers were training in every clearing, their bodies a blur of motion as they practiced new forms and strategies. Surprisingly, many of them were learning from Lew’eyn. At first, there had been a stiff, resentful refusal. Pride, perhaps, or the deep-seated judgment of generations of conflict. It wouldn't feel great to learn tactics from a child of the enemy clan, a boy who, not long ago, they would have killed on sight. But they had no other choice. Lew’eyn's knowledge of the Mangkwan's brutal, unconventional fighting style was invaluable, a key to survival that only he possessed. You were too busy to oversee the ground troops.
You had been tasked with training the ikran flight crews, teaching them the complex, swirling patterns they must follow to navigate the treacherous thermals and unpredictable winds of the volcanic region without being picked off by Mangkwan sentinels. Nobody else knew the unfair and cruel fighting tactics of your people, the way they used the terrain, the smoke, the very air as a weapon. You were a living, breathing strategy guide, and the Omatikaya were learning to listen.
Throughout this time, you and Neteyam had grown closer, the space between you shrinking until there was none at all. You spent your days together, training side-by-side, your movements a complementary dance of forest and ash styles. You spent your nights running off together, stealing moments of quiet in the high canopy, hidden away from the prying eyes of the clan.
Yes, you and Neteyam definitely had your fair share of close calls. It was almost impossible for him to keep his hands off of you when you were alone, to resist the urge to pull you into the shadows behind a great tree, to feel the soft skin of your waist beneath his fingertips, to lose himself in the golden depths of your eyes.
To be honest, he hated hiding it from his family. Not that he was doing a great job—Lo’ak had caught them sharing a look that was far too intimate, and Tuk had asked why you and Neteyam always sat so close together—but he really liked you. More than liked. He was starting to think he couldn't breathe without you.
You were just too scared. You knew Jake disapproved of you; his gaze was still heavy with suspicion, his trust a currency you hadn't yet earned. Kiri seemed to be cordial, her quiet understanding a welcome balm, and Tuk adored you, fascinated by the intricate, foreign bead-work you would weave for her, telling her stories of the Fire Tribe's crafts.
Lo’ak was a tough one to read, his expression a constant mask of wry amusement and veiled curiosity, as if he were watching a particularly interesting play unfold. You weren’t sure if you cared of any of their opinions – except for Neytiri’s.
You had begun training with her, as well. She was one of the strongest warriors of the Omatikaya, a legend in her own right, and she had taken it upon herself to help teach you battle strategy that wasn't all claws and no decorum, a stark contrast to the ruthless, kill-or-be-killed ethos of the Fire Tribe.
In your time together, you’d have moments to speak, quiet interludes between sparring sessions where the warrior would fall away and the woman would emerge. She told you about her fight with her parents for Jake, the gut-wrenching choice between duty and love, a story that resonated with a painful familiarity. She told you about the battle with the Metkayina against the RDA, the fear of losing her family, the desperate fight for a home that was not her own. In return, you told her about your childhood, about the harsh realities of life on a dying mountain.
You told her what you had to do to survive, the brutal lessons you had to learn, the hardness you had to cultivate in your heart. You told her what all Mangkwan children had to do: fight, steal, and kill before they were old enough to understand the weight of their own actions.
And in the sharing of your scars, a strange, unspoken bond began to form between you, a bridge of shared pain and mutual respect.
The night before the tribe was to be sent off, a diplomatic mission cloaked in the fragile hope of peace, you found yourself sitting on the wide, wooden ledge built into a clifftop of the Hallelujah Mountains. It was a place of constant motion, a bustling landing platform for ikran riders who would arrive and depart throughout the day, their great beasts kicking up dust and wind as they made their way inside the heart of the mountain.
But tonight, all was still. The Ikrans were asleep, tucked into their roosts, and the Na'vi were in their homes, the village a quiet hum of anticipation and fear. Your legs dangled over the edge, the vast, dizzying drop to the sea of clouds below a silent testament to the heights you had all reached. Your eyes were closed as you tried to take your mind off of what was to come in the morning, trying to find a sliver of the calm that had eluded you for a month.
Your ear flicked, a sudden, sharp movement that betrayed your inner turmoil. Your posture straightened, your spine going rigid as you heard soft, deliberate footsteps behind you. Your tail lashed, a sharp, angry whip against the wood, as you turned around, your golden eyes narrowing.
Gazing at you from the shadows was the cold, distant figure of Lo’ak. He was a study in contradictions, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp and hard, a flicker of his father's intensity warring with his own youthful recklessness.
He didn't speak, merely moving to sit on the ledge a few feet away from you. He was careful to maintain a respectful, yet pointed, distance, a clear line drawn between them. You both turned to look out at the sky, exchanging no words in the peaceful, yet heavy, moment. The stars of Pandora were a brilliant, scattered diamond field, their light reflecting in the swirling mists below.
"Tomorrow.." Lo’ak’s voice was a low, quiet rumble, cutting through the silence like a knife. "You're deciding between them and us. Have you made your choice?"
