Neteyam x M!reader. part 2.
it would be fluff, heartwarming and perhaps angst? protective neteyam.
The Incident at Three Brothers Rocks
The patrol was supposed to be simple: a sweep of the outer reef to check for Akula migration patterns. You, Neteyam, Lo'ak, and Rotxo were riding in a diamond formation, skimming fast over the chop. When the shadow of a rogue Akula rose from the deep, the protocol was clear: scatter and flank.
You banked left, preparing to draw its attention so the others could circle back with spears—a maneuver you’ve executed a dozen times. But Neteyam didn't flank.
"No!" Neteyam's scream tore through the comms, raw and terrified.
Ignoring the formation, he yanked his Skimwing into a violent turn, cutting directly across Rotxo’s path to get between you and the predator. The water erupted in chaos. Rotxo had to dive deep to avoid a collision, and the formation collapsed. Neteyam didn't even look at the Akula; he drove his mount into your side, shoving you forcibly toward the shallows, shielding your body with his own even though the predator was already turning away.
The Akula lost interest in the chaotic splashing and swam off, but the silence left behind was deafening.
"What the hell was that?" Rotxo surfaced, spitting water, his ears pinned back in anger. "You nearly took my head off, Neteyam! He had the flank!"
Neteyam wasn't listening. He was gripping your arm, his chest heaving, his pupils blown wide with panic. "Are you hurt?" he demanded, checking you for injuries that weren't there, completely ignoring the furious glare of the squad leader. "Did it touch you?"
knowing if you don't said anything or think about what to say, they will blame neteyam. so, you have to protect him and lie about what happened for him.
"My steering locked up!" you shout, breathless, cutting through the tension. You tap the side of your harness aggressively, feigning a mechanical failure. "The strap caught on the fin spur—I couldn't bank left. Neteyam saw it and shoved me clear."
It is a clumsy lie, but it is loud. Rotxo hesitates, his ears twitching as he looks from you to Neteyam. The anger in his posture deflates slightly, replaced by annoyance.
"Check your gear before we ride, skxawng," Rotxo scoffs, shaking his head. He doesn't completely buy it, but he accepts it because it makes more sense than Neteyam—the prodigy—losing his mind for no reason.
But Lo'ak isn't convinced. He drifts closer on his skimwing, his yellow eyes narrowing as he looks at his brother. He saw the panic in Neteyam's face. He saw the way Neteyam didn't just shove you, but shielded you.
"Right... gear failure," Lo'ak mutters, his tone dry. He catches Neteyam's eye, and for a second, the brothers communicate in that silent, telepathic way they have. I know you're lying. But Lo'ak keeps his mouth shut.
By the time you ride back to the Awa'atlu docks, the adrenaline has faded, leaving a cold, shaky feeling in your limbs. The squad disperses quickly—Rotxo to complain to Aonung, Lo'ak to find Tsireya.
You are left alone with Neteyam in the equipment hut, hanging up the saddles in silence. The air is heavy. You can hear him breathing—fast, shallow breaths.
"Why did you do that?" Neteyam finally whispers, his back to you. He grips the saddle rack so hard his knuckles turn white. "You took the blame. Rotxo is going to think you are incompetent."
"Better me than you," you reply softly, stepping closer. "The clan needs to trust their future Olo'eyktan. They can't know he panicked."
Neteyam spins around, and the anguish on his face stops you cold. "I didn't panic because I'm a bad leader, Y/n. I panicked because if that Akula had taken you..." His voice breaks, and he presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. "I can't do this. I can't be the leader they want if I can't even think straight when you're in danger."
You don't let him look away. You step into his personal space, forcing him to meet your gaze. The panic in his eyes is raw, a stark contrast to the composed leader the clan sees.
"You think a fearless leader is what we need?" you ask, your voice low but firm. "A leader without fear is just reckless. That fear you felt? It means you have something to lose. It means you'll fight harder, fly faster, and strike truer than anyone else."
You reach up, cupping his face to stop him from shaking his head. "Don't get rid of the fear, Neteyam. Just... aim it at the enemy next time. Use it."
He stares at you, the logic warring with his instinct. He opens his mouth to argue, to explain that the logic doesn't stop the nightmares of losing you, but you cut him off.
