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PS.: I only watched the 3rd movie once so I didn't remembered it well. But I know I changed some things (especially about Spider) so that it would fit better in the story
Warning! This fic has a scene where a character is about to commit suicide. If you are sensible or triggered with those type of things do not read this!
The first thing that changed was your body, though at first you refused to call it change. You told yourself it was the heat. You told yourself it was the heaviness of the reef season, the long days spent between hunting parties and training grounds, the stubborn strain of rebuilding trust inside a home where everyone had learned too recently that love could wound as deeply as hatred when fear was given teeth. You told yourself many things because you had survived enough lives to know that hope was dangerous when it arrived without warning. Hope had always seemed gentler than fear from a distance, but up close it had claws too.
Ronal noticed before you did, which should not have surprised you. She knew bodies the way Tonowari knew weather, by changes too small for most eyes and by silences that sat wrong beneath ordinary movement. Her hands would pause when you passed her in the marui, her gaze lingering on the way you pressed your palm to your lower stomach after a long swim or the way you stopped eating certain foods you had loved for years. She said nothing at first, perhaps because she had learned from the last breaking of your family that not every truth could be taken by force simply because she was certain of it.
Tonowari noticed only when you stumbled coming out of the water after a hunt that should not have tired you. He was on you in three strides, his hand around your forearm before your knees had fully softened, his face tightening with a fear he tried and failed to make invisible. You hated that look immediately. It made you feel fragile in a body that had been built by humans, claimed by Eywa, and hardened through years of battle until the clan had learned to stop measuring you by the hands you had been given.
“I am fine” you said before he could ask.
Tonowari did not release your arm. “You are standing because I am holding you.”
“That is an exaggeration.”
“No. It is not.” he said quietly.
You pulled your arm back because his worry touched too close to something you did not want named. The hunters around you pretended to busy themselves with lines and spears, though you could feel every ear turned toward the exchange. That irritated you more than the dizziness did. You were leader of hunters and warriors, not a child who needed to be carried back to the village because the world had briefly tilted under her feet.
By evening, Ronal had decided she was finished waiting. She found you near the edge of the marui after the children had gone out together, Tsireya to help the younger girls with weaving and Ao’nung to pretend he was not hovering too close to the Sully children whenever Lo’ak or Kiri crossed the beach. Tonowari was away speaking with the elders. The light was low and gold, slipping through the woven walls in narrow bands that warmed Ronal’s face and made her eyes harder to avoid. You knew that expression. It was the one she wore when she had already seen the wound and was only deciding how quickly to open it.
“Sit” she said.
You looked at her. “No.”
“Sit” she repeated, slower this time “before I decide to make this uglier than it needs to be.”
There had been a time when you would have bristled at the command and snapped back because Ronal’s sharpness had always known how to find your own. Now you only stared at her long enough to prove that obedience had not come easily, then lowered yourself onto the woven mat near the center of the marui. The choice softened something in her face for a heartbeat. She moved toward you with medicine-sure hands, but she stopped before touching, waiting for the small nod you forced yourself to give.
Her fingers found your wrist first. Then your throat. Then the side of your face, not because she needed to check there, you suspected, but because she could not help herself. The touch was professional, controlled, and threaded through with a tenderness she had become more careful about showing since the night you left. She did not ask what you felt. She watched your body answer for you.
“How long?” she asked.
You swallowed. “How long what?”
Ronal’s eyes lifted to yours, and the look in them stripped the lie bare before it had even finished forming.
Your mouth opened. Nothing came. The silence that followed seemed to fill with every old grief you had buried under duty. You thought of seasons counted in disappointment and of your own hands pressed against your stomach in the dark when Ronal slept beside you and Tonowari breathed warm against your back. You thought of every time you had smiled at another woman’s newborn until your cheeks hurt, every time you had told yourself Tsireya and Ao’nung were enough because they were more than enough and because wanting did not erase gratitude. Ronal’s hand moved to your lower belly. You flinched.
She stopped at once. The restraint hurt almost more than pressure would have. “May I?” she asked, and that question, from Ronal of all people, nearly broke something in you.
You nodded once. Her palm settled gently over you. She closed her eyes. For a long moment the whole world seemed to narrow to that touch and the distant hush of water beneath the marui. You did not breathe properly. You were afraid that if you moved, the answer might change. When Ronal opened her eyes, they were shining.
“No” you whispered before she could speak.
Her brows drew together. “You do not know what I will say.”
“Yes, I do” you said, and your voice cracked around terror rather than anger. “No. Do not say it if you are not certain. Do not put that in my hands if it can still turn to ash.”
Ronal’s face broke in a way you had rarely seen outside grief. She shifted closer, both hands coming to hold your face now, not as Tsahìk but as mate. “I am certain.” You stared at her.
“I know life when I feel it.” she said.
The sound that left you did not resemble joy at first. It was too rough, too wounded, dragged out of the place where hope and disbelief had fought until neither could stand. Ronal gathered you before you could fall away from yourself. You clutched at her shoulders and shook, furious with her for being right, furious with your body for making you wait so long, furious with Eywa for answering when you had almost stopped asking.
Tonowari came in during the worst of it. He stopped at the entrance as if the sight of you in Ronal’s arms had struck him through the chest. Then he saw Ronal’s face, saw the placement of her hand, saw the way your own had curved protectively over your lower belly without conscious thought. His expression changed so slowly it almost hurt to witness. Understanding arrived first, then disbelief, then a joy so raw and frightened that it looked almost like pain.
“Is it true?” he asked. You tried to answer and failed.
Ronal looked at him over your shoulder. “Yes.”
Tonowari crossed the marui with none of his usual measured calm. He dropped to his knees beside you and touched you only after your hand reached for him, as if even in wonder he remembered that this was not a moment to seize. His palm covered yours and Ronal’s over your stomach. The three of you stayed like that in a silence too full to hold words, hands layered over the impossible, over the life none of you had dared speak of for too long.
Your laugh came out broken. “Do not look so pleased. I may still blame both of you.”
Tonowari pressed his forehead to your temple, his breath shaking. “You may blame me for anything you like.”
Ronal huffed softly, though her tears had already fallen. “For once, he speaks wisely.”
The absurdity of it drew another laugh from you, wetter this time, and then you were crying again with both of them around you. It was not clean happiness. It had too much history under it, too many years of pretending acceptance did not ache, too much fear that an avatar body made by human science might carry life differently or fail in some way no Tsahìk had seen before. Yet beneath the fear there was wonder, and beneath the wonder there was love, stubborn and bright and terrifying.
When Tsireya found out, she cried before you finished saying it. She had come running at Ronal’s call, Ao’nung behind her trying to look less frantic than he was. You had barely managed to sit upright again before your daughter was kneeling in front of you, her eyes already wide, her fingers hovering in the air because she did not know whether she was allowed to touch. That hesitation softened you instantly. You took her hand and placed it over the slight curve that was not yet visible to anyone else but had suddenly become the center of the world.
“There is your sibling.” you said softly.
Tsireya made a sound like the tide had entered her chest. She bent forward and pressed her forehead gently to your stomach, crying openly now, her hands careful but trembling. “Hello, little one” she whispered, and you had to close your eyes because the sweetness of it was almost unbearable. Tonowari’s hand settled at the back of her neck, and Ronal stood close enough that her fingers brushed your shoulder.
Ao’nung did not move. You saw it at once, because you were his mother and because guilt wore a different shape on him than on anyone else. He stood near the entrance with his shoulders tight, joy and fear locked together in his face. For a moment he looked very young. Younger than he had when he had spat those unforgivable words and then sobbed himself hollow trying to take them back.
“Ao’nung” you said.
His eyes snapped to yours. “I am happy.”
“I know.”
“I am” he insisted, too quickly, too fiercely. “I am. I just—”
His mouth shut hard. You held out your free hand. He came then, slow at first, then faster when you kept your hand extended. He knelt beside Tsireya but did not touch your stomach until you guided him. His fingers were rough from training, his palm warm and uncertain. The moment his hand rested beside his sister’s, his expression cracked.
“You made me a mother first” you told him. His eyes filled so fast he looked away.
“You and Tsireya” you continued, because this mattered too much to leave half-said. “Before this child. Before any child of my body. You made me a mother when you chose my arms, when you cried for me, when you learned from me, when you came home to me. Blood does not move backward through time and take that away.”
Ao’nung bowed his head.
“You will know it until it becomes stronger than fear” you said. “And when you forget, I will remind you.”
He leaned forward before pride could stop him and pressed his face against your shoulder. You wrapped one arm around him while Tsireya stayed curled against your lap, and for a while the four of you remained tangled there with Tonowari and Ronal watching over you. The child inside you was new. The family around you was not. That truth steadied you more than the miracle itself.
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Rumor traveled through Awa’atlu faster than a storm wind. At first the clan reacted with joy because a child in the home of the Olo’eyktan and Tsahìk was no small thing. Then came the quieter second wave, the one you had expected and hated yourself for expecting. The looks returned, different now but not gone. Some were astonished, some reverent, some uneasy, as if your body had done something they had not believed it could do and that success made their earlier judgment more shameful rather than less.
Ronal saw it too. This time, she did not let it pass. You heard her before you saw her one morning, her voice carrying over the low platform where three older women had gone silent too late. She did not shout. Ronal rarely needed volume to make others feel small. She said only that the child in your body was not a curiosity for idle mouths, that the mother carrying it was not a subject for old poison dressed as wonder, and that any person who could not separate blessing from cruelty would answer to her directly.
The women bowed their heads. You stood half-hidden behind a screen of hanging nets and felt something inside you loosen in grief rather than relief. The words reached something in you that had gone too long without being touched. Hearing them now brought comfort, but it also reopened the ache of every year they had remained unsaid. Healing, you were learning, was not the gentle erasure of pain but the strange experience of being protected now and mourning the version of yourself who had needed it earlier.
Tonowari changed too. He began correcting whispers with a calm that made the correction more devastating. He brought you into council even when others glanced at your stomach and then at your bow as if pregnancy should have unmade your authority overnight. He called you leader of hunters in front of those who had tried to soften your duties without asking you. He did not make a spectacle of defending you, but he did make it impossible to pretend the defense was not happening.
You loved him for that. You also resented that love had needed instruction. Both things were true, and because your family had nearly broken before, none of you pretended otherwise.
Pregnancy did not make the days gentler. If anything, it made every ordinary duty feel watched. When you crossed the training platforms with a bow over your shoulder, eyes followed the slight change in your gait before they followed the weapon in your hand. When you climbed down into the shallows to correct a young hunter's balance, someone always seemed ready to offer an arm you had not asked for. You understood the care beneath some of it, but care that arrived without respect could feel too close to a cage.
Ronal learned that lesson badly for several mornings in a row. She tried to reduce your duties without saying she was reducing them, which was almost worse than command because it meant she believed subtlety could survive marriage. You found younger warriors assigned to tasks that were yours, hunting reports delivered first to Tonowari, and one carefully chosen elder waiting near the outer platforms as if you might need supervision to walk from one end of the village to the other. By the third day, you stood in the middle of the marui with one hand on your hip and the other over the small life inside you, staring at Ronal until she finally looked up from her herbs.
"You are rearranging my work." You said.
Ronal did not even attempt innocence. "You are carrying my child."
"Our child" you corrected.
"Yes. And because it is our child, I am choosing not to let your pride drown both of you."
Tonowari, who had been wise enough to remain silent until then, suddenly found great interest in a fishing line near his knee. Tsireya pressed her lips together as if physically restraining herself from smiling. Ao'nung looked from Ronal to you with the tense fascination of someone watching lightning gather over open water.
You pointed at Tonowari without looking away from Ronal. "If he laughs, I will throw something."
Tonowari lowered his head further. "I am not laughing."
"Your shoulders are laughing."
Tsireya made a tiny sound and failed to hide it in a cough. The argument should have sparked harder than it did. It would have, once. Now Ronal's eyes softened before your anger had fully found its footing, and the softness made you more vulnerable than a fight would have. She crossed the marui slowly, stopping close enough that her hand could cover yours over your belly if you allowed it. You did, though you kept your glare sharp enough to preserve some dignity.
"I am afraid" she said.
The simple admission stole most of the force from you. Ronal hated saying such things where the children could hear, but she said it anyway. Tsireya's smile vanished, and Ao'nung's face tightened with the sudden understanding that adult fear did not always look like trembling. Sometimes it looked like control. Sometimes it looked like orders. Sometimes it looked like a Tsahìk trying to move the entire world around the one body she could not bear to lose.
"I know" you said, quieter.
"Then help me be afraid in a way that does not make you feel alone" Ronal answered.
You stared at her, and for a moment all the old anger had nowhere to go. It did not disappear. It only changed shape. You took her wrist and guided her hand more firmly against your stomach, then looked toward Tonowari because he had been trying to vanish into the wall for long enough.
"No more moving my duties without asking me."
Tonowari nodded at once. "No more."
"And no sending elders to hover near me as if I might fall into the sea because the wind looks at me wrong."
"That was Ronal" he said. Ronal's head turned slowly.
Tonowari met her stare with the bravery of a warrior who had survived many battles and somehow forgotten that none of them had prepared him for this one. "It was mostly Ronal" he amended.
Ao'nung lost the fight and laughed. The sound broke the tension so suddenly that even you felt your mouth twitch. Ronal clicked her tongue at all of you, offended and relieved in equal measure. Tsireya came forward and tucked herself under your free arm, resting her cheek against your shoulder with the ease of a daughter who had decided the argument had ended in safety. Ao'nung drifted closer too, pretending he only wanted to retrieve the spear leaning behind you, and you caught him by the back of the neck before he could escape.
"You too" you said.
He froze. "Me?"
"If you start treating me like I am made of shell and foam, I will embarrass you in front of every young warrior in this village."
Ao'nung's ears flicked back. "I would never."
Tsireya looked at him. Tonowari looked at him. Ronal looked at him. You looked at him.
He sighed with the long suffering of someone surrounded by unreasonable people. "I will try not to."
"Better" you said.
That became the rule of the season. They were allowed to worry. They were not allowed to make your body a public council matter without your consent. Some days they succeeded beautifully. Other days Ronal's eyes narrowed when you lifted something heavier than she liked, Tonowari appeared at your elbow with a timing too perfect to be accidental, and Ao'nung moved objects out of your path so clumsily that you nearly tripped over his helpfulness. Every failure annoyed you. Every attempt touched you. Both truths lived together, as most truths in your family had learned to do.
At night, when the village quieted and the children settled into the softer versions of themselves, the baby became everyone's favorite secret. Tsireya spoke to your belly as if the child already understood every word. She reported the tide, the weather, gossip from the younger girls, and whether Lo'ak had managed to complete a lesson without making Ao'nung roll his eyes. She told the baby about her first ilu, about the taste of sweet reef fruit after a long swim, about how beautiful Ronal looked when she was angry and how Tonowari pretended not to be sentimental even though everyone knew better. You would sit with your back against a woven support, laughing until Ronal reminded Tsireya that unborn children did not need quite so much village gossip.
Ao'nung was different. He waited until others slept or pretended to, then sat near your side with careful casualness and said very little. Sometimes his hand rested over the baby only after you reached for it first. Sometimes he asked questions in a voice too low for his father to hear, practical questions about whether the baby could hear him, whether they would know his voice, whether babies remembered being carried. Beneath each question sat another one he did not ask. Will she take my place? Will you love her differently? Will blood show you something I never could? You answered the hidden questions more than the spoken ones.
"She will know you" you told him one night. "Not because of blood. Because you will be there. You will be annoying and loud and overprotective, and they will know you the way children know those who keep returning."
Ao'nung looked down at his own hand. "I do not want to be like I was."
"Then do not be."
He huffed faintly. "You make it sound easy."
"No" you said. "I make it sound like a choice you repeat until it becomes easier. That is different."
He considered that for a long time. Then he leaned sideways until his shoulder rested against your thigh, not quite asking for comfort and not quite hiding that he wanted it. You laid your hand over his hair and let your fingers move slowly through the braids. Ao'nung closed his eyes. For all his height, for all the muscle and pride he had grown into, he was still your boy when the night grew soft enough for truth.
Ronal watched from the other side of the marui with a grief-tender expression. You met her eyes over Ao'nung's bowed head. She understood what she was seeing. She understood that motherhood had not begun in your body, that the child under your heart was not replacing the children already wrapped around it. Her mouth trembled once, then steadied, and you knew she was thinking of the night she had made the wound worse instead of protecting it. Later, when Ao'nung had gone to his sleeping mat and Tsireya had finally stopped murmuring stories to the baby, Ronal crawled close and lay with her cheek near your stomach.
"I was cruel" she whispered.
You did not pretend not to know what she meant. "Yeah."
Her hand spread over you, reverent and aching. "I thought your desire for this child was a measure of what mine could not give you. I thought if I looked too closely at the wound, I would find an accusation there. So I turned away from it until my turning away became its own kind of cruelty." The honesty hurt. It also healed in the slow, unpleasant way cleaning a wound did.
"I wanted both" you said at last. "I wanted them, and I wanted this. One hunger did not make the other false."
Ronal closed her eyes. "I know that now."
"Then remember it when they come." Your voice shook, and you hated that it did. "If they have my hands, my body, my strange pieces, do not make them feel that love has to defend itself before they are old enough to understand why."
Ronal rose onto one elbow, fierce even through tears. "Never."
Tonowari, who had been awake the whole time because none of you had ever been as subtle as you believed, reached across and settled his hand over both of yours. "Never" he echoed.
You let yourself believe them. Not because belief came easily. Because the child would need you to make room for it.
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Jake noticed the pregnancy before it became public because Jake noticed things he was not supposed to mention. You were on the training rocks with him at dawn, though by then training had become more conversation than correction. He was improving. Not elegantly, because Jake Sully had never been built for elegance when stubbornness could do the work instead, but he listened better than most warriors twice his age. That morning he saw you pause with one hand braced against a root, your breath caught too sharply for the effort you had just made. He did not ask until the others had moved away.
“You good?” he said in English.
You looked at him. “That is a dangerous question.”
“Yeah” he said. “Usually means the answer is no.”
You should have brushed him off. Instead, perhaps because English still carried the strange privacy of a locked room inside a crowded house, you let the silence answer too long. Jake’s eyes dropped briefly to your hand where it had settled over your stomach. Then he looked away immediately, soldier-polite in a way that almost made you laugh.
“Oh” he said.
“Do not say anything.”
“I won’t.”
“I mean it, Sully.”
He lifted both hands. “I heard you.”
You studied him for a long moment, searching for pity or joke or some clumsy attempt at celebration. He gave you none. Only a look that understood fear before joy because he had carried children through war and knew that love did not make the world safer simply by existing.
After a while he said quietly “Congratulations.”
The word was simple. Earth-shaped. Spoken by someone who understood enough of the before to know that after could still hurt. You nodded once, unable to trust your voice, and Jake let it rest there. That was why the friendship endured. Not because he knew all of you, but because he knew when not to reach too far.
The friendship with Jake did not become large all at once. It grew in the small spaces other people did not know how to enter. A correction given in Na'vi and then repeated in English when he misunderstood the nuance. A shared wince when a young warrior used a phrase that sounded painfully like some old barracks insult stripped of context. A quiet moment after training when Jake admitted that reef life made him feel clumsy in ways the forest had not, and you told him clumsiness was only embarrassing when pride insisted on calling it strategy.
He laughed at that. Ronal heard it from across the platform. You saw her face close by a fraction before she turned back to the medicines she had been sorting. Tonowari, standing near the canoe racks, did not look over at all, which meant he had noticed even more. Their jealousy was softer now than it had been before the breaking of your family, but softer did not mean absent. They no longer believed friendship meant betrayal. They did, however, still feel the sting of a door opening in you when someone else knew the sound of its hinges.
This time, you did not let the silence feed itself. That evening, after Tsireya had left to meet the Sully girls and Ao'nung had gone to the shore with Rotxo, you sat with your mates near the low lamps and told them about a city neither of them could imagine. Not much. Not everything. Only one small piece, offered without ceremony because ceremony would have made it too painful. You told them about metal rain against old windows, about sleeping in rooms where air came from vents and not from trees, about music played too loudly by exhausted soldiers who pretended noise could replace home. Tonowari listened as if you were describing a dangerous animal. Ronal listened as if you were describing a wound.
"Jake remembers that kind of noise" you said. "That is all. Not desire. Not secrecy. Memory recognizing another survivor of the same ruin."
Ronal's hands were folded in her lap. "And we did not ask." You looked at her. She did not look away. "You told me that when we fought. I have thought of it since. I do not know how to ask without making you return to pain for my curiosity." The answer was so careful that your chest ached.
"Ask badly" you said.
Tonowari's brow furrowed. "Badly?"
"Yes. Ask and be clumsy. Ask and use the wrong words. Ask and let me tell you no when I cannot answer. It is better than treating the before as a corpse hidden under our sleeping mat." You looked between them, and for once you did not soften the edge of the truth. "I do not need you to understand Earth. I need you to want to understand me."
Tonowari reached for your hand. Ronal moved closer until her shoulder touched yours. So you told them another thing. A small, ridiculous story about the first time you had heard a marine try to dance on a table during a storm delay, how the table had collapsed, how everyone had laughed so hard that even the commanding officer had given up on discipline for three whole breaths. Ronal looked appalled, which made Tonowari laugh, which made you laugh, which made the baby move as if offended by the noise.
The next time Jake hummed a half-remembered song near the training platforms, you did not join him at once. You looked toward your mates first. Tonowari only inclined his head, fond and pained and trying. Ronal rolled her eyes in a way that said she still did not understand why old human songs had to sound so much like wounded animals, but she did not turn away. That was enough. You hummed a few notes with Jake, careful not to make the moment larger than it needed to be, and when the memory hurt you carried it home instead of leaving your family outside it.
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The tulkun returned with song. Awa’atlu became movement before sunrise, the village waking into joy so complete it seemed to lift the very platforms underfoot. Children raced screaming toward the water. Hunters abandoned work without shame. Elders smiled with their whole faces. The sea beyond the reef filled with dark, rolling shapes, enormous and graceful, and the air rang with the calls of a people greeting their other family after long separation.
You stood at the edge of the water with Ronal on one side and Tonowari on the other, one hand unconsciously cupped under the curve that was now visible enough that no one could pretend not to see it. Tsireya was already in the shallows, laughing as she pulled Tuk forward with Kiri close behind. Ao’nung and Rotxo tried to look dignified for all of three heartbeats before the first tulkun call broke over them and dignity lost.
Ro’a came first for Ronal. The great female rose from the water with a sound that seemed to vibrate through bone, one immense eye turning toward your mate with recognition so tender it made even grief bow its head. Ronal went to her as if drawn by the oldest part of herself. She pressed her hand to Ro’a and sang in the language of signs and sounds and breath, her face alight in a way that belonged only to this bond. Then, with a pride that nearly stole your breath, she turned and beckoned you closer.
You entered the water more slowly than usual because everyone watched you now and because Ronal would personally murder the tide if it made you stumble. Ro’a’s eye shifted toward you, intelligent and deep, her immense presence both gentle and overwhelming. Ronal’s hand came to your belly, not possessive, not claiming credit, but presenting joy to one sister through the body of another beloved.
“She carries life” Ronal signed and spoke, her voice thick with pride.
Ro’a hummed low. The sound moved through you like a blessing. You laughed before you could stop yourself, one hand bracing against Ronal’s arm while the baby shifted faintly beneath her palm as if stirred by the vibration. Ronal’s face broke into such fierce joy that for a moment every old wound between you seemed impossibly distant. Not gone. Never gone. But farther away than the horizon.
Then Rìkan came. You heard him before you saw him, because his call had always been rougher than the others, lower and strangely broken at the end from an old wound near his blowhole that had healed into a permanent rasp. He rose beyond Ro’a, larger than many near him, a male broad with age and scarred along one sweeping fin. You had bonded late compared to true reef-born children, and some had said a tulkun would not choose an outsider whose body carried sky-blood and forest shape. Rìkan had disagreed by nearly drowning you in enthusiasm the first time he accepted your hand. He rolled onto his side when he reached you.
Your laugh came out like a sob. “Brother” you whispered.
Rìkan’s great eye fixed on you, and the intelligence there struck you as it always did, ancient and amused and unbearably loving. You swam to him with Ronal’s hand hovering near your back and Tonowari watching as if prepared to fight the ocean itself. When your palm touched Rìkan’s hide, the bond of memory between you opened in flashes. Distance. Song. His migration. Your seasons without him. Your grief. Your impossible, hidden hope now made visible beneath your hand.
Rìkan stilled. Then he gave a sound so deep the water trembled. The baby moved.
You gasped, one hand flying to your stomach. Ronal saw it and laughed aloud, a rare unguarded sound. Tonowari’s face turned soft with wonder, while Tsireya and Ao’nung shouted from the shallows because they had seen enough to understand. Rìkan rolled carefully, signing with a deliberate slowness that made the younger children giggle even before they understood. Small hunter? he asked.
You pressed your forehead to his side. “Perhaps.”
Stubborn, he said. Ronal made a sound of agreement so immediate that you splashed her. For one shining day, even war seemed far away.
It returned with blood in the water. Ro’a’s death tore Ronal open in front of the clan. No preparation could have softened it. The tulkun hunt had been horror enough from a distance, but seeing Ro’a dead, seeing the calf gone with her, seeing the monstrous cruelty of the sky-people carved into a body Ronal had loved as sister, made language useless. Ronal’s grief was not the controlled grief of Tsahìk or the proud grief of a leader’s mate. It was animal, ancient, and terrible, a sound that seemed to scrape the sky raw.
You held Ronal in the open water because there was nowhere solid for grief to fall. Ro’a’s body drifted heavy and still beside the dead calf, the sea around them too wide, too bright, too cruelly calm for what had been done there. Ronal fought Tonowari first, straining toward Ro’a as if she could still reach her sister and drag life back into her by force. Then she fought you too when you wrapped your arms around her from behind, not because she wanted to hurt you, but because grief had nowhere else to go and her whole body had become a wound. When she finally broke, she did not collapse before the clan or the children, only against you and Tonowari in the middle of the water, shaking so hard that even Jake and Neytiri looked away with the guilt of people whose war had followed them into another people’s sacred sea.
Jake looked at you once. You looked away. There was no time for blame, but grief always looked for somewhere to set its teeth.
Rìkan came close to shore that night. No one called him. Perhaps he had felt Ro'a's death through the old pathways of tulkun grief, or perhaps he had felt your distress through the bond he had claimed with the stubbornness of a brother who had never cared what the clan thought of your origins. He surfaced beyond the reef under moonlight, his scarred fin cutting silver through dark water. You went to him despite Ronal's protest, and because Tonowari knew there were some griefs a mate could not translate, he helped you into the shallows instead of stopping you.
The water held you with cold hands. Rìkan lowered his great head until his eye was level with you. You placed both palms against him and felt the vibration of his sorrow before any sign passed between you. Tulkun grief was not human, not Na'vi, but it was not lesser for being shaped differently. It moved through image and song and remembered currents, through the absence of a voice that had once answered in migration, through the terrible understanding that the hunters had not killed only a body but a history.
You signed with fingers that trembled. Sister gone. Rìkan answered slowly.
Not gone from song. You bowed your head against him and cried where the village could not see your face. It was not only for Ro'a. It was for Ronal's broken sound, for the calf that would never swim beside its mother. It was for the child inside you kicking against a world that had already made a battlefield of its first lullabies.
Behind you, Ronal entered the water. She did not speak. She only came close enough to place one hand on your back and the other on Rìkan's hide. Her grief and his met through you like two tides colliding. For a long while the three of you stayed there under the moon, with Tonowari standing guard in the shallows and the village kept carefully behind him. No one tried to make grief useful. No one demanded it become strategy before dawn. When Ronal finally leaned her forehead against your shoulder, her voice was almost gone.
"I cannot lose you too."
You covered her hand with yours. "I am here."
Rìkan rumbled beneath your palms. For now, the sound seemed to say.
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
Ronal wanted war immediately. Tonowari wanted blood too, though his rage wore discipline like armor. You wanted it with a clarity that frightened even you. The child inside you shifted while you watched the tulkun hunters’ work, and suddenly the desire for violence met the terror of carrying life into a world that kept inventing better ways to kill what was holy.
“You cannot fight” Ronal said that night.
You turned from where you were checking the edge of your blade. “Do not begin.”
“I have already begun.”
Tonowari stood between you in spirit if not in body, torn so plainly that you almost pitied him. He wanted to tell you the same thing. He also knew exactly how little success he would have. Your place had always been among the hunters and warriors, and pregnancy had changed your body without changing the oath you had made to defend the clan.
Ronal’s hand clenched at her side. “You carry our child.”
“I know what I carry.”
“Then act as if you know the value of it.”
The words struck too hard, and Ronal knew it at once. She inhaled sharply as if she could take them back. You set the blade down with deliberate care because if you held it one moment longer your hand might shake.
“I know value” you said quietly. “Do not speak to me as though I have forgotten because I refuse to hide while others bleed.”
Tonowari stepped closer. “No one asks you to hide.”
“You ask me to become a symbol instead of a warrior.”
“No” he said. “I ask you to live.”
That silenced you because there was no accusation in it. Only fear. Ronal’s grief over Ro’a had not made her less terrified of losing you. Tonowari’s rage had not made him less aware of how close the future had come to resting under your skin. The child moved again, small and insistent, and for a moment all three of you looked down as if the baby had spoken.
“I will be careful” you said.
Ronal laughed once, harsh and wet. “You have never known how.”
“No” you admitted. “But I will learn.”
It was not enough. It was all you could give. The battle against the SeaDragon took more than it should have and gave back less than anyone deserved.
You were not at the center of every moment, and later you would be grateful for that. Jake and Neytiri’s children moved through the chaos like sparks thrown into storm wind. Payakan rose against machines that had named him monster and proved that grief could become protection when the world made pacifism impossible. The sky-people’s ship burned and broke and dragged screams into the water, and all around you the reef became a place of iron, fire, blood, and terrible courage.
You fought from the edges where your people needed you most. Pregnancy slowed you but did not make you merciful. You moved with hunters who knew your signals by instinct, striking where smaller craft tried to flank, cutting lines, dragging wounded warriors from the water when you could not strike without risking the child. Once, an explosion threw you hard against floating wreckage and the whole world flashed white. When you came back to yourself, Tonowari was roaring your name from somewhere beyond the smoke and Ronal was fighting like a spirit of vengeance made flesh.
You lived. Neteyam did not. His death changed the air even before anyone outside his family understood. You saw Jake carry him. You saw Neytiri’s face and knew at once that no comfort existed large enough for that sound when it came. Lo’ak stood destroyed beside them, grief and guilt swallowing him so completely that for a moment he did not look like a boy at all. He looked like an empty place where a boy had been.
You could not go to him then. That was Neytiri’s grief. Jake’s grief. The Sully family’s wound. All you could do was stand back with one hand over your own unborn child and feel the obscenity of life and death sharing the same breath. Tonowari found you there, his face streaked with ash and seawater, and pulled you into his side without speaking. Ronal came moments later, shaking with adrenaline and Ro’a’s grief and relief that you were still standing, her hand finding your belly before she seemed able to breathe properly again.
Tsireya and Ao’nung reached you almost at the same time. Tsireya’s face was wet with tears, grief for Neteyam written openly across every trembling line of her expression, but the moment she saw you whole she let out a broken sound of relief and pressed herself into your side. Ao’nung stood close on your other side, trying to hold himself like a warrior and failing because his eyes kept moving from you to Tonowari, to Ronal, to Tsireya, counting each of you again and again as if fear had made him uncertain of what his own sight could promise. He grieved for Neteyam too, in that stunned and helpless way young men did when death came too close to people their own age, but beneath that grief was the raw, guilty relief that his family had survived.
So the five of you stood together, whole and not whole at all, your bodies drawn into one another while another family broke only a few steps away. Tsireya cried quietly against you. Ao’nung’s shoulder pressed hard to Tonowari’s arm, and Ronal kept one hand on your stomach as if she could shield the life inside you from understanding what had just been taken from the world. No one spoke. There was nothing to say that would not have made the moment smaller.
The days after Neteyam’s funeral were quieter than peace and crueler than battle. Awa’atlu moved carefully around the Sullys. Grief made even children lower their voices. Neytiri became a blade left in rain, sharp still but rusting at the edges with sorrow. Jake hardened around the wound because that was what soldiers did when they did not know how to collapse, and you hated him a little for it because Lo’ak watched every hard line in his father’s face and believed each one had been carved by him.
You saw the boy shrinking under guilt. So when he disappeared, you went looking before anyone asked. You found him near the broken remains of an abandoned weapons cache from the battle, where scavenged human metal had been gathered for disposal and watched poorly because everyone was exhausted. You saw his shoulders first, hunched and shaking. Then you saw his hand near something he should not have touched, and all the breath left your body at once.
“Lo’ak” you said.
He flinched like a struck animal. You did not run. Running might startle him. You moved slowly, one hand lifted where he could see it, your own heart hammering so violently you thought the child inside you must feel it. His face was wet. His eyes were ruined. He looked at you with terror, shame, and a grief so deep it had convinced him the world would be kinder without his weight in it.
