Sully family x Eldest Daughter Reader
Part 55 > Part 56 > Part 57
She had given up. She no longer had the strength or drive to make herself fight against the restraints that kept her chained to that wall.
Her skin was slick and clammy. Sweat ran down her neck, shudders moved through her in weak, uneven waves. Her arms hung above her head, wrists locked inside the cuffs, shoulders burning beneath the weight of her own body.
She no longer pulled against them. There was no point.
Her fingers twitched now and then but she had stopped trying to reach for anything that could set her free.
All she could do now was wait.
Her chest lifted shallowly.
Her heart began beating harder despite the exhaustion weighing down every part of her. Each beat struck painfully beneath her ribs, using air she could not afford to lose.
She tipped her head back against the wall and stared toward the vent.
The thought barely formed.
Her lips moved, but no sound followed. Her voice had been worn down to almost nothing. What remained was hoarse and scratchy, every attempt to speak dragging painfully through her throat before dying behind her teeth.
She could not call their names anymore. She had tried. For what felt like days, she had tried.
Until her throat bled and the room answered with nothing but her own broken She had shouted until her lungs failed her. Begged until the names stopped sounding real. Whispered them after her voice was gone
What was the point in calling again?
Her body twitched as her lungs tried to pull in another breath. The inhale stopped halfway, thin and unsatisfying, and a weak cough scraped from her chest.
She lifted her head with what little strength remained and stared at the sealed door.
“Dad…” Only air shaped the word.
She swallowed against the pain in her throat.
Water burst from the vents.
It slammed into her without warning.
The first wave hit her chest, knocking what little breath she had left from her lungs before the room filled around her. It rushed over her legs, her waist, climbing higher and higher.
"No!" Her voice cracked into a cough. She jerked violently against the restraints.
The water reached her chest. Her stomach. Her shoulders.
The water climbed over her chin.
She stretched as high as the restraints would allow, standing on the very tips of her feet, desperate for another few inches.
The water rose over her mouth.
She held the last breath she had.
She pulled against the chains until pain shot through both shoulders.
Cold water swallowed her completely.
Her eyes flew open beneath the surface.
She kicked.Twisted.Pulled.
But there was a weight on her back keeping her pinned down.
There was nowhere to go. No air. No escape.
Her chest convulsed. Her body demanded air she could not give it.
She fought. Thrashed. Tried to throw what was on her back off.
The thought came quietly. So quietly she almost missed it. Almost as if it were a whisper on the wind.
She had screamed until her voice disappeared. She had prayed. She had begged. She had listened for footsteps that never came.
They would have come by now.
Her body still struggled on its own, tiny involuntary movements trying to survive despite her surrender.
It was all right to stop waiting.
So she simply lay there beneath the water.
When she opened her eyes, she was no longer underwater. Nothing restrained her. No steel walls. No RDA.
She stood beneath towering trees. The canopy thicker, the underbrush darker. The air hung heavy and still. Not a leaf moved. Not an insect sang.
She had only walked beneath these trees twice in her life.
Both times she had nearly died.
She looked around slowly.
Every instinct she possessed told her she was not alone.
Something was watching her.
Another cough doubled her over. Her lungs burned. Every breath felt smaller than the last, and when she finally straightened, she realised she was shaking.
A thanator emerged from the shadows.
Its hide was torn and dark with blood. Arrows jutted from its flank and shoulder, feathers on the arrows slick and heavy as they drooped. Dark crimson dripped steadily from its jaws.
She frowned. Something was wrong with its face. One side was scarred beyond recognition.
She stared. She knew this creature. She was certain of it. She had seen those eyes before.
The thanator lowered itself. Its lips peeled back. A low growl rolled through the trees.
(Y/n) stumbled backwards.
The thanator exploded forward.
She threw herself aside as its claws tore through the place she'd been standing only moments before.
Her knife was already in her hand before she'd even realised she'd drawn it and forced herself upright.
Her breathing came fast. She could barely fill her lungs.
It watched her. Its yellow eyes never left hers.
Her legs felt impossibly heavy. As though something wrapped around her ankles, pulling her deeper into the earth with every heartbeat.
She tried taking a step. It felt like dragging stone.
The thanator growled again, its golden eyes locked on her.
Usually the fear became anger. A familiar fire would rise inside her chest.
The one that always made her fight back.
She looked down at the knife in her hand.
It felt heavier than it ever had before.
Her fingers slowly loosened and the blade slipped free.
Her shoulders sagged. She could not remember the last time she had stopped fighting.
Not when she had been captured. Not on the ship. Not while drowning.
She looked at the wounded beast standing before her, she felt like a piece of herself was looking back at her.
It looked just as tired. Ready for everything to stop.
A tear rolled silently down her cheek.
What is the point in suffering anymore?
She didn't reach for another weapon.
She shut her eyes, waiting for the thanator to decide.
It rushed her with a roar.
And she just waited for it all to be over.
(Y/n)'s head rested in Neytiri's lap, the young woman's fever still burning beneath her skin. Damp strands of hair clung to her forehead, and every few breaths another weak cough escaped her before she settled again.
Ronal had sent for Neytiri when (Y/n) would not stop calling for her.
Something haunted her dreams.
Something so terrible that even asleep, her daughter searched desperately for her parents. it hollowed Neytiri's heart.
Across the mauri, Ronal sat grinding herbs with slow, practiced movements, saying nothing as stone scraped against stone.
Neytiri's fingers moved gently through (Y/n)'s hair.