"I'm fine," you whisper, brushing your thumb over the bioluminescent dots on his cheek. "I'm not Akula bait. I'm right here. Standing in front of you."
You pull him down, closing the distance before his spiraling thoughts can take over again. The kiss is slow, deliberate—a physical anchor to remind him that he hasn't failed. He sighs into it, his hands sliding from your arms to your waist, pulling you in until there is no space left between you. For a moment, the war, the ocean, and the expectations of his father disappear. There is only the steady rhythm of your breathing and the warmth of his skin.
When you finally pull back, his eyes are clearer. The frantic energy has settled into a simmer. You seize the moment to offer the only solution that will truly silence his tactical mind.
"If you're still scared," you say, stepping back and picking up the fishing spear he had thrown down, "then do something about it."
You toss the weapon to him. He catches it instinctively, his reflexes sharp.
"Teach me," you challenge him. "Don't just protect me. Make me so good that you never have to worry about me again. Train me until I'm as good as you."
Neteyam looks at the spear in his hand, then back at you. A slow, determined smile finally breaks through the gloom. It’s a challenge he can understand. It’s a mission he can lead.
"As good as me?" he scoffs softly, the ghost of his usual confidence returning. "That's a high bar, skxawng. But we start at dawn."
The water is cold, the sky a bruised purple of pre-dawn. You expect Neteyam—the boy who held you all night—to be soft. You are wrong.
"Dead," Neteyam barks, slapping the blunt end of his spear against your ribs. It stings. "You hesitated. You're dead again."
He stands over you, chest heaving, the golden bioluminescence on his skin fading in the morning light. This isn't a game to him. Every mistake you make is a terrifying vision of you dying in the field. "Get up," he orders, offering no hand to help. "The Akula won't wait for you to catch your breath. Again.
"Your center of gravity is off," he sighs, finally dropping the drill sergeant act when he sees you stumble.
He steps in close—too close. He moves behind you, his chest pressing against your back, one hand gripping your hip to force it lower, the other guiding your arm on the spear shaft. The contact burns.
"Here," he murmurs, his voice dropping to that low rumble that vibrates against your spine. His fingers linger on your waist a second longer than necessary, his thumb brushing the bare skin just above your loincloth. "Feel the water. Don't fight it." For a moment, the training stops. He isn't correcting your stance; he's just holding you, his breath hot against the sensitive skin of your neck.
You spin out of his grip before the tension can consume you both, leveling your spear at his chest. You are panting, sweat and seawater dripping down your face, but your eyes are defiant.
"A wager," you challenge him, forcing a grin. "If I land a hit—just one clean hit—you have to tell Jake and Neytiri about us. Tonight."
Neteyam blinks, surprised by the sudden escalation. Then, the corner of his mouth quirks up. He twirls his spear effortlessly, settling into a defensive crouch that looks impenetrable.
"And if you lose?" he asks, his eyes dancing with a mix of arrogance and affection. "You run drills until you vomit. Deal?"
You move first. You telegraph a high strike, swinging the butt of the spear toward his left temple. It’s a classic dirty trick—fake the headshot, sweep the leg.
But Neteyam was trained by Toruk Makto.
He doesn't even blink. As your spear comes around, he simply steps inside your guard, catching the shaft of your weapon with one hand and sweeping your own legs out from under you with his tail. You hit the water hard, the splash blinding you for a second. Before you can wipe the salt from your eyes, the tip of his spear is hovering an inch from your throat.
"Too slow," he murmurs, not even out of breath. "And predictable. Dad taught me that move when I was six."
Frustration flares in your chest. You smack his spear away and scramble to your feet, abandoning technique entirely. If you can't out-skill him, you'll out-muscle him.
You charge him head-on, driving your shoulder into his midsection. The impact knocks the wind out of both of you. You crash into the shallow surf, tangling limbs in a mess of splashing water and sand. You manage to pin him for a heartbeat, your forearm pressing against his chest, but his reflexes are liquid. He twists his hips, reversing the leverage, and suddenly he is on top, his weight pinning you to the sand.
"Yield," he pants, his face inches from yours, droplets of seawater falling from his braids onto your cheeks. His pupils are blown wide, the adrenaline of the fight mixing with something darker, hungrier. "Yield, skxawng."