“Put it down” you said softly.
“I can’t” he whispered.
“Yes, you can.”
His mouth twisted. “You don’t know.”
“I know enough.”
“No, you don’t.” His voice broke then, anger and despair spilling together. “It was me. He was there because of me. He always had to come after me, always had to fix what I did, and now he is dead because I couldn’t just be—”
“Stop.”
The word came firm, but not harsh. You stepped closer. He shook his head, breathing too fast now, and you changed your voice the way you had learned to change it for frightened warriors, wounded children, and your own son when pride had trapped him in pain.
“Look at me” you said. Lo’ak did not.
“Lo’ak, look at me.” His eyes lifted.
“There is no version of your brother’s love where he wanted this from you” you said. “There is no version of Neteyam watching you now and asking you to follow him into death because grief has lied to you in your own voice.”
He made a broken sound. You came close enough to reach him. This time he did not move away when your hand closed around his wrist and gently, carefully, guided his hand away from danger. The moment passed from possible to prevented, but your body did not understand safety yet. You drew the thing out of reach and kicked it aside without looking at it again.
Then Lo’ak folded. You caught him as well as you could with your pregnant belly between you, lowering both of you awkwardly to the sand. He sobbed into your shoulder with no dignity left, and you held him as if holding could anchor him to breath. You told him he was loved. You told him he was not a burden. You told him Neteyam’s death was not a debt to be paid with his own life, and you repeated it until the words stopped being language and became a rhythm for his body to follow back toward the world.
Tsireya found you first. She froze at the sight, understanding enough to go pale, then ran to Lo’ak with a sound of his name that broke what little restraint he had regained. Kiri arrived moments later, breathless and wide-eyed, and when she saw the shape of the scene her face filled with a grief too knowing for her age. They went to him together, Tsireya wrapping herself around his side and Kiri kneeling close enough to take his trembling hand.
“We love you” Tsireya said, crying as she said it. “We love you. We need you here.”
Kiri pressed her forehead to his hand. “You do not get to leave because you think grief has made you unworthy.”
Lo’ak shook under all three of you. You stayed until he could breathe without shattering. You stayed until Tsireya and Kiri had him between them and his body no longer leaned toward absence. Only then did you look past Lo’ak’s shaking shoulder and see nothing but the empty shore, the dark water, and the distant shape of Awa’atlu across the reef. No one else had seen. Not Jake. Not Neytiri. Not any adult who might have reached him first if grief had been kinder or the sea less wide between one island and the next. The thought made your arms tighten around him for one brief, helpless second, because you understood then just how far he had managed to carry his pain before anyone noticed the direction it had taken.
You did not tell Kiri or Tsireya everything when they arrived. You did not need to. Their faces changed the moment they saw Lo’ak pressed against you, trembling too hard to hide it, his breath coming broken and uneven while your body stayed curved around him like a shield. Tsireya went to him first, crying before she even reached him, and Kiri followed with her own grief burning quiet and bright in her eyes. You let them come close, but you did not let go of him until Lo’ak’s fingers loosened from your arm by choice.
By the time you brought him back across the water, Jake and Neytiri were already waiting near the edge of the village. They had not seen what almost happened, but parents did not need to see the blade to know when death had brushed too close to their child. Neytiri’s eyes went first to Lo’ak’s face, then to Kiri’s tear-streaked cheeks, then to Tsireya’s hand locked around his wrist as if she feared he would vanish if she let go. Only after that did she look at you, and the question in her face was so raw that you could not answer it aloud.
So you only shook your head once.
Not now.
Neytiri understood enough to go still. Jake did too, though the understanding struck him differently, like something heavy landing behind his ribs. He stepped toward Lo’ak, stopped when his son flinched, and then seemed to realize all at once that whatever had happened on that island could not be commanded into healing. Neytiri moved instead, slower and softer than her grief wanted, and when Lo’ak let her touch his face, the sound she made was small enough to break something in everyone who heard it.
You stepped back then, giving them what privacy could still exist in the open air. But Neytiri caught your wrist before you could fully leave. Her grip was not hard. It was desperate in a way she would have hated anyone naming, and when you looked at her, the fury and terror in her eyes had folded around something else too. Gratitude. Debt. The beginning of a bond neither of you had planned for.
Neytiri found you later, when Lo'ak had been taken back to his family and the immediate terror had settled into the kind of silence that came after a fall was prevented by the width of a hand. You were washing your arms in the shallows, though there was no blood on them, thankfully. The action gave your body something to do while your mind replayed the boy's face again and again. Neytiri approached without her usual sharpness, moving like someone who did not know whether gratitude could be spoken without becoming an insult. She stopped beside you and looked out over the water instead of at your face.
"I did not see" she said.
You continued rubbing water over your wrists. "No one sees everything."
"A mother should."
That made you turn to her. The grief in her face was vicious because it had nowhere clean to go. Neteyam was dead. Lo'ak had nearly followed. Jake was breaking in the ways men broke when they believed admitting fear would make them less able to protect what remained. Neytiri, who had once known the forest as an extension of her own breath, now stood in reef water learning that even love could miss a child drowning on dry land.
"The only mother who sees it all is Eywa" you said. "You are flesh. Flesh fails. Then it must answer and try again."
Neytiri's mouth tightened. "You speak as if it is simple."
"I speak as if it is understandable. It's different."
She looked down then, and for a moment neither of you said anything. "You saved him" she whispered.
"I arrived in time." Your voice went softer. "There is a difference."
Neytiri looked at you then, and something passed between you that had not existed before. Not friendship exactly, though it could grow toward that. Not debt exactly either, though she would carry it like one because Neytiri had always understood love through duty when grief made tenderness too dangerous. It was recognition, mother to mother, warrior to warrior, exile to exile, both of you standing in the ruins of what you could not protect and choosing the living anyway. She touched two fingers briefly to your arm.
"I see you" she said.
The words struck deeper than you expected. You bowed your head once because if you tried to answer, you might cry in front of her, and neither of you was ready for that. Neytiri accepted the silence. From that day forward, when her eyes found you across the village, they no longer measured you first by what had made you different. They remembered what you had done when her son was disappearing into grief and you had refused to let him go alone.
After that, you stopped pretending that Jake’s grief was only his own business. You did not yell at him. Neytiri had enough shouting in her already, and Lo’ak had been cut open by voices raised in pain. Instead you found Jake alone near the water the next morning and stood beside him until he acknowledged you. He looked older than he had when he first entered Awa’atlu. Not wiser. Just more damaged.
“You need to see him” you said in English.
Jake’s jaw tightened. “I do see him.”
“No” you said. “You watch him like a commander tracking the soldier most likely to break formation. That is not the same as seeing your son.” He flinched.
You let him. “He is alive because someone reached him before grief finished talking. Do not make him survive that and then return to a father who still only knows how to correct him.”
Jake stared at the water. His hands clenched once, then opened. “I don’t know how to do this.”
The admission broke something in him more than accusation would have. He bowed his head. For a moment you saw the marine, the father, the boy who had lost too much and kept confusing control with protection. You had no mercy for the harm that had nearly caused. You had some mercy for the man who would now have to live with it.
“Learn” you said.
He nodded once. The world did not pause long enough for healing. In the weeks that followed, grief settled into Awa’atlu like silt after a storm. The Sullys remained, but they were changed. Lo’ak became quieter without becoming less himself, and Tsireya stayed near him with the fierce gentleness of someone who had seen the edge and refused to let him drift back toward it alone. Kiri watched everyone more closely, as if listening for voices under voices. Spider moved through the village with the mask that marked him as fragile to some and dangerous to others, and you saw too much of yourself in the way people looked past him as if he were a problem rather than a child.
You did not go to him at first. Tonowari tolerated Spider because Jake’s family loved him and because Tonowari understood refuge as a duty, but comfort was another matter. Ronal’s discomfort was sharper. She did not speak cruelty to him, not after everything your family had endured and learned, but her body closed whenever the human boy came too near the inner parts of the village. You understood why. You also understood how much harm could live under the respectable name of caution.
So you helped quietly. A portion of food left near the edge of a platform where he often sat. A warning glance to children who mocked the mask before the words became bold enough to bruise. A repaired strap placed where he would find it without having to ask. Spider noticed eventually, because outsiders always noticed kindness that tried to hide.
He looked at you once across the evening fire, suspicion and gratitude tangled in his face. You looked away first.
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
The day Tsireya and Ao’nung received their first tolu, you thought your heart might split from pride.
The rite began before full sunrise, when the water was still soft with lavender light and the reef seemed to hold its breath. Their first tattoos marked their coming closer to adulthood, the bond with tulkun spirit siblings made visible on skin and memory. You stood with Ronal and Tonowari as the artists prepared the fish-spine needles and the inks, and despite the solemnity of the ceremony, you could not stop seeing smaller versions of your children superimposed over the young people in front of you. Tsireya with missing teeth and shells clutched in both hands. Ao’nung with scraped knees and seaweed tangled in his hair, insisting he had not been crying after falling from his first small ilu.
Tsireya went first. She sat still with a grace that made Ronal’s eyes shine, her face lifted, her hands calm in her lap. When the first marks were tapped into the side of her face, she breathed through the pain and did not flinch. You felt Tonowari’s hand find yours between your bodies, and you gripped him hard enough that his thumb brushed yours in silent amusement.
“She is beautiful” you whispered.
“She is ours” Ronal said.
The words nearly undid you. Ao’nung tried to look completely unconcerned when his turn came. He failed before the needle touched him because he glanced at you. Just once. Quick and nervous and seeking approval he pretended he did not need. You smiled at him, not broadly enough to embarrass him, but with all the pride you could fit into your face. His shoulders settled. Then he faced forward and endured the pain with a seriousness that belonged to the young man he was becoming and the child he still was beneath it.
Afterward, when the marks were finished and the clan had sung over them, both your children came to you before anyone else. Tsireya folded into your arms openly, laughing and crying together while you kissed every safe part of her face around the fresh tattoo. Ao’nung came slower, aware of eyes, but you gave him no chance to pretend distance. You caught his face carefully between your hands and studied the new marking with such reverence that his ears tipped back in embarrassment.
“My son” you said.
His eyes softened. “Mother.”
That was all, but it was enough. He leaned down and let you press your forehead to his. For once, he did not pull away quickly.
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
Jake and Neytiri returned from the forest base with news that made the whole village feel smaller. They told the story in council, not because every piece belonged to the Metkayina but because the danger did. There had been an attack. The Mangkwan, the Ash People, led by Varang. Fire, raiders, Quaritch still moving like a sickness that refused to die. Spider caught inside events none of you had been there to witness, Kiri doing something impossible, and the boy returning changed in a way that no one knew how to understand.
You listened from beside Tonowari, one hand on your heavy belly. Then you saw Spider walk across the edge of the meeting space without a mask. For a moment you forgot every eye around you. Your body went cold. The human boy breathed Pandora’s air as if the world had opened a door no one had told you existed, as if the boundary that had shaped your entire second life could be crossed without an avatar body, without transfer, without giving up one form to survive in another. He looked uneasy under the stares, chin lifted too high in the way of children determined not to show fear.
You could not stop staring. You had never considered it an option. That thought was almost too large to hold. You had spent years becoming acceptable through a body built for you and still judged as wrong by those who forgot you had chosen them with everything you had. Spider stood in the shape humans had given him and breathed the air you had once needed a machine, a mask, or a dream-body to touch. Wonder rose first. Then grief. Then a strange, protective ache so sharp it made your palm press harder to your stomach.
Ronal noticed. Her gaze shifted from Spider to you. For once she said nothing, but her hand found your back, steady and apologetic in equal measure. She still did not know how to be comfortable with the boy. You did not ask her to lie about that. But when a murmur moved through the council, low and uneasy, Ronal’s eyes sharpened with warning before yours needed to.
Later, you found Spider near the edge of the village, maskless and alone, staring at his own hands as if they had betrayed him by remaining human after the rest of him had changed. You did not approach too closely.
“It is strange” you said.
He looked up fast. “What?”
“Breathing when everyone expected you to choke.”
His face changed. The guardedness did not vanish, but it faltered. “Yeah.”
You nodded toward the open water. “They will not understand quickly.”
Spider huffed without humor. “They never did.”
“No” you said softly. “They did not.”
You left before comfort could become pressure. But that evening, when he returned toward the outer marui where the Sully children had gathered, there was food waiting in the place he had started to recognize as yours. He looked toward your home from a distance. You were seated inside with Ronal’s hand on your belly and Tonowari braiding a charm into Tsireya’s hair, but you felt his gaze anyway.
This time you did not look away.
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
Ronal asked about Spider three nights later. She did not use his name at first. She sat beside you while you cleaned a shallow cut on your forearm, her fingers sorting strips of cloth that did not need sorting. Tonowari was outside with Ao'nung, speaking low about patrols, and Tsireya had gone to sit with Lo'ak and Kiri near the water. The marui felt unusually large without the children's voices filling it, and perhaps that was why Ronal finally let the question enter.
"The human boy" she said. "You pity him."
You glanced up. "Do you ask, or do you accuse?"
Ronal's mouth tightened, but she accepted the correction. "I ask."
You returned to wrapping the cut, though the movement was slower now. "I understand him."
"He is Quaritch's son."
“And no matter how much I love this world, this body still began with the people like him.” You tied the cloth off and looked at her fully. "Lineage is not nothing. But if we make it everything, then none of us can become more than the worst thing attached to our beginnings."
Ronal absorbed that in silence. Her discomfort did not vanish. You could see it still, honest and difficult, in the set of her shoulders. Humans had brought too much death to Pandora for her to greet a human boy with uncomplicated warmth simply because he was loved by children she had come to tolerate and sometimes even protect. Yet she had changed enough to know that discomfort was not permission to be cruel.
"I do not know how to look at him" she admitted. "Not without seeing the danger that follows humans."
"Then start by seeing that he is a child standing where adults made danger long before he could choose anything." Your voice was gentle, but it did not let her escape. "You do not need to bring him into our sleeping place or pretend comfort you do not feel. But do not let the clan turn him into a symbol because symbols are easier to abandon than children."
Ronal looked toward the entrance, where the night beyond was full of village sounds and distant water. "You carry too many outsiders inside you."
"Maybe" you said.
"That was not praise."
"I know."
A reluctant breath left her, almost amusement and almost grief. She shifted closer and took your bandaged arm, checking the wrapping with unnecessary care. "You cannot save everyone who is treated as less."
"But I can refuse to become one of the people who teaches them to expect it."
Ronal's thumb stilled over the cloth. The next morning, Spider found a small packet of food near the edge of the platform where he often sat. It was not from you. The wrapping was tied in Ronal's precise style, and the portion was too balanced to be accidental. He stared at it for a long time, then looked toward your marui with his face caught somewhere between suspicion and hunger and a hope he clearly hated having.
Ronal pretended not to notice him notice. You loved her fiercely for that small, imperfect beginning.
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
War came nearer after that.
Jake became Toruk Makto again because the world had left him no gentler way to make itself listen. You heard the cry before you saw the shadow, and every Metkayina face turned upward as the great leonopteryx cut across the sky like a memory from another life. Neytiri stood below him with grief still in her eyes and rage still in her bones, and for a moment you thought of the forest stories you had once heard in fragments. A rider of last shadow. A call to clans. A promise that war had entered the sacred places and would not leave because anyone asked politely. Tonowari watched beside you in silence. Ronal’s hand curved over yours where it rested on your belly.
“You still mean to fight” she said.
You did not answer quickly. The baby was lower now, your body heavier, your sleep broken by discomfort and dreams of blood-dark water. Every step took more effort than you admitted. Every warrior in the village looked at you as if trying to calculate whether reverence outweighed concern.
“I mean to lead until I cannot” you said.
Ronal closed her eyes. “That is what frightens me.”
“I know.”
“You knowing does not soothe me.”
“I will not lie to soothe you either.”
She opened her eyes and looked at you then, long and pained and loving. “Come back to me.”
The request was too naked for Ronal. It cut through every defense you had. You leaned forward and kissed her softly, mouth to mouth, no hunger in it, only promise and fear and the salt of things neither of you could control.
“I will try” you whispered.
It was the most honest thing you could give her. Tonowari came to you after Ronal slept. She did not sleep deeply anymore. None of you did. But grief, pregnancy, and war had exhausted even her iron body, and eventually she had drifted with one hand resting over the place where your child turned under your skin. You slipped out carefully because the night air called and because fear always felt worse when trapped beneath a roof. Tonowari found you at the edge of the platform, looking toward the dark water where Rìkan's distant song rolled under the waves.
He stood beside you for a while without speaking, and somehow that said more than any attempt at comfort could have. Tonowari had always known how to share silence without making it heavy, how to stand close enough that you felt held without feeling trapped. The sea moved beneath the platform in slow silver breaths, and only when your shoulders finally eased did his hand come to rest warm and heavy at the small of your back.
“You are thinking too loudly” he murmured.
You looked at him from the corner of your eye. “That is a dangerous accusation.”
“It is a familiar one.”
A smile tugged at your mouth despite yourself, small but real. The night before battle should have tasted of fear, and perhaps some part of it did, but with him beside you and the child moving beneath your ribs, fear could not have all of you. You looked down at your stomach, at the stretched skin and the faint restless shift beneath it, and Tonowari’s hand followed your gaze with a softness that still had the power to undo you.
“They’re awake” he said.
“They are nosy” you corrected. “Like their father.”
Tonowari’s mouth curved. “Only their father?”
You gave him a look. “Do not start a fight you cannot win.”
His low laugh moved through the dark, quiet and warm, and for a moment the war waiting beyond the reef felt farther away than it had any right to. He stepped closer until his chest brushed your shoulder, and his palm spread over your belly with reverent familiarity. The baby shifted again beneath his hand, as if answering him, and the wonder that crossed his face made your throat tighten.
“You should remain behind tomorrow” he said, but there was no command in it. Only worry trying very hard to sound reasonable.
You sighed. “Ma Tonowari.”
“I know.”
“You do not sound as though you know.”
“I know you will not remain behind” he said, his thumb moving slowly over your skin. “I know asking will change nothing. I know you have led warriors longer than many of them have been grown. I know you are not fragile simply because you carry our child.”
“That was almost convincing.”
His eyes lowered to yours. “Almost?”
You leaned closer, letting your forehead brush his. “I already survived one battle pregnant. Another should be easy.”
Tonowari stared at you.
Then, despite himself, he huffed a laugh so disbelieving and fond that you felt it against your mouth before he even kissed you. “You are impossible.”
“I am experienced.”
“You are reckless.”
“I am beloved” you said, and tilted your chin up slightly. “So I have been told.”
That did it. The last of his sternness cracked into something helplessly tender, and he bent to kiss you. It was slow and sweet, mouth to mouth, with no urgency except the quiet need to be close before morning came. His hand stayed over your belly while the other rose to cup the side of your face, and for a few breaths there was nothing but the warmth of him, the salt on his skin, and the steady certainty that whatever waited beyond the reef, you would meet it and come home.
When he pulled back, he did not go far. His nose brushed yours, and his breath stayed tangled with your own. “You will stay near me.”
“I will stay where I am needed.”
“That is not the same answer.”
“It is the only one you are getting.”
Tonowari made a low sound of displeasure, but it softened when you placed your hand over his. Together, your fingers rested against the curve of your stomach. The child moved again, stronger this time, and both of you went still with the same startled awe, as though this were the first time and not one of many.
“They will know peace” Tonowari said quietly.
You looked up at him.
He was not asking. He was not hoping in some fragile, frightened way. He was promising it, not because either of you believed the world would become gentle, but because he would spend his whole life standing between your daughter and whatever tried to take gentleness from her.
“They will know us” you said. “All of us. You, me, Ronal, Tsireya, Ao’nung. She will know she was wanted before she ever took her first breath.”
Tonowari’s face softened so deeply that it made your chest ache. “They already are.”
You smiled then, properly this time, and his gaze dropped to your mouth like he could not help it. He kissed you again, shorter now but no less tender, and you laughed quietly against him when the baby kicked beneath both your hands.
“They are judging us” you murmured.
“They are asking why her parents are standing out in the cold instead of resting.”
“That sounds more like Ronal.”
As if summoned by her name, Ronal’s voice came from inside the marui, low and irritated with sleep. “If you are both finished whispering foolishness to the moon, come back before I drag you in myself.”
You and Tonowari looked at each other.
For one suspended second, both of you tried not to laugh. Then you failed at the same time, quietly and helplessly, foreheads pressed together while the sea breathed beneath you and Ronal muttered something sharper from within. Tonowari took your hand, and you let him lead you back, not because you needed guiding, but because love sometimes liked to pretend.
Inside, Ronal was waiting with narrowed eyes and open arms.
You went to her together.
—————————————————————
Lo’ak left to find Payakan before the village understood his absence. Tsireya noticed first. Ao’nung second, because he had become better at watching Lo’ak since the day you had almost lost him. When they came running into the family marui, breathless and wide-eyed, you were with Ronal and Tonowari sorting through the latest reports from the outer patrols. The moment Tsireya said Payakan’s name, Tonowari rose so quickly the bowl beside him overturned.
“No” Ronal said, already reaching for her gathering pouch. “No, no, no.”
Ao’nung looked between them, fear and determination fighting on his face. “We can find him. We know where he would go.”
“You will not rush blindly after him” Tonowari snapped.
“We are not blind” Tsireya said, and her voice shook but did not break. “He is alone.”
Ronal’s eyes flashed. “And you would make us lose more children trying to save one?”
The words struck everyone silent. She regretted them at once, but the fear behind them remained. Neteyam’s death had taught all of you how quickly one rescue could become another grave. You felt the baby shift, hard and uncomfortable, as if even she had startled at the sound. You stepped between them as much as your body allowed.
“Enough” you said.
Tonowari turned to you, his fear sharpening because he knew that tone. “Do not tell me you agree with this.”
“I agree that panic will not bring them home faster.”
Ronal stared at you. “They are children.”
“They are our children” you said. “They know these waters. They know Lo’ak. They know Payakan. And if we trap them here while he is out there, the’ll just go without saying goodbye.” Tsireya’s eyes filled, but she stood straighter. Ao’nung looked at you as if you had placed a blade in his hands and trusted him not to cut himself with it.
You turned to them. “You go together. You do not separate. You do not chase glory. You find Lo’ak, you find Payakan if you can, and you come back with breath still in your bodies. If the water changes, if the sky changes, if either of you feels the wrongness in your bones, you return. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Mother” Tsireya whispered.
Ao’nung nodded. “Yes.”
Ronal looked ready to tear the whole reef apart with her bare hands. Tonowari stood rigid with the unbearable burden of allowing young people to act in a war adults had failed to keep from them. You reached for both of them, one hand to Ronal’s arm, the other to Tonowari’s chest. They looked at you at the same time.
“They are going to be all right” you said.
You believed it because you had to. The children left. The lie of certainty remained in your mouth long after they disappeared into the water.
————————————————————–
They returned with Payakan, with Ta’nok, and with a grief that belonged to more than one species. Ta’nok was ruin given breath. The old tulkun bore wounds that made the clan fall silent before anyone could translate. Harpoons embedded in flesh. Scars crossing scars. One side of her face damaged so badly that even Ronal, who had seen war, had to look away for a moment before forcing herself to look back. Payakan stayed near her like a son, brother, witness, and warning all at once.
The tulkun council gathered in the deep water beyond the reef. You should not have gone. Everyone knew it. Ronal argued until her voice shook, Tonowari until his patience broke, and even Tsireya begged you with tears still drying on her face. But the council would decide whether the tulkun would remain bound to the old law while hunters came to butcher them one by one, and you could not stay behind while others spoke of survival as if survival had never demanded blood from anyone.
Rìkan swam beneath you like a living island. His presence kept Ronal from ordering you dragged back to shore, though only barely. The elders listened to Payakan and Ta’nok with sorrow, but sorrow did not move them at first. The Tulkun Way had ended generations of war. Violence had nearly destroyed them once. To break that vow felt, to many, like becoming what had harmed them. Their signs came slow and heavy with age, each gesture carrying the weight of memory older than any Na’vi present.
Lo’ak pleaded until his voice broke. Tsireya stood beside him. Ao’nung too, silent but firm, his first tattoo still dark against his skin like proof that childhood could no longer be used to dismiss him. Payakan signed of slaughter, of kin torn apart, of Ta’nok’s survival not as blessing but as testimony. The adults hesitated. You did not.
“You call refusal peace” you said, your voice carrying over the water “because the word is cleaner than fear.”
A ripple moved through the gathered Na’vi. Ronal’s eyes snapped to you. Tonowari’s jaw tightened. You felt both of their fear and ignored it because some truths only entered the world through disobedience.
“The sky-people do not honor your vow” you continued. “They do not hear pacifism and answer with mercy. They hear it and plan where to cut. They will take your mothers, your brothers, your singers, your old ones heavy with memory, and they will call it harvest because language makes murder easier for those who profit from it.” One of the elders signed sharply that violence stains all who choose it.
“Yes” you said. “It does.” The council stilled.
You placed one hand over your belly, feeling your daughter move under your palm. “I carry life. I know what it means to want the world gentle enough that this child never has to learn war. But wanting gentleness will not make butchers lay down their knives. Sometimes the stain is not in fighting. Sometimes the stain is in watching the blade fall again and again because we are too proud of our purity to shield the throat beneath it.”
Rìkan rumbled below you. Payakan turned his great eye toward you. Ta’nok’s scarred body shifted in the water, and for a moment you felt seen by a creature who had survived being turned into evidence. You thought of your own body, your own labels, all the ways people made one wound into an entire identity. Outcast. Demon. Half-blood. Dangerous. Less.
“Payakan was marked by one choice” you said. “Ta’nok has been marked by what was done to her. If you look at them and see only broken law or broken flesh, then you have let your fear teach you to see as the hunters see. I will not.”
The silence after was enormous. Then Rìkan signed. I will fight.
Ro’a was gone, but her absence seemed to answer through Ronal’s grief. One by one, not all but enough, other tulkun shifted closer. The council did not become simple. It did not become eager. But the old certainty cracked, and through that crack came rage, sorrow, and the terrible necessity of defending what had refused for too long to defend itself.
—————————————————————
When you returned to shore, Ronal was waiting. She looked furious. She looked terrified. She looked proud despite herself.
“You will be the death of me” she said.
You touched her face. “Do not say that.”
She understood too late why the words had chilled you both. The final battle began at the Cove of the Ancestors, where beauty should have made violence impossible. That was the lie people told themselves about sacred places. That holiness protected them. That memory and song and the breath of ancestors could make metal hesitate. You had seen enough war to know that sacredness often drew violence precisely because desecration was a language conquerors understood.
Before the fighting fully swallowed the cove, you found a few breaths with Tsireya and Ao'nung. It happened by accident, or by the mercy of timing. They came out of the smoke together, both soaked, both armed, both wearing fear like something they had not yet learned to hide cleanly. Tsireya saw your bloodless face before she saw that you were still standing. Ao'nung saw your hand over your belly and went pale under the reef markings that had made you so proud only days before.
"Mother" Tsireya said.
"Do not start" you answered at once.
That made Ao'nung choke on something that might have been a laugh if the battlefield had been kinder. Tsireya did not laugh. She came to you and pressed both hands to your stomach, one brief desperate touch, then to your face as if proving you were solid. You let her because refusing would have been cruelty and because you needed to feel her alive too.
"You promised we would be all right" Ao'nung said.
There was no accusation in it. That made it worse. You looked at him, this son who had once wounded you where blood could not reach and had then spent every day since trying to become someone worthy of the forgiveness you had given him. War had taken the last of childhood from his eyes, but not the softness you had fought to keep alive in him. You reached up and cupped his cheek the way you had on the night he first called you mama, and he leaned into it without shame.
"I promised because I needed you brave enough to come back" you said. "Now I need you wise enough to keep doing it."
Ao'nung covered your hand with his. "Come back with us."
The baby moved between you, strong and sudden. Tsireya gasped through tears. Even Ao'nung's face changed, awe breaking through fear despite everything burning around you. For one breath, in the middle of war, your children felt their sister alive beneath your hand. The world was cruel enough to give that moment and still not promise you another. You kissed Tsireya's forehead. Then you pulled Ao'nung down and pressed your brow to his.
"I love you" you said to both of them.
Tsireya sobbed once. "Do not speak like that."
"Then give me reason not to worry" you said, forcing a rough smile. "Stay together. Protect each other. Listen when the water tells you to move."
Ao'nung nodded, jaw clenched so hard it must have hurt. You watched them go because someone called your name from the line, because duty still had claws in you, because mothers in war were always being asked to release children into danger and keep moving afterward. You did not know it would be the last time they touched you alive. Perhaps some hidden part of you did. Perhaps that was why you watched until smoke took them from sight.
The RDA came with machines. The tulkun came with grief. The clans came because Toruk Makto had called them and because the sky-people had finally made neutrality feel like surrender. Fire crossed the water. Banshees and skimwings tore through smoke. The Mangkwan’s shadow haunted the chaos even when you did not see Varang directly, because her alliance with the enemy had made the battlefield stranger and crueler than any fight before it. Yet your world had narrowed to signals, breath, the baby pressing low and hard, and the need to keep your warriors alive long enough to matter.
Rìkan fought like a storm with a heart. He struck vessels from below, not with mindless rage but with the terrible precision of a being who understood the cost of breaking his vow and chose it anyway. Payakan moved near him, vast and furious, while Ta’nok’s ruined body became an accusation the sea itself carried forward. You rode the edges of battle on an skimwing when you could no longer bear Rìkan’s sharper turns, bow in hand, shouting orders until your throat burned.
Pain came first as pressure. You ignored it. Then came the shot.
It struck during a confused surge near the rocks, when smoke and spray hid distance and the line between retreat and attack collapsed into instinct. You had turned because a warrior's scream had cut through the battle noise, not knowing whether it was Tsireya, Kiri, or someone else. The impact hit high through your chest and shoulder with such force that the world vanished for half a breath. When it returned, the sky was sideways and the water was rushing up to meet you.
You fell. The sea closed over your head cold and bright. For a moment there was no pain, only bubbles, soundless light, and the strange floating disbelief of a body refusing to understand its own damage. Then fire roared through your chest. Blood spread around you in dark threads. The baby convulsed under your ribs, or perhaps your own muscles did, and panic finally tore through the numbness.
Someone hit the water above you. Neytiri. She came like an arrow, eyes wide with fury and terror, hands closing around you before the current could drag you lower. You tried to kick. Your legs answered badly. Neytiri’s face blurred as she hauled you upward, one arm across your chest, the other fighting water and the weight of your body and the terrible awkwardness of your pregnancy. You broke the surface choking.
“No” Neytiri snapped, as if refusing the wound could command it shut. “Breathe. Breathe.”
You tried. The breath became a scream. Neytiri dragged you onto a shelf of black rock half-hidden by spray. Battle thundered around you, but the rock formed a pocket between worlds, close enough to war for every explosion to shake your bones and far enough that no one else saw you at first. She pressed both hands to the wound, and her face changed when the blood came too fast between her fingers.
“You are fine” she said.
You laughed, or tried to. It came out wet. “Bad liar.”
“Be quiet.”
Pain seized your body again, lower this time, deeper, absolute. Your hand clawed at the rock. Neytiri looked down, and you watched understanding strike her with almost physical force. Not just the wound. Not just blood. Labor, sudden and brutal, wrenched loose by shock and fear and the body’s desperate decision that the child had to come now or not at all.
“No” Neytiri whispered.
“Yes” you gasped. “They are coming.”
Neytiri shook her head once, hard, as if rejecting the entire universe. “Not here.”
Your body answered for both of you. The next contraction tore a sound from you that vanished under the roar of distant engines. Neytiri moved instantly, panic becoming action because she was a warrior, because she was a mother, because grief had already taken one child from her and she would not let death take yours without fighting like a cornered nantang. She shifted you as gently as she could, propping your shoulders against the rock, one hand returning again and again to the bleeding wound as if she could hold your life inside by force.
“Look at me” she ordered. You did.
Her eyes were wild. “You will do what I say.”
“Yes, ma’am” you rasped in English before you could stop yourself.
She did not know the words, but she knew the shape of defiance inside pain. For one terrible second she almost smiled. Then another contraction came, and everything narrowed to blood, water, stone, and Neytiri’s voice dragging you through the impossible.
Your avatar body betrayed and saved you at once. It was strong. Stronger than the human body you had once worn. Strong enough to carry a child no one had thought possible, strong enough to keep breathing after a wound that should have ended you in the water. But it had not been born through generations of Metkayina mothers, had not widened and adapted under the same lineage of reef women whose births Ronal knew by inherited wisdom as much as practice. The child came wrong with your body fighting shock, and there was too much blood. Neytiri saw it. You saw her see it.
“Do not” you said.
“Do not what?” she snapped, trying to reach for the kid's head.
“Do not look like that.”
Her face twisted. “Then do not die.”