The fighting had eased. She thrashed less. The herbs Ronal had given her had finally quietened the frantic thrashing that had exhausted what little strength remained in her body. She no longer clawed at invisible restraints or cried out with every breath.
Now she only whimpered, tiny, broken sounds. As though whatever hunted her had finally caught her.
Neytiri lowered her head.
How she wished she could reach inside those dreams and shield her daughter from whatever was going in in her mind.
It had been days since the fever first took hold, and still he found another task, another excuse, another place to be whenever their eldest called out in the darkness.
Neytiri did not understand it.
She knew her mate loved this child.
She had watched him sit awake through the first night, refusing to sleep.She had seen the terror on his face when (Y/n) coughed blood.
Yet now...He stayed away.
She wished. Eywa, how she wished—That he could hear what she heard.
Hear the fear in their daughter's voice. Hear her calling for him.
Maybe then whatever inner turmoil that he was battling would release him to his daughter's side.
Neytiri reached for the cloth beside her and gently wiped the sweat from (Y/n)'s brow.
Her skin was burning. Another cough shuddered through her body.
Ronal glanced up only briefly before returning to the herbs.
She never commented on the words (Y/n) spoke in her sleep.
For that, Neytiri was grateful.
Some wounds did not need witnesses.
"Mama?" The rasp was so faint Neytiri almost thought she had imagined it.
"I am here," she answered, leaning closer. "Mama is right here."
A quiet breath escaped Neytiri.
"Mama." (Y/n)'s voice trembled. Her face crumpled as though she were trying not to cry.
Neytiri could not bear that look on her face. She slipped one arm beneath her shoulders and carefully gathered her against her chest, mindful of the pain in her ribs and the weakness in her lungs.
"It is all right," Neytiri whispered into her hair. "You are all right. Mama is here now."
(Y/n) made a small, broken sound, then her shaky arms wrapped around her mother
Not tightly. She no longer had the strength.
But she held on with everything she had left.
One hand cradled the back of her daughter's head while the other rubbed slow circles across her back, feeling every shallow breath, every small cough that tried to break through.
"I have you," she whispered. "I am not leaving you."
Not until this fever releases you.
The ache in her chest threatened to rise again.
The memory of her son was never far.
For a moment, grief pressed forward, rising like a tide she could not hold back.
And Neytiri forced it down. She swallowed the grief whole, burying it deep where it could not reach her hands, her voice or her strength.
She bent her head until her forehead rested gently against (Y/n)'s.
“I am here,” she whispered again, firm, so that her heart would also believe the words. “You will not be alone in this darkness. I will not let you be.”
She would not let this pain swallow her when her daughter needed her strength.
She stared up at the woven ceiling above her.
Before she could move, warm fingers wrapped gently around her hand. "Mama?"
Neytiri's face softened with relief. "Your fever is gone." She reached for a carved wooden cup waiting beside her and slipped an arm behind her daughter's shoulders. "Slowly."
Neytiri tilted the cup just enough for a small mouthful to reach her lips.
She swallowed. Then immediately doubled over with a cough.
Neytiri steadied her until it passed before offering another sip. "No more."
(Y/n) nodded again. "How long?" Her voice was barely more than a rasp.
"You were wracked with fever for four days."
(Y/n) stared at nothing. Then simply nodded. She sank back into the hammock.
Neytiri brushed damp hair away from her forehead and pressed a gentle kiss there. "My brave girl."
(Y/n) couldn't look at her.
She kept her eyes fixed somewhere beyond the woven roof.
There was a hollow feeling sitting deep inside her stomach.
Her mother was here. She knew she was. She could hear her voice. Feel her hand.
The warmth that had always come so easily whenever her parents held her...
She lifted an arm and draped it over her eyes.
She wasn't sure whether it was the fever finally breaking or those dreams but every bone in her body felt impossibly heavy.
She had never felt so alone.
Tears stung behind her closed eyes.
Whenever something terrible happened...
Her parents had held her. Rocked her. Told her she was safe.
Why hadn't they ever stopped it?
Why hadn't they protected her before she needed comforting?
Why hadn't someone stood between her and all the bad things that kept happening?
Why did she always have to survive it first?
A tear escaped beneath her arm.
She was so tired. So unbelievably tired.
A sob caught in her throat.
She lowered her arm just enough to look at her mother.
Neytiri looked back with nothing but love.
But still the question remained?
Could they really protect any of them?
They hadn't protected Neteyam. They hadn't protected her.
Or would they simply be there afterwards. Holding whoever survived.
Another tear slipped down her face.
Why hadn't they protected her?
Why did everyone keep expecting her to get back up?
She didn't want to fight anymore. She was so tired of being frightened.
So tired of wondering whether the next time she closed her eyes would be the last.
She was tired of fighting past the aftermath and living through the pain.
Neytiri gently gathered her into her arms.
(Y/n) let herself be held. She rested her head against her mother's shoulder.
She knew this embrace. She had found comfort here since she was little.
It felt distant. Like trying to warm frozen hands beside a fire whose heat could no longer quite reach her.
She wanted to feel safe. She wanted that certainty back.
She wanted to believe that as long as her mother held her nothing could touch her.
Instead, the emptiness remained.
Neytiri seemed to sense it.
Without saying another word, she began to rock her gently.
A song followed. One Neytiri had sung when her children were very small.
(Y/n) listened. Not really hearing the words.
Her eyelids grew heavier.
The ache inside her did not leave. Neither did the questions.
But her mother's voice seemed to quiet these thoughts.