You stop struggling. You go completely limp beneath him. Neteyam frowns, his grip loosening slightly in confusion. "What are you—"
You surge up—not to fight, but to close the gap. You press your lips firmly to his.
It works better than any spear thrust. Neteyam freezes instantly, his entire body locking up in shock. The warrior brain that tracks trajectories and kill-zones short-circuits completely. For two seconds, he isn't a soldier; he's just a boy kissing his best friend in the surf.
You break the kiss, grab your discarded spear from the sand, and tap the blunt end lightly against his chest, right over his heart.
"Dead," you whisper, grinning up at him.
Neteyam stares at you, his chest heaving. He looks down at the spear tip resting against his heart, then back up at your face. A slow, incredulous laugh bubbles up in his throat. He collapses next to you in the sand, covering his eyes with his arm.
"That," he groans, "was cheating."
"It was tactics," you correct him, propping yourself up on one elbow. "I won. One clean hit."
He uncovers his eyes, turning his head to look at you. The golden gaze is soft, stripped of all its armor. "Yeah," he admits quietly. "You got me."
He reaches out, his hand finding yours in the wet sand. "I guess I'm telling them tonight."
The evening meal in the Sully Marui is usually a chaotic affair—Tuk chasing Lo'ak, Kiri scolding them, and Jake trying to maintain order. You and Neteyam sit slightly apart from the main circle, shoulders brushing as you eat.
You think you are being subtle. You think the clan doesn't notice the way you hand him the best piece of fish, or the way his knee rests against yours. But you forgot that Neytiri was a hunter long before she was a mother. She sees everything.
She watches from across the fire. She sees the way Neteyam looks at you—not with the sharp, scanning gaze of a squad leader, but with a soft, unguarded adoration she hasn't seen since he was a child. She watches him laugh at something you whisper, his entire face lighting up, the weight of the world lifting from his shoulders for that split second.
She doesn't shout. She doesn't demand an explanation. She simply sets her bowl down and holds Neteyam’s gaze.
The laughter dies in Neteyam’s throat. He freezes, realizing she is looking right at him—right through him. He stiffens, his hand instinctively moving to cover yours on the woven mat, a protective gesture that confirms everything she suspected.
"Mother," Neteyam starts, his voice tight, bracing for the lecture on duty and lineage.
But Neytiri just exhales, a long, weary sound that ends in a small smile. She looks at her eldest son—who has carried so much burden, who has tried so hard to be perfect—and sees that for the first time in months, he looks happy.
"Ma Neteyam," she says softly, her eyes moving to you. "You eat too slow. Give him the rest of yours if you are just going to stare at him."
The tension snaps. Lo'ak chokes on his water. Neteyam blinks, stunned, before a flush of blue creeps up his neck. She knows. And she doesn't care about the lineage or the politics. She just cares that her son is smiling.
Neytiri's blessing is one thing; facing Toruk Makto is another. With her silent support bolstering you, you and Neteyam request a private audience with Jake later that night.
The Marui is quiet. Jake sits cleaning his weapon, the oil rag moving rhythmically over the metal. He looks up as you both enter, his eyes narrowing slightly as he senses the shift in atmosphere. He looks from Neteyam to you, then to Neytiri, who sits in the corner weaving, offering no help but a reassuring nod.
"Sir," Neteyam begins, standing at attention out of habit. "We need to speak with you."
You stand beside him, shoulder to shoulder. You don't hide it this time. You tell him everything—the bond, the training, the promise.
Jake listens in silence. His face is unreadable, the "General" mask firmly in place. He looks at Neteyam, really looks at him, seeing the man he is becoming rather than the soldier he trained.
"You know what this means," Jake says finally, his voice gruff. "The clan... they will talk. It complicates things."
"I don't care," Neteyam answers, and for the first time, he doesn't sound like a subordinate. He sounds like a Na'vi choosing his own path. "I choose him."
Jake sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. He looks at Neytiri, who raises an eyebrow as if to say 'I told you so'. Jake lets out a huff of laughter, shaking his head.
"Well," Jake grunts, standing up and clapping a heavy hand on Neteyam's shoulder, then yours. "At least I know he's got someone watching his six who isn't afraid to take a hit for him. Dismissed."
The relationship is out now.