Your brows furrowed in confusion, the question a sudden, unexpected blow. You finally turned to look at Lo’ak, whose eyes were still hard and sharp against the breathtaking view, his gaze fixed on some distant point in the sky. "Excuse me?"
Lo’ak scoffs, a harsh, humorless sound. He leans back, resting on his elbows, his body language a deliberate display of casual indifference. "If we get to that battle tomorrow and you tuck your tail and run to mommy, I'll make sure you don't get out of this." His voice was low, a chilling promise that sent a shiver down your spine.
Before you could form a rebuttal, before you could even process the raw venom in his words, Lo’ak had gotten up and sauntered away, his silhouette disappearing back into the shadows of the walkway, leaving you alone with the echoes of his threat.
His words left you conflicted, a storm of doubt and anger raging inside you. But, deep down, in a place you had been desperately trying to ignore, you knew you had to think about this. He was right. You had to pick between your house and your home. Between the blood that ran in your veins and the new life that was beginning to bloom in your heart. All this time you’ve been spending prepping and planning, the endless drills and strategy sessions, was really just a cover up for the fact that you were unconditionally and irrevocably terrified.
You were terrified of facing your mother, of seeing the disappointment in her eyes, of fighting the very people you had sworn to protect. And you were terrified of what would happen if you failed, if you couldn't bridge the gap between your two worlds, and you lost everything.
Morning arrived not with a gentle, gradual light, but with a sudden, stark intrusion of reality. The first rays of the sun pierced the gloom of the shared sleeping quarters, a harsh, unforgiving light that illuminated every detail of the room and the grim truth of the day ahead. The air was cool and still, heavy with the unspoken fears of the sleeping clan.
You sat up, the woven blankets of the cot pooling around your waist, the movement sharp and decisive. Beside you, Lew’eyn was still lost in a restless sleep, his mouth slightly agape, a trail of drool glistening on his cheek. Without a second thought, you smacked him gently on the face with your tail, the soft, leathery appendage a familiar and effective wake-up call.
He groaned, a low, guttural sound of protest, as he sat up from the cot, his body stiff and his eyes bleary with sleep. He rubbed his face, blinking against the bright light, his mind slow to catch up with the reality of the morning. You looked over at him, your eyes filled with a fierce determination that you hoped was convincing, yet it was tinged with a hesitation you couldn't quite hide. He reciprocated your gaze, his own eyes mirroring yours, a silent acknowledgment of the shared terror that coiled in your guts. He nodded his head, a slow, unsure movement.
“It’s the right thing to do,” he spoke, his voice raspy with sleep, though his words sounded more like a question than a statement, a desperate plea for reassurance that neither of you could provide.
You gulped, the sound loud in the quiet room, as you stared down at your clothing. It wasn't the familiar, functional leather of the Mangkwan, but the intricate, layered garments of an Omatikaya warrior.
Neteyam had gifted you and Lew’eyn with it a week prior. He had brought you to the same branch where you had shared your first real kiss, the memory of it a warm, tingling sensation against the cold dread of the morning. Under the soft glow of Pandora's moons, he had adorned you with the woven leather and tall-grass necklaces, his fingers brushing against your skin with a reverence that made your heart ache.
He had carefully strung the delicate waist beads around your hips, their soft clinking a new and unfamiliar sound. And he had presented you with the most beautiful sheath for your knife you had ever seen, a masterpiece of dark, polished wood and vibrant, colorful beads, a perfect fusion of his world and yours. It was a gift, a promise, a symbol of a future you were fighting for, a future you weren't sure you deserved.
“Yeah,” you choked out, the word catching in your throat, your eyes meeting his once more, a silent, desperate pact passing between you. “Save the Omatikaya. Save the cured.” The words tasted like ash in your mouth, a bitter reminder of the price of your choice.
You were not just saving the Omatikaya; you were saving yourselves from the poison of your own heritage, from the endless cycle of violence and despair that had consumed your people for generations. You were saving the cured, the ones who had seen the light, the ones who had chosen to break free. But in doing so, you were condemning the others, the ones who were still lost, the ones who were still blinded by the fire.
You were saving the world by destroying your own, and the weight of that knowledge was a crushing burden on your soul.
The journey to the Mangkwan isles was nothing but treacherous. It was a gauntlet of nature’s own design, a brutal, unforgiving landscape that had been the crucible in which your people had been forged. Over the years, the Mangkwan had grown accustomed to the difficult terrain their village was set in, their bodies and their mounts adapting to the whims of the dying mountain, learning to read the turbulent air like a sacred text.
However, the Omatikaya, for all their skill and grace, still struggled regardless of their intensive training. The sky was not the open, welcoming expanse they were used to; it was a labyrinth of jagged, obsidian-black rock pillars that clawed at the heavens, their sharp edges threatening to shred the delicate wings of an ikran with the slightest misjudgment.
The wind was a malevolent entity, a howling, unpredictable force that screamed through the narrow canyons and funneled into violent, twisting vortexes that could toss a rider from their saddle without a moment's notice.