Her breathing slowed and little by little exhaustion pulled her gently back into sleep.
Dawn crept quietly into the marui.
(Y/n)'s eyes fluttered open.
For a long moment she simply listened.
The soft breathing of the others. The distant rhythm of the waves. The quiet crackle of a dying fire.
Her mother had fallen asleep sitting beside her hammock.
Neytiri's head rested against the woven frame, one hand still lying across the edge of the hammock as though even in sleep she refused to let her daughter drift too far away.
(Y/n) looked at her for a long time.
The funeral paint remained across her mother's face.
A kind of exhaustion that no amount of sleep could ever mend.
(Y/n) quietly sat up. A cough threatened to reveal her.. She pressed a hand over her mouth until it passed, swallowing the burn in her chest before looking around the marui.
Tuk slept curled tightly against Kiri. Lo'ak faced the wall. And Spider...
Spider slept in Neteyam's hammock.
Something ugly twisted inside her chest.
That wasn't his hammock. That was Neteyam's.
(Y/n) looked away. She couldn't bear it.
Quietly, she eased herself from the hammock.
Her legs still felt weak beneath her. Every few steps she had to stop herself from coughing.
The morning air felt cold against her skin.
Her father sat alone at the edge of the platform. His back faced her. He stared silently
She stood there watching him. Her lower lip trembled. She suddenly felt impossibly small.
"Three T's?" Her voice barely carried on the breeze.
Jake's shoulders stiffened.
Unless someone was actively trying to kill them... They stopped.
Therapy. Pull each other aside. Talk.
Whenever she couldn't carry it anymore. Her dad always picked up the pieces.
Needed him more than she ever had.
She wanted him to turn around.
Tell her everything would somehow be okay.
Tell her she would survive this too. That he would get her through this,
Tell her she wasn't carrying this alone. That he was right here with her.
She desperately needed him to turn around and tell her she wasn't alone even though she was beginning to feel it, as if a sink hole was opening up beneath her feet and there was no way out.
He never even looked at her.
The tears reached her eyes before she realised they were there.
Wasn't— Wasn't he the one who made the rule?
Whenever she asked for the Three T's...
He would always stop. Always listen. Always make time.
Maybe he couldn't look at her.
Maybe every time he did... he saw how she failed. Maybe he truly saw how Neteyam's death was her fault...
"I said not now." he snapped
She took half a step backwards.
He had never snapped at her before. Never.
Her teeth sank into her lower lip. She fought the sob climbing into her throat.
Why won't you even look at me?
Tired of picking up all the broken pieces she kept bringing home?
Whenever the nightmares came...
He had always been there.
He held her. Told her she was safe. Told her none of it had been her fault.
A flicker of doubt crept through her.
Maybe... Maybe that had been part of the fever too. Maybe she'd dreamed it.
Because if he had really said those things...if he truly believed it wasn't her fault.
She wanted to tell him. Tell him she'd trade places with Neteyam without thinking. That she wished it had been her.
Tell him that the wrong one had come home.
That she was so tired of carrying around a life that seemed to hurt everyone she loved.
She wanted him so badly it made her chest ache.
Her tail lowered. She nodded once.
He still hadn't turned around.
Every step felt heavier than the last.
She climbed back into her hammock. Curled tightly into herself.
Pressed her hand against her mouth. Bit down hard enough to stop the sound escaping. Her shoulders shook anyway.
He really didn't care about her anymore.
Neytiri sat upright. She brushed loose hair from her face before immediately looking toward her eldest.
Would her mother understand?
Would she look at her the same way?
Would she eventually decide she was too broken too?
"Go away," (Y/n) sobbed, the words muffled against her own hand.
Neytiri crossed the space between them without hesitation.
"No." She knelt beside the hammock. "I am not leaving you."
She reached for her daughter.
At first (Y/n) flinched. Then she stopped resisting altogether.
Neytiri gathered her into her arms.
(Y/n) buried her face against her mother's shoulder and cried until the sobs became silent.
Like father like daughter.
Both had something on their minds, and both were being stubborn about it.
Neytiri had heard every word. The way he snapped at their daughter.
As soon as (y/n) had fallen back asleep. She stood behind her mate for a long moment, watching him stare out across the sea as though the horizon might somehow hold the answers he was searching for.
"Our daughter needs you."
Jake shut his eyes. "So do all our other children."
He did not look at her. "She is grown now, Neytiri." His voice sounded tired. "She'll be living with this for the rest of her life. So she has to start learning to carry some of this herself."
Neytiri's ears pinned back. "Carry it herself?"
She stepped around until she could finally see his face. "Jake... our daughter stood before you moments away from breaking apart." She watched as he bit his lip. "You have always been her greatest support."
"Yeah." His answer came quietly. "And that's exactly the problem."
He finally looked at her. His eyes were bloodshot. "I've spent years running to her every time she needed me. "His voice caught. "And while I was doing that..."
He glanced back toward the marui. "...Tuk cried herself to sleep." Kiri barely talks unless Spider's there." His shoulders sagged. "And Lo'ak..."
He rubbed a hand across his face.
"I've spent so much time fixing one kid that I forgot the others needed me too."
"Comforting your daughter—"
"Is favoritism." The words hurt him to say. "I let it happen."
Neytiri stared at him. "Our eldest almost drowned."
Jake's eyes closed again scrunching his eyes shut as if it were all a bad dream.
"You did not hear her." Neytiri's voice softened. "When the fever took her she cried for us."
His throat worked. He looked like he wanted to move.
He remained exactly where he was.