The ripples of your union spread quickly through the Awa'atlu reef. While some of the younger hunters whisper, the approval of the Olo'eyktan silences any open dissent. Tonowari, respecting the strength you showed in the training circle, grips your forearm in the open plaza—a public declaration that you are not just a guest, but a bonded pair recognized by the clan leaders.
Tsireya is the first to break protocol, swimming up to you both with a radiant smile. "I knew it," she whispers, pressing her forehead to Neteyam's, then yours. "The way you look at him... it is how Lo'ak looks at me. It is good." Her acceptance signals to the rest of the youth that this is the new normal.
Before the war can touch you, Neteyam takes you to the Metkayina's most sacred site—the Spirit Tree located deep within the Cove of the Ancestors. It is not just a date; it is a marriage rite in the eyes of Eywa.
You dive deep, the bioluminescent tendrils of the Spirit Tree illuminating the dark water. Neteyam guides your queue to the glowing filaments. When you connect, the world dissolves into white light. You don't just hear his voice; you feel the fear he carried for you, the pride he feels in your strength, and the absolute certainty that his soul is knotting itself to yours. There are no secrets here. You are one.
The serenity is shattered three days later. A scout reports a massive RDA whaling vessel, a SeaDragon, moving into the archipelago. The Recoms are back, and they are hunting Tulkun to draw Jake out.
In the war room, the atmosphere is suffocating. Jake stands over the tactical map, moving markers with grim precision. He looks at Neteyam, then at you.
"Neteyam, you lead the air support with Lo'ak," Jake orders, his voice leaving no room for argument. He then points to a completely different sector on the map. "Y/n, I need you on the decoy skiff with the Metkayina spearmen. You're going to draw their fire to the south."
Neteyam stiffens. "Sir, that's suicide. The decoy takes the brunt of the initial barrage. I should be with him."
"You are an aerial asset," Jake snaps, cutting him off. "You go where you are effective. He goes where he is needed. Do not let your emotions compromise this mission, soldier."
The command tent is chaotic, filled with the shouts of squad leaders and the rustle of maps. Neteyam is vibrating with tension, his tail lashing aggressively as he glares at the map where your unit is marked as "Decoy." He opens his mouth to argue again, to tell his father that this is madness, but you grab his arm and pull him out into the rain.
"Stop," you order, your voice cutting through the noise. You shove him back against the support beam of the Marui. "Do not fight him on this. If you are distracted up there, wondering where I am, you will get shot down. And if you get shot down, I will lose my mind."
You grip his shoulders, shaking him slightly. "Do your job so I can do mine. If you fly sloppy because you're worried, we both die. I need the 'Golden Son' in the sky, Neteyam. I need to know you are covering us.''
Neteyam stares at you, the rain slicking his hair back, his chest heaving. He hates it. He hates every second of it. But he nods.
He reaches into his tactical vest and pulls out two modified RDA throat mics, scavenged from the Recoms. He presses one into your hand and fastens the other around his own neck.
"Channel 4," he whispers, his forehead resting against yours. "It's a closed loop. Just us. Jake won't hear it." He taps the device, and you hear the static click in your own earpiece. "If you get into trouble—if you even think you are in trouble—you call me. And I will burn the sky down to get to you."
"Saddle up!" Lo'ak's voice rings out from the docks.
Neteyam kisses you hard, a desperate, bruising seal of the promise. Then he pulls away, his face hardening into the mask of the war leader. He sprints for his Ikran, launching into the air with a screech that chills the blood. You watch him ascend, a speck of blue against the grey storm clouds, before turning to the skiff.
"Let's go hunting," you mutter, checking your weapon.
The skiff rocks violently as you speed toward the southern archipelago. Your job is simple: make noise. Make the RDA think the main attack is coming from the surface.
"Contact!" Rotxo screams.
"I see you," Neteyam's voice crackles in your ear, crystal clear despite the chaos. "Bandit at three o'clock. I'm taking him."
You look up just in time to see a blue streak dive from the clouds, shattering a Gunship that was lining up a run on your skiff. He is watching. He is keeping his promise.
"Cover me, I'm going in!" you scream over the roar of the engines.
"You are insane!" Neteyam hisses back, the sound of wind tearing through his mic. "I'm beginning my run. Count of three. Three. Two..."