You watched as they banked over the rocky pillars, their movements fluid but lacking the innate, bone-deep understanding of the currents that you and Lew’eyn possessed. You saw them twist practically sideways on their ikrans, their bodies straining against the G-forces as they navigated the sheer, vertical drops. You saw them shoot through the tightest of gaps, spaces that seemed impossibly small, their wings brushing against the jagged rock, sending showers of debris into the turbulent air below.
You and Lew’eyn flew through with an ease that was almost insulting, a seamless, effortless dance through the chaos. You were used to this battle with the wind, this intimate, violent conversation with the elements. It was the language of your home, and you spoke it fluently.
By the end of the hard part, the toll was already being taken. A dozen warriors and their ikrans were injured, their mounts with deep gashes on their wings or their riders with broken limbs from being thrown against the rock faces. They were ordered to fly home, their faces a mask of frustration and shame, their departure leaving a gaping hole in the already small party. A deep, gnawing unease settled in your stomach, cold and heavy.
It would be much more difficult with the great amount of people injured, not just in terms of a fight, but in terms of morale. The sight of their comrades turning back, defeated before they had even arrived, was a blow to the confidence of the remaining warriors.
You looked at the remaining party, a small, determined force against the vast, hostile landscape. Around 70 of the most brave hunters and warriors of the forest clan, their faces set with a grim resolve, their bodies tense with anticipation. They were the best of the best, but they were outsiders here, fish out of water in a world that wanted them dead. With a determined nod, you chirped, a sharp, clear command to your ikran, who surged forward, a beacon of confidence in the face of their uncertainty.
As you rounded the final pillar, the village came into view, and the sounds of screeches and war cries from the Mangkwan below filled your ears. It was a sound you knew intimately, a cacophony of rage and defiance that had been the soundtrack to your entire life. But now, it made your stomach pool with a sense of dread you had long forgotten over your time away from the tribe. It was the sound of home, but it was also the sound of your past, a past you had desperately tried to escape.
Neteyam looked toward you, his eyes meeting yours, though he felt as though they were far off, your gaze distant and clouded with memories.
“Hey,” he called out, his voice a steady anchor in the storm of your thoughts. He urged his ikran closer, reaching out to touch its wing against yours, a gentle, reassuring gesture. “It’ll be okay. Poisoned, remember? We’ll save the cured and get out of here.” His words were a reminder of the plan, of the hope that had brought you here, but they did little to quell the fear that was churning in your gut.
You and the Omatikaya touched down, the landing a rough, jarring experience on the hard, packed earth of the village. The first to jump from their mounts were you and Lew’eyn, your movements fluid and confident, a stark contrast to the hesitant, clumsy dismounts of the forest clan. Neteyam followed soon after, his eyes scanning the crowd, his hand resting on the hilt of his knife. The rest of the forest clan were apprehensive, some standing just next to their bonds, their bodies coiled and ready to flee, some refusing to get off, their bows pointed and arrows nocked, their knuckles white with tension.
The Mangkwan were no different. Some were hiding in the village huts, their arrows pointed through the cracks in the walls, their eyes wide with fear and hatred. Others stood in the open, their spears pointed and their tongues sticking out in a gesture of mockery and defiance. It was a standoff, a tense, volatile silence that was broken only by the hiss of the wind and the distant cry of a nightwraith.
And then you heard it. The familiar, desperate call of your dearest from afar. Vofeng, tied by his neck to the torturous posts the nightwraiths were held on, his claws dragging against the floor as he attempted to get to you. He was calling for you, a series of distressed, pleading chirps that tore at your heart. Your stomach churned, a wave of nausea washing over you, though your eyes lingered forward, refusing to look at him, to show any sign of weakness.
You walked through the large crowd of Mangkwan, your steps slow and deliberate, your eyes never leaving the tall, slender figure of Varang. She stood at the end of the walkway in front of the war hall, a solitary, imposing figure against the backdrop of the dying mountain. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her posture rigid and unyielding, her eyes filled with a venom so poisonous you felt it sting your skin, a palpable, physical force that seemed to reach across the distance and wrap around your throat.
She was waiting for you, and you knew, with a certainty that chilled you to the bone, that this was not going to be a peaceful reunion.
With a surge of adrenaline that was both familiar and terrifying, you coiled your muscles and launched yourself upwards, landing with a soft thud atop the wide, flat roof of a nearby animal stable. The height gave you a vantage point, a stage from which to address the sea of hostile, ashen faces below.
You drew a deep, shuddering breath, the acrid air filling your lungs, and then you let loose a warrior's cry, a sharp, piercing shriek that was a pure, undiluted echo of your heritage. It was a sound that demanded attention, a challenge that could not be ignored. The crowd below fell silent, their hisses and jeers dying in their throats as every eye turned to you.
You began to speak, your voice ringing out across the square, clear and strong. You had practiced this speech in your head a thousand times, but the words felt foreign on your tongue now, heavy with the weight of betrayal.
"Mangkwan!" you started, your voice stern and hard, the voice of a warrior, not a diplomat. "I stand before you today to tell you of a truth we have been taught to deny! I have seen the Great Mother, Eywa! I have felt her presence, and I tell you, she is not the monster we have been led to believe!" Your voice, however, began to crack midway through your sentence, the carefully constructed facade of strength crumbling under the weight of a hundred pairs of eyes, the eyes of your family, your friends, your people.