Neytiri had never seen him look so divided.
Without another word she turned and walked back inside.
(Y/n)'s strength returned little by little. Her cough eased. She could keep food down most days.
Neytiri coaxed her through every meal, encouraged small drinks between coughing fits, brushed damp hair away from her face whenever the nightmares woke her.
She held her. Rocked her. Wiped away every tear she found.
Each day something inside her daughter seemed to retreat a little farther.
Even her eyes looked different as though some light had gone out behind them and she was powerless to stop it.
One-night Neytiri woke. The marui lay wrapped in darkness.
She looked toward her eldest's hammock.
Her heart lurched. She sat up.
(Y/n) stood a few paces away.
She was beside Jake. Simply standing there.
Just... Looking at him. As though there were a hundred thoughts trapped inside her that she no longer knew how to say aloud.
Jake stirred. One eye opened. Still half asleep, he looked toward the familiar silhouette. "...Go back to sleep."
His eyes closed again and within moments his breathing steadied once more.
(Y/n) remained standing there only for a heart beat more before returning to her hammock.
Neytiri slipped from her own hammock crossed the room and climbed carefully in beside her eldest.
(Y/n) was still awake. Eyes fixed on the ceiling. "Nightmares," she whispered.
Neytiri gently wrapped an arm around her.
"I'm not a little girl anymore," (Y/n) whispered after a while.
"No." Neytiri held her a little tighter. "You are not."
Neytiri could feel it. Something sat inside her daughter. Something that stole her sleep long before the nightmares ever arrived.
Neytiri closed her eyes. A dull ache spread through her chest.
This was her consequence. The consequence of holding such high standards of her daughter she pushed her away and perhaps without meaning to she had taught her eldest that some burdens were hers alone to carry.
What kind of mother was she if her daughter could stand awake beside her father in the middle of the night then return to bed believing she had no one she could truly speak to?
Neytiri carefully spread another layer of paste across the cuts that ran along her daughter's back.
(Y/n) hissed quietly through her teeth.
"I am sorry ma'yawntu," Neytiri murmured.
(Y/n) gave a weak cough. "A piece of metal pinned me in the ship."
"I think..." She strained to get the next words out. "Some of the sharp parts dug into my back." She closed her eyes. "And when the ship rolled it dragged me with it."
Neytiri could almost see it.
"Dad tried." (Y/n)'s voice had become very quiet. "He wasn't strong enough to get it off."
Neytiri's fingers trembled. She forced them still before smoothing more paste over another shallow tear in the skin. Her fingertips drifted across older scars. Some pale. Some still raised.
Each one carrying a memory she wished she could erase, memories that scarred her body but equally left scar's in her own mind, her failure to protect her daughter,
He baby in a thanator's jaws.
Her daughter clutching broken ribs while forcing herself back onto her feet because that was what her position had demanded of her.
Neytiri's vision blurred, her lip trembled, her hands shook. But she remained silent, continuing to treat her daughter's wounds,
"Am I a bad sister? The words were almost too quiet to hear.
"Don't answer." (Y/n) cut in, her voice was flat. Almost empty.
Tears pooled quietly in the corners of her eyes betrayed what she was holding back.
A small tug pulled at Neytiri's waistcloth.
Tuk stood beside her. "Can I have something to eat?"
Neytiri smiled softly. "Let me finish with your sister and then I shall make you something."
Tuk nodded before wandering towards Kiri.
(Y/n) watched her go. "Shouldn't you take care of Tuk first?"
Neytiri frowned. "Your wounds need dressing. Tuk can wait a little longer."
(Y/n) stared down at her hands that rested in her lap. "The others need you too." Her voice barely rose above a whisper. "I'm grown. You do not have to keep treating me like a child anymore."
"You cannot possibly reach these wounds yourself." Neytiri tied another bandage carefully into place. "They still need tending."
(Y/n) gave a tiny nod. "So do the others."
Something about the way she said it made something in Neytiri drop like sinking stones.
She moved around until she knelt in front of her daughter. (Y/n) wouldn't meet her eyes.
"I can deal with it." She kept staring at nothing. "I'm old enough to deal wit it on n my own."
(Y/n) flinched before she had even been touched.
Neytiri's heart cracked. She gently cupped her face.
Immediately (Y/n) turned away.
"You need not carry everything yourself."
(Y/n)'s face scrunched up, in anger or pain, Neytiri did not know. "I should."
"I don't want people thinking you love me more." She said so quietly Neytiri was unsure if it were the rolling waves that had said it.
Neytiri felt something inside her heart ache, a physical ache.
(Y/n) squeezed her eyes shut. "I didn't mean to be the favorite."
Neytiri's eyes filled. "Oh, ma'yawntu..." She reached for her.
(Y/n) immediately pushed her away. "Don't."
"They're your children too."
Neytiri stepped closer again.
(Y/n)'s breathing quickened. "I don't need to be coddled."
"You are not being coddled."
"I am not a little girl anymore."
"No. You are not." Neytiri reached for her anyway.
(Y/n) shoved her hands away. "Let go of me!" Her voice cracked. "I'm not a baby. I don't need you treating me like one."
She rolled over into her hammock, curling tightly into herself. Her tail wrapped around her legs. Her shoulders trembled. "Just..." Her voice broke. "...go away."
Neytiri remained exactly where she was.
She did not leave. She simply watched her daughter curl into the smallest shape she could manage.
For all her insistence that she was grown in that moment she had never looked so heartbreakingly young.
This needed to end. She can’t let her daughter sit in her own internal pain any longer. She refused to allow it.