You don't hesitate. You jam the throttle of the skiff, using the wake of the massive ship as a ramp. You launch yourself from the pilot's seat, clearing the gap of churning water and slamming hard onto the cold, wet metal of the SeaDragon's lower hydrofoil deck.
You roll to absorb the impact, sliding across the slick surface until you hit a cargo crate. The deck is a chaotic industrial nightmare of chains, winches, and shouting soldiers. Above you, Neteyam banks hard, drawing the fire of the ship's anti-air turrets to keep them off your back.
"I see you," he pants in your ear, his voice tight with stress. "You're on the lower deck. You have three hostiles moving to your position from the moon pool. Check your six!"
You spin around, weapon raised. Three Recom soldiers are sprinting toward you, but they are expecting a frontal assault, not a lone guerilla fighter in their midst. You take them by surprise, dropping the first one before they can even raise their rifles
You are aboard, but you are exposed. The SeaDragon is massive, a floating fortress designed to kill Tulkun. You have a split second to decide where to strike before the entire security detail descends on you.
"I'm not leaving until I break something," you reply, scanning the deck.
"Planting the charges," you whisper, your voice echoing slightly in the cavernous metal belly of the ship.
You don't use explosives; you use precision. You jam your knife into the primary hydraulic manifold, severing the pressure lines. A hiss of white steam erupts, followed by the groaning sound of metal locking up. The launch clamps freeze. The Crab Suits are going nowhere.
"Good kill," Neteyam's voice is tight with relief in your ear. "Now get topside. The Sky People are swarming the lower decks."
You scramble back up the service ladder, bursting out onto the wet, wind-lashed surface of the main deck. The battle is raging around you. Neteyam is a blur of motion in the sky, his Ikran diving and weaving through the tracer fire to clear your path to the bridge.
"Moving to the bridge," you yell over the roar of the engines. "I'm going to cut the head off this snake."
The realization hits you like a physical blow. Neteyam is lining up a strafing run on the stern, unaware that his own sister is in the kill zone.
"Abort! Neteyam, ABORT!" you scream into the mic, skidding to a halt and grabbing the railing. "It's Tuk! They have Tuk and Tsireya on the stern!"
The blue streak in the sky jerks violently upward, the engines of his Ikran screaming as he pulls out of the dive just seconds before opening fire.
"What?" His voice cracks, the soldier facade vanishing instantly. "Where? I can't see them!"
"stern deck! Sector 4! Do not fire!" You look at the bridge, then down at the girls. The mission to kill the captain is over. "I'm going for them."
"Scream for me!" you yell into the mic, not for help, but for cover.
You don't climb down. You vault over the railing, plummeting thirty feet toward the steel deck below. The wind roars in your ears for a split second before you collide with the Recom guard. The impact is sickeningly loud—a crunch of Kevlar and bone. Your knees drive into his chest, using the momentum of the fall to shatter his ribs and slam him instantly into the metal grating. He doesn't even have time to cry out; he is unconscious before his head hits the deck.
The other two Recoms spin around, their rifles raising, but the "distraction" arrives on cue.
Neteyam’s machine gun tears up the deck in a line of sparking fury, inches from your boots. He isn't aiming at you; he is creating a wall of lead between you and the remaining guards. The Recoms flinch, diving for cover behind the cargo crates to avoid the strafing run from the "Golden Son".
"Get them loose!" Neteyam screams in your ear, his voice raw with panic. "I'm coming around for another pass! Move!"
You scramble off the unconscious guard, ignoring the bruising ache in your legs. You slash the zip-ties binding Tsireya and Tuk. They are weeping, terrified, but unhurt.
"Go!" you shove them toward the railing where the water is churning below. "Jump! Call an Ilu and get deep!"
"We can't leave you!" Tsireya cries, grabbing your arm.
"You are the mission!" you snarl, shoving her harder. "JUMP!"
They dive. You turn back to the deck, raising your weapon, just as the two remaining Recoms realize the air support has passed. They pop up from cover, their eyes glowing yellow with rage. You are exposed. Outnumbered. And Neteyam is turning too wide to save you this time.
You don't aim for the soldiers. You aim for the yellow pressure wheel on the bulkhead beside them.
The round shatters the valve coupling. The result is instantaneous and violent. A geyser of superheated steam explodes outward with the shriek of a dying banshee. The Recoms scream, their tactical visors useless against the wall of white heat. They stumble back, firing blindly into the mist, their coordination shattered.