"What happened to our mountain... it was not an act of malice. It was a tragedy, a natural disaster, a painful but necessary part of the Great Balance she maintains!"
The Mangkwan hissed and booed at your words, the sound a wave of venomous disapproval that washed over you. Some of them, their faces contorted with rage, slowly prepared their weapons, nocking arrows to bowstrings and hefting spears, their gaze shifting from you to the nervous, blue-skinned Omatikaya warriors behind you. But Varang, standing at the far end of the walkway, simply listened, her expression unreadable, her gaze so intense, so focused, that something in you could’ve been convinced she believed you, or at least was considering it.
Lew’eyn, seeing your faltering resolve, took over. He stepped forward, his voice clear and steady as he spoke similar words out to the crowd, his plea for reason and understanding a counterpoint to your passionate, crumbling defense.
You looked down from your perch, seeing some Mangkwan murmuring amongst themselves, their heads close together, their expressions a mixture of confusion and doubt. They stared up at you, then at Lew’eyn, then at Neteyam, a stark, foreign figure of blue amidst their sea of grey. Their gaze would then drop back down to their own ashen skin, and to their own kurus, the hate they had been taught with them now supposedly a lie.
You took a deep breath, gathering the last of your strength. "The way of fear we have lived in for so long is not right!" you cried out, your voice regaining some of its former power. "It is a cage, a poison that has been fed to us by those who seek to control us! The land is ours! The world is ours! If we simply accept it, if we open our hearts to Eywa's grace, we can be healed! We can be whole!"
Varang let out a loud, piercing screech, a sound that cut through the air like a shard of glass. Everyone fell silent, the murmuring dying instantly, the air growing thick with a sudden, suffocating dread. Her hand, slowly, deliberately, began to raise into the air. It was a gesture you knew all too well, a signal you had seen a hundred times on the training grounds, a command for a coordinated strike. Her fingers curled, one by one, into a fist.
Neteyam, his face pale with confusion, looked up at you. "What does it mean?" he asked, his voice tight with alarm.
Your eyes widened, the blood draining from your face as you turned and screamed the answer toward the Omatikaya, your voice a raw, desperate cry of warning.
The fire tribe roared into the sunset sky, a guttural, unified sound of pure, unadulterated rage that was swallowed by the howling wind. They raised their weapons, a forest of jagged spears and obsidian-tipped arrows, and the charge began. The battle was brutal from the first heartbeat. It was not a clash of armies, but a maelstrom of individual, desperate fights.
Ikrans, magnificent creatures of the forest, soared from above, their riders lean and blue against the bruised purple sky. They dove and banked, shooting down and landing amongst the Mangkwan, their bows a constant, deadly thrum. But the Mangkwan were born of this chaos. They met the charge with a ferocity that was born of generations of survival.
Flame-ridden arrows, their tips wrapped in oil-soaked cloth, shot through the wind, their trajectories unpredictable and deadly. They found their marks with an unforgiving fury, punching through the soft leather armor of the forest tribe, the impact a sickening, wet thud that was followed by the screams of the wounded.
Your chest heaved, each breath a ragged, painful gasp. No, no, no.
It was going all wrong. This wasn't supposed to happen.
They were listening to her.
The hope you had nurtured, the fragile seed of peace you had planted, was being crushed under the boots of your own people. You were standing in the middle of the battlefield, a small, still island in a sea of violence, caught between the two worlds you were desperately trying to unite. In between the Omatikaya, who fought with a fluid, desperate grace, and the Mangkwan, who fought with a savage, suicidal rage. Shouts echoed around you, a cacophony of war cries, screams of pain, and curses in your native tongue.
Flames licked at the edges of your vision, and arrows swished past your head, their fletching a blur of dark feathers, so close you could feel the displacement of air against your skin.
Your gaze caught Lo’ak's as he soared up on his Ikran, his face a mask of fierce concentration as he nocked, drew, and shot down an arrow in a single, fluid motion. He looked at you, his eyes meeting yours for a fleeting, heart-stopping moment, and you knew what he was saying without him having to say a word. His look was not one of triumph, but of grim, challenging finality. You had to make a choice.
The decision was not a thought, but an instinct, a primal surge that ripped through you. You jumped into battle, not with a cry, but with a silent, desperate resolve, your body moving to defend the Omatikaya warriors who were being overwhelmed. You ran, your feet pounding against the hard-packed earth, dodging a thrown spear and parrying a clumsy slash from a Mangkwan warrior you didn't recognize. You ran toward the nightwraith pens, toward the desperate, pleading cries of Vofeng. With a few swift, powerful cuts of your knife, you severed the thick, leather restraints that held him. He was free.
He dipped his great, horned head into your chest, a gesture of pure, unadulterated affection and relief, a low, rumbling purr vibrating through his body and into yours. For a single, absurd moment, you laughed, a wild, hysterical sound that was swallowed by the chaos around you. You quickly told him that they needed to focus, your hand stroking his sensitive, pebbled skin, the bond between you flaring to life, a silent, perfect communication.