The words struck you with unexpected tenderness. Neytiri had never been easy with you at first, and perhaps you had never expected her to be. You were another avatar, another trace of the sky-people in a life that had cost her too much. But you had helped her children. You had held Lo’ak back from the edge. You had given Jake friendship without taking him from her, and you had understood exile without demanding confession. Somewhere between war and water and children loved into survival, Neytiri had let you become important.
“I am trying” you whispered.
“Try harder.”
You would have laughed if pain had left room for it. The birth became a blur after that. Neytiri’s hands were everywhere, steady even when her voice shook, guiding, supporting, commanding. She spoke to you in Na’vi, in fragments of comfort and orders, sometimes slipping into the kind of words mothers used with frightened children because fear stripped everyone down eventually. You pushed when she told you. You screamed when you could not stop yourself. You tasted blood and salt and thought of Ronal’s hands, Tonowari’s forehead against yours, Tsireya’s first tattoo, Ao’nung’s voice calling you Mother, Rìkan’s rumbling joy under the water.
Then the baby cried. It was small, furious, impossibly alive. Neytiri froze for half a heartbeat, then gathered the child with a sound that was almost a sob. She worked quickly, hands sure enough by instinct and experience, clearing the baby’s face, wrapping her close in what cloth could be torn from your own bloodied wrap.
“It's a little girl.”
The baby cried again, stronger this time, and every part of you that had been fighting to stay conscious softened toward the sound.
“Let me see” you said.
Neytiri brought her to you and linked your kurus. Your daughter was tiny and wet and furious at the world, her little hands opening and closing as if already trying to seize it by the throat. Five fingers. The faintest suggestion of your avatar traits in the shape of her face. Tonowari’s mouth perhaps, or maybe you were inventing things because death made the mind greedy. You touched her cheek with one trembling finger, and she turned toward you blindly.
“Pril” you whispered.
Neytiri’s face crumpled. “What?”
“Her name” you said. “Pril.”
“Tell them yourself.”
You looked at her, and the denial in her eyes broke your heart more than the pain did. “Neytiri.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“No” she said again, but tears were falling now. “You helped my son. You helped my family. You do not get to hand me this and leave.”
“I am not choosing it.” Her mouth shook.
You forced your hand up, though it felt heavier than any weapon you had ever carried. Neytiri leaned close at once, and you touched her face with blood-slick fingers. “Protect them.”
“I will bring them.”
“No.”
“I will call Ronal. Tonowari. They can—”
“There is.. no time.”
She shook her head violently. “I will not tell Ronal this. I will not.”
The sound you made was almost a laugh, almost a sob, and it broke apart in your throat before it could become either. You whispered, even as Neytiri shook her head like refusal alone could hold you to the world. Your fingers tightened weakly around her wrist, not enough to stop her hands from pressing against blood and torn flesh, but enough to make her look at you. “Tell them I am sorry. Tell Ronal, Tonowari, Tsireya, and Ao’nung that I am sorry I could not come back alive.”
Neytiri’s face twisted with something furious and wounded. “Do not speak like this” she hissed, but her voice was shaking now, and that frightened you more than the pain.
You tried to breathe, tried to gather enough strength to make the words clear, because this was not a thing you could leave tangled for her to interpret after. “I always knew” you said, softer now. “Some part of me always knew this was waiting. I just never had the heart to prepare them for it.”
Neytiri bowed over you then, forehead nearly touching yours, the baby held between you like a small flame in a storm. Her whole body shook with the effort of not breaking apart. You could hear the battle still raging, but it sounded distant now, like thunder beyond mountains.
“Protect my family” you whispered.
Neytiri squeezed her eyes shut. “I promise.”
“And Lo’ak” you said, because even dying you remembered the boy on the edge. “Tell him he is loved. Say it until he believes you.”
“I promise.”
You exhaled, and the breath caught halfway. “I see you.”
Neytiri made a wounded sound and pressed her forehead to yours. “I see you.”
You smiled then, very faintly, because the words found you before the dark did. Your hand slipped from her face. The last thing you heard was Pril crying against Neytiri’s chest and Neytiri saying your name like a command that death refused to obey.
Then there was only water, song, and light.
—————————————————————
By the time the battle ended, no one knew where you were. That was the first terror, the one that came before understanding. Tonowari called your name across broken stone and blood-dark water until his voice turned rough with salt and smoke, while Ronal moved through the wounded with shaking hands and eyes that would not stay on any one face for long. Tsireya searched near the rocks, calling for you with a panic she could no longer shape into words, and Ao’nung dove again and again beneath the surface as if he could force the sea to give you back by refusing to breathe.
At first, they told themselves there were reasons. The battle had scattered everyone. The reef was full of injured warriors, overturned craft, drifting weapons, bodies that were not yours and therefore could still be looked past. You were strong, they thought, because thinking anything else would have broken them too early. You had survived too much to vanish in the last stretch of war, too much to not come limping back with some dry, furious remark about all of them looking as if they had already buried you.
Tonowari was the first to stop moving.
He had been looking toward the far rocks when Neytiri came from the rocks carrying a child. No one understood at first. Battle was still ending in fragments. Smoke moved over the water. Warriors called names of the wounded and dead. Then Ronal saw the baby in Neytiri’s arms, saw the blood on Neytiri’s body, saw her face, and all the strength that had carried the Tsahìk through war, birth, death, and Ro’a’s loss vanished as if the sea had opened beneath her.
Tonowari caught her before she fell. Neytiri walked toward them like someone carrying fire that had burned through her hands. She was crying openly, but her grip on Pril was perfect, protective, unyielding. Jake followed a few steps behind, horror written across his face because he saw your body. All blodied. Eyes still open but with no life behind them. With no dignity. Ronal reached for the baby and stopped. Her hands hovered, shaking.
Neytiri’s voice broke. “Her name is Pril.”
Tonowari made a sound no one who heard it would ever forget. Ronal took the child then because she had to, because the baby was alive, because you had forced life into the world with the last of your body and Ronal would not let grief make her hands fail. Pril quieted against her almost immediately, tiny face turning toward the sound of Ronal’s ruined breathing. That was what undid her. Not the blood. Not Neytiri’s tears. The trust of a newborn who did not know the mother who had died bringing her here.
“She asked me to tell you” Neytiri said, and her voice broke so badly that the words barely survived it. “She was sorry. She said she was sorry she could not come back alive.”
“Where is she?” Tonowari asked.
Neytiri could not answer. She only looked toward the rocks. Ao’nung reached them first because grief made him reckless again.
Tsireya followed, screaming your name before she saw you and then losing the sound halfway through it. Tonowari moved like a man walking underwater. Ronal could not go at first because Pril was in her arms and because if she moved too quickly she would become something the clan could never call back. Neytiri stayed beside her, one bloodied hand on the baby’s back, as if keeping the promise required not stepping away even now.
The swim was longer than it seemed. Even on skimwing you had died a long way from home. When Ronal finally reached you, she did not scream. That came later. At first she knelt beside your body in absolute silence. She touched your face, your hair, your cold hand. She looked at the wound and at the blood and at the empty place where movement had been. Then she bowed over you and pressed her forehead to yours, Pril held between her body and Tonowari’s trembling hands, and the sound that left her was not language.
Ao’nung broke beside you. He dropped to his knees like the strength had been cut from his legs, calling you Mother over and over until the word became a plea and then a child’s sob and then nothing but breath. Tsireya crawled into Tonowari’s side, shaking so hard he had to hold her upright even as his own face crumpled. Jake stood back because this grief was not his to enter, but Lo’ak stood beside him crying silently, one hand over his mouth as if holding in everything you had once kept him from doing to himself. Neytiri did not move far from Ronal.
“She asked me” she said when Ronal finally looked at her. “She asked me to be with you.”
Ronal’s eyes were unbearable. “You were with her.”
“Yes.”
“She was not alone.”
“No” Neytiri whispered. “She was not alone.”
That was the only mercy the world had left to offer.
—————————————————————
In the days after, Awa’atlu learned the weight of your absence. Not as rumor. Not as a wound hidden in one family’s marui. Everyone felt it. The hunters moved without your signals and discovered how often your certainty had steadied them before danger arrived. The young warriors sharpened weapons in silence because no voice came to correct their grip or mock their overconfidence. The mothers who had once whispered about your body now lowered their heads when Ronal passed with Pril bound to her chest, because shame had finally become too visible to pretend it belonged to the past.
Your family changed around the baby. Ronal held Pril with a devotion that terrified those who loved her. At first she would not let the child out of reach, not even for sleep, as if death might return through any gap her hands left open. Tonowari did not challenge her, but he sat beside her through the long nights, one arm around her and one finger held in Pril’s tiny grip, his grief made quiet by the need to keep breathing for those still alive. Sometimes he would look toward the empty sleeping place and his face would fold inward so violently that Tsireya had to leave before she fell apart again.
Ao’nung became gentle in ways that hurt to see. He carried Pril awkwardly at first, terrified of her smallness, his large hands unsure where to rest. The first time she stopped crying against his chest, he froze and looked at Ronal with panic as if he had done something wrong. Ronal only nodded, tears in her eyes, and Ao’nung looked down at his baby sister with such wonder and grief that his first tattoo seemed to belong to a much older man.
“You were her son before me” Ronal told him one night. Ao’nung looked up sharply.
Ronal’s mouth trembled. “She told you that. You must not forget it because Pril exists.”
He bent his head over the baby. “I won’t.”
Tsireya sang to Pril because she could not yet speak to you. She sang the songs you had sung badly, the ones Ronal claimed had no proper rhythm and Tonowari had secretly loved. She sang reef songs and fragments of old Earth melodies you had once hummed without words, pieced together from memory and grief. Sometimes Lo’ak sat near the entrance and listened, not entering unless invited, but staying close enough that Tsireya knew he was there. Kiri came too, and when Pril stared at her with bright newborn focus, Kiri smiled through tears and whispered that Eywa had held you before the sea could.
Neytiri kept her promise. She came to Ronal often even when the first visits were difficult. Ronal could barely look at her at times because Neytiri had seen what she had not, had received words that should have belonged to mates and children, had held your daughter at the first breath and your hand at the last. Yet Ronal did not turn her away. She knew the promise had cost Neytiri too.
One evening, when the sun was low and Pril slept between them, Ronal finally asked for the last words again. Neytiri told her. Every word.
Ronal wept silently, one hand over her mouth, while Tonowari stood behind her with his eyes closed and Tsireya clutched Ao’nung’s hand hard enough to hurt. When Neytiri reached the part where you had thanked her for seeing you, Ronal made the smallest sound and bowed her head. Tonowari’s hand settled on her shoulder. Ao’nung looked away, crying openly now, no longer ashamed of the softness you had always known was there.
Later, they took Pril to the Spirit Tree. Rìkan wanted to come too. The male tulkun surfaced near the glowing roots and waited with a patience that felt almost human in its grief. Ro’a was gone. You were gone. The sea had become full of absences and still it breathed. Ronal entered the water with Pril held close, Tonowari beside her, Tsireya and Ao’nung following with hands linked. Neytiri came at the edge of the group, not family by mating or blood, but bound now by a promise made over blood-streaked stone.
They connected to the Tree one by one. You were there in the way Eywa held memory. Not as body, not as breath, but as presence woven through light and sound. Tsireya heard your laugh first and sobbed so hard Ao’nung wrapped both arms around her. Tonowari heard you calling him stubborn in that dry tone that had always made him smile despite himself. Ronal heard nothing for several heartbeats, and fear nearly broke her before your voice came soft and clear as tide.
I am here. She cradled Pril closer and wept. Ao’nung connected last.
He did not tell anyone what he heard. Not then. But when he surfaced, he went straight to Pril and pressed his forehead gently to hers, whispering something too quiet for the others to catch. Years later he would tell his sister that he had heard you call him your first son, your foolish brave boy, your child by choice and love and every day spent returning. For now, he only held Pril and let that truth settle deeper than blood.
After that, they all had to learn how to live without you beside them. Ronal had to learn how to hold Pril without breaking every time your daughter’s tiny five-fingered hand closed around her braid. Tonowari had to learn how to stand as Olo’eyktan with the empty space of you beside him, feeling your absence in every council, every hunt, every quiet return home. Tsireya and Ao’nung had to grow around the wound of losing the mother who had chosen them before blood ever mattered, carrying your love into the way they protected others, corrected cruelty, and held their little sister close. And Pril, who would never know the warmth of your arms except through Eywa, would know you as story and soul: as the warrior who loved fiercely, the mother who died bringing her into the world, the woman whose voice lived in every tale her family told, and whose spirit waited for her beneath the glowing roots whenever she was old enough to ask who you had been.
Summary: When the Sully family arrives in Awa’atlu, old wounds begin to split open inside Tonowari, Ronal, and Reader’s family.
angst + comfort
Wc: 15 715 words
Taglist: @coconuthoneyandjaguars
Masterlist
Pt2
The first time the Sullys came into Awa’atlu, the village changed shape around them.
Not in any way a stranger could have named, perhaps. The woven walkways were still strung between giant mangrove roots, the platforms still alive with the rhythm of hands at work, of children racing over sun-warmed wood, of nets being mended and fish being cleaned and voices rising over the endless breathing hush of the sea. But something in the air tightened all the same. The clan did not stop moving. It only moved differently, like a body drawing a breath and holding it.
You stood beside Tonowari when they arrived, just behind and slightly to his left, where the leader of the hunting parties would stand when judgment was to be watched but not yet spoken. Salt wind dragged across your skin. Your queue lay over one shoulder. The white marks of your avatar body caught the late light faintly, and though your build had always remained closer to the forest people than the reef people around you, the years had given you the easy balance of one who belonged here. Not by birth. Not by blood. But by time, by battle, by work, and by love.
It still did not stop them from looking.
You had long since learned how to feel it before you saw it. The way glances snagged on your hands, on your narrower tail, on your shoulders, on the traces that marked you as something that had not begun on Pandora no matter how deeply you had rooted yourself into it after. Most days you could let it pass like a tide under a canoe. Most days you could remind yourself that your mates had chosen you in full sight of what you were, that Tsireya’s laughter had first shaped itself around your name, that Ao’nung had once fallen asleep on your chest with seawater still drying in his hair after training. Most days it was enough.
This was not most days.
Jake Sully stepped forward carrying exile in the line of his body. Neytiri stood beside him like a drawn blade. Their children hovered near enough to their parents to show loyalty and far enough to show strain. Even before anyone said anything, the village had already seen the tails. The hands. The faces. The traces of sky-people blood riding alongside Na’vi bone.
And because the clan had seen them, the clan had thought of you.
Ronal’s gaze slid over the newcomers slowly. She did not spit the words some might have expected. She was too controlled for that, too sharp. Her judgment was worse for being clean. Her eyes rested on each child in turn, cool and measuring, then went to Jake, then back to Neytiri, then flicked once toward you before returning to Tonowari.
“They are very unlike us” she said.
That was all. Nothing louder. Nothing cruder. But the thought spread exactly as if she had named it outright. You felt it move through the gathered Metkayina like current through shallow water. Not all at once. Not boldly. Just enough. Half-breed. Strange. Wrong-shaped. Sky-touched. The same old poison dressed in softer cloth.
Tonowari spoke then, giving them uturu as his mercy demanded, because war and grief had driven them there and because he was not small enough to turn away those who came seeking sanctuary. You loved him most in moments like that. His voice was steady, his judgment larger than fear. Yet even while you loved him for it, some quieter and uglier part of you noticed that he never turned to the clan and stopped the way their eyes had slid to you too. He offered protection. He did not challenge implication.
Beside the Sullys, Lo’ak’s face set in that stubborn, bristling way boys wore when they had been cut too many times and refused to bleed where anyone could see it. Kiri stared back with painful calm. Neteyam stood straight as a spear. Tuk all but hid herself against Neytiri’s side.
Then Tsireya came up from the water, bright and curious and open as dawn, and the moment bent in a different direction for a heartbeat. Lo’ak looked at her as if the sea itself had climbed out to stare back at him. You would have laughed if the tension in the air had not still been sharp enough to cut.
Ao’nung and Rotxo ruined the moment almost immediately.
They did not begin at full cruelty. Boys rarely did when they were performing for a crowd. They started with the tails, with the shape of hands, with that dangerous tone that asked a question not because it wanted an answer but because it wanted permission to laugh. Tsireya told them to stop. Ao’nung did not listen. His eyes had gone to the Sully children with a brightness you knew too well. Not simple meanness. Worse. The thrill of sensing where the group’s cruelty would be safest, and stepping into it because it would make him bigger in their eyes.
You did not miss the way his glance brushed past you before he opened his mouth again.
That hurt more than it should have. It hurt because you knew where he had learned that comfort. Not from nowhere. Not from silence alone.
Still, the scene moved as it needed to. Tonowari assigned his children to help the Sully children learn the way of water. Only when Jake turned to him with the rigid, humiliated gratitude of a warrior accepting mercy with both hands did Tonowari glance toward you.
Tsireya was the one sent forward in the end.
That fit better than anything else could have. She was bright where the moment had gone brittle, open where the clan had narrowed in on itself, and young enough to step toward strangers without carrying quite so much of the adults’ suspicion in her bones. When Tonowari told her to show the Sullys where they would stay, she went without hesitation, all kindness and curiosity, gesturing for them to follow her deeper into the village with the easy grace that seemed to live in every part of her.
The others moved with her after a brief pause. Jake remained close to Neytiri. The children hovered around their parents, tense and watchful under so many eyes. Lo’ak looked like he wanted to stare at everything and fight half of it at the same time. Kiri was quieter, reading the village as if it might speak back if she listened hard enough. Tuk stayed tucked close. All of them followed Tsireya across the woven walkways and root-bridges while the clan watched them go.
You stayed where you were, still beside Tonowari, your face unreadable even while your thoughts moved harder than you wanted. Ronal had not said much, but she had not needed to. The clan had heard what sat underneath her judgment all the same, and because they had heard it, they had remembered you too. You could feel it in the aftertaste of the moment, in the glances that had lingered just a fraction too long before turning away.
Tonowari waited until the nearest listeners had drifted farther off before he spoke your name.
His voice was quieter now, stripped of the public weight it had carried a moment before. You looked at him, and something in his expression made you follow when he tilted his head slightly toward one of the outer platforms. It was not secrecy, exactly. More the instinct of a leader who knew when a conversation would grow teeth if it was given to the clan to overhear.
You went with him in silence.
The platform he chose sat a little apart from the nearest cluster of walkways, close enough to the village to remain within sight and far enough to let the noise of it blur into distance. Wind rolled in off the sea, carrying salt and the faint scent of algae warmed under the late sun. Below, the water shifted around the roots in restless blue-green ribbons.
Tonowari rested one hand against the rail of woven mangrove and looked out rather than at you immediately. “I want you to teach Jake Sully” he said.
You did look at him then.
For a beat, all you did was stare. Not because the request made no sense. In some ways it made too much. You were one of the strongest fighters in the clan. You understood adaptation better than most. You knew what it was to enter a people not shaped like yourself and learn anyway, hard and fast and under the pressure of never being allowed the comfort of true ignorance. Still, suspicion rose in you before duty did.
“Why me?” you asked.
Tonowari turned then, and he was too perceptive not to hear everything under the question. Not only why me because of skill. Why me when the clan has just been reminded what I am. Why me when Ronal looked at them and the people looked at me after.
His face softened, though not with pity. He had always known better than to offer you that. “Because you are capable” he said. “Because you see more than what is in front of you. Because he will need someone who understands both pride and shame if he is to learn quickly.”
Your mouth tightened. “That is not the only reason.”
“No” Tonowari admitted.
The honesty stopped you from hardening further.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice even more. “He is Olo’eyktan to his family even if he stands as refugee here. If he fails, the rest will feel it. If he is isolated, he will become harder to guide. You know warriors. You know how men like him carry humiliation. And…” He paused, studying you carefully. “There may be things in him you will understand more easily than others would.”
You held his gaze a long moment. “Because he was one of the sky-people.”
Tonowari did not flinch from it. “Yes.”
The word sat between you.
You looked away, out across the water where Tsireya’s bright figure could just be seen leading the Sullys farther along the village edge. Jake walked near the back now, his attention shifting everywhere at once despite the discipline in his posture. Soldier’s habit. Marine’s habit, maybe, though that thought came and passed before you had fully named it.
“And Ronal?” you asked at last.
Tonowari’s expression changed, not with irritation but with the knowledge that there was no use pretending that piece did not matter. “Ronal trusts you.”
“That was not my question.”
His jaw flexed once. “She will not interfere.”
You gave a short, humorless breath through your nose. “Another answer that is not the one I asked for.”
Tonowari accepted that too. “She does not like this burden being here at all” he said plainly. “But she does not doubt you. Neither do I.”
That should have eased you more than it did. Instead you found yourself searching his face for something smaller and meaner. Pity. Calculation. A hope that you would understand the Sullys because you were enough like them to make use of. Whatever he saw in your expression made his own grow steadier.
“This is not because I see you as closer to them than to us” he said, and now there was a firmness in him that left no room for retreat. “It is because I know exactly where you stand. With us. With this family. With this clan. Do not insult me by thinking I have forgotten.”
The rebuke was gentle only in tone. It landed harder for that.
You looked at him properly again. There was no hesitation in him now, no uncertainty, no crack through which old fear could crawl. For a brief moment the pressure in your chest loosened.
Then duty returned in full.
“If I do this” you said “I will not coddle him.”
Tonowari’s mouth twitched faintly. “I would be disappointed if you did.”
You folded your arms over your chest and stared out at the village once more. “And if he cannot learn?”
“Then at least he will fail honestly.”
That, more than anything, sounded like Tonowari.
Silence stretched for a few breaths. At last you nodded once. “Fine.”
Tonowari let out a breath so slight most would not have caught it. You did. He had wanted this more than he had let show. “Thank you.”
You shook your head. “Do not thank me yet.”
That almost drew a smile from him, but it faded before fully forming. Instead he stepped closer, slowly enough to give you time to refuse him if you wished. One of his hands came up to rest lightly at your waist, warm and familiar, and for a brief moment he only looked at you. Then he bent and kissed you.
It was soft, short, and almost unbearably gentle. No heat, no urgency, nothing that belonged to hunger more than affection. Just the quiet press of his mouth to yours, sweet with reassurance and the kind of love that had long since learned how to speak in smaller gestures. When he pulled back, he stayed close for only a heartbeat more before letting you go.
“I will send him to you after they settle” he said.
You watched him go.
——————————————————————
By the time Jake found you, the sun had shifted lower and the village had settled into that restless in-between hour when work had not yet ended but the worst of the day’s heat had broken. You were near one of the outer racks checking spear bindings, more to give your hands something useful to do than because the task truly needed doing. The sounds of Awa’atlu drifted around you in pieces: children splashing in shallows below, women calling to one another from the fish platforms, distant laughter, the low hush of water against root and wood.
You heard his steps before you turned.
Jake stopped a respectful distance away. For a moment neither of you spoke. Up close, it was easier to see what had first flashed at the edge of your notice before. The way he held his shoulders. The way he looked at space first, then movement, then exits, then finally people. The kind of stillness that was not ease but readiness worn so long it had become a second skin. He looked older than his face alone accounted for. More tired too.
He inclined his head slightly. “Tonowari said I’m with you.”
His Na’vi was serviceable, accented hard, each word carrying the weight of effort. You let him finish before answering.
“For now” you said.
Something in his expression shifted, not quite amusement and not quite resignation. He had likely already learned enough in the village to know that this was your version of mercy.
You set the spear aside and faced him fully. For a moment, you let the silence sit between you, weighing him properly now that the village noise had fallen farther away.
“Tonowari believes you can learn” you said at last. “I have not decided yet.”
Jake took that without visible offense. If anything, something in his posture settled, as if bluntness was easier for him to understand than politeness.
“Fair enough” he said.
You crossed your arms over your chest. “You will listen the first time. You will not argue every correction like wounded pride makes you smarter. And you will not expect me to make this easy because you were Toruk Makto, Olo’eyktan, or anything else that matters somewhere other than here.”
That finally pulled the faintest shift in his expression. Not quite amusement. Not quite irritation. More like recognition of a hard tone he had heard before in other places, under other chains of command.
“Got it” he said.
You held his gaze another beat, watching for the usual signs. Swagger. Resentment. The need to prove himself immediately. Instead you found exhaustion, discipline, and something heavier buried under both.
That did not make you trust him. It only made you think he might be worth the effort.
For one strange beat, the air between you altered. Not softer. Sharper. Recognition trying on a shape before either of you trusted it enough to name. Neither of you moved first. Neither smiled. Yet some old instinct, buried under years and planets and new bodies and new loyalties, stirred its head.
You broke eye contact first because you disliked the feeling of being read.
“Walk” you said.
Jake followed without protest. You led him down one of the narrower village paths where the platforms thinned and the sound of the central marui softened behind you. For a while you said nothing, making him keep pace over slick wood and curving roots, watching whether he looked only at where he stepped or at the full environment around him. He adapted quickly, though not gracefully. Not yet.
At last you stopped near a lower platform where the tide had come in high enough to lap against the woven supports.
“If you are to remain here” you said, turning to him “you will learn more than how to swim their way and breathe their way. You will learn when not to take up space. You will learn when pride becomes a burden for everyone around you.”
Jake absorbed that without visible offense. If anything, his gaze grew a shade more direct. “You always start this friendly?”
“No” you said. “Normally I am worse.”
That did it. One corner of his mouth moved before he could stop it.
You noticed. So did he.
It vanished almost at once.
He was silent after that, and to his credit he did not push.
That, more than the recognition itself, was what made you decide he might actually be teachable.
——————————————————————
Jake Sully learned like a man who understood that failure was no longer private.
The first few days, you gave him no softness. You made him run the shallows until his breathing turned ragged. You corrected his stance with the blunt pressure of your hand against his shoulder and the sharper crack of your voice when words failed. You showed him how to move his balance lower on the slick roots, how to enter the water without fighting it, how to watch the current rather than only the surface. You kept your explanations short in Na’vi because he needed the language in his mouth as much as the skill in his limbs. When he stumbled, you made him go again. When he swore under his breath, you pretended not to understand.
By the end of the second day, both of you knew you were pretending.
He had just surfaced from another rough dive, pushing wet hair out of his face and coughing salt from his throat, when you said, “You are still trying to win against the water.”
Jake wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “That obvious, huh?”
The English snapped between you so suddenly that both of you stilled.
Then, despite everything, the corner of your mouth twitched.
“Yes” you answered in the same language. “Painfully obvious.”
He barked a laugh. It came out rougher than amused, but it was real. For the first time since arriving, some of the tightness in him loosened.
“Jesus” he muttered. “That’s nice.”
“What?”
“English. No offense, but my brain feels like it’s getting beat with a shovel half the time.”
You folded your arms over your chest and looked at him a long moment. “You are doing better than you think.”
“Yeah?”
“No.”
That got a fuller laugh out of him, and there it was again, that quick flash of recognition. Not intimacy. Not anything you needed to fear. Just the strange, immediate ease of finding another person who had once stood under the same hard sun, listened to the same dead humor, worn the same kind of damage into the body until it became posture.
From the shallows, you saw Tonowari turn his head slightly from where he spoke with a group of hunters farther up the beach.
He looked away almost at once.
You told yourself it meant nothing.
——————————————————————
What unsettled your family was not one thing. It was accumulation.
Jake began to catch more of your English when it slipped out around frustration or instinct. Once, when he planted his foot wrong on a root slick with spray and nearly went backward into the water, you grabbed his arm and snapped “Watch your footing, soldier” before thinking. He froze. Then he stared at you with dawning disbelief.
“No way.”
You let go too quickly. “What?”
“That’s marine. Nobody says that like that unless—” He laughed under his breath. “You were one too.”
You did not answer immediately. Waves lapped around your calves. Farther out, ilu rolled just under the skin of the sea like ghosts. At last you said “A long time ago.”
“Still counts.”
“Not here.”
He studied you with a little too much understanding. “Yeah. I get that.”
You hated how much you liked being understood without having to pry your chest open for it. Hated, too, how dangerous that liking could look from the outside when no one else shared the language that carried it.
So you cut the moment short and sent him back underwater.
But these things added up. A phrase here. A tone there. A curse muttered in English when he swallowed too much water and came up sputtering. The half-grin you could not quite stop when he made some dry, bitter joke about command structures and impossible missions. The day you found yourself humming under your breath while sorting spears after training and he looked up from where he knelt checking a woven net.
“Hold on” he said.
You stopped.
“No” he said, staring. “No way.”
Your fingers tightened on the shaft in your hand. “What.”
“That song.”
You had not heard that song in years. Not truly. It was old even before Pandora, older still by the time it had crossed light-years with you in memory alone. Some fragment of Earth, half nursery-rhyme, half cheap old melody from barracks speakers and scratched recordings and a place so far gone it barely felt real anymore.
You should have denied it.
Instead you said “You know it?”
Jake let out a disbelieving breath. Then, very softly, he sang the next line.
Your whole body went still.
It was absurd. It was stupid. It was nothing but a few words from a dead world carried unexpectedly into salt air and reef light. And yet the force of it hit you somewhere behind the ribs. Something old and buried sat up inside you all at once.
So you sang back.
Not loudly. Not beautifully. Your voice had never been built for softness. Jake’s was worse, rough and low and frayed at the edges. But between you the melody formed anyway, pieced together from memory and laugh-broken mistakes and the sort of embarrassed amusement soldiers learned when they recognized one another being sentimental by accident.
When it ended, the silence after felt strange.
“Damn” Jake said.
You looked away toward the horizon because your throat had gone unexpectedly tight. “Yeah...”
“That was… damn.”
You stayed quieter this time.
Neither of you noticed Tsireya standing farther down the beach with an armful of shells for a long few seconds. By the time you did, her expression had already smoothed itself into something easy. She came forward smiling, asking what the song had meant, asking what language it was, asking if you would teach her a little of it.
You answered gently. You always answered Tsireya gently.
But that night, when you returned to the family marui, Ao’nung was sharper than usual. Ronal’s attention lingered on you too long before dropping. Tonowari asked how Jake had done, and the question was ordinary, but something under it was not.
You noticed.
You said nothing.
——————————————————————
Lo’ak came to you slowly.
It began with small things. Not intimacy. Not confidence. Observation.
You were the first among the Metkayina adults to acknowledge the Sully children’s progress without loading the praise with surprise or mockery. When Kiri held her breath longer than anyone expected, you told her so plainly. When Neteyam adapted his form in the water, you nodded once and said he learned fast. When Tuk followed Tsireya through shallow reef channels without fear, you crouched to her height and told her she was brave. And when Lo’ak took an ilu ride that ended ragged but stubbornly recovered, you caught him at the shore while everyone else focused on the larger lesson and told him “You corrected quickly. That's useful here.”
He looked at you then as if he did not know what to do with approval that had no sting hidden inside it.
After that, you caught him watching you now and again. Not often. Enough.
You did not go to him at once. Boys like Lo’ak could smell pity the way akulas smelled blood. He would have bolted from it. So you waited. You watched how Ao’nung needled him, how Neteyam shielded him when he could, how Jake’s discipline fell hardest on him and Neytiri’s worry sharpened around him until both could sound like disappointment if a child heard them at the wrong angle. You watched how Lo’ak learned to grin before the next blow landed, how he bristled before anyone touched the sore place because he had learned that if he bared his teeth first people mistook it for strength.
Then came the day Ao’nung and his friends crossed too far.
It played out near the waterline with enough witnesses to make it uglier. Rotxo laughed first. Ao’nung followed, circling the Sully children with that loose-limbed swagger boys wore when they believed the world had already decided in their favor. Tails. Hands. Foreheads. The mockery came quick and mean. Kiri’s expression closed. Lo’ak stepped forward at once, ready to start the fight that had already been offered to him.
You moved before he could.
“Ao’nung.”
Your voice cracked across the space hard enough that every child there froze.
Your son turned. Shock hit first, then defiance. He had expected adults to ignore it. He had not expected you.
“Mother—”
“No.”
The word came flat as stone. You crossed the sand until you stood between the two groups, not facing the Sully children at all. Facing him. Only him.
“What do you see when you look at them?” you asked.
Ao’nung lifted his chin. Around him, Rotxo and the others went still with the instinctive caution of boys who realized too late that the game had shifted.
He said nothing.
You took one step closer. “Say it.”
His jaw tightened. “They are not like us.”
The words struck with the force of memory because you had heard them before. Not always aloud. Not always with witnesses. But enough.
“No” you said. “They are not. And yet they are under our protection. They are guests. They are children. Is this how I taught you to carry strength?”
Ao’nung’s eyes flicked away for the briefest instant. Shame. Then anger, because shame rarely came alone at his age.
“They are freaks” one of the boys muttered from behind him, too quiet perhaps in hope of escaping notice.
You heard it anyway.
So did Lo’ak. So did Kiri. So did Tsireya, who had just reached the edge of the group and gone pale.
You felt the word land inside your own ribs like a thrown stone. For one terrible instant you nearly lost your hold on your face. Nearly let them all see exactly where it had struck. But you had stood through worse than a child’s cruelty, and this was not the moment to bleed.