One way or another she would end this.
She would not let her daughter suffer on her own anymore.
Neytiri handed (Y/n) the warm bowl of broth.
The marui was quiet. Jake had gone to fish. The younger children were gone for the day.
(Y/n) stared into the broth. She did not lift it. The steam curled lazily between them.
Neytiri watched her daughter for a long while. "What is on your mind?"
(Y/n)'s fingers tightened around the bowl before she slowly turned her head away. "You would not understand," she mumbled.
Neytiri reached out. Her fingers gently cupped her daughter's cheek and turned her face back towards her. "Try me."
(Y/n) looked down. "Mom..." She sighed deeply.
Neytiri saw the way her daughter bit her tongue. The way words rose into her eyes before she swallowed them back down.
She had enough of this. "I carried you in my womb," she snapped but it wasn’t in anger. It was a tone (y/n) had never heard before, there was a strength in her voice, a pitch that made her eyes lock on to her mother, she knew from the tone that Neytiri was serious, the words calling her attention, "I laboured for you." Her voice slightly rising, “I brought you into this world and I refuse to watch you suffer in this pain.” She would make her daughter understand, she would get through that thick skull of her daughters’ one way or another.
(Y/n)'s eyes slowly lifted.
"I may disagree with you, daughter mine."
Fear crossed (Y/n)'s face. The kind that expected rejection before the words had even been spoken.
Neytiri's heart broke. She placed her other hand against (Y/n)'s cheek. Holding her face gently between both palms as if she were catching her before she fell into her doubts. "But I love you more than Eywa's roots run deep."
(Y/n)'s breathing caught.
Neytiri reached back. Her queue slipped over her shoulder. She held it between them. "And I shall prove it."
(Y/n) hesitated, her face began to turn away, but Neytiri held on, her eyes baring into her daughters.
She conceded with a small sigh.
Neytiri felt it immediately.
Walls. Her daughter had built walls around herself. Not of anger. Not of distrust. Of protection. As though she was scared of letting anyone see what lived on her mind.
Neytiri did not force them down. Instead, she simply opened herself. She let her daughter feel her.
The first moment she had known there was life growing inside her. The fierce joy that had flooded her heart. The awe of holding her first child against her chest.
The great love that had only grown stronger every sunrise afterwards. It had never lessened. Not once. Not when more children came. Not when they argued.
Then she let her daughter just how much even the thought of losing her terrified her.
The day the thanator had nearly taken her little girl. The helplessness every time danger found her.
The rage. The terrible, burning rage when she had led the attack against the Sky People after what they had done to her daughter, even though she had not shown it.
Love. She let (Y/n) feel every sleepless night. Every glance she stole towards her eldest to make sure she was still breathing. Every prayer whispered to Eywa after another nightmare.
Every heartbeat of a mother terrified of losing her child.
Then Neytiri let her see the memory she wished had never existed.
Her daughter standing before her.
The moment she had almost struck her.
Shame flooded through Neytiri. Regret. Self-loathing. She did not hide it. "I have made mistakes, ma'yawntu."
"But my love for you is endless." Tears rolled freely down Neytiri's face. "It pains me how you try to hide from me."
"I am your mother. I carried you before at your most vulnerable." Her hand rested over her daughter's heart. "I will carry you now."
She felt hesitation. A trembling uncertainty. "You promise?"
The walls broke. Not shattered. They simply gave way.
It hit Neytiri like a flood. Loneliness. A loneliness so deep it stole the breath from her lungs. It seemed endless. As though her daughter had been standing alone in a storm for years.
An abandonment that made her heart twist, almost as if a knife had been plunged inside her and writhed around.
And blame. She felt herself responsible for Neteyam's death.
"No." The thought rushed through the bond before Neytiri even realised she had sent it. "No. It is not your fault."
The memories unfolded. The plan. Three Brothers Rock. The rescue.
Every decision she had made.
Neytiri saw exactly what her daughter had intended. Saw how carefully she had thought it through.
Saw the moment everything unravelled. Saw her daughter realize the plan had gone terribly wrong.
"I'm the one who came up with that plan."
(Y/n) lowered her eyes. "It would have been better if it was me."
The words pierced straight through Neytiri.
"You may not be as sad if it were me."
Neytiri gripped her face. "You would be greatly mourned as well." Her voice shook. "Do not ever think that if you died we would not feel pain."
She laid her forehead against her daughter's. "I feel pain simply watching you suffer."
The loneliness remained. Then came something else. Vast. Bottomless... Weariness. "But I'm so tired, Mama."
Neytiri felt it. Not tired from fever. Not tired from battle.
A soul that no longer knew why it kept getting back up.
"I'm tired of the nightmares."
The belief that no one was coming.
The moment her daughter had simply... Stopped fighting.
Neytiri's hands gripped her daughter’s shoulders tightly . "No."
"No. You cannot stop fighting." It was like a hand was around her neck, she could feel how done her daughter was, how tired she was on living, she could feel the very depth of her defeat.
(Y/n)'s eyes searched hers. "Why?" Her voice barely existed. "I don't see the point."
Neytiri's own tears fell freely now because her daughter was genuinely questioning why she could keep on living. "Because..." Her voice broke. "...it would wound me more deeply than any blade ever could."
(Y/n)'s face crumpled. "Then why don't you protect me?"
The question shattered something inside Neytiri.
"Why don't you protect me from this pain? You shield the others. Why don't you ever shield me?"