You mounted him in a single, fluid motion, and together, you pierced through the sky. You flew from above, a vengeful angel of death, your bow a part of you, an extension of your own will. You pierced through the flesh of your people as you flew from above. Your people.
Tears streamed down your cheeks, hot and unstoppable, pain shooting through your heart with every beat of Vofeng's wings. Your arrow pierced through the air and into the head of a fire warrior, a clean, merciful kill that felt like a piece of your own soul being ripped away.
You recognized some people. Your babysitter, a woman with a kind smile and a missing finger, who used to tell you stories of the old world. Your teacher, a stern, grizzled old man who had taught you how to hold a knife before you could properly walk. A cousin or two, boys you had grown up with, their faces now contorted in a mask of hatred and vengeance as they looked up at you, their eyes burning with a betrayal so deep it was a physical blow.
They saw you not as a savior, but as a traitor, a monster who had turned on her own family, and in their eyes, you saw your own damnation.
A shriek of your name, a sound so raw and filled with agony that it sliced through the cacophony of the battle, alerts you immediately. Lew’eyn. Your head snaps in his direction, the world narrowing to a single point of origin, and you urge Vofeng down, a steep, terrifying dive toward the source of the cry. He’s hidden behind a low, crumbling wall, his body slumped against the stone, an arrow, fletched with the dark feathers of the Mangkwan, lodged deep in his stomach.
You jump from Vofeng, landing hard, your knees absorbing the shock. Vofeng, with a fierce, protective growl, spreads his large wings, creating a leathery, scaly shield around the two of you, a small, fragile sanctuary in the midst of the storm. You scramble to Lew’eyn's side, your hands trembling as you grab his face, his skin clammy and cold.
"Lew’eyn, hey, look at me," you babble, your voice a high, panicked pitch. You press your hands against his chest, trying to stem the flow of blood that was soaking his tunic, a futile gesture that you knew was meaningless. "You'll be okay. You're going to be okay, just stay with me."
You scream out for the Omatikaya, for the Mangkwan, for Eywa, for anyone. You screamed for help, your voice a raw, desperate plea that was swallowed by the roar of the flames and the clash of steel, but nobody heard you. You called out for Neteyam, your voice cracking with a desperate hope, yet he was nowhere to be found, lost in the chaos of the fight.
With a shaky, wet breath, Lew’eyn looks up at you, his eyes wide with a fear that went far beyond the pain of his wound. "Eywa won't let me in," he says in a scared, childlike tone, his voice barely a whisper. "I know it. I was angry. I was ruthless."
You nod, tears dropping down your face, each one a hot, salty brand on your cold skin. "No, she will," you choke out, your voice a broken, desperate promise. "She will, Lew’eyn. She will welcome you with open arms. You aren't ruthless. You aren't angry."
He smiles, a small, sad, bloody smile that doesn't reach his eyes. Blood streaks his teeth as he coughs out the crimson liquid, a wet, rattling sound that makes your heart seize in your chest. "Did I do the right thing?" he asks, his voice fading, his gaze searching yours for a final reassurance.
You nod with a broken-sobbed laugh, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony. "You did the right thing," you whisper, your forehead pressed against his. "You did so good."
He nods back, his eyes drawing heavy, the light in them beginning to dim. "I'm going to go see my brother now," he says, his voice a soft, peaceful sigh. His eyes close for the final time.
Your head throws back, a guttural, animalistic scream emitting from your throat, a sound of such profound, soul-shattering grief that it seemed to silence the battle for a single, horrifying moment. It was the scream of a world ending, the sound of a heart being ripped from a chest.
Neytiri hears this, her head snapping in your direction, her eyes widening at the sight of you. She saw herself. She saw herself cradling her sister, Sylwanin, her body growing cold. She saw herself kneeling over her father, his life bleeding out onto the forest floor. The memory, sharp and visceral, hit her with the force of a physical blow. She ran toward you, a fierce, protective fury in her eyes, attacking anyone who tried to get into her way, her knife a blur of motion. She reaches you, dropping to her knees, and grabs your shoulders, shaking you softly as your eyes are wide with a grief so immense it had hollowed you out, leaving only a shell.
"You must be strong hearted like I know you are," she says, her voice a fierce, urgent command. "We need you."
Your sobs that racked through your body slowly calm down, the violent tremors ceasing. They are instead masked with a heavy, rageful breathing, each inhale a deep, shuddering gasp, each exhale a hiss of pure, unadulterated fury. The grief doesn't go away; it curdles, solidifying into a hard, cold, heavy stone in your gut. Your teeth curl into a snarl, and Neytiri nods her head, a gesture of grim approval.
"Feel the rage," she tells you, her voice a low, dangerous growl. "Let it fuel you."
She helps you up, her grip strong and steady, and runs back into the battle. Your gaze, now sharp and cold with a deadly purpose, fixates on two figures locked in a desperate struggle. Neteyam and Varang. They are fighting, and he is losing.