Logic dictates you hold your position. Instead, you sprint into the scalding cloud.
You crash into the first Recom before he sees you, your knife finding the gap in his armor plating. He goes down, but the second one tracks the movement. He fires a panic burst at point-blank range.
You feel the impact like a sledgehammer to your left shoulder. It spins you around, searing hot pain radiating down your arm. You don't stop. You use the momentum of the hit to swing your weapon around, slamming the stock into his helmet, cracking the visor. He falls, silence returning to the deck save for the hissing steam.
You stumble, your vision swimming. The steam begins to clear, revealing a carnage of metal and bodies.
A shadow falls over you. Neteyam lands his Ikran hard on the deck, the beast screeching and snapping at the air. He vaults off the saddle before the mount has even settled, sprinting toward you.
"Y/n!" His voice is a ragged tear in the air. He skids to his knees beside you, his hands hovering over the blood soaking your chest armor, terrified to touch it. "You hit? Where? Let me see!"
He rips the med-pack from his vest, his hands shaking so badly he can barely open it. "You idiot," he chokes out, pressing a compress against your wound. Tears are mixing with the war paint on his face. "You reckless, stupid... I told you to wait!"
"Eyes on the door!" you snarl, shoving your scavenged RDA assault rifle into his chest. "Don't look at me. Look at them. If they retake the Moon Pool, this was all for nothing."
Neteyam stares at you, his pupils blown wide. He wants to argue. He wants to drag you to safety. But the command in your voice snaps his soldier brain back into focus. He nods, a sharp, jerky motion, and spins around, leveling the rifle at the smoke-filled corridor. "Do it fast," he chokes out, his back to you. "I can hear them coming."
You don't have a bio-scanner or a trauma kit. You have the debris of war. You grab a spent brass shell casing from the deck—still searing hot from the Recom's recent volley. The brass casing burns your fingers. It glows dull orange in the steam, a crude but sterile instrument.
You bite down on your leather bracer to stifle the scream. You press the hot metal into the open wound. The pain is blinding—white and absolute—but the smell of singing flesh means the blood flow is stopping
Above you, Neteyam opens fire. The rifle kicks against his shoulder as he suppresses a squad trying to push through the steam. He screams in effort, channeling every ounce of his terror into violence.
You reach up and grip Neteyam's ankle.
He spins around instantly, weapon dropping, ready to catch you. But you don't fall. You use him as a crutch to haul yourself to your feet. You are pale, shaking, but standing.
"We're done here," you whisper, your voice raspy.
Neteyam looks at the makeshift seal on your chest, then up at your eyes. A mixture of horror and awe washes over his face. He slips his arm around your waist, taking your full weight. "You are crazy," he breathes, burying his face in your neck for a split second. "You are absolutely crazy."
The deck tilts violently beneath you. The SeaDragon is dying. The sabotage in the Moon Pool has destabilized the hull, and the water is rising fast.
"There!" Neteyam gasps, supporting your weight as you stagger toward the launch bay. "The pursuit boat! We can take it!"
"Hold on!" he yells, slamming the throttle forward.
The boat strains against the clamps, the engine roaring in frustration, but it doesn't move an inch. Neteyam stares at the display, confusion warring with panic. "Hydraulic Failure: Launch Mechanism Lock."
He looks at you, and the realization hits you both at the same time. Your sabotage in the Moon Pool didn't just trap the Crab Suits—it killed the hydraulics for the entire launch system. You trapped yourselves.
"Leave it!" you scream, grabbing his vest as the floor tilts violently beneath you. "Neteyam, we have to jump!"
The SeaDragon groans, a sound like a dying animal, as the stern begins to slide under the waves. Loose cargo, ammo crates, and bodies slide past you, plummeting into the churning water below. You scramble up the sloped deck toward the railing, every step a battle against gravity and your bleeding chest.
Neteyam doesn't hesitate this time. He grabs your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. He looks at the ocean—a hundred-foot drop into fire and debris—then at you.
"Together?" he shouts over the noise of the ship tearing itself apart.
You run. You don't look down. You launch yourselves into the void just as the boiler explodes behind you, the shockwave sending you hurtling into the air.