Instead you looked at Ao’nung and said, very quietly “Then what does that make me?”
Silence.
Not one child moved.
Ao’nung’s eyes snapped back to yours, wide for one naked second before he forced them harder again. He had not expected that. He had not expected to be made to look directly at the bridge between what he had said and who you were.
“You are not—” he began.
But he had no ending for it.
You spared him none.
“You will not speak that way again” you said. “Not of them. Not of anyone under this clan’s shelter. If you do not know how to carry your rank with honor, then you will carry nothing. Go.”
He stood frozen just long enough to reveal the child still living inside the almost-young-man shape of him. Then he turned sharply and stalked off, his friends scrambling after him in uneasy silence.
The Sully children remained where they were.
You still did not look at them immediately. Your hurt was too near the surface. You knew if you met Lo’ak’s eyes just then you might show too much.
When you finally turned, Neteyam looked wary. Kiri looked as if she had understood far more than you wanted her to. Tuk only seemed confused. Lo’ak had that same braced expression again, like he did not trust good things not to twist into something else.
So you kept it simple.
“Go with Tsireya” you said. “Training is not finished.”
Tsireya stepped forward at once, relief and loyalty all over her face, gathering the others with the soft authority that came to her as naturally as tide.
Lo’ak lingered half a second longer.
You gave him one small nod.
He went.
Only when they were gone did you let yourself breathe.
——————————————————————
That night Ao’nung found you outside the marui.
The village slept in pieces, never fully. The sea muttered against the roots. Wind moved through hanging shells and fishbone charms with a sound like soft rattling breath. You had come out because you could not bear one more look, one more half-thought, one more silence from inside. You stood on a narrow platform over dark water and let the night keep your company while the tears you had denied yourself earlier escaped anyway, quiet and furious.
You heard him before you saw him. Young warriors always thought they moved more silently than they did.
“Mother?”
You swiped at your face before turning. He saw anyway. Of course he saw. Ao’nung had always been able to read your pain more quickly than Tsireya. He simply had less practice handling it.
He stood a little distance away, no longer broad with performance. Just young. Just your son. His shoulders had lost all their earlier swagger.
“I should not have said those things” he said.
His voice was low, roughened by shame he clearly hated. You waited.
“I should not have let them say them either” he added. “It was wrong.”
Still you waited.
Ao’nung swallowed. “I was angry.”
“Angry at children?” you asked.
“No.” He stopped, jaw tight. “At… everything.”
That at least was honest.
You looked back out over the water. Moonlight silvered the surface in broken bands. “Do you know why your words hurt?”
“Yes.”
“No” you said. “You know why they upset me. That is not the same.”
He flinched. Not visibly enough for a stranger. More than enough for you.
After a moment, you went on. “When you call them freaks, when you make their bodies into something to be mocked, you are not speaking only to them. You are speaking into a wound that existed before they arrived. A wound you have seen this clan touch in me all your life whether you named it or not.”
Ao’nung’s breathing changed. Slight. Tight.
“I know” he said.
You turned then and finally looked at him fully. “Do you?”
His face worked with things he did not know how to say. Defensiveness. Shame. Pride. Fear. The ugly confusion of realizing that someone could love you fiercely and still be disappointed in the shape you were taking.
“I did not mean you” he said at last, and it was the sort of thing a child said because he still believed intent could erase impact.
Your chest ached.
“I know” you answered softly. “But it doesn't erase that I still am lime them.”
Tears burned again. You despised them. You let none fall this time.
Ao’nung took a hesitant step forward. “I am sorry.”
This time, because it was him, because he had come on his own and because he was trying in the only way he knew how, you reached out. Your hand settled briefly against his cheek.
“I know” you said.
He leaned into the touch before he caught himself. The movement was small, almost involuntary, but you felt it all the same. It broke you a little more, because for all his sharpness and pride and the cruel stupidity of what he had done earlier, there was still something achingly young in the way he sought comfort before remembering he was meant to stand tall without it.
Your hand slid from his cheek to the back of his head before you could think better of it.
“Ao’nung” you said softly.
That was all it took.
Whatever stiffness had been holding him upright gave way at last, and he stepped into you with none of his usual swagger left, leaning his weight against you as if he had forgotten for a moment how to keep it all inside himself. You drew him in without hesitation, wrapping both arms around him and holding him close. One hand spread broad between his shoulder blades while the other rested at the back of his head, keeping him there with a gentleness that only made the ache in your chest deepen.
He did not speak. Neither did you.
For a little while, the two of you only stayed that way in the dark, with the sea breathing quietly below and the night moving around the edges of the platform. Ao’nung let himself be held in a way he would have denied wanting in daylight, all the sharp edges of him gone quiet for once. You pressed a kiss to his hairline and held him tighter for a heartbeat, as though that alone could soothe every place where disappointment had cut through both of you.
When he finally pulled back, it was slowly and with visible reluctance, his face turned partly away as if he could hide how much he had needed it.
You let him have that dignity.
He swallowed once, then straightened. “Goodnight, Mom” he said, voice rougher than before.
Your hand brushed briefly over his arm before you let him go. “Goodnight, baby.”
Only after he had disappeared back into the sleeping village did you stand there alone and let the thought come that you had been keeping away.
Ao’nung had been comfortable enough to say those things because he had heard their shape before. Maybe not in those exact words. Maybe not from Tonowari’s mouth. But from the clan. From whispers. From tones. From Ronal’s colder judgments uttered when you were not near enough to answer. From silences that let implication breathe.
And if Ao’nung had learned it there, if he had learned that such thoughts were sayable, then what had Tonowari and Ronal allowed to live around your children in all these years?
Worse still, what had they themselves believed and merely loved you enough never to say?
The question lodged like a hook and would not come free.
——————————————————————
After that, Lo’ak became a shape at the edge of your days more often.
He did not come to confide in you. Not yet. But he began staying back when the others ran ahead. He lingered after lessons under excuses that fooled no one. Once, while Tsireya helped Tuk with a breathing exercise and Ao’nung wrestled some challenge out of Rotxo farther down the reef, you found Lo’ak sitting alone on a low root with his feet in the water, staring out so hard at the horizon it looked like he was trying to force his thoughts into it.
You could have left him.
Instead you sat beside him without asking.
For a while neither of you spoke. Water moved around your ankles. A school of tiny fish flashed silver below. Somewhere overhead seabirds cried.
At last you said “You glare like your father.”
Lo’ak snorted before he could stop himself. “That’s not a compliment.”
“No” you agreed. “It is not.”
He glanced at you sideways then, suspicious amusement mixing with caution.
You let the quiet stretch again until he settled back into it.
When you spoke next, your voice was lighter than the weight of the question. “Did you want to punch Ao’nung?”
Lo’ak huffed. “Kinda always.”
“Reasonable.”
That earned you a real look. The first one not filtered through wariness.
You did not smile. Not much. Just enough.
A little of the tension left him. “You were really pissed.”
“Yes.”
“Because he was being a skxawng.”
“Yes.”
Lo’ak nudged water with one foot, watching the ripples. “And because of the other thing.”
There it was.
You turned your face toward the sea again. “Yes.”
He was quiet a long while after that. Then he asked, too casual to be casual “Does it bother you?”
You could have lied. You almost did. But something in the set of his shoulders stopped you.
“Of course it does.” you said.
Lo’ak looked down at his hands. Five fingers. Strong. Capable. Wrong, to some eyes. He flexed them once.
“Oh” he said.
It was such a small sound. Such a bare one. It carried more than any long confession would have.
You understood then, with a painful clarity, that no one had told him what he needed to hear. Not in a way that had sunk in. Not enough times. Not with the right weight.
So you spoke carefully, because some truths had to be laid in a boy’s hands like knives turned hilt-first.
“Listen to me, Lo’ak. The shape of your body does not lessen you. Not your hands. Not your tail. Not your face. Not any piece of you. Anyone who tells you otherwise is trying to make themselves feel pure by cutting someone else smaller. That is not truth. That is cowardice.”
He stared straight ahead. You were not certain he was breathing.
“You are Na’vi” you went on. “You are your father’s son and your mother’s son. You are yourself beyond both of them. You do not have to earn personhood from people who look at you and see only what is different. Do you understand me?”
Lo’ak’s throat moved.
“Maybe” he muttered.
“Then I will say it again another day.”
That made his mouth twitch a little. Not quite a smile. Near enough.
And because he was still a boy, because the ache in him had not erased the impulse to test, he said “You really think I’m perfect?”
“Nobody is” you said at once.
His head whipped toward you, offended.
You let him stew half a second before adding “You are loud, impulsive, and you make decisions like someone throwing knives blind in the dark. But none of that has anything to do with the body you were born into.”
Lo’ak barked a laugh so sudden it startled both of you.
You joined him. Very briefly.
From then on, he sought you more.
Not always alone. Sometimes he just drifted toward wherever you were helping set lines or checking spears or returning from a hunt, offering clumsy help he would never have offered before. Sometimes you found him with Tsireya and Tuk, and he was easy there, gentler. Sometimes he caught you between duties and asked sharp questions about fighting, or hunting, or how long it had taken you to feel like you belonged in reef water. Sometimes he said nothing at all, only sat near enough that the silence became company.
The Sullys noticed. So did your family.
Jake and Neytiri, to their credit, did not pry. You saw the awareness in Jake’s eyes, the cautious gratitude in the way he sometimes let Lo’ak drift toward you without calling him back. Neytiri watched too, more guarded, but she recognized help when she saw it. She simply did not know its shape.
Your own family did not have that grace.
Tsireya’s jealousy came first and hurt the least. She grew clingier in small ways, touching your arm more often, leaning against you when she spoke, asking if you would braid shells into her hair that evening or come see some little thing she had found in the tide pools. It was not suspicion. It was fear of displacement. You answered it at once, gathering her close whenever you returned home, pressing kisses to her forehead, telling her stories while you worked her braids loose and redid them, letting her fall asleep with her head in your lap when the nights grew longer.
Ao’nung’s came in the form of watchfulness. He did not mention Lo’ak directly. He simply observed too much and went sharp around the edges whenever he found you speaking to the Sully boy alone. Shame still sat between the two of you after his apology, not healed, only softened over. That made everything worse.
Tonowari and Ronal felt different.
They held it in. They trusted you, and because they trusted you they hated the feeling all the more. You could see it in what they did not say. Tonowari lingering longer after evening meals, listening when you spoke of training but not asking the questions beneath his quiet. Ronal watching your face when Jake’s name came up and then turning away before the glance could become accusation. Their discomfort did not come from believing you unfaithful. Not yet. It came from seeing parts of you open in ways they had never been invited into.
That was what jealousy often was at its core. Not fear of replacement. Fear of exclusion.
You almost understood it enough to forgive.
Almost.
——————————————————————
The fracture deepened before it broke.
You began hearing things you had never let yourself fully hear before. A pause in conversation when you approached. A woman on a fish platform lowering her voice just a breath too late. A boy saying something under his breath about sky-blood and getting hissed into silence by his sister. None of it new, perhaps. Only newly impossible to ignore once Ao’nung had put shape to it in front of you.
And Ronal, for all the love between you, did not help.
She was not careless with you. Never that. In private she touched you with certainty, trusted your judgment in battle, shared the weight of the children and the home and the clan’s expectations. But she had always kept a harder core than Tonowari, and in moments where the Sullys were discussed her words carried enough old disdain to stir every insecurity you had spent years trying to bury. She did not call them demons. She did not need to. A tone could do the work. A look. A certain refusal to separate strangeness from contamination.
Each time, you said nothing.
Each time, something in you bent a little further.
Then came the day you learned she had spoken more plainly when you were not there.
Not from Tonowari. Not from some dramatic confrontation. From chance. From walking behind a half-screened section of woven wall and hearing the tail end of a conversation between Ronal and two women who had come seeking her counsel. You only caught enough to understand. The Sully children. Their bodies. Their blood. The risk of letting too much of the sky-people remain in the heart of the clan. Ronal’s voice cool and unsparing. Not once your name spoken, but you heard yourself in every omission.
You left before they saw you.
That night you could not eat.
When Tonowari asked what was wrong, you said you were tired. Ronal looked at you too long and said nothing. Ao’nung picked at his meal. Tsireya chatted about some little thing from the reef until even she felt the heaviness and fell quiet.
You slept badly. When morning came, you threw yourself harder into your duties.
No one stopped you.
——————————————————————
The argument began with almost nothing.
That was the cruel part. The worst fights often did.
You had spent half the day with the hunting parties and the latter part of the afternoon checking on the younger trainees. By the time you returned to the marui, salt dried tight over your skin and exhaustion sat meanly in your bones. The family meal was nearly ready. Tsireya was helping set woven plates in place. Ao’nung was cleaning a spearhead with too much force. Tonowari sat mending something with hands that only looked calm. Ronal had her back partly to you, sorting herbs and shells for medicines, her profile sharp in the slanting gold light.
You entered and the shift in the marui was immediate, small but noticeable all the same. Tsireya brightened first, coming to you at once, and you kissed her forehead as naturally as breathing. Your hand rested briefly on Ao’nung’s shoulder as you passed, even though he did not look up, his attention fixed too carefully on the spearhead in his hands.
Tonowari’s eyes found you next.
He was seated near the center of the space, broad shoulders slightly bowed over the piece of mending in his hands, but the moment he saw you he straightened a little. Not enough to make it obvious. Just enough that you caught it. His gaze moved over your face in one quick, quiet check, as though measuring your tiredness, your mood, the weight you had brought back in with you from the day. When you paused near him, he reached out and let his fingers brush lightly over your wrist. It was a small touch, gone almost as soon as it happened, but it carried the kind of familiar care that long years built into instinct.
“You are late” he said.
There was no reprimand in it. Only notice.
“Work took longer” you answered.
Tonowari gave a low hum and let his hand fall away, though not before his thumb brushed once against your skin. “Sit when you are done. You have not rested enough these past days.”
Before you could answer, Ronal looked up from where she sat sorting herbs and shells into neat little groupings by her side.
Her expression was harder to read, as it often was when others were near, but you knew her too well not to catch the brief pause in her hands when you stepped fully into the marui. She looked at you for a moment longer than necessary, her gaze moving over the damp salt dried into your skin, the tension still holding across your shoulders, the faint exhaustion under your eyes. Then she clicked her tongue softly, almost under her breath.
“You pushed too far again" she said.
The words should have sounded sharp. From anyone else, they would have. From Ronal, they carried that familiar edge of concern dressed in sternness, the shape it most often took when she did not want to soften herself in front of the children.
You exhaled through your nose, too tired to fight the gesture for what it was. “I am still standing.”
“Yes, Ronal said, dry and unimpressed. “And you think that is always the same as being well.”
Tsireya hid a smile at that, clearly having heard the argument before.
For the briefest moment, your eyes met Ronal’s properly. Something quiet passed there. Not tenderness made obvious. Never that, not in front of everyone. But something steady and known, something that had lived in the spaces between the three of you for too long to need much dressing.
You shook your head faintly, more to yourself than to either of them, and moved at last to wash.
——————————————————————
It could have ended there.
Instead Ronal said, without turning “Lo’ak was looking for you again.”
The words were ordinary. The tone was not.
You stilled with water running over your fingers.
“I saw him” you said.
“Mm.”
That sound. Small. Dismissive. Heavy with all the things left unsaid.
You dried your hands slowly and faced her. “If you wish to say something, say it.”
Tsireya froze. Ao’nung’s head lifted. Tonowari’s hands went still over the mending in his lap.
Ronal turned then. Her face was controlled, but not enough. “You spend much time with him.”
“He needed guidance.”
“He has parents.”
The words landed harder than they should have because you had given your life to children who were not of your body and never once resented it. Because you knew exactly where your deepest insecurity lived. Because Ronal knew it too.
“So do ours” you replied, voice already sharpening. “Yet that has never stopped me from raising them.”
Tonowari looked up fast. “Enough.”
“No” you said without taking your eyes off Ronal.
Ronal set down the herbs in her hands one by one with terrifying care. “The clan sees. The people speak.”
“And you listen.”
Her nostrils flared. “I am Tsahìk. I hear what moves through my people.”
“You let it move.”
“That is not the same.”
“No?” Your laugh came sharp and ugly. “Then tell me, Ronal, when they look at the Sully children and see something tainted, something wrong-shaped, something less, do you think I do not know what else they are seeing in that moment?”
Tonowari stood. “Y/n—”
“DO NOT.” You barely spared him a glance.
The words came out so loud and raw that the whole marui seemed to freeze around them.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. No one even breathed properly. It was not only the force of it. It was the fact that none of them could remember the last time they had heard you scream at all, much less heard it turned on one of them. Not Tonowari. Not Ronal. Not the children. You were not gentle by nature, not always soft, but this was different. This was something torn straight out of the center of you, stripped of discipline and pride and every careful restraint you usually kept wrapped tight around your hurt.
Silence crashed into the marui so hard even the sea beyond seemed to retreat.
Ronal’s chin lifted higher. Hurt had reached her now, and pride arrived right behind it. “You are twisting this.”
“Am I?” Your voice rose. “Ao’nung did not learn those thoughts from water and wind. He learned them here. In this clan. In this home. In the things said when I am not present and the things not challenged when I am.”
Ao’nung jerked upright. “Mother—”
“Be silent.”
The words cracked out of you with a force that seemed to stun even yourself.
Ao’nung went still at once. So did everyone else. It was not simply that you had snapped at him. It was that none of them were used to this version of your anger, this loud, shaking, barely-contained thing that tore out of you without the usual control wrapped around it. You could be stern. You could be sharp. But this was different, and the shock of hearing it turned on him kept Ao’nung rooted where he stood.
Ronal’s eyes flashed. “You accuse me of turning my son against you?”
“I accuse you of feeding him poison and calling it caution.”
Tsireya made a strangled sound. Tonowari stepped between you by instinct, but you moved sideways before he could block the line of the fight.
The words struck. Not because they were true in the way she meant. Because some part of them touched something real.
Your face twisted, more wounded than angry for one naked second.
“Never offered you?” you shot back. “You speak as though you ever reached for them.”
Ronal went still.
You laughed once, harsh and shaking. “Do you know how many times either of you asked about where I came from? About the life before this one? About the language still living in my mouth? About the things I lost?” Your voice rose again, raw with old hurt now, with something far older than the Sullys and this argument and even the clan’s whispers. “You accepted that those parts of me existed, yes, but you never wanted to stand too close to them. Never wanted to know them unless they could be made useful, or small, or easy to set aside.”
Tonowari’s expression changed at that, guilt flashing through it before he could hide it.
You did not spare him either.
“I did not hide those pieces because I wished to keep you out,” you said, voice breaking around the force of it. “I kept them quiet because no one asked. Because no one looked at those wounds and wondered what they were made of.”
The silence that followed hurt worse than shouting.
You had kept those fragments hidden. Not maliciously. Not knowingly. But because pain went silent when no one around you shared its language and because the ones who claimed to love you had never truly learned how to ask for it.
“You think I would betray you for friendship?” you asked, voice trembling now with fury.
“I think” Ronal snapped, and now she was shouting too “that demons return to their own. I think perhaps you feel the pull of sameness and do not know it. I think perhaps that is why you go so often where you are reflected.”
Everything in you went cold.
Tonowari moved at once. “Ronal.”
But she was too far inside the blow already. You saw regret hit her only after the words were gone.
You stared at her. “Do you see me only as a demon, then?”
Ronal was breathing hard. Wounded pride, jealousy, fear, and years of buried prejudice had tangled too tightly to unwind cleanly. In that moment she chose anger because anger felt stronger than retreat.
“Yes” she said, in a voice that shook. “In this, yes. What else calls a mated woman away so often if not the demon in her? What else lets her laugh and sing and hide herself with another male as though the bond of her family is not enough?”
Tsireya began to cry.
The sound barely reached you. Your ears were roaring.
You stepped forward so fast Tonowari actually reached out to catch your arm and missed. “You dare” you said, each word raw. “You dare accuse me of cheating while standing in the home I built with my own hands. While speaking to the children I fed, bathed, taught, held. While wearing medicines I gathered and skins I cured and weapons I sharpened. You dare call me demon after I gave you every piece of my fucking life?!”
Ronal’s face crumpled for a heartbeat under the force of it, but you were beyond mercy now.
“You put those thoughts into Ao’nung’s mouth” you went on, voice breaking louder. “Do not deny it. He did not invent that cruelty. He learned from the contempt you carry when you think I am not looking.”
“I was protecting this family!” Ronal shouted back.
“By teaching our son to despise people like me?”
Ao’nung surged to his feet then, shaking with his own helpless rage and terror, too young and too proud and too frightened for either of you.
“Stop talking to her like that!”
You turned on him in disbelief. “To her?”
His chest rose and fell fast. “She is my mother.”
The words hung. Not wrong. Not enough.
Pain and fury made you crueler than you meant to be. “And I am what, then?”
Ao’nung’s face twisted. For a second you saw him realize the cliff edge. He stepped anyway.
“You are not even my true mother” he spat. “You are not my real parent.”
The world stopped.
There were sounds after. Tsireya sobbing. Tonowari barking Ao’nung’s name in horror. Ronal’s sharp inhale like she had been stabbed. But all of it came from very far away. What you heard most clearly was the split inside your chest. Clean. Final. A thing tearing where you had thought it had grown too strong to tear.
Tonowari crossed to you quickly, hands half raised. “Y/n, listen to me—”
“No.” You reeled back from him too. “NO. NOT ONE OF YOU.”
Tsireya ran forward then and you almost broke on the sight of her, but you could not stay. Could not breathe inside that marui another second.
You snatched up the nearest things that were yours. A wrap. A knife. Your bow. A small satchel hanging from a peg by the entrance. Tonowari called your name. Ronal did too, and hers sounded ruined now, but you could not hear anything except the echo of demon and not my true mother and the older, deeper voice inside yourself whispering the worst of all.
You could not even give them children.
Perhaps that was what had always sat beneath it. The old failure. The body that had crossed worlds and changed shape and still would not do this one thing the clan understood without question. You had told yourself for years it did not matter, because Tsireya and Ao’nung were yours in every way that counted. But pain was a scavenger. It dragged up every buried bone when called.
You fled before you screamed.
You climbed until your hands bled.
Not badly. Just enough for the sting to keep you in your body when grief wanted to blast you out of it. You left the clustered marui of the village behind, crossed a tangle of roots and tide-cut stone, and found one of the old trees farther inland where mangrove gave way to the slightly drier edges of forest. There, high above ground and water both, you wedged yourself into the cradle of thick branches and finally let the collapse come.
It was not graceful. It was not quiet.
You cried until your chest cramped and your throat felt flayed raw. You hit the trunk once with the heel of your hand hard enough to bruise. You cursed in English because Na’vi felt too sacred for the ugliness in you and because no one was there to hear Earth’s dead language anyway. Then you curled in on yourself with your forehead pressed to bark and shook like something hunted.
You thought of Ao’nung as a small child reaching for you from Ronal’s arms the first time he had chosen to come to you without prompting. You thought of Tsireya feverish and half asleep, her fingers tangled in your braid while you sat up all night cooling her skin with damp cloths. You thought of Tonowari holding you after hunts gone bad, of Ronal’s mouth at your shoulder in the dark, of every year you had given to this family, this place, this life built on the bones of another.
Then you thought of the clan’s eyes on you when the Sullys arrived. Of Ronal saying unlike us. Of whispers. Of silences. Of Tonowari never quite cutting them off. Of every time you had chosen gratitude over fury because love seemed more important than being right.
The night gave you too much room to think. Sleep would not hold for long, and every time you drifted close to it your mind kicked you back awake with something sharper waiting. So you lay there in the cradle of branches staring through gaps in the leaves at scraps of dark sky and let yourself wander somewhere crueler.
Your thoughts found Lo’ak because of course they did. Not just Lo’ak as he was now, all sharp edges and stubborn pride and hurt packed into the shape of a boy trying not to show where the world had bruised him, but Lo’ak as he had been when he was smaller, when his hands had still looked too big for the rest of him and his ears and brows and fingers had marked him out before he could even understand why people were staring. You thought of the way eyes lingered. The way silence changed texture around him. The way even kindness could turn ugly when it carried pity underneath.
And then, against your own will, your mind made the leap. If you had ever carried a child of your own here, if Eywa or fate or whatever force ruled these things had ever placed that life in your arms, would they have looked like that too. Would they have had your blood written into them in all the ways this world knew how to notice and punish. Five fingers. Strange bone structure. Some soft human wrongness visible beneath Na’vi skin. Something beautiful to you, maybe, because it would have been yours, because it would have been theirs, because love would have made every difference sacred. But not beautiful to everyone else. Not safe.
The thought hollowed you out in a new place. Because once it came, another followed it, quieter and somehow worse. Maybe Tonowari and Ronal had known. Maybe not in words, not in any deliberate, spoken way, but somewhere deep and practical and afraid. Maybe some part of them had always been relieved that no child had ever come from your body. Relieved that they had been spared the risk of loving a child the clan might look at the way they looked at Lo’ak. Relieved that they had been spared explaining your traits in the face of tradition, in the face of gossip, in the face of that old, ugly instinct to sort the acceptable from the strange.
You shut your eyes hard enough to see color behind them, but it did nothing. The thought kept gnawing. Not because you truly believed they would reject such a child once placed in their arms. That was what made it hurt in a different way. You knew Tonowari would have loved fiercely. You knew Ronal, for all her pride and sharpness, would have fought like a knife for anything she called hers. But love after the fact was not the same as wanting before the fact. It was possible to love deeply and still feel relief at being spared a harder road. Possible to adore you and still be grateful that you had not given them a child who would carry the most visible proof of what set you apart.
Your stomach turned. Suddenly the old grief was tangled with something meaner, more humiliating. It was one thing to wonder whether they had ever looked at you and seen difference they tolerated because they loved you. It was another to imagine they had looked at your empty hands, your empty womb, and thanked the stars in some quiet hidden corner of themselves that it had stayed that way.
You pressed the heel of your hand over your mouth to hold in the sound that wanted out. Below you, the forest breathed and shifted and remained indifferent. Somewhere distant, water moved against root and stone. You thought of Lo’ak again, of the set of his jaw every time he pretended he did not care, and something inside you cracked with a tenderness so painful it felt almost like guilt. Because if a child of yours had looked like him, you knew with horrible certainty that you would have loved them past language, past reason, past fear. You would have torn the world open with your bare hands before letting anyone make them feel lesser for it.
And that, perhaps, was the sharpest wound of all. That no such child had ever existed, and yet you were grieving them anyway. Grieving the possibility. Grieving the shape of a life you had never let yourself hold long enough to name. Grieving the chance that perhaps, somewhere under all this hurt, you had wanted more than you had ever admitted. Not just mates. Not just a place. Not just borrowed children who had become yours through devotion rather than blood. Something smaller and more dangerous. Someone who might have carried your difference openly into the light, forcing everyone around you to reveal exactly how much of your strangeness they could truly bear.
For a long time after that, you did not sleep at all.
——————————————————————
Morning did not fix anything.
That, perhaps, was the hardest part. Dawn came all golden over the water as if the world had not been split open. The village woke. Nets were lifted. Fish gutted. Children called to one another. Duties remained, indifferent to heartbreak. So did you.
You returned at first light only long enough to wash your face in cold water and tie your hair back properly. Then you went straight to your responsibilities. The hunters needed directing. Tracks from the night tides needed reading. Two younger warriors had argued over spear allocation. A net line had torn along one of the outer shallows and needed stronger hands to repair it before midday.
The clan saw you.
Of course they did. Word had already spread. You could feel it in the way voices lowered when you passed, in how no one quite dared ask anything. Their curiosity warred with the very obvious truth written in your face. So they watched instead.
Let them, you thought.
If they expected you to vanish because your heart had been broken in private, they did not know you at all.
By noon Tonowari found you near the storage platforms where dried lines and harpoons were kept. He approached alone, which was at least wise.
You did not turn when you heard him.
“Y/n.”
You kept checking a spear haft for warp.
He stopped a careful distance away. “Please.”
That made you laugh once under your breath. Not kindly. “You ask for gentleness now?”
Tonowari absorbed the blow without flinching. “I ask for a chance to speak.”
You finally looked at him then. He wore grief openly. Guilt too. It would have moved you yesterday. Today it only hurt.
“Where was this chance” you asked “when I needed you to stop the clan from looking at me like I was something lesser the moment the Sullys arrived? Where was it when Ronal spoke and let implication do its work? Where was it when Ao’nung learned those thoughts under our roof?”
His face tightened. “You think I don't know I have failed. I know I have.”
“Then let that knowledge keep you company.”
He stepped forward despite the warning in your posture. “I did not think—”
“No” you cut in. “You did not. That is exactly it.”
For a second you saw anger spark in him too, not at you but at himself, at the impossibility of saying enough. Then it died. He stood there broad and wounded and unable to mend with strength what strength had failed to protect.
“I love you” he said simply.
Pain sliced fresh through your ribs. “Then you should have protected me better.”
You walked away before he could answer.
——————————————————————
Tsireya came later.
Where Tonowari approached like someone handling a blade, Tsireya came like she always came to you: quickly, heart first, tears already threatening. You found her near the outer shallows because she had clearly searched until someone told her where you were. The moment she saw you, she ran.
You caught her automatically. There had never been a world where you would not.
Her arms wrapped around your waist so tightly it almost hurt. You dropped to your knees in the wet sand at once to hold her properly. She was crying before she even tried to speak. You kissed her forehead again and again, smoothing damp hair back from her face, murmuring broken comforts in Na’vi and half-English endearments that survived from a life she had never known.
“None of this is your fault” you told her. “None of it. Do you hear me?”
Tsireya nodded against your neck and cried harder.
You rocked her a little, because once upon a time that had been enough to calm every storm she brought to you. “You did nothing wrong.”
“I should have said something” she choked out. “I should have stopped them sooner. I saw Ao’nung growing mean and I thought he would soften. I should have—”
“No.” You tipped her face up until she looked at you. “You are not responsible for carrying what the adults failed to carry. Not you.”
Her mouth trembled. “Come home...”
That nearly broke you all over again.
You drew her in and held her. “I cannot” you whispered.
“Not ever?”
Your throat closed. You made yourself answer honestly. “Not yet.”
Tsireya nodded because she was kinder than anyone deserved and because she understood even when understanding hurt. She clung to you another minute, then let you wipe her face with your thumbs as if she were still little enough to fit entirely in your lap.
When she left, she looked back three times.
You watched every step.
——————————————————————
The family felt your absence exactly as you knew they would.
Not because you flattered yourself irreplaceable. Because every home had a rhythm, and you had been part of theirs for too long not to leave silence where your habits belonged. No second pair of hands to catch the small work before it fell. No evening rounds through the marui checking straps, medicines, children, weapons, weatherproofing. No body dropping tired beside theirs at the end of a long day. No one to laugh first when Tsireya made some bright joke. No one to sharpen Ao’nung’s practice blade after he had abused it against coral. No one to shoulder against Ronal while sorting herbs. No one to trade a quiet look with Tonowari across a crowded family meal.
Absence was never just emptiness. It was the shape of all the things that failed to happen.
Ao’nung felt it hardest after the first shock passed. Shame made him restless. Restlessness made him stupid. He trained too hard, snapped too fast, and once nearly got himself clipped by a reef edge because his focus was split in six directions at once. Tonowari hauled him out and cursed him senseless for it. Ao’nung took the scolding without fighting back because his thoughts were somewhere else entirely.
Ronal carried hers more inwardly. She did her work. She led. She helped heal. She moved through the village with the same proud spine and uncompromising hands. But she slept poorly, and when she thought no one watched her eyes went to doors, walkways, platforms, the outer edges of the village where you should have been appearing any minute with wet hair and sea-salt on your skin and some tired complaint ready on your mouth.
Tonowari wore his like a stone tied around the chest. He had always been large enough to contain pain without spectacle. That did not make it smaller.
You did not see all of this firsthand.
You only saw enough to guess the rest.
And still you did not return.
——————————————————————
It was Lo’ak who found you on the second evening after the fight, though not by design.
You were coming back from the outer roots with a bundle of repaired line over one shoulder and a small catch looped at your hip when you spotted him sitting alone where mangrove shadows met the darkening water. He did not hear you at first. His posture gave him away before his face did. Folded in. Guard up. Something raw fresh in him.
You almost kept walking.
Then you remembered how it felt to be left alone with hurt large enough to swallow speech.
So you went to him.
He looked up fast when your steps reached him, visibly startled, then awkward. “Oh. Hey.”
You set the repaired line aside and lowered yourself onto the root beside him. “You choose lonely places.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Guess so.”
You studied him in profile. “What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Mm.”
Lo’ak huffed. “You do that thing.”
“What thing?”
“That thing where you act like you already know I’m full of crap.”
“I do already know.”
He gave you a sideways look. Even in the gloom you could see the fight between pride and relief.
At last he muttered “Dad got on my ass again.”
“About?”