Neytiri pulled her fiercely into her arms. She held her so tightly she feared her daughter might disappear if she loosened her grip. "Because I failed you." Her voice collapsed beneath the weight of the truth.
(Y/n) jolted. Even through the bond.
"I failed you. I should have stood between you and the world and more than I did. I should have seen sooner." She buried her face into her daughter's hair. "I would take your pain. I would make it my own. In a heartbeat. I would suffer in your place."
She let her daughter feel it.
If Eywa herself offered such a choice Neytiri would accept before the sentence had finished.
She felt the loneliness rise again.
Immediately she met it. Not with words. With love. Layer upon layer. Memory upon memory. Every embrace. Every laugh. Every proud moment.
Until there was nothing left inside her except the certainty that this child had always been loved.
If she had to drown her daughter in that love until she finally felt its warmth...Then so be it.
She would force her daughter to see the reason to keep living, it was selfish yes, but she would make her love a lifeline for her daughter— anything to keep her in this life— anything to try and ignite the fight back in her… or at least kindle those embers.
Neytiri climbed fully into the hammock. She drew (Y/n) into her lap as though she were still a little girl and pulled her into her embrace.
Her daughter curled into herself, knees tucked close, tail wrapped around her body.
Neytiri rocked her slowly. "I will fight this with you." She kissed the top of her head. "Your pain." Another kiss. "Your fear." She rested her forehead against her daughters head. "You need only let me."
Neytiri stroked her hair. "I am sorry that my expectations made you believe you could not come to me."
Silence settled between them.
Before Neytiri let the bond fade…
She shared one final feeling.
The fierce, unwavering promise that if anyone ever tried to take this child from her again...She would kill without hesitation. Without remorse. Without regret.
Would ever come before her daughter again and she would kill anyone or anything that tried.
Lo’ak had watched his sister ever since she came home.
Since her eyes opened and she began slowly returning to the world around them, though Lo’ak was not sure returning was the right word for it. She was awake. She could sit up. She could manage a little food and walk short distances when their steadied her.
She would not even glance his way.Not once.
Whenever Lo’ak entered the marui, her attention shifted elsewhere. Toward the sea. Toward her hands. Toward whoever happened to be speaking. She treated him like empty space.
He watched their mother care for her.
Rubbing her back whenever the coughing started, stroking slow circles between her shoulders until she could breathe again. She brushed her hair until she fell asleep. She coaxed her through small meals and held cups to her lips when her hands trembled too badly to manage them herself. She cleaned the cuts across her back, replaced the bandages and checked her forehead even though the fever had already broken.
That was what it felt like.
(Y/n) had jumped onto a ship packed with soldiers, nearly gotten herself killed and now everyone treated her like she had done something noble instead of reckless.
Meanwhile, Lo’ak had lost his brother.
And nobody seemed to remember that when they looked at him, he was the only one whose pain didn't matter. His pain was trivial in comparison to the hero who nearly died.
That afternoon, Neytiri sat behind (Y/n) in the hammock, carefully combing the tangles from her hair before weaving it into fresh braids. (Y/n) sat propped against several pillows.
Neytiri finished one braid and leaned forward to kiss the top of her head.
She murmured something Lo’ak could not hear.
“I will fetch fresh water,” Neytiri said, reaching for the empty jug.
She stood, then paused when she passed Lo’ak.She gave him a kind smile.
Lo’ak tried to return it, but something bitter had already gathered behind his ribs.
The moment Neytiri disappeared along the walkway, his eyes returned to his sister.
(Y/n) adjusted one of the pillows behind her and settled deeper into the hammock.
The anger came before he could stop it. “How’s the hero feeling today?”
She did not look at him.“Not now, Lo’ak.” Her voice remained hoarse from the fever and all the coughing. She rolled over carefully, turning her back toward him.
“Funny,” he said. “You’ll jump onto a ship full of soldiers, but you won’t have one conversation.”
“I’m not doing this today.”
“No.” He shrugged despite the pressure building in his chest. “Course you’re not.”
Lo’ak watched her try to dismiss him as if he were nothing more than another annoyance she lacked the strength to tolerate.
“I’d like one day where Mom isn’t checking if you’re breathing every five seconds.”
That made her turn. Her eyes met his at last, and the hollow exhaustion in them nearly made him lose his nerve.
“You think I wanted this?”
“I think you like playing the hero.” A bitter laugh escaped her. It turned into a cough before it fully formed, and she pressed her hand against her ribs until it passed. “Playing?”
“You jumped onto that ship.”
“No,” she said quietly. Her eyes held his. “You never do.”
Lo’ak rolled his eyes. “There it is.”
“No?” He stepped closer to the hammock. “You screamed at me on those rocks.”
“Because you need to wake the fuck up!” Her voice cracked through the marui, stronger than it had been in days, though the effort immediately made her chest hitch. “Clearly nearly getting yourself blown up the first time wasn’t enough to get through your thick skull 'that you do dumb shit and people die'. Guess getting shot in the head in your eyes was just a scratch too.”
Lo’ak’s ears pinned back.
“But no,” she continued, anger driving her past the weakness in her body. “You think you’re untouchable. You think your shit doesn’t stink and you know everything, and guess what?”
She looked straight at him. “You got Neteyam killed.”
The words struck exactly where she intended them to.
Lo’ak’s chest tightened. “We weren’t leaving Spider.”
“And Neteyam didn’t?” Her voice rose again. “Because that’s what you did, Lo’ak. You chose what? A stray over your own brother.”
The words settled between them. Ugly. Unforgiving. Filled with pain and anger.