The impact hits you like a concrete wall. Cold water rushes into your nose and mouth. You sink deep, the blue silence of the ocean swallowing the noise of the battle. For a second, you just float, suspended in the peace of the deep.
Then, a hand grabs your harness.
Neteyam kicks hard, dragging you both toward the surface. You break the water, gasping for air, coughing up salt. The SeaDragon is gone, leaving only a massive slick of oil and burning debris.
"I have you," Neteyam pants, treading water and keeping your head above the waves. He checks your chest wound, his eyes frantic. "I have you. Look at me. Stay with me."
A trilling sound echoes over the water. An Ilu surfaces next to you, nudging Neteyam's shoulder. Salvation.
The adrenaline crash hits you both at the same time. You are lying back against Neteyam's chest, his arms locked around your waist to keep you seated on the Ilu. The sun is setting, casting a blood-orange glare over the oil-slicked water.
"You're breathing too fast," Neteyam murmurs, his cheek pressed against your wet hair. His voice is steady, but his heart, hammering against your back, tells a different story. He isn't looking at the horizon or scanning for threats anymore. He is looking at you, checking your pulse every thirty seconds, terrified that the crude seal on your chest will fail.
"I'm fine," you wheeze, though every breath feels like inhaling broken glass.
"Shut up," he replies, but there is no heat in it, only a desperate, exhausted relief. He kisses the side of your neck, right over your pulse point. "Just... shut up and stay with me."
The Ilu chitters softly, sensing the exhaustion of its riders, and begins the long, slow paddle back to Awa'atlu. For an hour, there is no war. There is just the water, the dying light, and the terrifying realization of how close you came to the end.
By the time you reach the village, night has fallen. Neteyam doesn't take you to your Marui; he takes you straight to Ronal.
The Tsahìk is waiting. She doesn't ask what happened—the smell of burnt flesh and the blood on Neteyam's hands tell her enough. She gestures for Neteyam to lay you on the woven mat in the center of her healing pod.
"Hold him," Ronal commands Neteyam, her voice sharp as chipped flint.
She works with a terrifying efficiency. She peels away the makeshift dressing, her eyes narrowing at the ugly, seared wound on your chest. She applies a cooling, stinging paste of crushed herbs that smells of mint and sulfur, her fingers probing the edges of the burn to check for infection.
Her hand pauses over your heart, not on the wound, but slightly above it—right where the spiritual knot of the bond anchors itself. Her pupils expand. To a Tsahìk, a soul bond isn't invisible; it pulses like a second heartbeat, a luminous thread connecting your spirit directly to Neteyam's.
She looks up, her intense gaze snapping to Neteyam, who is white-knuckled gripping your shoulder. Then she looks back at you.
"You have bound yourselves," she states. It isn't a question. "Before Eywa. Before the Spirit Tree."
Neteyam stiffens, ready to defend it, but Ronal simply exhales through her nose. She finishes wrapping the wound, her movements slightly gentler now.
"Stupid boys," she mutters, wiping her hands on a cloth. "Warriors do not make good decisions in the dark." She looks at Neteyam, and for a fleeting second, there is a glimmer of respect in her eyes. "But the bond is strong. It kept him alive."
She stands up, dismissing the tension with a wave of her hand. "He will not die tonight. But if you tear my stitches, I will kill you myself."
The Marui is dark, lit only by the soft, pulsating glow of the bioluminescent moss woven into the ceiling. Ronal has left, leaving only strict instructions and a bowl of pungent herbal paste.
Neteyam hasn't moved for six hours.
He sits cross-legged beside your sleeping mat, his back rigid against the wall. He is exhausted—you can see the dark circles under his eyes and the way his tail twitches with fatigue—but he refuses to sleep. Every time you stir, he is there instantly, his cool hand finding your forehead, his voice a low rumble in the dark.
"I'm here," he whispers, dipping a cloth into cool water and wringing it out. He presses it to your burning skin. "I'm not going anywhere. Sleep."
"You need rest," you mumble, your voice thick.
"I'll rest when you're healed," he counters stubbornly. He picks up your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours, anchoring you to reality. "Besides... I like watching you breathe. It proves I didn't fail."
The infection fights back before it yields. Around midnight, your temperature spikes. The cool darkness of the Marui dissolves into a chaotic, swirling kaleidoscope of color.