“Everything.” He kicked lightly at the water below. “The ilu stuff. The diving. Ao’nung. Me not thinking. Me thinking too much. Pick one.”
You listened.
“He doesn’t say I’m messed up or anything” Lo’ak said after a moment, staring hard at the darkness. “Not like that. He just… with Neteyam it’s always trust and expectations and all that warrior stuff. With me it’s like he’s waiting for the next screwup.”
There was no accusation in his voice by the end. That made it sadder.
“And your mother?” you asked.
Lo’ak shrugged again. “Mom loves me. She just…” He grimaced. “She just doesn't say he isn't right.”
You sat with that.
After a while you said “When people are afraid for someone, they often speak badly. They think fear will sound like discipline if they make the voice hard enough.”
Lo’ak snorted faintly. “That doesn’t make it suck less.”
“No” you agreed. “It does not.”
Silence. Then, softer, he asked “Did you mean it?”
You turned toward him. “Mean what?”
“What you said before.” He did not look at you. “About me.”
You understood.
“Yes” you said. “I meant it.”
Lo’ak swallowed. The dark hid his eyes, but not the tremor that went briefly through the line of his jaw.
“Okay” he murmured.
Nothing dramatic followed. No collapse into confession. No sudden ease. He only sat there beside you a little longer than before, and when you rose to leave he rose too and carried half the repaired line without you having to ask.
Sometimes trust entered by the smallest door.
——————————————————————
By the third night, the ache in you had sharpened into something cleaner.
Not less painful. Clearer.
You knew you could not keep sleeping in scattered places forever. You also knew you would not return to the marui only because they missed the space you filled in it. Missing you was not enough. Love was not enough. Not when love had left certain injuries untouched for years because addressing them would have required discomfort.
So when dusk deepened and your feet turned almost without thinking toward the old path that led to the spirit place the Metkayina kept near the inland meeting of root and freshwater, you let them.
The Tree of Voices. Mangrove-wrapped, sea-breathed, threaded with swaying tendrils that caught moonlight in pale glows. The place always quieted you. Tonight it only made you careful.
You saw Ronal before she saw you.
She floated near the top of the great tree, posture bowed in a way you had almost never witnessed from her. Not weakness. Pleading. Real pleading. It stopped you cold enough that your first instinct was to turn away before she looked up.
You pivoted.
“Please.”
Her voice cracked on the one word. You froze with your back half turned.
For a long moment neither of you moved. Then slowly, because running now would have been a kind of cruelty and because some exhausted, still-loving part of you could not do that to her, you turned back.
Ronal had risen to her feet. In the silver-blue light her face looked carved from grief. She came no closer until you allowed it by staying still.
“Do not leave” she said.
“I already left.”
“You know what I mean.”
Yes. You did.
The wind shifted. The floating tendrils stirred. Somewhere beyond the roots, water moved over stone.
You folded your arms hard across your chest. “You have words now.”
Ronal closed her eyes briefly. “I should have had them sooner.”
“That is not apology. That is observation.”
Her gaze came back to yours, wet and unshielded in a way that startled you more than any shouted argument had. “Then hear this. I was wrong.”
The simplicity of it hit harder than defense would have.
She took one slow breath. “I was jealous. I was afraid. I heard pieces of you I could not share and instead of asking for them, I made them suspect. I let the clan’s uglier thoughts sit too near me. I told myself I was protecting what was ours, when in truth I was protecting my pride. And when I was hurt, I used the cruelest words I could find because I knew where to wound you.”
Your jaw tightened so hard it hurt.
Ronal’s voice shook more now, but she did not look away. “No. I do not see you only as demon. I do not even see you as demon at all. I see my mate. I see the woman who has stood beside me through blood and storm and birth and grief. I see the one who raised my children as wholly as if they had first quickened under her own heart. I see the one I hurt because I was not strong enough to master my fear before it mastered my mouth.”
Pain and love and fury all surged at once so violently you nearly stepped back.
“You said it” you whispered. “You cannot unsay it.”
“I know.”
“You let those thoughts live around our son.”
“I know.”
“You let the clan’s whispers touch me for years.”
Ronal’s face crumpled. “I know.”
There it was. No defense. No reaching for context before accountability. It left you without the clean fuel of rage.
You hated that.
“And what of Ao’nung?” you demanded, because if you could not keep striking her, perhaps you could at least keep from softening. “What of Tonowari? What of the fact that none of you protected me where protection should have been simple?”
At that Ronal’s eyes filled properly and one tear slid down without her wiping it away. “Then do not forgive us yet.”
The words hit so unexpectedly you stared.
She took a step closer. Stopped. Waited. “Be angry. Stay angry. Ask more of us than one night of grief. But do not stay gone while we try to become better than the people who wounded you. Come where we can answer. Punish me with your honesty if you must. Not with your absence.”
Your throat worked uselessly around an answer.
Then Ronal, proud Ronal, fierce Ronal, lowered herself to her knees before you.
It was not dramatic. That made it worse. Better. Truer.
“I am asking” she said, voice almost breaking fully now. “Come back and let me mend what I can. Even if it takes long. Even if you do not touch me. Even if you do not call me beloved for many nights. Come back.”
Something inside you gave way then, not into easy forgiveness but into the terrible truth that you loved her still. Loved her enough that the sight of her bowed hurt almost as much as what she had done.
You crouched before you knew you meant to. Your hands found her face roughly, as if you could still be angry through touch. Ronal leaned into your palms with a shuddering breath.
“If you ever say those things again—”
“I will spend the rest of my life earning the right not to.”
You exhaled, shaking. “That is not how forgiveness works.”
“No” Ronal whispered. “But perhaps it is how atonement begins.”
For a long moment you stayed there, hand on her face, anger still alive and grief still raw and love refusing to die under either. Then footsteps sounded behind you, hesitant and stopping short.
Tonowari.
Ao’nung.
Tsireya.
Of course.
You looked over your shoulder. Tsireya was already crying again, though more quietly now. Tonowari’s expression was almost painfully careful, hope warring with the knowledge he had no claim to it. Ao’nung looked worst of all. Stripped bare by shame. Younger than he had in years.
He took two steps forward and stopped so abruptly he nearly stumbled.
“Mother” he said, and his voice cracked so badly you closed your eyes.
When you opened them, he was crying too. Not prettily. Not with dignity. Like a boy who had discovered too late that words could not be taken back just because terror came after.
“I was wrong” he blurted. “I was angry and stupid and I wanted to hurt and I said the worst thing I could think of because I knew it would hit and I hate myself for it and I know that is not enough and I know I am yours, I know that, I know it, and I am yours too if you still want me, please—”
He broke there.
Tsireya covered her mouth, sobbing. Tonowari looked away briefly as if the sight of his son’s grief struck somewhere too tender to witness directly. Ronal, still kneeling beside you, made no move to intervene. Wise again, for once. Let him say it.
You rose slowly and faced Ao’nung fully.
He flinched before you even touched him.
That nearly undid you.
“What you said” you told him, voice low and steady only by force “will stay with me for a very long time.”
He nodded frantically, tears falling. “I know.”
“You do not get to speak from pain and call the damage smaller because you did not mean all of it.”
“I know.”
“You are my son" you said, and his face broke open entirely. “You are my son whether blood says it, or the sea says it, or Eywa herself says nothing at all. But if you ever weaponize that wound again, I will not spare you for your age.”
Ao’nung was crying too hard to answer properly. He nodded anyway.
Then, because you were never not his mother no matter what you had told yourself in the dark, you opened your arms.
He came into them with a sound you would remember for the rest of your life.
You held him while he shook. Tsireya collided into both of you an instant later, wrapping herself around your side and pressing tear-wet kisses to your shoulder and jaw and temple as if trying to prove you were really there. You drew her in too. For a few breaths the three of you stood locked together, all pain and salt and forgiveness-not-yet-but-love-still.
When you finally lifted your head, Tonowari still had not moved.
You looked at him. “And you.”
His mouth almost twitched through the grief. “Yes.”
“You do not get to be the calm one and imagine that is enough. Your silence has teeth.”
Tonowari bowed his head once. “I know.”
“You should have stopped it long before now.”
“Yes.”
“You let me bear things alone because you thought surviving them meant I needed no shield.”
His eyes closed briefly.
You let him sit under that. Then, because he had owned it with the same painful honesty Ronal had and because love made monsters and mercies of all of you, you held out one hand.
Tonowari took it like a man accepting judgment.
When he stepped close, he did not pull you into him immediately. He only rested his forehead against yours and breathed. That hurt most of all. The restraint. The understanding that your anger still lived and had to be honored.
“I missed you” he whispered.
You shut your eyes. “Good.”
He laughed once against your skin, broken and relieved and miserable all at once. “Cruel woman.”
“Yes” you said.
That made Ronal huff a damp, half-laugh from where she had finally risen, and suddenly the impossible thing happened.
The pain remained.
So did the love.
They stood together and did not cancel each other out.
——————————————————————
You did not return to the marui that instant. You made them walk back with you slowly. You made them answer. Not every question. Not every hurt. But enough. Along the root-paths under moonlight you spoke of the clan’s whispers, of old wounds, of the ways love had not absolved them from confronting the ugliness around you. Ronal did not shy from hearing it. Tonowari did not hide behind leadership. Ao’nung spoke little after his apology, but every word he gave was honest. Tsireya stayed close enough to touch you every few breaths as if still making sure you would not vanish again.
By the time the family marui came into view, you were exhausted to the marrow.
The sight of home almost drove you back. Then Tsireya laced her fingers through yours and tugged very gently, and you let her.
Inside, nothing had changed and everything had. Your sleeping place remained as you had left it. Your things, the few you had grabbed, were not there because you still had them. Yet the air itself felt different. More careful. Less sure of itself. Good. Let it be.
Tsireya made you sit before you could decide not to. She brought water. Ao’nung, red-eyed and subdued, disappeared and returned with the wrap you had left behind days ago, folded more neatly than he had ever folded anything in his life. Ronal stood at the edge of the space as if uncertain whether approaching would wound more than soothe. Tonowari lit the low lamps and then simply remained near, visible, available, not pressing.
You looked at them and felt the ache all over again. You stood there for a long moment, looking at them all in the dim light of the marui.
Tsireya’s face was still wet with tears. Ao’nung looked wrecked by his own shame, all the sharpness gone out of him at last. Tonowari stood quiet and careful, as if one wrong movement might send you slipping away again. Ronal had not tried to come closer since your return, but her eyes had not left you once. The weight of everything still sat there between you, bruised and breathing, but it no longer felt like something that would swallow the whole family alive if no one spoke.
You let out a slow breath and looked away for a moment, gathering yourself.
“If I come back” you said at last, your voice tired but steady “then I will not return to silence. I will not come into this home and pretend nothing was said. I will not make myself smaller so the rest of you may feel more comfortable with what you have done.”
“No” Ronal said immediately, her voice low and rough. “You should not.”
Tonowari nodded once. “You will not have to.”
You looked at Ao’nung then, and some part of your chest still hurt too badly to soften fully, but there was room for something gentler now too.
“And you” you said quietly “will not hide from me when you are ashamed. You will face me. Do you understand?”
Ao’nung swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, Mother.”
That word nearly undid you again.
The silence that followed was not easy, but it was no longer cruel either. It simply existed, full of exhaustion and the remains of tears and the fragile uncertainty of people who had broken one another open and were now being forced to learn how to touch the wound without making it worse. For the first time since you had left, the marui felt less like a battlefield and more like a place where healing might someday be possible.
Tsireya was the first to move.
She stepped toward you slowly, as though afraid you might still pull away, and when you opened one arm for her she came at once, folding herself against your side with a soft, shaking breath. You wrapped her close and kissed the top of her head. She clung to you without embarrassment, pressing her face into your shoulder the way she had as a child whenever the world felt too large or too sharp for her soft heart.
“I missed you” she whispered.
Your eyes closed. “I know, sweet girl.”
Ao’nung lingered only a moment longer before he came too, slower than his sister had, more uncertain, but no less in need of it. He did not throw himself at you. That was not his way. He only moved close enough that you could reach for him, and when you did, when your hand caught his arm and pulled him nearer, the tight control in him gave with almost frightening speed.
You drew both of your children in against you then, one on either side, and held them.
For a while none of you said anything. Tsireya’s breathing gradually evened under your hand. Ao’nung stood tense at first, then slowly let himself lean just a little into your side, no longer pretending he did not need the reassurance of your touch. You kept one arm around Tsireya and the other around him, your fingers stroking once down his back before settling there. The simple familiarity of it hurt and soothed in equal measure.
Across from you, Tonowari watched with something raw and grateful in his face. Ronal looked quieter than you had seen her in a long time, her expression stripped bare by remorse and love and relief she did not seem to know what to do with.
When the children finally eased back, you were left facing your mates.
For a heartbeat no one moved.
Then Tonowari crossed the small distance between you in that same careful way he had worn since you returned, broad body held back by restraint rather than confidence. His hand came up slowly, giving you every chance to refuse him, and rested against the side of your neck. Warm. Steady. Familiar enough that it made your throat tighten.
“You do not have to forgive everything tonight” he said softly. “You do not have to be whole tonight either. Just stay.”
The words were so simple that they lodged deeper than any grand speech could have. You looked at him, at the honesty in his face, at the grief he had made no attempt to hide from you, and nodded once.
“I can stay” you said.
Something in him eased then, not all at once, but enough. He bent and pressed his forehead gently to yours, saying nothing more, and in that silence you felt apology, relief, and love all tangled together. It was not enough to erase what had happened. It was enough to remind you why leaving had hurt like tearing out part of your own bones.
When Tonowari stepped back, Ronal still did not move immediately.
Her hands were clasped too tightly in front of her, a rare tell from someone usually so composed. At last she came toward you, slower even than Tonowari had, and stopped close enough that you could see how red her eyes still were.
“I do not know how to touch you tonight without fearing I have lost the right” she admitted.
Your anger stirred again at that, but more tiredly now than before. “Then do not decide for me.”
Ronal’s breath caught.
You reached for her first.
The look that crossed her face at that was almost painful to witness. She stepped into you as soon as your hands found her arms, and the moment she was close enough you pulled her the rest of the way in. Ronal held herself tightly for all of one second before breaking and wrapping both arms around you with a quiet, shaking exhale that seemed pulled from the bottom of her lungs. You held her through it, one hand at her back, the other slipping up into her braids.
“I am here.”
At that, Ronal made the smallest wounded sound and held you tighter.
The rest came more quietly after that.
No more shouting. No fresh wounds. Just the family settling around one another in the weary aftermath of too much pain finally spoken aloud. Tonowari brought water. Tsireya, still reluctant to let you out of reach, sat pressed close to your side while Ao’nung fetched the wrap you had taken when you left and set it beside you with lowered eyes. Ronal insisted, in the old familiar way that was half command and half care, that you sit before your legs gave out under you. This time, when she said it, a faint thread of warmth lived under the sternness again.
You sat.
Slowly, naturally, the others gathered around you. Tsireya curled in first, leaning against you with her head on your shoulder. Ao’nung sat near your knee, not touching at first, but close enough that the distance no longer felt like rejection. Tonowari settled at your other side, one arm stretched loosely behind you along the woven supports, near without crowding. Ronal remained in front of you for a few moments, as if still confirming to herself that you were real and staying, before finally kneeling close and resting one hand lightly over yours.
No one rushed to fill the quiet.
That was what made it kind.
The sea breathed beyond the marui walls. Night sounds moved through the village in soft layers. The lamps burned low, throwing warm light over tired faces and damp lashes and shoulders slowly unclenching after days of strain. At some point Tsireya’s eyes drifted shut, her breathing evening out where she rested against you. Not long after, Ao’nung shifted closer in tiny increments until his shoulder brushed against your leg. He did it as if hoping no one would notice.
You noticed.
You said nothing, only let your hand settle into his hair for a brief, gentle stroke. Ao’nung’s eyes closed for half a second at the touch before he ducked his head. That alone told you how deeply he still needed to feel he was forgiven, and how young he still was beneath all the pride.
Tonowari reached for one of the woven blankets and spread it over all of you with the same quiet efficiency he brought to every act of care. Ronal watched him do it, then leaned in and pressed a small kiss to your cheek, so soft it barely seemed to land. You turned just enough to let your forehead brush hers in answer, and the relief that moved through her was so visible it made your chest ache.
By the time the night deepened fully, the marui had gone still around you.
Tsireya was sleeping against your side. Ao’nung had not quite fallen asleep, but he sat drowsy and quiet near your knee, no longer fighting his own need for closeness. Tonowari’s hand rested warm and solid over your ankle beneath the blanket, a grounding touch more than anything else. Ronal remained tucked close enough that your shoulders brushed, her presence careful now in a way it had not been before, as though she had finally understood how precious your trust truly was.
You looked at them and felt the ache still there.
Not gone. Not erased. Still bruised, still tender, still real.
But underneath it, and around it, something softer had returned too. Something stubborn. Something home-shaped.
Your family had hurt you. They had failed you. They would have to live with that and do better, and you would make certain they did. But they were still yours, and you were still theirs, and tonight that truth was no longer a weapon in anyone’s mouth. It was only a promise resting quietly in the dim light, wrapped in warm bodies and salt air and tired love.
So you stayed there with them, held and holding in turn, while the tide turned outside and the night folded gently around your home.
summary: Broken by the fall of the Hometree and Eywa's silence, you dream for a possibility of peace of mind, figuratively and literally. You come to the Metkayina's village looking for a temporary refuge in your search of said peace, and end up never leaving in favour of love.
pairing(s): tonowari x omatikaya!reader, platonic reader x neytiri
word count: 15k (i know...)
warnings: reader is neytiri's sister, grief and mourning, mention of dead bodies, eywa's constant meddling, probably suggestive, yearning, pining, "but i don't want ninat", added lore cuz i got carried away, kinda miscommunication, no ronal hate, space racism?, complex neytiri i fear...., mentioned pregnancy, mentioned childbirth, rotxo is adopted lmao, when the story starts reader is around 19 and both neytiri and tonowari are around 22, takes place after avatar (2009), proofread one time instead of the two usual times so pls let me know if there are any errors
author's note: can't believe this fine shyt is now a single dad
dividers from @uzmacchiato!
When the smoke clears and the ashes fall, nothing is left of the Hometree.
Nothing but the stump, the bulging roots and the cut-off part remain of your destroyed home. You’ve never seen one, but you think that the remains of the tree must look like a decapitated corpse — something that once was full of life, and now is just… there. A reminder of what was.
Many managed to evacuate the branches as it fell, but just as much ended up being buried by its massive limbs; you can’t find it in yourself to understand if it was a blessing — for them to have such a quick death, one that avoided them from feeling the endless grief you’re feeling now — or a tragedy. You keep asking Eywa the same question, but either she doesn’t know, or she won’t tell you.
She hasn’t been telling you much lately, anyway.
As the daughter of the Olo’eyktan and Tsahìk, you grew up close to the bond you shared with Eywa. Mo’at always brought you and your sisters along with her to pray, and the three of you soon learnt how to perceive her in everything you did and everything that happened. The Great Mother is in all of us, your mom used to always say, before you fully grasped the concept. She gives, and we take. And when the time comes, we’ll be the ones to give back what we borrowed.
It looks like, to you, that the time has come. Only, Eywa won’t seem to take anything from you.
During the day, you’re back at the ruins of the Hometree, with a few other Omatikayas looking for the remains of their loved ones. When they are easy to remove, you do so, and then give them the burial they deserve as a part of the People; when the branches have buried them too deep in the terrain for you to remove them, you pray for them and their souls, hoping that they are, at last, at peace.
At night, you pray by the Tree of Souls until the first morning lights shine through the outline of the mountains, when your mother wakes and gently drags you to the marui you share with her and orders — more like begs — you to sleep. “You won’t be able to hear Eywa better if you tire yourself so, daughter,” she utters as she holds you tight in her arms, humming that same lullaby she used to when you were little. “I doubt she wants you to be exhausted.”
You sniffle brokenly, hiding in her shoulder like a child as she covers you with the blanket she had stitched with the help of Sylwanini and Neytiri when she first realised she was pregnant with you. It’s a miracle you managed to salvage it from the fall of the Hometree, as most of your belongings have been lost during it. “We still haven’t found Tsu’tey, sa’nok,” you whisper, muffling a sob.
Mo’at sighs softly, holding you tighter. “Oeyä yawne,” my beloved, she starts, “Tsu’tey died a great death. Even if you do not find what remains of him, I’m sure Eywa will hold him close nevertheless. He fell into the ocean, after all — she’s strong there, too. We might not think of it to be our home, but everywhere Eywa is, can be considered our home.”
Still, it’s hard to believe that Jakesully out of all people is helping rebuild your village.
He’s supposed to be one of the aliens that came from the sky — one of the four-fingered demons that have destroyed your home. And somehow, Eywa still chose him to lead the Omatikaya.
You don’t deny his bravery, nor his will to learn your ways, nor the fact that he is a great warrior — Turuk Makto, in fact. It doesn’t mean that it isn’t hard for you to look at him and not see the Hometree lying dead on the ground, burning, and the Tree of Voices reduced to shreds under the dozers.
You know it’s probably just your grief talking — you’ve never had anything against the man, not even when he first came here, blabbering about wanting to learn the way or whatever the RDA had put in his head — but you don’t know what else to do. When you’re not looking around for the corpses of the fallen, or praying for them, or begging Eywa to tell you the meaning of all of this, you’re either crying or trying to sleep — and when the latter comes, it’s never restful.
Neytiri is grieving, too, and you know it, but she takes it differently — because she has Jake, and she’s putting all she has into building a new, safe village, where maybe one day their kids will grow happily. But you feel stuck — like when it fell, the Hometree swallowed you, too, along with all the fallen comrades that you had known for your whole life.
Your answers finally come during another restless night spent under the Soul Tree.
Your mother has since stopped trying to coax you away from it — instead, she has taken to making salves and weaving shawls under the light of the branches as you weep silently for a sign, the terrain still against your body, unlike the usual steady beat you used to feel. Sometimes Mo’at braids your hair, other times recalls stories of your father and sister, but mostly lets you cry it out — even if her heart breaks every time a tear slips down your cheek. Neytiri sometimes comes along, chanting her songs and saying her prayers, but lately, she’s taken to spending her nights in the tent she calls home, with Jakesully.
(Not that you blame her. If you had a mate, you’d probably find comfort in them, too. If you had a mate, maybe you wouldn’t be so utterly hopeless.)
It’s when you find sleep while having these thoughts that finally, Eywa responds to your call in the best way she knows — a dream.
You feel like you’re floating, and finally, finally– you can feel her presence. She’s everywhere, surrounding you with her warmth, and it’s just when you look around to understand where you are that you notice that you are underwater. Life swarms you from every angle — the fishes twirling in a dance only they can understand, anemones and corals shimmering with bioluminescence on the rocks under your feet.
You don’t know for how long you swim, but what you know is that you haven’t felt this feeling in what seems like ages. You have missed the Great Mother’s presence, and if this dream tells you anything, it’s that maybe, she has missed you, too.
A large, warm hand engulfs yours. You can’t see the face of the man that has taken it, but by the color of his skin, he can’t be Omatikaya. Come with me, a voice says, and you aren’t able to really distinguish it — it does not sound like a real voice, rather like a spoken thought inside your mind. Our Spirit Tree is this way. You feel the same hand on the small of your back, guiding you in the water, in a way so gentle that you already dread the moment his touch will fade.
You wake up with your hand still feeling warm and dried tears staining your cheeks. The ground you’re lying on feels stiff and cold. Hoisting yourself up on your elbows, you notice the sky — it’s still night — and your mother, sleeping with her head leaning on the trunk of the tree. “Are you trying to tell me that I have to find my peace somewhere else?” you murmur quietly to the tree, impossibly tired in every way imaginable. And maybe it’s just an impression, or your lack of sleep, but you think the branches glow a little more than usual at that.
The hard part is not accepting to leave behind the Omatikaya — in your heart, you knew that a part of you died when the Hometree fell, and no new village would ever make up for what the sky people have taken away from you; every camp made after that would only look like a ghost of what was, where you grew up in.
No, no. The hard part is convincing both the Tsahìk and the Olo’eyktan to let you go.
By the time morning comes, your bags are already packed. Your ikran, Ry’ia, is waiting for you just outside of the village chirping softly with Neytiri’s mount, Sa’atra, as you pull on your traveling shawl and wait for the villagers to wake up before your departure. Needless to say, it doesn’t take long for chaos to erupt.
Neytiri drags you away from the astounded clan members as soon as she gets wind of what’s happening, Mo’at and Jakesully on tow when she sits you down in one of the newest tents, her face unreadable as she takes a seat in front of you. “Explain.”
You look at her mate and your mother, sitting respectively on her left and on her right, and suddenly your heart fills up with courage you weren’t even aware of having. “I had a dream last night,” you start, “Eywa has shown me where to find my peace again.”
As you recall your vision, you can tell that the only one fully understanding the meaning of it is your mother, because while Jakesully doesn’t look too troubled about it, Neytiri hasn’t had that betrayed look on her face towards you since you were seven, and you stole the last piece of fruit intended for her. “What?” she asks in pure disbelief, “Wha– why would you ever think of going away from here, sister? We have plenty of men who would be delighted to have you as their mate. We have the ocean. We have fishes. Do you really have to look for them from another clan to be happy?”
You shake your head, guilt seeping through your chest. “Sister, if I could be happy while being here, close to you, I would stay. But…” Your eyes drift up to Jake and immediately go back to her, not wanting to blame him for all the things humans have done to you. “I can’t find it in myself to build a new village that Tsu’tey, father– hell, Sylwanin won’t see. And even if I could…”
You scroll your shoulders, “Eywa has shown me the way,” you say firmly, “and I will follow it.”
Neytiri looks over to Mo’at, searching for support in the discussion. “Mother, please, tell her this is madness,”
She looks at her for a singular moment, then to you. Finally, she speaks. “When I was your age, I had a dream, too. It led me to your father.” The story isn’t new to you — everyone knows Mo’at was part of the Orangi clan before she married your father.
Neytiri stares at her, “Mother, you can’t be serious– she doesn’t even know where–”
“How can she know, if she does not try?” The Tsahìk interrupts her, “Eywa has shown her that she won’t find peace while living here. These things are rare, but they happened. That was my case, at least.”
Your sister gapes at her, flabbergasted, only to look back at you, getting back up on her feet. “If you leave,” she hisses, “I will never forgive you.” She storms out, her tail twitching after her, leaving the tent feeling even colder than before.
Finally, you manage to look at Jakesully straight into his eyes, trying to avoid the glare your mother is sending him, and you’re surprised to see an actual understanding of the situation there. “You do understand why I can’t stay here, do you?”
He blinks, sad. “I do.”
You nod, “Good. I would never ask you to leave — this is your home, too, after all. And it would mean sacrificing Neytiri’s happiness. I’d rather be happy here too, but… I can’t do that. Not while my loved ones lay under the Hometree, dead.” you shake your head, ashamed of what you’re about to say, “Not while you are here living the life they deserved. I am sorry, Jakesully.”
Tentatively, he places a hand on your shoulder. “It’s okay,” he mutters, sorrowful, “I know you would stay here if you could. Just… please, do not go today. Wait until the end of the week. Let me talk to your sister– I’ll try to change her mind.”
As he leaves to go look for Neytiri, you are left with your mother. Your eyes remain downwards, all the courage of before gone after your sister’s outburst, your heart feeling heavier than ever. Needless to say, when she moves to hug you, you’re left stunned — you were waiting for her to tell you you were mad, too. “I am sorry, daughter,” she says, her usually firm voice trembling, “I did not understand your pain was so great. I thought Eywa had in her plans to keep my daughters close to me, but if having you far from me is the price for your happiness, then I’ll gladly take everything that comes with it.”
You avoid mentioning her teary eyes when she pulls back, her hands holding your shoulders. She sniffles, trying to save face. “The Metkayina are the only sea clan your father’s ever had contact with,” she manages, "their Olo’eyktan may still remember him. You should start your search from there.”
In the following days, you are smothered with gifts.
Everyone makes something for you to take on your travels, or to give to the chiefs of the foreign clans you’ll visit. Your friends Ninat and Peyral stitch a beautiful shawl in record time, stitched beads and feathers in it. So that you may have something to remember us by, Peyral explains, emotional, as Ninat nearly bursts into tears.
Your mother makes a Tsahìk necklace typical of the Omatikaya and tells you to give it to the wife of the chief. Showing respect to your hosts is always important, remember. Do not forget your culture, but do not force it on them, either.
Even Jake turns up one night, giving you a funny-looking bone knife that he clearly has just learned how to carve. “As a… parting gift?” he tells you, even if it sounds more like a question. His ears bend down, “I’m sorry you feel like you have to leave to be happy. I wish things didn’t have to be this way.” I wish you could overcome our differences like your sister did.
You look at the knife — the jaggedy blade looking ugly but clearly heartfelt — and then back at him. “You’re a good man, Jakesully,” you tell him. “I am truly sorry that my opinion on you has to be stained by what your kind has done to us — but perhaps, it’s just because things are a little too fresh. Perhaps, I just need some time away from here.”
Neytiri doesn’t come looking for you until it is time for you to go. As you say your goodbyes to friends and everyone you grew up with, she shuffles quietly behind Jake, her hands behind her back. Still hugging Ka’ani, you look at her as she gets closer, suspiciously quiet, only to present you with a bead on her open palm.
You gasp at the sight of it — it’s a bright blue stone, one of the ones to be found only in the ikrans’ nest, with the Omatikaya clan symbol etched on it. “For your songcord,” she explains, not looking you in the eye. “To mark your… new start. Your travels.”
You look at the bead, taking it in your hands, then tug Neytiri close to hug her as tight as possible. “I’ll miss you, sister,” you murmur in her shoulder.
Even if she’s supposed to be mad at you, she reciprocates the hug immediately, and it doesn’t take long for the tough facade to crumble. “Please, come back when you’re finally happy again, okay?” her voice is trained, and you doubt anyone but you heard her whisper. “This will always be your home. You’ll always have a place to stay here — with me.”
Ry’ia is delighted in the change of scenery — you can tell by the way she reacts through the bond, but also the happy shrieks she lets out once you lower her near the surface of the ocean so that her wings may touch the water. You look behind you — to the mountains that you’ve called home ever since you came to the world — one last time before turning your gaze back to the sea, the directions your mother gave you etched into your mind.
Awa’atlu is almost three days of travel from your village, turned into four by the stops you make to allow Ry’ia and yourself some rest. And when you finally reach it, it’s night, and only a few lights are shimmering in the Metkayina village. Not wanting to disturb their sleep, you turn your ikran to the rocky side of the island — devoid of any maruis from what you can see — and land atop the coast, dismounting from Ry’ia and patting the side of her neck. “Good girl,” you murmur, “rest now, yes? I’ll take a dip and be back here with you in a moment.”
You remove your traveling shawl as she chirps quietly, remaining in your loincloth and chest piece as you dive into the waters.
You feel like crying in relief when you finally feel her. Eywa is everywhere here — she surrounds you with the water in bioluminescence, in the anemones that move in rhythm with the currents and the nocturnal fishes that swim around in a haze. It’s like waking up from a bad dream, being able to finally feel her again.
Even if brief, the peace it gives you swells your heart. The Great Mother wasn’t holding a grudge against you — you simply weren’t searching for her in the right place.
You resurface to catch some air, only to notice that you aren’t alone.
A turquoise zukzuk — an otterfin — stares at you with her big eyes, and if she weren’t an animal, you’d say she was smiling at you. She rubs her snout into your shoulders, chirping happily, and you chuckle, petting her back, “Aren’t you a cutie? Oh, yes you are, yes you are…”
She licks your cheek, and you fake a gag even as she basically throws herself in your arms. “Now, hasn’t anyone ever told you not to trust strangers? If I were a tad bit more selfish, I’d totally bring you home with me,” you’re not sure how you would manage an otterfin in the forest or while traveling, but you’re sure that if there’s a will, there’s a way.
“Hey, you shouldn’t swim here when it’s dark,”
The screech you let out is loud enough to wake up the whole village, you’re sure. The zukzuk — who looks more scared than you — jumps in your arms as you hug her, ready to defend her from any possible attacker. The latter — a man with turquoise skin and weird tattoos over his face — screams back, mostly startled by your yelling.
“Sorry, sorry!” he puts his hands in front of him as your screams die down, still hugging the otterfin, “I didn’t mean to startle you, it’s just that — we’re too close to the reef, and it’s mating season for the akulas. Their cubs will start hunting for preys any moment now. It’s dangerous to stay here for long.”
You share a look with the otterfin, who’s still cuddled to you, and it’s just then that the man seems to notice her. He frowns, “Nala, is that you?” It's the same tone you use for Ry’ia when she pulls some kind of stunt you told her not to do, and the zukzuk lets out a noise while looking at you with the biggest eyes as if to say, I’ve never met this man in my life.
The latter gasps, “It is you!”
The pup cuddles closer to you, hiding under your chin, her tongue slipping out of her mouth like she wants to mock him. You raise an eyebrow, “This is your zukzuk?”