You growl, a sound that is not a word but a pure, primal vibration of rage and grief, a promise of violence. You pounce, your body a coiled spring of unleashed fury, covering the distance between you and the struggle in a single, explosive movement. Varang is about to lay her final blow down on Neteyam, her obsidian knife raised, its edge glinting in the firelight, a look of cold, triumphant finality on her face.
You throw yourself, grabbing her mid-air, your bodies colliding with a sickening thud of flesh and bone. You use her own momentum against her, twisting and heaving, throwing her to the ground with a force that knocks the wind from her lungs.
You’re crouched overtop of Neteyam, your body a living shield, hissing wildly, a feral, protective sound that rips from your throat. Your eyes are bloodshot, the vessels burst from the strain of your grief, the whites a shocking, vivid red against the golden iris. Your breathing is heavy, each ragged gasp a struggle against the crushing weight in your chest, the air burning in your lungs.
Varang's eyes widen in shock, her expression a volatile cocktail of disbelief and a dawning, terrifying respect. It's there, a flicker of acknowledgment for your power, for the sheer ferocity of your defense, but it's instantly consumed by a wild, undiluted anger.
"Is this what you pick?" she snarls, her voice a venomous hiss from the ground. "These forest freaks? This boy over your own blood?"
You only hiss back in response, a sound that is both an answer and a declaration of war. It's a rejection of everything she stands for, everything she made you. Varang laughs, a dry, grating sound that is devoid of all humor. She slowly raises her kuru, the long, slender neural queue, her intention clear in the malevolent glint of her eyes. You knew what she was going to do. You had watched her do it a hundred times. To dying animals that were too weak to keep up. To dying people who had failed her. To Neteyam, months before. She was going to force the bond, a violation so profound it was a fate worse than death.
So without thinking and as quickly as you could, you sprung up and wrap the white, fleshy tendrils of your own kuru around hers. It's a desperate, reckless act, a connection forged not in trust but in defiance. The world explodes. A torrent of raw, agonizing energy floods your senses, a cacophony of her hatred, her ambition, her pain, and her utter, soul-crushing betrayal all slamming into you at once. It's a violation, a psychic rape that feels like it's tearing your mind apart.
She drops to her knees in pain, her mouth agape in a soundless cry, her body convulsing as the raw, unfiltered force of your grief-fueled rage overwhelms her.
The remaining Mangkwan and Omatikaya noticed. The fighting slowly begins to cease as they watch you, a lone, terrifying figure, locked in a battle of wills over the top of your mother.
The battlefield falls silent, the only sound the crackle of flames and the shared, horrified gasps of two tribes witnessing an abomination.
She manages to struggle out, her voice a strained, pathetic wheeze. "You would really do this to me? I raised you, child. You are me." The words are a physical blow, a poisoned dagger twisting in your heart.
You breathe hard, the air thick with the metallic taste of blood and betrayal, debating your next moves. The grief, the rage, the love, the hate—it all coalesces into a single, blinding point of agony. You scream, a sound that is pure, unadulterated pain, as you pull your knife out and wrench it into her, the blade sinking into her flesh with a sickening, final softness. Your eyes are shut tight, unable to watch as you commit the ultimate sin, the act that severs your past and damns your future.
The knife felt impossibly heavy in your hand, its hilt slick with your own sweat and the blood of your mother. A profound, deafening silence fell over the battlefield, a vacuum where the sounds of war had been just moments before. The energy that had sustained you, the white-hot rage that had been your shield and your sword, evaporated in an instant, leaving behind a cold, hollow ache that was infinitely worse.
The strength drained from your limbs, and you dropped down to your knees next to her, the impact jarring your bones. You hesitantly shook her, a small, desperate gesture, as if you could somehow wake her from this final, irreversible sleep.
"Mama?" you whispered, the word a fragile, broken thing.
Tears filled your eyes once more, hot and stinging, blurring the edges of her still, pale face. You shook your head, a denial of the reality you had just created. You apologized, crying out incoherently, a torrent of grief-stricken babbling, a string of meaningless pleas and regrets that were lost on the wind.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to, I'm sorry, Mama, please..."
After a moment that stretched into an eternity, you took a deep, shuddering breath, the air tasting of ash and regret. You forced yourself to stand up, your legs trembling, your body screaming in protest. You looked down at her, at the woman who had been your world, your tormentor, and your teacher.
You saw not a monster, but a victim of a world that had broken her, a cycle of violence you had just, in the most brutal way possible, ended.
"Oel ngati kameie," you whispered to your mother, the words a final, ironic blessing.
You turned and walked back toward the crowd, each step a monumental effort, your body moving on autopilot while your soul was shattered into a million pieces.
"Varang is dead," you announced, your voice flat, devoid of all emotion, yet it carried across the silent, stunned clearing.
The group of both tribes remained silent, a collective, unified wave of shock and disbelief. The Mangkwan stared at you, their faces a mixture of horror, relief, and a dawning, terrifying uncertainty. The Omatikaya watched you, their expressions a complex tapestry of awe, pity, and a grudging, hard-won respect.