“You think you’re better than everyone,” Lo’ak muttered.
“You act like you are!” A bitter laugh tore out of him. “You’ve got everyone fooled. Everyone thinks you’re the perfect daughter, pampered because you’re the wounded hero who nearly drowned saving her siblings.”
His breathing had become uneven. He hated the way his voice shook. Hated that she would hear it. “But me?” He pressed one hand against his chest. “I’m the family screw-up.”
“Understatement of the year.”
Lo’ak flinched. His voice dropped. “I lost my brother and nobody asks if I’m okay.”
Something changed in her expression.
The anger did not disappear, but it loosened around the edges. “Lo’ak—”
“No.” His voice sharpened before she could soften toward him. “No. You don’t get to do that now.”
She coughed again, hand pressing harder against her ribs as the fit dragged through her. Lo’ak watched her struggle through it and felt that same ugly mixture twist inside him.
Fear. Anger. Relief that she was alive. Resentment that everyone cared so much that she was, resenting how everyone blamed him for Neteyam's death.
He barked out a hollow laugh. “Neteyam is dead.”
His voice broke.“Dad looks at me like I killed him.” He swallowed against the pressure in his throat. “You screamed at me like I chose this.”
He saw the answer forming in her eyes. That he had chosen it. That it was his fault.
Lo’ak stepped closer before she could say it. “I didn’t,” he insisted. “I really didn’t.”
His eyes burned. “You know the best part?”
Lo’ak’s chest rose and fell unevenly. “I didn’t go back for you.”
Her face went still. All the lingering anger seemed to disappear from it, leaving behind something blank.
“I made a choice,” Lo’ak said. His voice shook now, but he could not stop. “I saw you trapped.”
The words dropped almost to a whisper. He shut his eyes briefly.
Remembered his brother wanting to get his big sister but he had pulled Neteyam in the opposite direction, leaving her there.
“And I still chose Spider.”
His sister stared at him as if she had stopped understanding the words coming from his mouth.
“I chose him over you,” he said. “Neteyam and I saw you trapped on that ship.”
He could still stop. He could tell her he regretted it. Tell her he had not known whether she was alive. Tell her he was sorry.
But all he could hear was her calling Spider a stray. All he could hear was her saying Neteyam had lost everything instead of him. All he could feel was the guilt she had spent days pressing deeper into a wound that was consuming him.
His eyes found hers. “I’m glad I did.”
A tear slipped down her cheek. She did not wipe it away.
“He would’ve never stood there telling me I killed my brother.”
Her breathing changed.A small hitch she could not hide.
“He was a far better sibling than you’ll ever be.”
(Y/n)’s chest seized and a cough tore through her before she could answer. She folded forward, one hand braced against the edge of the hammock while the other clutched her ribs. Each cough dragged another ragged breath from her, and for one moment Lo’ak almost stepped forward.
Then he remembered the rocks. Remembered her pointing at Neteyam’s body and the fury and blame in her eyes. That blame that had never really left.
When the coughing eased, she lifted her face, tears streamed freely down it. “So that’s what you really think.”
Lo’ak stared at her. “I wish…” The words caught.
Knew Neteyam had asked him to go easy on her.
He could still stop. He could walk away.
Instead, he looked at the sister who had blamed him for every part of the worst day of his life and let the anger speak for him. “I wish you had died instead of Neteyam.”
Her face emptied completely. No anger. No shock.
She only looked at him for a long time, and Lo’ak felt something inside himself begin to recoil now that the words existed outside his head.
Then her trembling fingers rose and wiped clumsily at her cheeks.
A tiny laugh escaped her. It sounded like the last strained piece of something finally snapping. “Me too,” she whispered.
“What’s going on?” Jake’s voice came from the entrance.
Both of his children turned away from each other.
(Y/n) lowered her gaze to her hands, wiping quickly at the tears still clinging to her face.
Lo’ak looked toward the floor.
Jake stepped farther into the marui, carrying the fish and spear he had returned with, but the sight before him made him set both down.
Lo’ak stood rigid beside the hammock, his fists clenched and tears wet on his cheeks.
(Y/n) remained curled among the pillows, one arm drawn protectively across her ribs while her shoulders trembled.
Jake’s stomach sank. “I'll ask again what is going on?”
He looked between them again.
The silence told him enough.
Jake had heard their voices before entering the marui. Heard the argument carrying through the woven walls. Heard the blame. Heard Lo’ak admit he had left his sister.
He couldn't take sides in this. He couldn't change what had happened but how does he get these kids to cut it out.
He had heard what his son wished and he had heard his daughter’s broken answer.
Jake’s gaze settled on Lo’ak. “Talk to me.”
Lo’ak swallowed. “I…” His voice caught.
Jake closed his eyes for a moment.
They were tearing each other apart. One child already lay beneath the reef, and the two who remained were using Neteyam’s death to wound each other because neither knew where else to put the pain.
He looked at his eldest. She would not meet his gaze.
Jake crossed the marui and stopped in front of her hammock. “(Y/n).”
Her face was wet with tears, her eyes red and hollow, but Jake forced his expression to remain stern. He could not let sympathy decide everything again. Could not rush to comfort her while Lo’ak stood behind him believing he mattered less.
“You are the eldest,” Jake said. “I expect better from you.”
“No.” His voice remained calm, but firm. “You do not get to tell your brother that he killed Neteyam.”
Her brows drew together. “He—”
Jake drew a slow breath through his nose, trying to control the ache spreading through his chest. “It was nobody’s fault.”