The guy nods, “She knows she shouldn’t swim here at night, it’s dangerous–”
A rumble from below interrupts him, and you all freeze. “…What did you say about those akula cubs?” You don’t even know what an akula is, but judging from the fact that apparently their cubs make swimming at night dangerous, it can’t be anything good.
His hand wraps around your wrist as he starts to drag you away, back onto the shore, much faster than it took you to even get here. “Just where did you come from? Are you Ta’unui really so clueless?” Another rumble from behind you, and he swims even faster. You keep Nala under your arm, and she keeps moving her tail like she’s trying to help him move away.
It’s only when you’re out of trouble and onto the shore, where the water reaches your knees and you’re illuminated by the bioluminescence and the moons, that he notices that you don’t look like a Tau’nui at all. He stares at your slim tail and arms, leaning his head like he’s never seen a specimen like this, and even your clothes are weird. Quite dumbly, he pulls at the feathers stitched into your top, staring intently, “What are those?”
The fact is, you’re also just noticing that he doesn’t look like normal Na’vi men, too — at least, not to the ones you’re used to. He’s broader, taller, and apparently also dumber, because he doesn’t even seem to notice that he’s just grazed and uncovered part of your breast.
You deadpan. He blinks. Nala barks. He lets the feathers go as he turns purple, “Sorry, I didn’t notice.” He’s lucky that the Omatikaya are people raised with no shame about their bodies, because otherwise, the slap you would’ve given him wouldn’t have been too nice from a girl who’s supposed to look for uturu in his clan.
You squeeze the water out of your hair as he stares weirdly, Nala twirling around the two of you. “Why were you swimming if the waters are so dangerous at night?” You ask him, trying not to stare too much at his arms — you never thought that the Omatikaya men needed more muscles, but now you understand that if they did, it wouldn’t have been such a bad thing. His tail — twitching uneasily behind him — is thicker and longer than yours, and his arms have strange prolongments on their sides — to help swimming, you suppose. While Omatikaya grow slender and thin to avoid any difficulty in swinging in the forest, maybe the Metkayina grow to swim more efficiently in the ocean.
“I was looking for her,” he points at Nala, “we spoiled her a little too much, and now she doesn’t know how to take a no.” He tries to smile at you, “You’re not from around here, are you? Your tail would be horrible for swimming.”
You nod, “I’m from the forest clans — the Omatikaya.” you tell him your name, and he nods. “I came here looking for uturu, but the village seemed to be asleep when I got here, so I figured I would talk to the chief in the morning.”
He looks troubled, “I’m Tonowari,” he introduces himself, “I’m from the village. Uturu? Has something happened to the Omatikaya?”
No matter how much you insist he doesn’t, he drags you to the village — in the literal sense, as you didn’t want to follow him and he has to take you by your wrist — and over to a secluded mauri, where he finally lets go. Ry’ia chirps tiredly beside you, huffing indignantly at him as you wrap your shawl tighter around your shoulders. “I’ll talk to Olo’eyktan and Tsahìk,” Tonowari tells you, nodding to the mauri, “wait for me here, okay?” Nala quietly follows him, dragging her little belly over the sand.
You didn’t really explain the whole thing— you just told him that you’re here to find contact with Eywa again because you weren’t able to in your homeland. You don’t really know why he insisted so much in talking to the chiefs now, and you can’t help but wonder why he feels comfortable waking up the two most important people in his village for a stranger.
Soon enough, he comes back out from the marui, gesturing for you to come inside; you do, and you’re greeted by two very much awake chiefs, sitting with their backs straight as ever.
“Olo’eyktan Arvak and Tsahìk Tsika,” Tonowari tells you, nodding to them, “I’ll leave the three of you alone– keep an eye on that big bird of yours.”
“She’s not a big bird," you whisper, too tired to fully protest. He pats your shoulder, looking a bit guilty, letting the woven sheet atop the pod close back behind you, “Sure she isn’t,”
You remain alone with the chiefs — and Nala, who you realise just now hasn’t followed Tonowari. Looking at the couple, you figure that the Metkayina must all have his same features. “Sit,” Tsika gestures to the empty space in front of them, “and tell us everything.”
Recounting the fall of the Hometree is more difficult than you thought it would be — because even if it’s been almost a month now, the wound still feels fresh. They listen, not prodding for more information when you stop to take a deep breath to avoid bursting in tears, and the Tsahìk puts a hand over her mouth when you mention your father. “Eytukan,” she murmurs, looking over to her mate. “He came here when we called for the other Tsahìks.”
At your confused face, Arvak explains, “A little over twenty years ago, our son fell sick. Rashes all over his body, convulsions, other symptoms we’d never seen before.”
His wife takes a deep breath, “When nothing seemed to work and we lost all hope, Arvak chose to call the other clans’ Tsahìks and healers for help. The Ta’unui sent a healer, the Aranahe some healing plants, and everyone pretty much did the same. But your father,” she pokes you in the chest, not in a mean way — in a way that says, the man you’re half a part of. “Olo’eyktan Eytukan came here himself. Excused his wife’s absence, told us she had just given birth to their third daughter and wasn’t able to travel properly. He took a look at our son’s state, and said that it probably was txumpaywll poisoning — until then, we didn’t even know that its plants had started to grow on our islands. Made a salve for his rashes, concocted the antidote and left when he got better.”
They bow their heads at you, “It will be an honor to pay back Eytukan’s kindness. Tell us what you need, and we’ll do anything in our power to help you.”
You beg them to raise their heads, embarrassed. “I just want some time with your clan,” you tell them, “learn your ways with the creatures, how you move within the currents.” If Jakesully out of all people managed to learn the Omatikaya’s ways, you doubt it will be much harder for you. “I… I’ve lost contact with Eywa. I hope that learning your clan’s ways will help me in finding it again.”
Arvak has got a pensive look on his face. Then, he says, “Tonowari, I know you’re listening. You can come in.”
The man sheepishly enters the marui again, sitting beside you, a little embarrassed. You raise an eyebrow — did he really think either of you didn’t hear him? You might’ve not heard him approach when you were in the water, but back with your feet on steady ground, you would’ve known how to spot him before he was even in your line of sight.
Nala squeals and throws herself on his knees, purring. Arvak tries to ignore her to his best abilities. “Our son Tonowari will teach you everything he knows about the reef,” ah, so that’s why he didn’t have any problem waking them up. Nice to know that the Olo’eyktan’s successor has seen your boob. On his part, Tonowari makes no protest. “Her training starts tomorrow. Go show her one of the vacant maruis — she’ll stay here for a while.”
Ry’ia is already sleeping when you and Tonowari detach your bags from her saddle, and you try your best not to gape at his biceps as they flex while he takes the heaviest woven baskets out of your hands. “Don’t worry, I’ll take those– you must be really tired.”
He balances them on his side and shoulder as he walks you through the maruis — with the few still awake villagers peeking out of their tents to steal a curious look at you — only to stop in an empty one, carefully leaning the baskets down to the floor. You stare at the woven walls of your new home, at the mat on the floor and the little space reserved for the fireplace, thinking that maybe, just maybe, this can work.
You set down your bag as Tonowari stands back up from his knelt position, “Try to get some sleep,” he tells you quietly, “I’ll come to wake you up tomorrow a little before dawn — it’s when the ilus wake up. If you need anything, that–” he points to a nearby pod, “–is my marui.”
He stops for a moment and looks at you, sitting on the sleeping mat. “I’m sorry about your father and what happened to your people.”
You press your lips into a thin line. “Thanks.” You avert your eyes and wrap your shawl a little tighter around you. “Uh… goodnight, Tonowari.”
He nods, a sad smile on his lips as he moves outside of the tent, still holding open the curtain serving as door. “Goodnight.”
He closes the blind, and you’re left to your thoughts.
Tonowari laughs. “Your swimming form is funny.”
You pout. “If you're here to poke fun at my survival-level swimming form, I’m sure Nala would be happy to teach me how to instead.”
His laugh gets even louder, and he raises his hands up. “I said it was funny, not bad! It’s like… watching a child take their first dive out of their mother’s womb.”
“Are you really saying that a kid might swim better than me?”
The son of the Olo’eyktan has at least the decency to stifle his chuckles now. “No, no, I’m sure you’ll learn soon enough.”
This morning, the villagers were astonished to find out that the chiefs had basically sneaked you into the village overnight — but sure enough, their spirits changed when you started distributing the gifts you had brought for them. The Tsahìk seemed pleased with the necklace your mother had made her, claiming it to be of beautiful manufacture, as her people raided your baskets for the shawls and armbands your friends had stitched for them. Yovo fruits were gone in a matter of seconds, and Arvak had to set aside the dried meat you brought to assure that everyone got a piece for dinner.
(As for Arvak’s gift, you gave it to him once the crowd dissipated. You told him it was from Toruk Makto, who even after proper Omatikaya training, unfortunately still had to work on his carving abilities. He took the dagger nonetheless, pleased that Toruk Makto himself took time out of his day to make something for him.)
Despite your gifts quietening the protests of your arrival, the villagers still stared a little too hard sometimes — no wonder, they’ve never seen a forest Na’vi before. Most of them are nice or at least cordial to you, but a few doubtful stares still linger as Tonowari tries to do his best in teaching you the ways of the Metkayina.
You start spending your mornings — from before dawn up until lunch — with the Olo’eyktan son, learning how to juggle the currents and hold your breath, and your afternoons with the clan elders, weaving baskets and learning how to stitch seashells into body pieces.
(The first time you asked if you could help weaving the growing side of the marui pods, they gasped, scandalized. Apparently, it’s strictly the men’s job around here.)
After a few days and horrendous tries, you finally manage to finish your first armband — Priya, an old woman wearing the feather chest piece that one of your friends had made, insisted on it. It’s decorated with a few shells you managed to collect while diving with Tonowari, and as she inspects it closely, she hums, clearly pleased with your work. “I’m sure your mate will be delighted to wear this, one day.”
You raise an eyebrow, surprised. “My mate?”
The other elders nod convincingly, passing around your work. “In Awa’atlu, the first piece a girl makes is always a stitched armband," she explains, revealing why she had pressured you so much in starting off with one. “The mother makes sure to save it, and when the time comes, it will be given to her husband to wear. He, in return, will give her a carved comb, usually decorated with anything that pleases the woman.”
You think about it for a moment, “So, the first ever piece the men carve is a comb, too?”
The women laugh like the mere thought is hilarious. “Of course not!” Priya hollers, “The first piece a woman stitches is important because in her life, she will make numerous beautiful works. The men give them the most beautiful comb they make, because it’s already a miracle if they manage to make one singular, decent comb.”
At this, you laugh with them, thinking about that wobbly knife Jake made for their Olo’eyktan. Then, you snort, “This wasn’t my first armband, though,” yes, you had to learn how to properly position shells and have them not fall off the strings, but this isn't your first time stitching.
One of the other women shrugs, “So what?” She says, “It’s the first one you make here — as a future proper Metkayina — that counts as first.”
Later on that night, back in your marui, you observe the armband and store it inside one of your woven travel bags, hoping that one day, the man you dreamt about will be able to wear it.
Whenever you are free from both weaving lessons and Tonowari’s constant nagging, you delve deep into the forest that the island offers, collecting herbs and fruits. Apparently, the Metkayina have learnt to make the most out of what the sea has to offer, and subsequently rarely explore the forest except for harvesting fruits. The seaside forest is a bit different from what you were used to, but fortunately the plants do not differ that much.
The first time you show the Tsahìk how you used to make disinfectant salves in the forest, she stares at the concoction like it has just clicked something in her brain. She smells it, tries it on one of the hunter’s light scratches and notes how he doesn’t lament any stinging. “Why don’t you come with me and my tsakarems one of these days?” She asks finally. “I’m sure we could teach you something, as well as learn from your… peculiar ways.”
The next day, you ask about the tsakarems to Tonowari as he gently hoists you up to an ilu. “Here, when the Tsahìk doesn’t have a daughter, she takes various apprentices under her wing,” he explains, showing you how to place your feet to avoid falling off of the creature’s back. “And then, either the most talented or the one the future Olo’eyktan chooses becomes Tsahìk, while the others go on to become healers.”
You still fall off of the ilu’s back, but it doesn’t really matter — because Tonawari is there, ready to catch you, and immediately steadies you as you come crashing onto him. You’ll learn, he signs, still underwater. Do not worry, you’ll learn.
The two of you have grown significantly closer since your arrival, and you try not to notice the way his touch tentatively lingers over your hips as he brings the both of you back to the surface. The two of you stare at each other then, his hands still atop your waist, and just as he’s about to say something, the moment is broken by Nala — and either she’s obsessed with his biceps at least half as much as you are, or she’s really just a little, fat bugger. You both laugh as she slobbers all over your face, his hands leaving your body, and you have to convince yourself that you’re not missing his touch to continue the riding lesson.
Your weak spots are the signing lessons and the apnea training, mostly because your complete attention on him is needed to actually learn something.
The first time he pushes his hand into your belly to show you how to breathe with your stomach, you thought you would’ve been able to faint right here and there — or swoon, depending on how you see it. And whenever he shows you new signs and their meaning, unfortunately all you can think about is what exactly his fingers can do.
After lunch, you join the Tsahìk and the tsakarems in their dive for medical algae; a girl named Ronal shows you the best shells to pick to add to plants to make a paste, and the fishes that you have to follow to find a certain type of anemone with incredible healing properties. She’s a little ruffled by your presence at the lesson and you can tell, but you don’t find it in yourself to judge her; you’re pretty sure that when Jake was learning your ways, you were far more suspicious of him than she is of you.
Weirdly enough, the Tsahìk comes looking for you when you don’t show up to her lesson the day after. You come to find out that what you thought was a once-and-done offer was meant to be a more permanent position among the tsakarems, and now your evenings are filled with her lessons about spirituality and healing, too.
But the best thing about Awa’atlu is, by far, Eywa’s presence: she’s everywhere, in the waters you swim into the bonfire Avrak lights when it’s time for dinner, and for the first time in months, you feel safe. Even Ry’ia does, and it’s evident in the way she made herself a nest atop one of the highest trees in the forest.
You’ve made friends with the elders and two girls close to your age, Wali and Em’a, and the curious glances that the Metkayina sent you on that first day you spent here are nothing but memories now, as they have seemed to accept you as one of her own.
Ironically enough, you start noticing how close Ronal and Tonawari are just now that you know her.
Nothing much, but still noticeable, because most of the women in the clan are not close enough to him to be touching him — but she does. And for some reason, a lingering touch on his arm here and two grazing knees there are all it takes to ruin your night.
You know it’s stupid — a lot, actually. You’d already figured that one day, Tonowari will have to choose a beautiful and probably Metkayina woman to mate with to become the Tsahìk when his mother won’t be able to be anymore. Ronal is smart, definitely the prettiest tsakarem out of Tsika’s group, and above all, an established Metkayina in the clan. You, meanwhile, still have to properly mount an ilu, and Eywa forbids a skimwing.
When the fire dies out and it’s time for everyone to go to sleep, you sneak away from your friends to find refuge in that same rocky coast you landed on the night you arrived, and find yourself looking at the stars.
The next morning, after yet another slip down the back of your ilu, you’re ready to pack your bags and go back to wallowing in your pity in the remains of the Hometree, but Tonowari stops you by the tail and drags you back into the water, already hoisting you up the ilu’s back again. “Come on,” he encourages you, getting on the saddle right behind you. “Make the bond– I'll worry about not making you fall.”
Your eye twitches. Just how are you supposed to stay focused on the ilu when you can feel his chest pressing against your back, and his arms basically engulfing your own as he holds onto the saddle? He blinks at your staring, acting oblivious. “What?”
By some miracle, you manage to focus on your mount. The ilu’s speed causes you to completely lean on Tonowari for support, but he doesn’t seem to mind — the opposite, actually. One of his arms wrap around your midriff to keep you more stable, and while underwater you can feel his chin rest on your shoulder, when you rise back to the surface it’s his breath that you can feel on your cheek — and you know for a fact that he’s doing that on purpose, because he’s much taller than you, and he has to be crouching to be almost your height.
“See?” He whispers in your ear. “It’s not so hard.” Well, of course it isn’t with him assuring you don’t fall. Slowly, you lift your head up to look at him, a brow raised in amusement. “Not with you here, mister.”
Your sultry gaze makes him blush — an absolute hunk of a man who has surely had his fun playing with your closeness up until now, defeated by the batting of eyelashes. Unbelievable. His index finger traces a little pattern over your side, his eyes not leaving yours, “Then I’ll be here for as long as you’ll need me.”
Wali and Em’a tease you endlessly about your lessons with Tonowari, and although they are terrible at catching fishes with the nets, whenever the two of you are out in the water they’re suddenly the most interested in fishing, even if their eyes are directed to anything but their supposed catches. They insist on rebraiding your hair in the Metkayina way when your braids start growing out, picking the prettiest shells and beads they can find to intertwine them in your strands. Considering you ditched your feather tops for their net-and-shell ones a while ago, if it weren’t for the colour of your skin and your tail you could probably pass as a reef Na’vi without too much trouble.
But the main problem remains — you are not a Metkayina, not in the true sense of the word. And you are reminded of that as you see Ronal drag Tonowari away from the bonfire during dinner.
Your mood shifts visibly. You play around with the fruits on your bowl, completely bummed, and Em’a and Wali share a knowing look. “Maybe she just wants to talk to him,” the latter whispers, as her friend nods. “Yeah, they butted heads allll the time when we were kids. I’m sure he just did an ugly marui pod and she wants to point out every single mistake he made with the weaving.”
You huff a bitter laugh, “Yeah, because I’m sure that that kind of stuff requires an immediate discussion.”
You go back to watching the stars atop the rocky coast that night — it’s a habit by now, because even if you feel happy here, you still miss your mother and sister. The thought of the three of you watching the same sky always manages to comfort you. Alas, now it’s helping you overcome how stupid you’re feeling, because you know that Ronal is perfect for Tonowari.
She’s been a tsakarem for longer than you, has grown up with him, knows how to ride an ilu perfectly and knows the way of the water like the back of her hand. She doesn’t come from who-knows-where, where trees grow as tall as the stars and far away from their beloved ocean, doesn’t have a useless tail for swimming, and doesn’t need to resurface constantly for a breath of air as much as you do. Wanting to be with him is selfish, because you’re fully aware that there’s already someone perfect for him out there.
Still, that doesn’t mean it hurts less.
The next day you opt to avoid Tonowari’s lessons, staying close to Em’a and Wali to help them stitch a wedding gift for one of the village’s couples on one of the empty, woven platform just above the water surface. The chief’s son had looked confused when he’d found you with the women instead of in your marui, but his questioning glance was met with a shrug. “Well, they need this gift done before the end of this week. I won’t be able to ride an ilu properly any time soon, anyways.”
His shoulders sag a bit and he looks like a grounded ikran, but he still nods and goes his way, back to the beach. “What?” you ask Em’a when she stares at you, gaping. “He looked so sad! Why didn’t you go with him? Me and Wali could’ve finished this alone!”
You go back to your stitching, fiddling with the strings. Your mind takes you back to the other day — the way his finger traced your skin — and still, a little part of you can’t help but wonder how things would be if he didn’t like another girl already. “Well, I wouldn’t want to intrude between him and Ronal, you know.”
Your friends stare at each other, not knowing what to say — it’s not like they can rebuke without knowing what the two of them talked about — or did — last night.
You spend the day avoiding Tonowari like they pay you for it, running errands in the forest for the Tsahìk and finishing baskets with the elders, and by the time dinner time arrives, you can’t evade him anymore without half the clan wondering what happened between you two.
You’re sitting beside Em’a — who’s arguing with Priya about what shells are best for a chest piece — when someone tugs at your braids as gently as possible. “Hey,”
Of course, it’s him. He looks a bit sheepish, a weird leather pouch over his shoulder as he lets your hair go and sits beside you, brushing a fallen braid behind your ear. “I like the way you did your hair– it’s really pretty.”
Well, if Priya and Em’a weren’t listening before, now they definitely are. It’s a miracle Wali is on cooking duty tonight, because otherwise, you’d have three very nosey listeners instead of two. You blush, “Um– really?” Damn him and the effect he has on you. One day, he’ll be Ronal’s — but you decide that it surely won’t be a problem if you have his attention, just for tonight.
He nods, a smile gracing his features. “The prettiest,” for some reason, it doesn’t feel like he’s talking about the braids anymore, but you’re not brave enough to point it out aloud. “You know, I was thinking that we could try again with the ilus tomorrow. Don’t let a few falls discourage you — I’m sure I fell a lot when I had to learn, too.”
You scoff, swatting him on the arm. “Really? Big, bad Tonowari beaten by a skimpy ilu?”
He rubs the back of his neck, “Well, actually, I don’t really remember — I was little — but I’m pretty sure my bad memory is just because I probably hit my head really hard while falling.”
That manages a laugh out of you — and it’s like he can go back to breathing properly, because he had really thought he had done something that offended you in some way or the other. He was more stressed than he let out this morning, when you refused to come with him to see the ilus.
The night goes on and you laugh like you haven’t in months. He sure knows how to make great company when he wants to, and his arm — leaned on the sand behind your back — sometimes brushes against your spine, causing pleased goosebumps to etch over your skin. Eywa, you want him to be even closer so bad.
And it’s just when he leans down and scoots a little closer, his hand tentatively resting on your back, that you notice her.
Ronal is glaring at you from the other side of the bonfire, her arms crossed and her fingers tapping impatiently. The charm wears off — you remind yourself that you can’t exactly pretend she doesn’t exist for a night, because even if you don’t owe her anything, you don’t want to cause any rift between her and Tonowari. It’s not like he’ll ever mate with you, anyway.
So you gently pull away, trying to ignore his hurt stare as you get up from your previous sitting position. “I– did I do something? Are you–”
“Sorry, I just need a breather,” you disappear into the forest, but not before seeing Ronal stomping angrily towards Tonowari, surely ready to yell at him. Priya and Em’a cast worried glances at your back, but you’re too distraught to actually notice.
The rocky coast is quiet in contrast to the continuous chatter of the bonfire, as the sound of the waves is the only thing breaking the silence. You hug your knees close to your chest, staring at the stars, wondering what and how Neytiri is doing right now — cuddled up with Jake, no doubt. Well, if Ronal wasn’t so perfect for Tonowari, you think you’d like being cuddled up to him, too–
A hand on your shoulder nearly makes you jump out of your bones — were you really so lost in your thoughts that you didn’t hear the same man you were just daydreaming about approaching? Embarrassing. If your father were alive, you wouldn’t hear the end of it.
Tonowari sits beside you again, and you hug your knees just a little closer. “I, um,” he stutters, and you can’t believe a man of his size is able to get embarrassed. “Today, when I went hunting outside the reef, I got you something.” He grabs the pouch slinged over his shoulders, opening it to reveal a beautiful conch shell.
You’ve never seen one so big — it’s probably the size of your head, if not bigger. The outer shell is iridescent, reacting to the bioluminescence of the waves that crash underneath you, while the inside is streaked in blue and purple. You’ve never seen anything like it, and you gape at the sight. “Tonowari, what…”
“I saw it and it just reminded me of you,” he explains, his cheeks a pleasant indigo. He holds it out for you to take, and if you weren’t sure your eyes were playing tricks on you, you’d say his hands were trembling slightly. “And so, as it is tradition, I thought I should’ve gotten it for you– if you will accept it, that is.”
You’re too dumbfounded by the seashell to really listen to him. You take it in your hands, tasting the weight of it, admiring its colors and wondering how something so beautiful could have reminded him of you. At last, you find yourself hugging it close to your chest, even if its spikes poke a little into your arm. “Thank you, Tonowari,” you say, feeling as full as anyone can be.
He perks up, his ears twitching like he’s in disbelief, his tail moving happily in the sand. “…Really? You accept it?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I?” It's a gift, and you don’t plan on giving it back to him anytime soon. It’s too beautiful to even sit anywhere near his man-cave.
The grin he makes takes up his whole face. “Okay. Okay, that’s great. Fantastic, even.”
Gently, he touches your arm. “So, how about riding those ilus tomorrow?”
The next morning, you manage to mount an ilu properly — without Tonowari behind you for support, that is. It’s nothing much, but it’s still a step forward into life in the reef, and from the way your teacher claps and hollers, you’d think you’d tamed an akula.
Later that evening, you’re still helping Em’a and Wali with their wedding gift, as well as recounting last night’s events to their flabbergasted faces. “A conch shell?” Wali asks to confirm, her thread and beads long forgotten.
You nod, mimicking the size of the shell with your hands, “Yeah, a thing this big,”
Em’a squeals, “No way! I didn’t think he was so straight forward!”
Confused, you ask, “What do you mean? He was just being nice,”
They look at each other, gaping, then back at you, “What do you mean, he was just being–”
They’re interrupted by someone sitting down next to you without asking permission, and you blanch when you see Ronal. “Oh– oh, um, hi.”
She blinks at you like it’s no big deal, then picks up a spare thread and needle and begins helping you with the netting. “So, what did Tonowari tell you last night?”
You hesitate. “Oh, um, you know — lessons stuff. A few tips on how to balance my weight on the ilus better. Um… in a– friendly way?”
She perks up an eyebrow suspiciously, her ears twitching in annoyance. “Lessons stuff, huh?” she repeats, stitching a shell in the most aggressive way you’ve ever seen — even Neytiri bad-mouthing Jake never reached these levels of hostility. “In a friendly way? Is that so?”
You share a panicked glance with your friends, laughing awkwardly. “Yes?” It sounds more like a question than a reply, and that’s probably what tips her over the edge. Her eye twitches, and she doesn’t even bother to put the needle and thread where she found them as she rises back up to her feet while grumbling, “If you’ll excuse me,”
“She didn’t even try to be sneaky,” Em’a mutters as soon as she’s out of hearing range, “what’s up with her?”
Your stomach churns, “Well, it’s probably the fact that–”
A loud slap echoes from the village, making the three of you flinch. A second slap ensues. When you look up, you notice that Tonowari is standing on the shore, holding his jaw with his cheeks already turning an ugly purple, and Ronal is marching away, fuming.
…Yeah. You probably shouldn’t have accepted that shell thinking that it wouldn’t matter if he was going to marry her anyways.
You wonder what exactly is between them, but can’t find it in yourself to ask him — mostly because you aren’t brave enough to tell him that you like him. Em’a and Wali can keep telling you that there’s nothing between them, but recent events continue to prove them wrong.
That night, at dinner, you mostly keep to yourself, deep in your thoughts, and even if Priya tries to drag you out of your misery, it’s all futile. For one reason or another the fruit you’re munching on tastes bitter, and you’re not sure if Tonowari’s absence around the bonfire helps or worsens your mood. It’s only when Ronal herself pats your shoulder and gestures for the beach that you get out of your haze.
She tugs you by your arm down onto the shore, as silent as ever. “Listen, I’m really sorry–”
“Did you do anything you need to apologise for?” she asks, jumping off a rock. You stumble, “I– well, I know you and Tonowari probably–”
“Stupid forest girl,” she huffs, not even looking at you, “thinks I want him like he’s some kind of trophy when he’s stupid like a baby–”
“Hey! That’s not nice–”
She tugs you roughly one last time only to let your arm go as you reach where the ocean meets the sand, and you fall down in the water, wetting your — newly made, you must add — loincloth. You groan, rubbing your backside, “Ow– I get that you’re mad, but this seems a little too much to me–”
Ronal points to somewhere behind you, looking tired of you. “Go.”
You blink, confused — and then you turn, only to catch sight of Tonowari, only a few klicks behind, mounting an ilu. He raises a hand to greet you, the smile on his face nervous, and you notice that he’s got that pouch slung over his shoulder again.
Hesitant, you turn to Ronal — looking for what, you don’t know. She raises an eyebrow expectantly, “What are you waiting for? Go.”
You’re not sure you want to know what kind of game she’s playing, but something tugs at your tail. It’s Nala, you come to realize, and she’s trying to drag you off to Tonowari.
You relent, following the zukzuk and mostly letting yourself get carried by the current until you’re in front of him. He gestures his fingers to his forehead as a salute and then holds his hand out to you, “Care for a swim?”
Still hesitant, you look at the ilu, then back at him. “No baby akulas trying to eat me this time?”
He laughs, “No, not where we’re going.”
You allow him to hoist you atop the ilu — because even if you're capable of doing it yourself, he always does that — and then climbs up in front of you, holding one hand behind your thigh to keep you steady and the other on the reins. “Hold on tight.”
You have to admit that riding at night is beautiful. Other than the moons and stars above you, the only light comes from the bioluminescence, and you remove one hand from his waist to brush the surface of the water, in awe. Nala swims beside you, holding up with the pace with some effort, but still looking very happy to see you and her carer together.
Tonowari stops the ilu when floating rocks and boulders — like a miniature-size Hallelujah Mountains — start to appear in the sky. “Where are we?”
He turns to smile at you. “You came here for Eywa, didn't you?” he asks, “Well, you could say we're going to visit her.”
He dives and you follow him, still a bit reluctant. He stops to let you catch up to him when he notices that you’re a bit behind him, a hand coming up to hold your smaller one — and suddenly, all of this feels very familiar. The fishes twirling around the two of you, the rocks and algae shimmering, the life you can feel buzzing within the water–
Tonowari lets go of your hand as you stare all around you, but it’s just to sign something. Come with me, our Spirit Tree is this way. His hand comes up to the small of your back, and if you weren’t holding your breath, you’re sure you would’ve sputtered.
If he notices the way you’re staring at him — like you just discovered a whole new person — he doesn’t mention it. He just guides you through the swarms of nocturnal fishes until you see it — the Spirit Tree.
Never in your life you would’ve thought that something like that could’ve existed underwater. It looks like it’s made out of dreams, shining upon anything that comes close to it, and Tonowari’s hand slowly leaves your back as you approach it — he’s letting you have some space, you realise.
Meeting the ancestors is like going back home — maybe it’s because in the spirit realm the Hometree and all the people that came down with it are alive, or maybe it’s because you didn’t do it for a long time. Either way, once you come back from it — you have to, the air in your lungs is starting to feel less and less every second that passes — you come to find out that finally, you feel truly at peace.
You swim up to a rock covered in moss to catch your breath, taking a moment to admire your surroundings — you’ve swam up to an open cave, it seems, painted and engraved with stories from the start of the Metkayina clan to the new days. Tulkuns, ilus and Na’vi twirl across the stone, set for an endless dance across generations, and you hear the water crinkle beside you.
“Do you like it?”
You nod, “It’s beautiful. Our Spirit Tree, back in the forest, doesn’t really offer any space for carvings.”
Tonowari nods, looking at the artwork scattered across the walls. “This is the Cove of the Ancestors. It’s where we bring the dead to rest, where newborns have their first contact with Eywa and ceremonies are held.”
You hum, already imagining him in full Olo’eyktan attire, his father passing down his spear to him. The man clears his throat. “I… I also brought you here for another reason other than the Spirit Tree — Ronal suggested I might’ve wanted to… clear things up a bit between us.”
You feel your heart skip a beat. Ah, there it goes. “There’s nothing to clear up,” you assure him, even if your chest feels like it’s imploding. “It’s okay. I know you have responsibilities — and we both know that Ronal’s the best tsakarem out there.”
He blinks, confused. A beat passes, slowly. Then, “But I don’t want Ronal.”
Oh. Oh.
You stutter, wondering if he’s joking — and from the way he’s looking at you, he’s not. “But– I thought you two had a thing. She dragged you away from the bonfire the other night — she’s always so close — she slapped you this morning just because we talked last night.”
Tonowari’s laughter is sincere and without any malice behind it. “What? No!”
He removes his pouch from his shoulder, and opens it to reveal another conch shell– even bigger than the last one. It’s different, though: this one reminds you of him, all turquoise and light blue accents, and you wonder just how many hours he has spent looking for it. “Here in Awa’atlu, gifting a big conch shell symbolises the start of a courtship,” he explaines — embarrassed, perhaps? “I got so used to having you around that I forgot you weren’t born Metkayina, and probably didn’t know of the tradition. Honestly, I was too happy you had accepted it to ask myself if you knew about it — and for that, I owe you my apologies.”
You soften visibly, but still hold a little resistance. “But Ronal–”
“Ronal is a friend,” he empathizes the word, “if anything, she sees me as a brother she can’t get out of her hair. All this time, she’s pressured me to make my move on you — before the other skxawngs in the village noticed all your qualities. That day at the bonfire? We kept arguing over what compliments I should’ve used for your hair.”
You blush, “I kept telling her I should’ve just told you that you were beautiful — which was true — but she kept insisting for a subtler approach. And when we came back, you weren’t there.”
You fiddle with the shells of your chestpiece, “Well, I thought you went to have some alone time with her or something,” you mutter.
Another laugh. “So, you escaped to watch the stars every time we were a little too close? I’m flattered that you kept looking at me,”
You push at his arm, “Then why did she slap you this morning? Your cheeks are still swollen, by the way.”