You looked at them, at the two halves of your torn soul, and you began to speak, your voice gaining strength with each word, a heartfelt speech that poured from the deepest, most broken part of you.
"I came to you a stranger," you began, your gaze sweeping over the Omatikaya warriors.
"An enemy. I came from a world of fire and fear, a world where love was a weakness and trust was a death sentence. But you... you showed me something else." Your eyes found Neteyam, his face pale and streaked with dirt, his expression one of profound, unwavering support.
"You showed me that there is strength in kindness, that there is power in unity. You taught me that family isn't just about blood. It's about choice. It's about standing by someone, even when the whole world is telling you to run. With you, I found meaning. I found purpose. I found a family."
You turned to the Mangkwan, your own people, your heart aching for their lost, leaderless souls. "And I know what you were taught. I know what I taught you. I know the anger you feel, the pain that has festered in your hearts for generations. I know it because I felt it too. I was you."
You took a shaky breath, the truth of your next words a heavy, bitter pill to swallow. "And though I may never forgive Eywa for what she took from us, for the mountain that died and the lives that were lost, it is unfair to say she is a deity of evil when she’s done so much good for the world. She gave us the forest, the sky, the ikrans. She gave us life. The poison was not in her, but in us. In our fear. In our refusal to heal."
You looked at them all, at the sea of faces, both blue and grey, your own tears now dry, replaced by a steely, unyielding resolve. "So?" you breathe, your eyes shaky but clear as they gaze across the crowd, your voice a raw, powerful challenge. "Who's with me?"
After two years of living in the intertwined embrace of the forest and mountains, you had grown used to it. The air, once thin and acrid with the scent of sulfur and ash, was now thick with the sweet perfume of alien blossoms and damp earth. The constant, grating roar of the dying mountain had been replaced by the symphony of the forest, the chirping of unseen creatures and the gentle rustle of leaves.
After the battle, many Mangkwan, their spirits broken and their hearts open to the possibility of a different life, decided to join the Omatikaya, though with great hesitation. One by one, they each saw the truth you had preached, their hard, ashen faces softening as they learned to smile, their eyes filled with a genuine appreciation for the breathtaking beauty of Eywa.
The others stayed back, choosing the familiar comfort of their dying home over the daunting promise of a new one. You don’t know how they’re doing, and you quite frankly don’t want to.
That part of your life was a closed chapter, a scar you had learned to live with.
Lew’eyn’s body was carried back after the fight, a solemn procession that bridged two worlds, and laid to rest near the Spirit Tree. It was a place of peace, of eternal connection, and you would sometimes go there, alone, to connect your kuru with the great, weeping branches of the tree. In the glowing, neural network, you could pay him a visit, a silent, ethereal reunion where you would speak to his spirit, and to his brother, too, and greet the ancestors who welcomed him with open arms.
One year into your time with the Omatikaya, you had begun courting Neteyam, though the two of you hadn't yet been officially mated. It took Jake a bit of warming up, his protective instincts as a father and a former warrior warring with his understanding of a world he had once been an outsider to himself. But after a long, pointed scolding from Neytiri, who saw in you the same fire and resilience she possessed, he got it through his thick skull. He was you once, and he learned to appreciate your different ways, your unyielding strength, and the fierce, unconditional love you had for his son.
Vofeng landed on the perch of the cliff next to Neteyam’s ikran, the two great beasts nudging each other in a gesture of familiar affection. Neteyam watched you dismount, a lazy, teasing smile playing on his lips. "Still flying like you're trying to set the sky on fire," he teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "One of these days, you're going to give Vofeng a heart attack."
You rolled your eyes, a playful smirk tugging at your own lips. "And you're still flying like you're afraid to get your wings wet," you retorted, poking him in the chest. "Somebody has to keep things exciting."
You walk through the mountains, your eyes filled with a quiet, profound admiration as you see former Mangkwan and Omatikaya bonding, their shared past a bridge rather than a chasm. Children, their skin a beautiful mix of deep blue and soft grey, played happily together, their laughter a sound that never failed to fill you with a sense of hope.
You and Neteyam make your way to the Spirit Tree one night, the bioluminescent flora lighting your path like a trail of fallen stars.
"I still think about it. About her." You sigh, breath shaky as you pull your knees to your chest. Neteyam nods, his hand resting on the small of your back.
"Do you regret it?" He asks softly. The two of you hadn't spoken much about it before, it was always a hurt that the two of you would rather forget about. You don't respond for a moment, seriously debating whether you did in fact regret it. With a confidence that you usually hadn't had, you shook your head.
"I love her. That will never change," You begin, your eyes flickering to the Spirit Tree, "but I do not like her. And saving her would have only brought more pain."
"It is not your fault." Neteyam voices, seeing your lip quiver at his words. Deep down you knew it wasn't your fault, but to hear the words made everything feel like you were walking in the clouds.
Neteyam grabs your chin, his touch gentle but firm, his gaze soft with understanding and love. He pulls you into a kiss, a soft, tender press of his lips against yours that speaks volumes, a silent promise of forever.
The kiss deepens, softness giving way to a heated, desperate need. His lips part yours, his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth, a silent request for entry that you grant with a soft sigh.