“He made Neteyam go back.”
“And Neteyam made his own choice.”
“He followed Lo’ak because Lo’ak—”
“Enough.” Jake’s tone hardened.
“You’re the big sister,” he continued. “If you have a problem with Lo’ak, you bring it to me. You don’t tear into him.”
Tears welled in her eyes again. “No, Dad—”
Jake heard the accusation beneath the words, but he pushed past it.
“You are his older sister,” Jake said, holding her gaze. “You should know better than to argue like this with someone younger than you.”
“Apologise.” The word was harsher than Jake intended.
Behind Jake, Lo’ak looked up too, some of the anger draining from his face beneath the shock.
“You should be helping carry this family,” Jake continued, “not tearing your brother apart.”
(Y/n)’s lower lip trembled. “He told me…” she whispered.
“He told me he saw me trapped.” Her voice broke around the words. “He knew I was there, and he left me.”
“He told me he was glad he chose Spider.” A tear slid down her cheek. "he wished I had died instead.”
Jake closed his eyes. “I know.”
(Y/n) stared at him like she had misheard. "You know?”
Jake opened his eyes again.
“And you’re telling me to apologise?”
“I’m telling you to stop blaming your brother for something that wasn’t his fault.”
“He admitted he chose to leave me.”
“He didn’t know whether you were alive.”
“He said he was glad—.” She bent forward, pressing a hand against her ribs while the coughing shook through her. Jake’s body shifted toward her on instinct, one hand lifting before he caught himself and let it fall back to his side.
When the fit eased, she wiped her mouth and looked up at him through fresh tears. “You’re standing there asking me to apologise after he told me he wishes I was dead.”
“I’m asking more of you because you’re the eldest.”
Jake saw the hurt spread slowly across her face. “I expect you to be the bigger person.”
Her shoulders lowered. The fight seemed to leave her.
Finally she whispered, “I can’t.”
“I won’t.” Her voice cracked, but she held his gaze. “I won’t apologise for something I believe.”
Jake looked at her for a long moment, grief and frustration written plainly across his face. “Your brother did not kill Neteyam.”
“He went back because of Lo’ak.”
“So did you,” Jake said. “You chose to get on that ship.”
Jake regretted the words as soon as they left him, but he did not take them back.
“If I have to accept that what happened to me was my choice,” she whispered, “then why doesn’t Lo’ak have to accept what happened to Neteyam was his?”
“Because blaming him won’t bring Neteyam back.”
“No.” She looked past Jake toward Lo’ak. “But maybe it would stop him from getting someone else killed.”
Lo’ak recoiled as though she had struck him.
Jake stepped closer to the hammock. “Apologise.”
Her refusal, the venom between his children, Neteyam’s absence sitting in every corner of the marui—it all pressed against the exhaustion he had been carrying until his patience frayed.
He took another step forward.
Neytiri moved between them.
Her hand struck the centre of his chest and stopped him before he could reach the hammock.
Neytiri’s eyes blazed. “Enough,” she said.
Jake’s ears lowered. “Neytiri—”
“No. You will not demand that she apologise while allowing him to stand there without answering for what he has said.”
Jake looked past her at Lo’ak. “I was getting to him.”
“No,” Neytiri snapped. “You were punishing her first.”
“She blamed him for Neteyam’s death.”
“And he told his sister he wished she had died.” Neytiri’s voice broke with rage. “The daughter who drowned saving them.”
Neytiri stepped closer, forcing Jake back half a pace. “She asked you for help, and you turned her away. Now you stand before her and tell her that she must carry this family while she can barely carry herself.”
“I’m trying to treat them equally.”
“Then begin.”Neytiri pointed toward Lo’ak without looking away from Jake. “Do not ask one child to swallow cruelty because she was born first.”
Lo’ak’s ears flattened. “Mom—”
Neytiri turned on him. “And you.”
Her expression hardened when she saw the tears on his face, but she did not soften the truth. “You were angry. You were wounded. You wanted your sister to feel the pain you carried, and so you chose the words that would cut her deepest.”
“You do not get to excuse that with grief.”
His mouth trembled. “She said I killed him.”
“And she was wrong to say it.”
(Y/n)’s gaze snapped toward her mother.
Neytiri looked back at her.
“Neteyam chose to follow his brother. Lo’ak chose to return for Spider. You chose to board the vessel. Your father chose to surrender himself. Every one of you made choices born from fear and desperation.”
Her eyes filled, but her voice remained steady. “The Sky People killed my son.”
She looked at (Y/n). “Not Lo’ak.”
Neytiri stepped away from him and moved to the hammock, sitting beside their daughter. (Y/n) immediately turned her face away, ashamed of the tears still falling.
Neytiri cupped the back of her head.
“You do not have to apologise for being hurt,” she said softly. “But you must answer for how you used that hurt against your brother.”
Then she looked at Lo’ak.“And so must he.”
"Leave." Neytiri snapped at both of them
Neytiri drew (Y/n) against her side as another cough stirred in her chest, rubbing slowly between her shoulders.
Neytiri had heard every word. Each one had carved itself into her like a fresh wound, but beneath the grief something far more dangerous began to rise— boiling, potent and ugly. Her son had chosen a pink-skin over his own blood, and the thought alone made her vision blur with restrained fury. Her arms tightened around (Y/n), pulling her closer as if she could shield her from every cruel word that had been spoken. She pressed her forehead briefly to her daughter’s hair, breathing through the rage that simmered in her chest, forcing it down so it would not spill into the room in front of her daughter.
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