He snorts, “Ouli — the ceremonial tattooer — gave her a conch shell a week ago, and she has accepted it. She can’t wait to be absolved from tsakarem’s duties, but they can’t step down until the Tsahìk — and the future chief — choose who, one day, will guide the people spiritually.” Two of his fingers come up to your chin, holding your head up to stare into your eyes softly, “She was waiting for me to choose you. I told her I’d propose the shell to you yesterday, and then she found out that apparently, you saw it as a friendly talk. Needless to say, she was pissed.”
“But– I’m not even fully trained yet. She’s better at–”
He shakes his head, “I don’t care what she’s better at — I know you’ll learn everything about our ways, eventually. You’ve already proven yourself worthy enough.” he raises the shell again, his hand moving up to your cheek. “So, what do you say if we try this once more? I found another shell just to ask you again.”
You take the shell in your hands, admiring it for a moment before throwing all your self-control out of the picture, jumping in his arms so abruptly that he falls down on his backside. The kiss is mind-shattering, his hug is everything you imagined it would be, and his body is just as warm as it was in the dream where you saw him for the first time.
The funniest thing is that once you pull away, you both are gasping for air — something you’ve never seen him do, even after diving sessions that seemed to be hours long. Tightening the hold of your arms around his neck, you press your chests even closer, your noses brushing. “Is this the answer you wanted?”
He huffs a chuckle, his eyes already looking down at your lips again, “I don’t know– seemed a bit too friendly to me. But maybe, if you do that again, say, three or four times more, I might grasp the concept fully…”
You’re pretty sure the two of you could’ve stayed there kissing all night — and maybe even more than that, with the way you could feel him pressing against your crotch — if it wasn’t for Nala, who, by the time you went back for seconds for the fourth time, already had enough and positively jumped over the two of you, breaking the sweet moment with barks and flaps of her tail.
That doesn’t stop you from sharing quick, frenzy kisses whenever she’s not looking, as by the time Tonowari accompanies you back to your marui, your lips still feel swollen and are surely flushed. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks you, pressing one last peck to your cheek. You nod, giving his hand one last squeeze, “‘Course,”
You decide to take things slowly — you still don’t know the Metkayina’s ways to their full extent, after all. The next few months are made of exhausting training, as now you’re the only tsakarem and still have to pass your iknimaya, and you don’t want to let anyone down. You know the expectations that everyone has about the Tsahìk, and you surely have no intention to make Tonowari look bad as Olo’eyktan when the time comes.
And about him, he surely makes the intensive training easier.
Everytime he notices that you’re a little too stressed he makes sure to bring you a trinket from his hunts — let it be a weird rock that looks like a heart or a basket full of shells you can make your chest coverings with. He finds flowers to put in your hair during meal times, and just swings you over his shoulder like a pouch full of water when he decides that you’re overworking yourself a tad bit too much, dragging you to his marui for a well-deserved nap.
The day of your iknimaya marks your formal entry in the clan — one who later on becomes even more real thanks to your mating ceremony.
It’s a quiet affair — quieter than it is usual for the son of the chief — but neither of you resent the lack of festivities or celebration, because the most important thing is that you are now mated for life. Per Metkayina tradition, you rebraid each other’s kuru braids, picking beads and shells perfect for each other just for the occasion, and when the time to exchange your wedding gifts comes, you think back to Priya’s words and wonder just who she married — because the comb Tonowari carved out of coral is nothing short of stunning.
“I’ve never been to your forest,” he tells you as you brush the swirls of the flowers and trees etched along the smooth side, “but I’ve tried imagining it so many times, I can only hope I brought it justice.” It may not be completely accurate to the forest, but the thought he put into it is more than appreciated nonetheless. In exchange, he wears your armband like it’s a badge of honor, even if it’s a little too tight on his bicep. (Not that you’re complaining — the sight is scrumptious, and you can’t believe you get to wake up next to him for the rest of your life.)
You quickly settle in the marui Tonowari built with his father in the months of courting, and after a few months of blissful marriage, you don’t even notice when your belly starts to grow.
You just assumed you were getting a little too comfortable in your new life with him and maybe put on a bit of weight — after all, the Metkayina are much softer than the Omatikaya, so maybe your body’s just adapting to the environment. You think so, until Tonowari points it out.
One morning, as he’s tying his braids back, he stops to look at you — still lying half-asleep on the mat you share, barely awake yet. He crouches to stare weirdly at your belly, then pokes at your bellybutton like he’s trying to study a new species of fish. “Oeyä Tanhì,” he starts — my star, a nickname he has taken a liking to calling you since your wedding.
You hum non-committedly. “Yes, Ma Wari?”
He keeps poking at your stomach, and keeps doing so even when you try to swat his hand away. “Stop it, Tonowari, it tickles.”
He kisses your cheek, and continues doing so all the way to your forehead, brushing your hair away from your face as he leans his cheek over the top of your head. His chuckle is full of disbelief as he whispers, “My love, I think you’re with child. Your belly is rounder and stiff.”
A moment passes. Then, “Are you calling me fat first thing in the morning, Tonowari?”
A terrifying silence and a visit to Tsika later, it’s confirmed — you are pregnant, already four months along. You’re confused, mostly because your people don’t show up until five months, but one look at your hunk of a husband is all it takes to explain your questions.
Your second tattoo is to celebrate the pregnancy. While the first was above your eyebrow and went down to your cheek, this one cups the upper part of your belly and continues to your sides, still leaving some space for eventual other tattoos on your lower belly and hips.
At night, you sit on the step going onto the ocean of your marui, letting your feet float in the water as Tonowari sits on a banked canoe below, rubbing ointment on your freshly-done tattoo. “The arch symbolises the first pregnancy,” he mumbles softly, “the sides, protection for the firstborn. If another pregnancy occurs, a piece will be added here,” he brushes against the empty, rounded sides of your belly, “for protection of the second born, and then one for the third, and so on.”
You laugh, playing with one of his braids. “I think you’re getting too full of yourself, mister– let me give birth to this one before talking about other children, will you?”
He rests his head in your lap, almost purring when you start tracing lines over his face and scalp, “And when the child is born,” he adds, a hand still over your stomach, “the father gets a tattoo over the heart, one that turns into a spiral as more children come.”
A hum, “Maybe we should start thinking about names first, Ma Wari.”
The agreement is, he chooses the name if it’s a boy, you choose if it’s a girl. He picks the name Aonung; you opt for Tsireya.
His father’s illness comes as a bitter surprise to all.
It starts with a cough, then he’s getting groggy when he moves a little too much, until no remedies the Tsahìk, you or the healers try to use work, as he lies bedridden in the marui him and his wife have shared for decades.
Tonowari is understandingly broken up about it — the man who he grew up idolizing, who offered you a refuge in your grief, who helped him build the marui where you’ll be raising your child and every other one that might come after them. He won’t be meeting his grandchild, and even if Arvak insists for you to sleep properly in your own pod for the wellness of the baby, you’re not going to leave him or your husband alone in this difficult time.
You and your mate spend every night by his side as Tsika prays and chants for Eywa, not getting a blink of sleep herself, until the inevitable comes, and Arvak’s hand finally goes limp in hers.
The period of mourning doesn’t seem like nearly enough for Tonowari to handle his grief — he spends every night curled up into you, resting his head on your lap, trying to find comfort in you and his unborn child. He’s so big that if the situation was a little different, you would’ve laughed; instead, you just hold him close and sing him to sleep.
But life doesn’t stop for grief, and you know that well. Soon, he’s named Olo’eyktan and you Tsahìk, Tsika stepping down from her position with tears in her eyes as she gives you her headpiece.
Time in the village goes fast — people to heal, ceremonies to make, salves to concoct and prayers to hear. Months pass and your belly starts feeling impossibly big, so much so that the kids of the clan start following you everywhere to help their increasingly more tired Tsahìk. Tonowari always laughs when he sees them, going on about how Nala now has competition for the place in your heart reserved for children and animals, and the otterfin herself brings you a gift everyday — let it be a polished rock she found while swimming or a type of seaweed she thinks to be delicious.
The contractions start at night. You toss and turn in pain but try to avoid waking up Tonowari, just in case it’s a false alarm like the ones you had in the last three days. It’s only when he nudges you with a gentle hand — hair still mussed a bit with sleep — and tells you that the mat is wet that you understand that your child is coming.
Tsika and Ronal — now one of the best healers in the village and happily mated to Ouli — don’t spare any minute after your husband calls for them, and immediately have him carry you — now almost delirious with pain — to the birthing pond, where the water is warm and Eywa’s presence strong. The sigh you let out when your husband gently positions you against the rocky wall of it is one of pure bliss, and your clammy skin now surely doesn’t give you any problem.
Aonung is born hours later at dawn, resurfacing out of the water by himself like tradition, crying out for his father to take him. Tonowari takes one good look at him, hears his strong wails and immediately passes him to your tired, waiting arms, “A boy,” he says breathlessly, brushing your braids out of your face, “a healthy, strong boy.” He presses his lips to your forehead, a tear slipping down his cheek, “Thank you, Oeyä Tanhì, thank you.”
“Aonung,” you call out sobbing, as the babe stops his crying and latches onto your breast. “Hi, my sweet, hi,” he’s a little bigger than Omatikaya babies, but you love him nonetheless. He nestles over your chest as soon as he’s done feeding, and chooses that that’s now his favourite place to be.
In the next few weeks, your son reveals himself to be a real mama’s boy. During the day, he stays curled up in your chest in the netted wrap that Em’a and Wali had made for you, and Eywa forbid Tonowari tries to help you by taking him — because he will cry until his ears beg for mercy, only to go back to being an angel as soon as he passes him back to you.
The children coo and poke at him when you bring him to meet them, and one of the older ones jokes about how he looks just like your husband, but can only stand you. You laugh at that, because it is true — Aonung is his father’s copy, and maybe that’s why he likes you so much.
It’s only when he reaches three months of age that you gather enough courage to ask Tonowari to visit the forest — not because you’re afraid he’ll say no, but because you’re not sure if you’re ready for it. It’s been almost two years since you left now, and while you aren’t exactly ready to see the remains of the fallen Hometree again, you want Aonung to meet his grandmother and aunt, and your husband to see where you grew up.
Of course, the latter could never deny you anything, and a week later you get on Ry’ia with him behind you and set sail for the forest of the Omatikaya. The village is left to Tsika’s hands, and Aonung babbles happily against your chest as he flies for the first time in his life.
The village is in the same place it was two years ago — it’s just grown a lot since then, marui pods where the branches once weren’t even steady enough — and you laugh when Ry’ia leaves you immediately to go back to the ikrans’ nest, ready to meet her old friends no doubt. You keep one hand over Aonung’s small back and the other in Tonowari’s palm, guiding him through the branches and groves as he stumbles many times.
You laugh, “How does the forest feel, reef boy?”
He pales as he stares down the branch you’re standing on, wondering just how many people die here from falling down into the void. “Dangerous, my love.”
Neytiri screams when she first sees you — alerting all the other villagers about your arrival. She runs to hug you tight, not even noticing your son nestled between you two or the reef Na’vi awkwardly standing behind you until you pull back, a soft smile on your lips. “Sister, it’s been so long–”
You laugh, nodding. “It has been, sister. I wanted to introduce you to Tonowari–” the man salutes her with his fingers going to his forehead and then gesturing towards her as you take Aonung out of his wrap and into your arms, “and little Aonung.”
You don’t notice the way her face falls instantly. Your boy coos at her, gesturing his fat little arms towards her, and the moment is interrupted by Mo’at, far more pleased than her elder daughter at the turn of events. When your sister takes her nephew in her arms and your mother hugs you, she stares at his turquoise skin, larger tail and wide forearms with worry, “He’ll never be able to move fully in the forest with these,”
You chuckle, still in your mother’s embrace, “A good thing we live in the reef then, no?”
Her eyes skim over your sturdier arms, the tattoos over your body and the seashells braided into your hair– and before you know it, she leaves Aonung in Jake’s arms and storms off.
Being back home is nice — because while Awa’atlu became your home in the last two years, here in the forest still live your friends and family, and it’s where you grew up. Your mother spoils Aonung rotten and watches him as you go hunting on your ikran with Ninat and Peyral, while Jakesully — upon Tonowari’s insistence — tries to show him the way of the forest. Your friends chuckle every time they catch sight of your husband, asking if every Na’vi in the reef is as big as him, and if you know any Metkayina men willing to marry in the Omatikaya.
Neytiri, who you found out to be pregnant the day you arrived, mostly stays by herself, pondering, and whenever you ask if she wants to do anything with you she refuses, lamenting nausea or other pains.
You talk to Mo’at about it, worried, but she just gives you a weird look. “She’s grieving, child.”
Your eyebrows rise up to your hairline, “What do you mean, grieving? Who died?”
“She thought you were still traveling,” she whispers, caressing Aonung’s curls while he munches on the beads of your braids, “and that once you were ready, you would’ve come back to living here. Seeing you with a mate and a son… it broke her heart, because now she knows you’re not coming back.”
You think back to all the times you two talked about how your children would grow up together, being best friends and close just like you did — and your heart breaks a little, too, because in all of this, you hadn’t considered how she would take the fact of you never fully returning to the forest.
That night, you leave Aonung with Tonowari — as your son has finally started to appreciate his father a little, too — and go looking for Neytiri at the Tree of Souls, knowing that at this hour, she usually prays and chants her songcord.
She stops when she hears you approach, her ears perking up. You smile softly, “I thought we could pray together– like the old days?” When your father was still alive, your sister still arranged to Tsu’tey, and the both of you were less complicated. When she could still become Tsahìk, and you had no reason to.
She scoffs a little, “Like the old days,” she mutters, “am I supposed to pretend that you didn’t turn your back on me?”
You grimace, taking a seat next to her, “Tiri…”
“Don’t ‘Tiri’ me,” she hisses, “you have no right– I was waiting for you. Waiting for you to come back–” her voice cracks — pregnancy emotions; you know them too well. “For you to come back here and marry one of our men like our ancestors did for centuries. Instead, you marry a reef Na’vi and– and move Eywa knows how far from here without saying anything–”
She breaks down, and you shush her gently, cradling her head on your shoulder. This feels familiar, because when you were kids, she was usually the one comforting you. “Why did it have to be the Olo’eyktan?” she cries, her tears wetting your skin, “Couldn’t you find someone less important — someone you could come here to live with?”
You shake your head, pressing your cheek on the crown of her hair for comfort, “I didn’t choose him, Tiri,” you say softly, “I fell in love. That’s not something one controls, and you, out of all people, should know that.”
Still in denial, she sobs harder, “What will it be of our kids?” she asks, pressing a hand over her slightly swollen belly, “Will they grow up as strangers, like they’ll be to our father and sister? Will they look at their aunt and wonder if she’s an outsider?”
“Never, sister, never,” you hush, “we’ll visit — you and Jake can visit, too.”
As her cries die down, she asks, “Does the thought of living here still scare you so much?”
And for that, to your horror, you don’t find an answer.
Tsireya comes a little over a year after her brother, and this time, she looks like you. She still has her father’s Metkayina features — the tail, her forearms — but one good look at her face, and it doesn’t take a Tsahìk to guess that she’s your daughter. Ironically enough, she prefers her father's chest over yours — unless we’re talking about feeding time, because, let’s be real, Tonowari will never be able to beat you at that for obvious reasons.
Aonung has started to waddle a while ago, and has been restless since. He goes from your marui to his grandmother’s, visiting Ronal and Em’a on the way, falling at least twelve times in the meantime. He loves swimming with you and his father, constantly bugs his sister when she’s stealing the milk that he’s convinced should be his, and plays with Nala on the shore when the zukzuk starts following him around.
He’s a sweet boy who brings you flowers and pieces of fruit when he notices the smallest frown on your face, and loves cuddles from mom and dad before and after going to sleep. And even if he’s a little mean to his sister sometimes, you know he loves her very much from the way he begs you to let her swim with him or wants to share his food with her.
You visit Neytiri a few more times, but the visits slowly come to an end when you realize that she has no intention of ever coming to the reef to see the life you’ve built here. While Mo’at visits frequently, bringing the children gifts and swarming them with affection, your older sister seems to have accepted the fact that in her eyes, you’ll never be truly close again.
You accept the notion with far more ease than you could have ever imagined — because you have a family now, and people that look up to you for guidance. If Neytiri doesn’t want to see that, it’s okay; you’ll never manage to love her any less for it.
The kids grow quicker than you realize, because soon, Tsireya is waddling behind Aonung too, and the excruciating process of weaning her off starts.
Her brother had been even more difficult, so you’re actually quite relieved to see that she at least does not cry herself to exhaustion every night like he did. But every time she lets out the smallest whimper, you find Tonowari’s big eyes boring into yours, with that look that says, we could resolve the problem by just having another baby. You always glare at him when he suggests that, because two kids under three already feel like more than enough now, and you have no intention of having another one so soon.
But as she often does, Eywa has a different plan for you.
Tonowari hurriedly wakes you up one night as you’re resting on the sleeping mat, nearly asleep as the kids quietly snore beside you. He’d been out all evening to help his mother with some herbs while you watched the children, so you’re worried to find him so distraught. “One of the Ta’unui’s women died in birth,” he whispers, careful not to wake up Aonung or Tsireya, “they need to feed him, but none of the women in their village is nursing. Could you…?”
He doesn’t even have to ask, really, because five minutes later you’re sitting in the Tsahìk’s tent, nursing little Rotxo while the Ta’unui Olo’eyktan shares worried whispers with Tonowari. The newborn is a little chunkier than Aonung and Tsireya were, but that just means that his mom, while she could, took good care of him.
“He’s an orphan,” you hear the chief say, “his dad died a little while ago on a hunt, and he’s only got his grandmother now — but frankly, she’s old, and I doubt she’ll be able to take care of him for long…”
The solution seems clear in your eyes, and after talking to Rotxo’s grandmother about her new place in the Metkayina village, you introduce Aonung and Tsireya to their new little brother. They don’t ask why you didn’t have a big belly like the other pregnant women in the village, or why his skin isn’t a little bluer like theirs, and instead take to him instantly, putting shared efforts to find nice shells and smooth little rocks to put in the woven crib where he naps.
Everyday, you bring him to his grandmother so that she can have a piece of her daughter back with her, and slowly, she takes a liking to your children as well. They start calling her grandma like they do to Tsika and Mo’at, and you don’t miss the way she seems to be rejuvenated by being around such lively children.
“No more kids, huh?” Tonowari teases you gently one evening, the sun fading into the horizon, as you breastfeed little Rotxo while watching Aonung and Tsireya play with ilu cubs in the water.
You swat his arm, so tired but so full of love. “Oh, shut up, Tonowari. The next kid we have, we’ll have in at least ten years.”
He raises an eyebrow, amused, “Oh? So, we will have another kid?”
You blush — incredible how after having two of his kids and being bare for him so many times, he still manages to get a reaction out of you. “Maybe.”
He hums, an arm wrapping around your shoulders as he presses a gentle kiss to your temple. “Yeah? And what do you want to call them, if it’s a girl?”
You look down to little Rotxo, his hand opening and closing around the curve of your breast, his chunky belly pressing against your ribs. It’s ridiculous — the way Tonowari can get you to think about another baby while already having three small children.
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So'lek x fem!avatar driver reader inspired by Tsumuke written by @lvlypinkesworld
Part 16.5 > Part 17 > Part 18
(18+ edition)
Dedicated to @grackyb and @yaaraz and @layingintheloam
Keep your eye out because @revelutionize is writing the 18+ version of this chapter
Forever
The sun was setting. Golden light spilled through the trees of the sanctuary, turning every leaf to molten amber.
(Y/n) stood near the shelter entrance, trying very hard not to pace. Trying very hard not to panic. Trying very hard not to think.
Unfortunately, she was failing at all three.
Her hands smoothed over the outfit for perhaps the twentieth time.
Nefika's handiwork was breathtaking. Delicate woven flowers and petals wrapped elegantly across her form, trailing like living vines. Soft purples and blues reflected the colors of twilight.
The outfit felt beautiful.
And terrifying.
Mostly terrifying.
Because this kind of outfit was designed to be eycatching. She knew exactly whose eyes she wanted to impress.
The realization immediately sent another rush of heat into her cheeks.
"Oh god."
Her heart was pounding.
An ikran called overhead. Her head snapped upward instantly.
All thoughts vanished.
Iley descended through the trees. Landing at the edge of the sanctuary.
And suddenly her nervousness became something else entirely. Anticipation.
The warrior slid from Iley's back.
For a moment neither moved. Neither spoke.
So'lek had cleaned up as well. His braids had been carefully redone, every strand neat and orderly. A simple cord rested across his forehead, a pale bead at its center. Around his neck hung a carved necklace of beads and a tooth charm worn smooth from the time it took to fashion it. Instead of his usual armor, he wore woven shoulder pieces that framed his broad shoulders and chest. Deep violet fabric rested around his neck and upper torso, contrasting against the blue of his skin. The leather bracelet she had made for him sat proudly upon his wrist.
Then his eyes found her. And he froze. The world seemed to stop. The sounds of the sanctuary faded. The evening breeze vanished.
There was only her. Standing beneath the golden light. Waiting for him.
Beautiful.
Eywa.
Beautiful did not begin to cover it.
For a moment So'lek genuinely forgot how to breathe. Forgot what he had intended to say. Forgot every carefully planned word.
Because the woman standing before him looked like something out of a dream. Like a blessing gifted by Eywa herself.
The flowers woven into her clothing seemed to glow in the fading sunlight. Her hair had been carefully brushed and arranged. The necklace he had made for her rested against her skin. And her face—Her face was already turning red beneath the intensity of his stare.
It made his heart pull painfully in his chest.
His jaw tightened slightly. Because no one had ever looked this beautiful.
(Y/n) immediately became self-conscious beneath the silence. "So'lek?"
The quiet question finally pulled him back to reality.
The warrior swallowed. Still staring. Still looking as though he'd forgotten every language he knew.
The poor woman shifted nervously. "Is it bad?"
The question nearly broke his heart.
Bad?
The warrior crossed the distance between them before she could retreat into embarrassment.
One hand gently found her cheek. His thumb brushing softly across warm skin. His eyes never left hers. "Yawne."
The word came out rougher than intended. Filled with emotion. Wonder. Affection. Everything he could not quite put into words.
"You are beautiful."
(Y/n)'s breath caught.
So'lek looked as though he was seeing her for the first time. As though he couldn't quite believe she was real.
The warrior shook his head softly. Still stunned. Still trying to recover. "I do not think Nefika likes me very much."
Confusion immediately crossed her face. "What?"
His gaze slowly traveled over the flowers, the woven petals, the elegant craftsmanship. Then returned to her eyes.
"Because she has made it very difficult for me to think."
And suddenly she was blushing harder than ever.
The warrior's smile softened.
And as the last rays of sunlight painted the sanctuary gold, So'lek found himself thinking that every hour spent preparing for tonight had been worth it. Because standing before him was the woman he loved. And she was more beautiful than anything he could have imagined.
The compliment had left her flustered.
The way he had looked at her had somehow been even worse. Or better. She had not yet decided.
Possibly both.
Now, standing beneath the fading evening sky, she found herself staring at the large hand extended toward her.
So'lek's hand.
The warrior's golden eyes held hers. He took her hand gently. The touch immediately steadied her racing heart.
Only a little. Because what came next made it start racing all over again.
"Last chance to change your mind, (Y/n)." The words were quiet. Serious.
The warrior's thumb brushed across her knuckles. "If you come with me tonight..."
His voice lowered. "There is no going back."
He was giving her a choice. One final choice.
The woman looked up at him.
Really looked at him. At the warrior who had protected her. Comforted her. Loved her.
The man who had become the home of her heart.
Her answer came immediately. "There is nothing to change."
"I love you."
For a moment the warrior simply stared at her. The words striking him with the same force every time he heard them. As though some part of him still could not quite believe she had loved him.
Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Lingering there.
Eyes closed briefly.
Thanking Eywa.
Then he smiled. The genuine smile she rarely saw. The one reserved only for her.
"Come."
His fingers intertwined with hers. Guiding her toward where Iley waited.
(Y/n) followed willingly.
Though curiosity was rapidly beginning to outweigh her nerves. "Where are you taking me?"
The warrior glanced back over his shoulder. The moonlight caught in his eyes. "The Glade of Light."
For once, perhaps the first time since she'd met him— She felt no fear climbing onto Iley's back.
No dread. No nervous glances downward. No complaints about falling. Instead she settled behind him and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist.
The warrior's hand briefly covered hers. A silent reassurance.
Then Iley launched into the sky.
The flight was quiet. Peaceful.
The world below glowed softly beneath the moonlight. Pandora stretching endlessly beneath them. Floating mountains hanging like stars in the darkness.
Neither spoke much. Neither seemed to need to.
(Y/n) rested her cheek against So'lek's back. Listening to the steady beat of his heart. The familiar rhythm. The rhythm that always calmed her.
And before she knew it— The journey was over.
Iley descended gracefully. Landing among ancient trees bathed in bioluminescent light.
The Glade of Light.
The last remnants of sunset had vanished completely. Night had claimed the sky. The stars shone overhead. The glowing plants illuminated the forest floor in soft blues and greens.
So'lek dismounted first. Then turned. Offering her his hand.
(Y/n) took it.
Stepping down beside him.
The moment her feet touched the ground she noticed something.
The glade was empty.
Just the two of them.
The realization made her heart flutter.
The warrior squeezed her hand gently. Then began leading her deeper into the glowing forest. The deeper they walked into the Glade of Light, the quieter the world became. The glowing trees hung like curtains of violet stars. Soft streams trickled in the background. Every branch shimmered with bioluminescent light.
(Y/n) found herself slowing as they entered the heart of it.
The sight stole her breath.
Towering Trees of Voices stretched toward the night sky, their luminous tendrils swaying gently in the breeze. The glow reflected in her eyes. In the wonder written across her face.
So'lek watched her take it all in. And found himself smiling.
Because even now, after everything she had seen on Pandora, she could still be awed by its beauty.
"You know what these trees are?" His voice was soft.
(Y/n) nodded. "The Trees of Voices."
Her eyes remained fixed upward. "Where your people connect to Eywa."
The warrior's expression softened. "Yes."
Slowly he stepped forward. His kuru lifting.
The glowing tendrils drifted lazily around them.
So'lek connected first. Then he looked back at her. Motioning silently.
(Y/n) stepped forward. Her hands trembled slightly. Slowly she raised her own kuru. The connection formed.
And suddenly—Voices. Echoes. Memories. Laughter. Songs.
The distant sounds of countless lives that had come before.
The sensation washed over her like a warm tide.
Her breath caught.
The wonder on her face nearly brought tears to So'lek's eyes.
After a long moment, So'lek gently disconnected.
(Y/n) did the same.
The warrior stepped closer. Until there was barely any distance between them.
His hands found hers. The other rising to cup her cheek. His forehead rested against hers.
The familiar gesture. The one that always made her feel warm inside.
"There are a few steps to make you my mate."
"And you mine."
(Y/n)'s heart raced.
So'lek lifted his queue. His eyes never left hers. "Bond with me."
Slowly—She joined her kuru with his. The connection formed instantly. And suddenly the world changed.
(Y/n) gasped. She could feel him. Not hear his thoughts. Not see memories.
Feel him.
The steady beat of his heart. The strength of his devotion. The overwhelming certainty with which he loved her. The fierce protectiveness. The tenderness. The longing he had spent months holding back.
His admiration. His affection. The sheer depth of emotion nearly overwhelmed her.
It was like standing in sunlight. Like being wrapped in warmth. Like discovering that every loving glance he had ever given her had only been a fraction of what he truly felt.
A soft sound escaped her.
Across from her, So'lek experienced much the same. He felt her racing heart. The warmth flooding her face. The nervous excitement.
Most importantly— No fear. No hesitation. No uncertainty.
Only love. Only anticipation. Only her heart reaching back toward his.
It nearly undid him. His eyes closed briefly. Relief washing through him. Because for all his confidence, for all his certainty, a small part of him had still worried.
Not anymore. Not now. Now he knew that she was as certain about him as her was of her.
When their eyes met again, neither could look away.
"Next?" The word emerged as little more than a whisper.
The warrior smiled. His thumb brushed across her cheek. "I mate with you before Eywa."
"And when the sun rises..."
His forehead remained against hers. "We shall be mates."
Then softly, "Muntxatan and muntxate."
His eyes shone in the glow of the trees."For life."
(Y/n)'s breath caught.
The enormity of it settled over her. Not frightening.Not overwhelming.
Right.
Somehow simply right.
A smile touched her lips. Then she looked up at him.
A little of her usual shyness returning. "I think..."
The warrior raised an eyebrow.
"...that should start with a kiss."
The laugh that escaped him was warm. Full of affection.
Then he cupped her face. As though she were something precious. And kissed her.
Beneath the glowing Trees of Voices. Beneath the stars. With Eywa as witness.
And for a little while, neither thought about tomorrow. Only about each other.
The connection between them made it impossible to hide.
Impossible to pretend.
Every emotion flowed freely across the bond.
His devotion. Her trust.
His longing. Her anticipation.
The certainty that neither of them wished to be anywhere else.
Without breaking the kiss, So'lek guided her gently down onto the soft moss and grasses beneath the Trees of Voices.
(Y/n) found herself laughing softly against his lips as the bond carried every feeling between them.
The warrior's affection washed over her like warmth. So much affection. So much love.
It made her heart flutter.
She lay beneath him, glowing branches framing the night sky above.
For a moment she simply looked at him.
Her eyes widened slightly. Because she could feel it. How much he wanted her, how long that want had ben building up for some time.
"You have been wanting this for quite some time."
A smile touched So'lek's mouth. "You are a beautiful woman."
He kissed her forehead. Then her cheek. Then the corner of her mouth. "And an attractive one."
Her fave flushed. The bond carried her embarrassment straight to him.
Which only made his smile grow.
Another kiss.
"It has taken much restraint."
His forehead rested briefly against hers. Golden eyes never leaving her own.
"Because I have wanted you since the first time I kissed you."
The confession stole her breath.
(Y/n)'s hand rose to his face. Her fingers tracing familiar features. The scar she knew so well. The line of his jaw.
The warrior closed his eyes briefly at the touch.
Leaning into it.
The bond carried his feelings clearly enough that words were hardly necessary now.
Love. Devotion. The desire to spend the rest of his life beside her. He desperate want for her.
Nothing hidden. Nothing withheld.
The woman smiled softly.
And through the bond he felt it. Felt the sheer depth of her love all over again.
So'lek kissed her again.
For a long moment neither moved. Content simply to remain there together. On the edge of a new chapter in their lives.
With the stars above. And Eywa as witness.
The moment his hands settled against her thighs, gently pushing them apart, (Y/n)'s breath caught.
Not because she was afraid.
That realization struck her unexpectedly.
There should have been fear.Once upon a time there always had been. Fear of being cornered. Fear of being trapped. Fear of hands that took rather than asked.
Yet as she looked up at So'lek, she found none of it.
Her heart raced so hard she was certain he could feel it through their bond.
Every glance he gave her carried the same question Are you certain?
Every touch carried the same promise I will not hurt you.
It settled deep within her chest. For perhaps the first time in her life, she felt completely safe being looked at.
Completely safe being wanted.
And somehow that made her want him all the more.
As he knelt in between her thighs So'lek's heart thundered in his chest.
Through their bond he could feel every flutter of her pulse. Every nervous thought. Every surge of affection.
Yet beneath it all he found something that nearly brought him to his knees.
Trust.
Because she was choosing him.
Freely.
Not out of obligation. Not out of fear. Not because she had nowhere else to go.
She was choosing him because she loved him.
The warrior closed his eyes briefly.
Thanking Eywa.
Thanking everything out there who had guided his path to this woman.
Desire still burned fiercely within him, but it was no longer the strongest thing he felt. Stronger than that was devotion.Stronger than that was the overwhelming certainty that he wanted every sunrise and every sunset that remained in his life to be spent beside her.
His mate.
His yawne.
His heart.
His forever.
(Y/n) woke with a sharp breath.
For a few precious seconds she did not know where she was.
She could still feel him. Still feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The warmth of his chest beneath her cheek. The strength of his arms around her. The feel of him emotions and body entwined with hers. The overwhelming certainty of his love.
It lingered like sunlight on skin.
Like the last notes of a song.
There.
Yet already fading.
The immediacy of it was slipping away with every passing second. Becoming a memory.
A ghost.
A beautiful one.
She sat up slowly inside the link bed. The movement felt wrong. Everything felt wrong.
Cold. Empty. Small.
Her hands rested in her lap.
Human hands. Fragile hands. Not the hands that had held his face only hours ago. Not the body that was claimed by him.
A strange ache settled in her chest. The kind of ache that came from missing someone who was still alive.
Someone who was waiting for her. Someone she would see again.
Yet somehow not soon enough.
Her eyes lowered to her hands. And suddenly she hated them.
Not because there was anything wrong with them. Because they reminded her where she was. Reminded her what she wasn't.
The realization struck her all over again.
Mated.
The word echoed through her thoughts.