His hands roam your body, one tangling in your hair, the other sliding down your back to cup your ass, pulling you flush against him. He pulls you onto his lap, dragging your hips across his growing bulge, the friction sending a jolt of electricity straight through you.
You moan, a low, throaty sound that is swallowed by his kiss. He kisses down your skin softly, his lips a trail of fire against your neck, your collarbone, the sensitive skin of your chest. He squeezes your breasts with a soft hunger, his thumbs brushing against your hardened nipples, the sensation a delicious, teasing torment.
He slowly lies you down on the glowing, ethereal grass, the soft light of the flora illuminating your body in a heavenly glow. He kisses down your body, his lips and tongue worshipping every inch of your skin, until his head is between your legs.
He lowers his head, his long braids spilling over his shoulders to brush against your stomach. You feel the ghost of his breath against your core, and a shiver runs through you. He takes his time, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your thighs, his lips trailing a path of fire that makes you arch your hips in silent invitation. His tongue darts out, tasting your skin, and you can't help the soft whimper that escapes your lips.
Finally, his attention centers on where you need him most. He uses his thumbs to gently part your folds, exposing you completely to his gaze. You feel a moment of vulnerability, but it's quickly erased by the reverent look in his eyes. He leans in and gives a slow, deliberate lick from your entrance to your clit. The sensation is electric, a jolt of pure pleasure that makes you gasp and your toes curl.
Neteyam doesn't rush. He explores you with a patient, thorough curiosity, learning every curve and sensitive spot. His tongue is clever and insistent, swirling around your clit before flattening to press against it with firm, steady pressure. He alternates between broad, languid strokes and quick, flicking motions that send sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine. One of his hands leaves your thigh, and you feel his fingers gently probing your entrance, circling it before slowly sinking inside you.
He curls his fingers just right, finding that spot inside that makes your vision blur. The dual stimulation is overwhelming. His mouth works your clit with relentless precision while his fingers pump into you, setting a rhythm that has your hips rocking against his face. You can hear the wet, slick sounds of his mouth on you, mingled with your own ragged breaths and the soft groans he makes deep in his throat, as if tasting you is the greatest pleasure he's ever known.
Your hands fly to his hair, your fingers tangling in his braids, holding him to you as the pressure inside you builds to an unbearable peak. "Neteyam," you gasp, his name a prayer on your lips. He responds by sucking your clit into his mouth, his tongue flicking against it rapidly while his fingers press harder against that sensitive spot inside.
That's all it takes. The pleasure crests and shatters through you, a wave of intense, blinding ecstasy that washes over every inch of your body. You cry out, your back bowing off the bed as your muscles clench around his fingers. He doesn't stop, drawing out your orgasm, lapping up your release as you ride the waves of pleasure until you're spent and trembling.
When the last tremor subsides, he gently withdraws his fingers and places one last, soft kiss on your overly sensitive clit. He moves up your body, covering you with his warmth, and you can taste yourself on his lips when he kisses you deeply. His golden eyes are soft, filled with a deep, satisfied love as he looks down at you, a lazy smile playing on his lips.
He slowly takes off his tewng, his hard, thick cock springing free, and wordlessly looks up at you to ask if this is okay. You breathe out a yes, your mouth opening into a silent moan as he pushes in, the slow, deliberate stretch a delicious, burning pleasure. He holds himself in you for a moment, his body still, as your vaginal walls clench around him, getting used to the hissing pain of his size. The pain slowly turns into pleasure, a deep, satisfying ache that spreads through your entire body, and Neteyam begins rocking in.
He goes slow at first, his movements a gentle, rhythmic sway, a slow, sensual dance that builds a new, more intense fire within you. You beg for him to do it harder, faster, your voice a desperate, breathless plea. He obliges, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, deeper, his hips slapping against yours with a wet, rhythmic sound. Your nails scratch up and down against his back, leaving red, angry welts in their wake, a testament to your passion.
With a whine, you cum once more, your body convulsing around him, your vision going white with pleasure. Neteyam buries himself deep inside of you, his own release a hot, powerful rush, his cum spilling into your pussy, a primal, possessive claim. He burrows his head in your neck, breathing hard as he softly kisses your sweat-slicked skin. "Nga yawne lu oer," he breathes, his voice a low, satisfied rumble, staring deep into your fiery eyes.
"Nga yawne lu oer, tsa," you respond, your voice a soft, breathless whisper, staring into his deep, golden eyes.
Yes, your minds were littered with the scarring memories of the war. And you had in fact given Varang the exact martyred death she would've always hoped for.
But from your mistakes came the fruit of life that you ever so desperately wanted to grow. You wanted to grow it with your changed people, with your new people, with your person.
A part of you will always wonder what could've been if Varang lived. If you had stayed Mangkwan. But months later, as you hold your growing stomach and the tribe celebrates the first grandchild of the Olo'eyktan, you forget any curiosities.
You realize you were never poison. You had never poisoned anyone, and you weren't tainted when you began learning the ways of the Omatikaya. You were the cure, the bridge between two hating worlds.
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