You are back on the SeaDragon, but the deck is made of burning coals. The Recoms aren't men; they are faceless shadows with glowing red eyes. You scream for Neteyam, but your voice makes no sound. You see him falling from the sky, over and over again, his Ikran engulfed in flames.
"No! Neteyam!" you thrash on the mat, tearing at the imaginary restraints.
The hallucination shatters. Neteyam is hovering over you, his face inches from yours, illuminated by the terrified bioluminescence of his own skin. He is gripping your shoulders, grounding you.
"It's a dream," he says firmly, though his eyes are wide with fear. "We won. The ship is gone. I am right here."
You collapse against him, sobbing dry, heaving breaths. He pulls you into his lap, rocking you slowly like a child. He begins to hum—a low, ancestral song of the Omatikaya that vibrates through his chest and into yours, chasing away the nightmares until you fall back into a dreamless sleep.
Two days later, the fever breaks. You are weak, propped up against a stack of woven pillows, watching the sunlight dance on the water outside. Neteyam has finally allowed himself to sleep, curled up on the floor beside your mat, his hand still resting protectively on your ankle.
A shadow falls across the doorway.
Aonung stands there. He looks different—less arrogant, more unsure. He holds a basket of fresh fruit and a wrapped bundle of fish. He looks at you, then at the sleeping Neteyam, and finally at the hand resting on your ankle. He doesn't sneer.
"My sister..." Aonung starts, his voice quiet so as not to wake Neteyam. He shifts his weight, looking at the floor. "Tsireya told me what you did. On the deck."
He steps inside, placing the basket near your head. He looks at you with a new expression: Respect.
"You are crazy," Aonung grunts, a small, reluctant smile tugging at his lips. "Jumping from the catwalk? Only a skxawng does that." He pauses, then offers his hand—forearm extended. "But you saved her. So... we are good. You and the Golden Boy. We are good."
The physical therapy is brutal, but the emotional toll is worse. Your chest wound has healed into a tight, shiny starburst of scar tissue that pulls painfully when you raise your left arm. You have to relearn your center of gravity, compensating for the limited range of motion by fighting lower and dirtier.
Neteyam makes it impossible.
In the training ring, he moves like water, but the moment his practice spear comes within a foot of your chest, he pulls the strike. It happens once, twice, three times. The third time, he leaves himself wide open, terrified of hurting you, and you sweep his legs out from under him. He hits the sand, but instead of laughing, he scrambles up, reaching for you.
"Careful!" he snaps, his hands hovering over your scar. "You moved too fast. Did you tear it?"
"Stop it!" you shove him back, frustration boiling over. "I am not glass, Neteyam. If you keep treating me like a victim, I will never be a warrior again. Hit me. Hit me for real."
To cool off, you dive into the labyrinth of lava tubes beneath the Three Brothers rocks. Neteyam follows—of course he does—shadowing you silently through the bioluminescent tunnels.
Deep inside a dry cavern, where the tide deposits debris, you spot something angular and unnatural. A black, hard-shell RDA case, stamped with the yellow "Sec-Ops" logo.
"Don't touch it," Neteyam warns, his ears pinning back.
You ignore him and crack the seal. It’s a survey drone's memory core. When you activate it, a flicking blue hologram projects onto the cave wall. It isn't a military base; it’s a city. Parks, housing districts, filtration plants—and it is projected to be built right on the edge of the Metkayina reef.
"They aren't just hunting Tulkun anymore," Neteyam whispers, the blue light reflecting in his horrified eyes. "They are moving in."
You bring the core to the High Command. Tonowari studies the hologram in grim silence, his hand resting on his knife. He looks at you—really looks at you—seeing the scar on your chest and the defiance in your posture.
"You brought us eyes," Tonowari rumbles. "You fight like a demon and you bleed like a Na'vi. But to fight for this reef, you must be of this reef."
He stands, towering over you. "I offer you a place in the Warrior Caste. No more 'guest.' But the ocean does not accept you just because I do. You must go to the open sea. You must call a Tulkun. If one answers... you are Metkayina."
Neteyam stiffens beside you. The Tulkun bond is dangerous; if no Tulkun accepts you, you will be stranded in the open ocean, rejected by the spirit of the water itself.