Married in Navi tradition.
For life.
Her breath caught.
A small smile appeared. Then immediately vanished as the ache returned.
So'lek. Her muntxatan. Her husband.
For life.
The thought should have felt impossible. Ridiculous. Instead it felt right. Like something that had always been meant to happen.
Slowly she got up from the link bed.
The room felt unbearably quiet.
Every step away from it felt worse. As though she were moving further from him. Further from the place she belonged.
She exited the link room. Someone called her name. Perhaps Priya. Perhaps Nalin.
Perhaps someone else entirely.
She genuinely did not know. The words barely registered.
She offered some vague response. Or perhaps she didn't.
She couldn't remember.
Her thoughts remained elsewhere.
The walk to her room passed in a blur. The door closed behind her.
Finally. Alone.
Alone.
(Y/n) crossed the room quickly and practically collapsed onto her bed.
Immediately hugging her pillow. Holding it tightly against her chest. As though that might somehow help.
It didn't. Not really.
Because it wasn't him. Nothing here was him.
No warm laugh. No gentle rumble of his voice. No hand brushing through her hair. No heartbeat. No So'lek.
The realization hurt far more than she expected.
Her eyes squeezed shut.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow she would see him. Tomorrow she could return. Tomorrow she could be in his arms again.
The thought brought some comfort.
Then another thought surfaced.
One that immediately made her bury her face deeper into the pillow.
Tomorrow.
A violent blush spread across her face.
"Oh Eywa." The poor woman groaned.
Because now every memory came rushing back.
His smile. His voice. The way he had looked at her. The way he had spoken her name.
His touch lingered on her skin as if she could still feel every second his hands traced across her body.
Her face somehow became even hotter. She buried herself further into the pillow.
Hopelessly happy. Completely in love.
And desperately wishing morning would arrive faster.
Because for the first time in her life— She knew exactly where home was.
And it was waiting for her.
The moment her eyes opened the next morning, she was moving. No lingering beneath the blankets. No slowly waking up.
She was out of bed and halfway down the corridor before she was fully conscious.
The link room.
She needed the link room.
She needed—
"(Y/n)." Alma's voice cut across the hallway.
The woman stopped only because Alma was standing directly in front of the door.
For a moment they simply stared at one another.
"Where are you going so early?"
"Out."
Alma folded her arms. "I've been meaning to talk to you."
(Y/n)'s eyes narrowed.
That sentence never led anywhere pleasant.
"What about?"
"You and So'lek."
Immediately her patience evaporated. The woman sighed. Deeply. As though already exhausted.
"You've been getting close."
"And?"
Alma hesitated. "I think it's an inappropriate relationship."
For a moment there was silence.
Then (Y/n) laughed. Not because it was funny. Because it was ridiculous.
"Tell that to Jake Sully."
Alma blinked.
"Or Norm Spellman."
Another blink.
"Or any other avatar driver who married a Na'vi."
The older woman looked caught off guard. Then realization dawned. Her eyes widened. "You mated with him?"
The smile that appeared on (Y/n)'s face was small. Gentle. Thinking of him. "Yes."
Alma stared.
Meanwhile (Y/n) already looked done with the conversation.
"I know you'll have a problem with it." The smile vanished. Not angry. Just tired.
"You have a problem with everything I do."
Alma opened her mouth.
The younger woman continued.
"And I think it's because you're jealous."
That finally made Alma flinch. The truth often did.
"You are desperate to belong."
(Y/n)'s voice remained calm.
"You want what I have with the Sarentu."
"The Aranahe."
"So'lek."
"Everyone."
"And because you don't have it, you take it out on me."
Alma looked away first. For once, she had no answer. No criticism. No argument.
Nothing.
(Y/n) nodded. As though that alone confirmed everything. Then stepped toward the link room.
"I'm not putting up with that anymore."
Her hand found the door controls.
She smiled.One that instantly transformed her entire face. "I'm going back to my mate."
The word felt wonderful.
Mate.
Her mate.
She loved how it sounded.
"Unless you want me to tell him you're bothering me."
The threat wasn't even a threat. Just a statement of fact.
Alma immediately turned. And walked away.
(Y/n) waited exactly long enough to make sure she was gone.
Then practically threw herself into the link pod.
The lid had barely closed before she was already initiating the transfer.
The link engaged.
Darkness.
Then—Warmth.
Life. Pandora. And him.
The moment her eyes opened in her avatar body she rolled over. Straight into strong arms. Waiting arms. Familiar arms.
Home.
The sound she made was embarrassingly happy. Something between a sigh and a relieved laugh. She immediately curled against him. Holding onto him. Refusing to let go.
The ghost of last night still lingered.
It all returned the moment she touched him.
And suddenly the ache she'd felt upon waking vanished. Gone.
As though it had never existed. Because she was back where she belonged.
With him.
(Y/n) simply stared at him. Taking in every familiar feature. The scars.
The warrior she loved.
Her handsome mate.
The thought alone made her smile.
Mate.
It sounded better every time.
A moment later So'lek stirred. Slowly waking.
His arm instinctively tightening around her before he had fully opened his eyes.
The gesture made her heart melt.
"You returned early." His voice was rough with sleep.
(Y/n) immediately smiled. "I found it hard to stay away."
One eye opened. Then the other.
The warrior studied her. Then frowned.
"You did not eat." The accusation came instantly.
Of course it did.
(Y/n) groaned. "How could I?"
The warrior sighed. A long suffering sigh.
The kind she knew very well.
Then he leaned forward and kissed her. The sort of kiss that somehow managed to communicate both love and disapproval simultaneously.
A unique talent of his.
(Y/n) smiled against his lips. Then her expression softened.
The happiness fading slightly.
Something more vulnerable replacing it.
"I don't want to wake up anymore." The words slipped out before she could stop them.
(Y/n) looked away briefly. Searching for the right words. "I don't want to wake up in my human body anymore."
The confession emerged quietly. Almost embarrassed. "I want to remain in this one."
Her eyes met his. "With you."
The warrior stilled. "(Y/n)..."
The sadness in her voice hurt. More than he expected.
Then she spoke again. The words striking him straight in the heart. "Wasn't it you who said I belonged with you no matter which body I inhabit?"
The reminder made his chest tighten. Because he had. He meant it now just as much as he had then.
The warrior leaned forward. Kissing her softly.
Holding her face between his hands.
Then again.
And again.
Trying to soothe something he could was hurting inside her.
"Please."
"I can't wake up without you anymore."
The confession nearly undid him. And suddenly So'lek understood.
Not because she had explained it.
Because he felt it too.
The morning had felt wrong without her. The space beside him had felt empty.
He had woken reaching for someone who wasn't there.
His mate.
The realization struck him with surprising force.
The choice was always yours. The words sat on the tip of his tongue.
But his thoughts had become tangled.
Because hearing her say it—
Hearing her admit she wanted to remain with him—
Filled him with something dangerously close to joy.
Not because he wanted to take her choice away. Never that.
Because she was choosing him.
Again.
The warrior closed his eyes briefly. Resting his forehead against hers.
Then he wrapped both arms around her. Pulling her tightly against his chest. As though he could somehow protect her from ever feeling alone again.
"Ma yawne."
The words were almost a whisper. Filled with affection. Filled with love."If you remain."
His hand brushed through her hair. "If you leave."
Another kiss against her forehead. "If you wake in this body or the other."
His arms tightened slightly. "You are still my mate."
The certainty in his voice never wavered.
Never could. Because there was no version of the world where he loved her less.
No body she could inhabit that would change what she meant to him.
He held her for a long moment. Simply enjoying the fact she was there. Back in his arms.
The warrior had spent years alone.
Years expecting to wake to silence.
Now he woke to her. Curled against his chest.
Looking at him as though he hung the stars above Pandora.
It did dangerous things to his heart.
He tenderly kissed her cheek.
"But first," he murmured.
(Y/n) blinked. "What?"
Before she could ask another question, the warrior rolled them gently.
The movement earned a surprised squeak from her.
A moment later she found herself beneath him. His arms planted on either side of her. Creating a wall between her and the rest of the world.
The position immediately made her blush.
The terrible man noticed.
His smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"So'lek."
"Yes, yawne?"
The amusement in his voice made her narrow her eyes.
A hopeless effort considering how red her face had become.
The warrior lowered his head.
Pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.
Then another to her cheek.
"I wish to have my mate one more time."
The words were warm. Affectionate.
Filled with the kind of happiness that still felt new to him.
The wonder of being able to call her that.
Mate.
His mate.
(Y/n)'s blush deepened immediately.
The warrior laughed softly.
Then he kissed her. Gentle. Unhurried.
The kind of kiss that said everything words could not.
When he finally pulled back, he simply looked at her. Studied her. Memorized her.
The morning light illuminating her face. Her hair. The faint flush in her cheeks.
Every detail.
As though he feared forgetting.
His hand brushed lightly through her hair.
"You are staring."
"I know."
"Why?"
The answer came immediately.
"Because you are beautiful."
(Y/n) groaned.
The warrior's smile widened. "There is that face again."
"What face?"
"The one you make when I compliment you."
"I do not make a face."
"You do."
The woman immediately crossed her arms.
Or tried to.
The effort was ruined by the fact he was still leaning over her.
The warrior looked entirely too pleased with himself.
"You are impossible."
"So, you keep telling me."
He captured her lips in a kiss again, listening to the small sound she made as he gently grabbed her thigh and hooked it over his hips, settling in between her legs.
“You are impossible,” she mumbled against his lips, he silenced her by kissing her much more deeply.
And she let him because she wanted her mate as well.
(Y/n) lay sprawled comfortably across his chest.
Her head resting above his heart. Listening. The steady rhythm beneath her ear had become one of her favorite sounds.
For the first time in a very long time, she felt completely at peace.
A little breathless.
A little overwhelmed.
But peaceful.
Her fingers absentmindedly traced small circles against his chest. Back and forth.
Again.
And again.
So'lek watched her quietly.
Feeling the last of the nervous excitement slowly drain from her through their Tsaheylu.
The frantic energy she'd arrived with. The longing. The desperation to return to him.
All of it gradually settling.
Replacing itself with contentment.
The kind that came from knowing exactly where she belonged.
The warrior found himself smiling.
His hand drifted through her hair. As though he couldn't stop touching her.
As though he needed the constant reassurance that she was real.
That this wasn't some dream Eywa had gifted him.
The warrior lowered his head. Pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.
Immediately he felt the response through Tsaheylu.
The little burst of happiness. The warmth. The affection.
The way she unconsciously leaned closer.
The realization filled his chest with warmth.
The bond was incredible.
Terrifying sometimes.
But incredible.
Because there was no guessing.
No uncertainty.
Only truth. Only feeling.
Only her.
After a moment, So'lek gently disconnected their queues.
The bond faded.
Then he wrapped both arms around her. Pulling her fully against him. Holding her tightly.
(Y/n) immediately made a content sound and snuggled closer.
His hand moved slowly up and down her back.
The repetitive motion soothing both of them.
The warrior closed his eyes briefly. Enjoying the warmth of her.
The weight of her. The simple fact that she was there.
He squeezed her. Tightly.
Without warning.
(Y/n) let out an undignified squeak. "So'lek!"
The warrior's shoulders shook with laughter.
"I missed you."
"You were without me for a few hours."
"It was terrible."
The answer came so seriously that she immediately burst out laughing.
The sound echoed through the morning. The kind of sound So'lek would spend the rest of his life chasing.
His mate.
His yawne.
In his arms as morning sunlight spilled across the floor. And for a little while longer, neither felt any need to move at all.
"I want to go see Etuwa as soon as possible." The words emerged muffled against his chest. (Y/n) sounded entirely serious.
Which only made So'lek smile. Because less than a minute ago he could sense she had been determined never to move again.
The warrior's fingers continued their slow path up and down her back.
"You do not have to rush, ma yawne."
His voice rumbled beneath her ear. "You should catch your breath first."
The woman huffed softly.
Then finally lifted her head from his chest.
Golden morning light spilled across her face. Across her hair. Across the faint flush that still hadn't completely faded.
Her hand rose. Cupping his cheek.
The gesture immediately softened his expression.
Without thinking, he leaned into her touch.
(Y/n)'s thumb brushed across his skin. Her gaze searching his face. "I mean it."
The warrior's attention sharpened immediately.
"I can't wake up in a body where you're not there."
The confession hit him squarely in the heart.
Not because it surprised him. Because he had felt something similar himself. The empty space beside him this morning.
The instinctive reach toward someone who wasn't there.
The realization that his mate wasn't beside him even though her body was.
The warrior's hand rose. Cupping her face gently.
His thumb brushing across her cheek.
Then he kissed her. Slowly. Tenderly.
The kind of kiss that was less about passion and more about reassurance.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers.
Their noses brushing lightly.
“Then we shall go and see Etuwa.”
A small smile touched his lips. "After I make sure you eat."
(Y/n) immediately sighed.
The warrior ignored it. "And have tea."
She sighed his name. "So'lek."
The warrior remained entirely unmoved.
"You did not eat this morning."
"I was busy."
"You would have sprinted toward the link room."
The accuracy of the statement was deeply unhelpful.
(Y/n) looked away. Caught.
The warrior smiled.
Victorious.
Then his hand found hers. Holding it gently between in his.
His expression softening once more. "There is no need to rush."
The certainty in them impossible to miss.
"I will always be by your side."
Every day.
Every morning.
Every night.
The same choice he would continue making for the rest of his life.
His mate looked at him for a long moment. The worry she'd been carrying slowly easing.
The warrior pressed a final kiss to her forehead.
Then rose to his feet. Offering her a hand. "Come."
The woman took it immediately. Allowing him to pull her upright.
"Tea first?" he smiled.
"Tea first."
"Then Etuwa?"
"Then Etuwa."
"And breakfast?"
"So'lek."
The warning in her voice made him laugh.
A deep rumbling sound that echoed through the cavern. "Breakfast."
The warrior was entirely unapologetic.
(Y/n) shook her head.
Hopeless.
Absolutely hopeless.
Yet as they left the glade of light together, her hand securely in his, she found herself smiling anyway.
Because breakfast meant more time with him.
Tea meant more time with him.
The walk to Etuwa meant more time with him.
And for the first time in her life, that thought felt less like a dream.
And more like forever.
Back at the sanctuary, the morning had settled into something peaceful.
The fire crackled softly.
Tea steamed from the carved bowls in their hands.
A small collection of fruit and dried meat sat forgotten beside them.
Mostly forgotten because neither seemed particularly interested in food.
(Y/n) sat comfortably between So'lek's legs. Her back pressed against his chest.
One hand wrapped around her tea bowl.
The warmth seeped pleasantly into her fingers.
Behind her, So'lek looked entirely content.
Which was a rare enough sight to be treasured. One arm rested around her waist. The other held his own tea.
The warrior occasionally took a drink.
Then went right back to holding her.
As though he couldn't quite stop himself.
Not that she minded.
The sanctuary was quiet.
Ulrr was asleep nearby. The pups lay in a tangled pile of paws and tails.
Everything felt calm. Easy. Comfortable.
So'lek lowered his bowl. Then leaned forward. Pressing a kiss against the side of her neck.
The gesture was simple. Affectionate. Entirely unprompted.
(Y/n) smiled into her tea.
The terrible man.
A few moments later another kiss followed.
This time just below her jaw.
The woman shook her head. Amused. "You know..."
She took another sip.
"I am beginning to suspect something."
So'lek hummed. The sound vibrating pleasantly through his chest.
"What?"
She tilted her head slightly.
Looking back at him.
"Are you trying to seduce me into a third?"
The warrior laughed. The deep sound rumbling through his chest.
"No."
He paused. "Though it would not be so bad."
(Y/n) chuckled.
The answer was exactly what she'd expected.
The warrior looked far too pleased with himself.
She pointed at him with her tea bowl. "Need I remind you that the Sarentu could visit at any moment?"
The warning was valid. Entirely valid.
Ri'nela certainly would.
Tamtey practically lived to appear out of thin air.
Nor appeared whenever he felt like complaining.
And Teylan wandered through often enough.
So'lek considered this information. Then nodded. "That is true."
(Y/n) looked victorious. For approximately three seconds.
"Then I shall simply have to settle for this."
Before she could ask what that meant, his hand found her chin. Turning her head gently toward him. And he pressed a kiss against the corner of her mouth.
The woman immediately felt her face heat up.
Again.
The warrior smiled. Entirely satisfied.
His arm tightened around her waist.
Pulling her back against him and she leaned into his hold in return, content to just slow down for a little while.
Hand in hand, they walked toward the Aranahe Hometree.
The forest was alive with activity. Gatherers returning with baskets of fruit. Hunters preparing to leave.
Children racing by while exhausted parents attempted—and failed—to keep up.
(Y/n) had changed back into her usual clothes. Comfortable. Familiar. Far less mortifying than the outfit Nefika had made for her.
Unfortunately, it would not save her.
Nothing would save her.
"Nefika is going to be unbearable."
The sigh that accompanied the statement was long and deeply suffering.
So'lek chuckled. The sound immediately told her whose side he was on.
Traitor.
Without slowing his pace, the warrior lifted her hand and pressed a kiss against her knuckles.
"Then simply tell the truth." His golden eyes flicked toward her. "There is nothing to hide or be ashamed of."
(Y/n) groaned. "I know."
A dangerous smile appeared on her face
The warrior was already regretting whatever she was about to say. "You tell Nefika exactly how much you enjoyed seeing me in that outfit."
So'lek immediately looked away.
The woman pointed accusingly. "See?"
The warrior remained silent.
"See!"
A faint flush appeared across his cheeks.
Victory. Sweet victory.
(Y/n) grinned.
"You tell her that and I'll go talk to Etuwa."
The warrior gave her a look.
The look.The one that usually translated to You are impossible.
The woman looked entirely too pleased with herself.
"See?"
She squeezed his hand. "It isn't so fun being interrogated alone."
The warrior shook his head, the fondness in his expression ruined any attempt at appearing annoyed.
The pair continued walking. Hand in hand.
Until they finally stepped through the entrance into the dyers' circle.
The moment they entered, So'lek felt it.
The same feeling warriors felt moments before an ambush. The sensation of being spotted.
Nefika.
At the center of the dyers' circle stood Nefika.
Directing workers. Organizing dyes. Somehow doing the work of five people at once.
Then her eyes landed on them.
She froze.
Completely.
Her gaze immediately dropped to their joined hands. Then to So'lek. Then to (Y/n). Then back to their hands.
The smile that appeared was terrifying.
The Aranahe woman was already abandoning her responsibilities.
A nearby worker barely caught the basket she'd been carrying.
"Oh my goodness."
(Y/n) closed her eyes. Defeat. Complete defeat.
"So." Nefika stopped directly in front of them. Looking entirely too pleased with herself.
She looked between them.
Then her eyes narrowed.
A predator scenting blood.
The smile somehow became worse. Much worse.
(y/n) sighed, “yes we are now a mated couple.”
(Y/n) immediately pointed at So'lek. "He will give you all the details on how great I looked in the outfit you made."
Nefika's head snapped toward So'lek.
The warrior looked genuinely offended. "You said—"
"Nope. I am going to see Etuwa.”
She stepped away.
The Aranahe woman folded her arms. Waiting. Patiently. Far too patiently.
"Well So'lek?"
The warrior suddenly looked as though he would rather fight an entire RDA platoon.
And unfortunately for him—There was no escape route.
Nefika's eyes sparkled with mischief.
Dangerous mischief.
“Well?”
The warrior looked entirely unimpressed. Unfortunately Nefika had never once been intimidated by him.
Certainly not now.
Her grin widened.
"She looked very beautiful." He said simply.
"Just beautiful?" She looked scandalized. "Just beautiful?"
The woman pointed in the direction (Y/n) had retreated. "So'lek, your mate may be a dreamwalker but anyone with eyes can see she is a gorgeous woman."
"I do not think she was simply beautiful."
The warrior remained completely silent.
Which Nefika immediately interpreted as confirmation.
"Aha."
So'lek closed his eyes briefly. "I am not (Y/n)." His golden eyes opened again. "You cannot interrogate me for your amusement."
The Aranahe woman looked offended. Entirely fake outrage.
"No." She nodded thoughtfully. "You are not."
Then her expression softened. Just slightly. "I shall instead offer my congratulations."
The teasing disappeared. Replaced by genuine warmth.
The woman smiled. "We shall all have to celebrate sometime."
A small smile touched So'lek's face. "(Y/n) would like that."
The certainty in his voice made Nefika's expression soften even further.
"Yes." The Aranahe woman nodded. "She would."
Then she stepped closer. Her voice lowering slightly. "Take care of that one, So'lek."
The warrior's attention sharpened immediately.
"You do not find many with a heart as kind as hers."
Nefika knew exactly what kind of person she was. And how rare that kind of soul truly was.
The warrior's expression became serious.
"I intend to."
Nefika smiled. Satisfied.
"Hey So'lek!" Tamtey.
The young Sarentu rounded the corner carrying enough enthusiasm for an entire clan.
Then his eyes landed on So'lek's wrist.
"Oh!" His face lit up. "(Y/n) finally gave it to you."
The warrior looked down. The bracelet. Still wrapped around his wrist.
His expression softened instantly.
Nefika immediately spotted it.
"The bracelet?" Her eyes widened. "Let me see it."
The warrior reluctantly raised his hand. Turning his wrist.
The blues. The purples. The intricate threading.
The careful patterns.
Nefika's expression softened immediately.
"She has a steady hand."
The Aranahe woman traced the air above the stitching. Admiring the craftsmanship. "And a fine eye."
The woman smiled. "The threading is gorgeous."
"She stitched Etuwa without so much as shaking." Tamtey folded his arms proudly.
As though he'd personally taught her.
Nefika laughed. "That is because she has a perfectly steady hand."
Tamtey agreed immediately.
Then suddenly Tamtey's eyes widened.
The realization finally catching up.
His gaze bounced between So'lek.
The bracelet.
The expression on his face.
Then widened further.
"So'lek."
The warrior already knew what was coming.
"No."
"Does that mean—"
"Tamtey."
"Does it?"
Tamtey looked ready to explode from excitement,
So'lek sighed. The answer was inevitable. "Yes."
Tamtey gasped.
"You are a mated pair?"
"Yes."
"Finally!"
The young man threw both hands into the air.
Several Aranahe nearby immediately started laughing.
Nefika looked smug.
Tamtey looked delighted. "We have to celebrate."
"I agree." Nefika nodded instantly.
The two shared a look. The sort of look that usually ended with a gathering. Food. Music.
And an alarming amount of gossip as they drank (y/n)’s tea.
So'lek immediately became suspicious.
Then Tamtey's face lit up again. "Oh."
The warrior recognized that expression.
"I have to tell everyone."
"Tamtey—"
Too late.
The young man was already backing away.
Quickly. Very quickly. Like prey escaping a predator.
"Tamtey."
The warning came too late.
The hunter turned.
And ran.
Actually ran.
The warrior closed his eyes.
Then Nefika patted his shoulder.
Entirely unhelpfully.
"There, there So’lek he is simply telling everyone you and (y/n) know."
So'lek sighed deeply because by sunset everyone would know… and perhaps that was not a bad thing.
(Y/n) found Etuwa exactly where she expected.
At the very top of Hometree. Surrounded by kinglor.
The gentle creatures lounged amongst woven branches and flowering vines,.
Several immediately noticed her approach. Their heads lifted. Then came the familiar fluttering of wings.
One landed on her shoulder. Another on her forearm. A third attempted to climb onto her head.
She laughed softly. "Hello to you too."
The sound caught Etuwa's attention. A smile immediately spread across her face. "(Y/n)."
Etuwa turned Crossing the nest platform.
Then gathered her friend into a warm hug. "It is good to see you."
(Y/n) hugged her back."And you."
When they separated, her eyes immediately drifted downward.
Nothing remained. Not even a scar. The sight brought relief every single time.
Etuwa noticed. Her smile softened. "You always check."
"Force of habit." The healer laughed.
Then her expression became curious. "What brings you here?" Etuwa asked
For a moment, (Y/n) simply looked out over the forest. The endless green stretching beyond Hometree. The floating mountains in the distance. The sky.
The life she had built here. The life she loved.
Then she looked back at Etuwa.
"Well..." She took a breath."I would like to take you up on that offer."
The words hit Etuwa immediately. The Tsahik's eyes widened. Her hands instantly finding (Y/n)'s shoulders.
Searching her face. Making sure she understood. Making sure this wasn't an impulsive decision.
"You wish to remain in this body." The words were careful. "Permanently?"
(Y/n) nodded as soft smiled dancing across her face. "Someone made you realize something."
Etuwa studied her. The conviction. The peace.
"So'lek?"
The blush that appeared told Etuwa everything she needed to know.
She laughed quietly. Happy for them. Happy for the shy dreamwalker who had somehow stolen the heart of one of Pandora's most intimidating warriors.
Happy for the warrior who had finally found someone to remind him what love is.
Etuwa squeezed her shoulders. Gently. "Very well."
The Tsahik's expression became serious. Professional.
"I can arrange for it to take place at the glade of light tonight."
(Y/n) nodded. Her heart racing.
Then Etuwa's expression softened. A shadow passing briefly through her eyes. "(Y/n)."
The warning in her voice immediately caught attention.
"You must understand."
"There is a chance you do not come back."
Silence settled over the nest. Even the kinglor seemed quieter.
A risk. The kind that could not be ignored.
Etuwa watched her carefully.
Giving her every opportunity to reconsider.
To hesitate. To change her mind.
Instead (Y/n) smiled.
Small. The kind of smile people wore when they had already made peace with their choice.
"It's a chance I am willing to take."
The words came easily.
Because she had thought about it. Again and again.
And every time she reached the same conclusion.
Her family was here. The sanctuary was here. The Sarentu. The Aranahe. The creatures she loved.
And So'lek.
Most of all, So'lek.
Her mate.
Her muntxatan.
The man waiting for her.
The man she wanted to wake beside every morning for the rest of her life.
It was no longer a hard choice to make.
(Y/n) woke in her link bed.
For the last time.
The realization hit her before she even opened her eyes.
A smile spread across her face.
The woman sat up slowly. Looking around the familiar pod.
The machine that had carried her across two worlds. The machine that had allowed her to walk beneath Pandora's skies. To meet the Sarentu. To build the sanctuary.
To fall in love.
She got out, closing it for the last time.
Her hand brushed across the lid. "So long, old friend."
For fifteen years it had been her lifeline.
Now she no longer needed it.
She stretched The metal floor felt strangely foreign beneath her feet.
The Resistance base buzzed with life outside. Conversations. Machinery. Footsteps.
The sounds she'd lived with for years.
She stepped into the corridor. Looking around.
Taking it all in. The people. The walls. The lights.
She wasn't really leaving. Not entirely.
She could still visit. Still see everyone. Still help.
Yet she knew the truth.
After tonight this would no longer be where she came home to. No longer the place she laid her head to rest. No longer the place she woke each morning.
No more metal walls. No more recycled air. No more grey nutritional sludge masquerading as food.
The thought made her laugh softly.
The woman wandered toward an old desk. A cleared workspace tucked away in a corner. A few weeks ago she'd practically lived there.
Too exhausted to remain linked.Recovering from the seizure.
She ran her fingers across its surface.
Remembering.
Once upon a time she'd believed she'd never truly belong on Pandora. That she was merely a visitor. A scientist hiding behind a borrowed body. Using an avatar to conduct research. Observing. Recording.
Never belonging.
The thought felt absurd now. Because somewhere along the way Pandora had become home. The sanctuary. The forest. The creatures she loved.
The Sarentu.
The Aranahe.
And most of all—So'lek.
Her mate.
The realization settled warmly in her chest.
No doubt remained. Not anymore.
The woman stood.
Considering whether she should say goodbye.
Across the room Priya, Anqa, Nalin and Raj sat talking in the kitchen.
Laughing about something.
For a moment she considered joining them.
Then smiled.
Later. She would tell them later.
"You're not overworking, are you, (Y/n)?"
The voice made her turn. Alex.
Leaning against a wall.
Watching her.
"No."
The older man raised an eyebrow. "That's a new look."
"A new look?"
"Peaceful." Alex smiled. "I've known you for fifteen years."
His gaze softened. "And I don't think I've ever seen that look on your face."
(Y/n) looked away briefly. Thinking. Then smiled. "I guess you could say I've got a new outlook on life."
Alex barked a laugh. "You're happy?"
The question seemed almost disbelieving. As though happiness was something he'd never associated with her.
The woman nodded. "I am."
The answer was simple. Honest.
The older man studied her for a moment. Then smiled. "Then stay happy, (Y/n)."
The words carried surprising warmth. "If anyone deserves it, it's you, kid."
She rolled her eyes. "Not a kid anymore."
"No." Alex chuckled. "You're clearly not that skittish eighteen-year-old prodigy anymore."
His smile softened. "Best of luck, kid."
Emotion caught unexpectedly in her throat.
"See you around, Alex."
"See you around."
The woman turned. Walking toward the exit.
Toward home. Toward the rest of her life.
Louis passed her in the corridor.
The moment he saw her, he froze. Then immediately changed direction. Walking the other way.
(Y/n) couldn't help smiling.
Apparently So'lek's interventions had been effective. Very effective.
She pulled on a mask, The door leading outside slid open.
Then— "(Y/n)."
Alma.
The woman turned.
The older woman stood rigidly in the corridor. Arms folded. Expression unreadable.
(Y/n) sighed. "Figured out what you wanted to say after this morning?"
Alma's jaw tightened. "I have."
The older woman stepped closer. "You're making a mistake."
(Y/n) remained silent.
"You are human." The words were sharp. "You always will be."
Alma folded her arms tighter. "No matter what body you inhabit."
"No matter how much time you spend with them."
"No matter who you marry."
The implication hung in the air.
"You'll never truly be Na'vi."
The words might once have hurt.
Months ago they would have.
Once upon a time they would have shattered her.
Not today.Not anymore.
(Y/n) simply smiled. A small smile.
The kind Alma had never understood.
"You know what's funny?"
Alma frowned.
"I'm just a xenozoologist."
A small shrug.
"A healer."
"A tea maker."
Then her smile widened. "And the mate of So'lek."
Alma’s eyes narrowed.
(Y/n) continued anyway. "And you're wrong."
The words were calm. Steady. Certain.
"I belong here."
The older woman opened her mouth.
(Y/n) didn't let her interrupt. "I belong here more than you ever will."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Because they both knew exactly what she meant.
The Sarentu welcomed her. The Aranahe welcomed her. The clans welcomed her. Pandora welcomed her.
Not because she demanded it.
Not because she expected it.
Because she'd earned it.
Through kindness. Through sacrifice. Through love.
The woman's smile softened.
"And after tonight..."
A strange feeling settled over her. Relief. Freedom.
"I'm glad I won't ever have to deal with you anymore."
Alma stared. Speechless.
(Y/n) nodded politely. Almost kindly. "Goodbye, Alma."
Then she turned.
Made sure her mask fit perfectly And stepped outside.
The door slid open fully.
Fresh air greeted her. Sunlight. The forest.
Freedom.
And waiting beyond it, Iley.
And seated upon the ikran's back was So’lek
The warrior looked up immediately.
Finding her.
His expression softened the moment their eyes met.
The sight alone made her heart soar.
Home.
He was her home.
And as she walked toward him, leaving the Resistance behind without a single glance back, (Y/n) realized something.
I started reading and noticed without a doubt that chat gpt had to be used
There's very obvious tells, the dialogues, the sentence structure, lack of typo's
It was extremely disappointing to start reading and notice it's AI slop
And even for AI it's overall slop, you're an uncreative disgrace to fanfiction without a single idea in your entire body.
Flat characterizations and just overall flat and trashy
Say you’ve never been creative in your entire life without saying it 🗣️
You lack the braincells to rub them together to create art, so you justify any creativity to be AI because YOU can’t be creative without AI.
Writing is not for everyone, don’t say it doesn’t exist just because you can’t put words to paper.
Also, our lovely author is constantly on the go, I should know, I’m in the discord. The easiest way to write when you have a life outside of your hobby is through your phone, and I know for a damn sure fact that you make typos and sentence errors while typing, everyone does. Author does not have a proofreader, they get this out to us because they love what they do and can’t wait for us to enjoy it as well.
Don’t speak for others when you hide behind a screen.
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Characters from @just-another-idk lovely fic “The Eldest”
I started this piece when Si’riya first got introduced and of course I got way too excited and thought her and pumpkin were end game. Then the Tarsem chapter came out and I realized they weren’t going to happen so I just stopped working on it. In my heart they are together but their friendship is just as good.
This is supposed to be underwater but I got lazy and never finished the rendering thus it’s cropped to my favorite parts. Please ignore the ears I rendered them just enough to post this. The hair in this took me actual hours because I don’t like the preset braid brushes and I’m very picky about curly hair so I blame myself for burning out after rendering the hair. Also Si’riya is wearing my favorite top Ronal wears because I mourn the lack of screen time it got.
Si’riya design from @bynxi
And my Pumpkin design based off @loaf-with-jam’s design
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
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