Yo yo yo

He clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached, fighting with every ounce of his strength to keep his face from crumpling. Seeing you stand there, so small, so frightened, and so utterly devastated by his sudden cruelty, was tearing his soul apart. I love you. I love you so much, his mind screamed. He wanted nothing more than to pull you into his arms and tell you he was just joking, that he was not really mad, but he had to do this, for you. So he could live with himself knowing that what could happen to him in the war will not hurt you as much as it would if he allowed you to hope.

He needed you to hate him. He needed you to move on and let go of him. He did not want you to wait for nothing if he ended up dead in the war, because the thought of you wasting your youth mourning a ghost was a fate worse than Eywa's judgment.

So, he delivered the final blow, letting the venom drip from his tongue.

“And who's to say I won't meet a Metkayina woman I would want to actually mate and settle down with?” He said, watching you rear your head back as if you had been slapped. “We’re not... that serious, Y/N. Surely you know that? You're not really thinking that I would like to keep you knowing that there is more to life than here, do you?”

Your breath hitched, staggering a step backward, the words striking you like a physical blow to the gut. Hot tears pooled in your eyes, blurring the silhouette of the man you had given your heart to.

“Why are you being so mean?” You let out a breathless, desperate laugh, trying to play it off as a misunderstanding, but the illusion shattered as the first tear spilled over your cheek.

Neteyam didn't respond. He balled his hands into tight fists, his claws digging painfully into his palms to stop himself from reaching for you. I love you so much, baby. I love you so much.

“Do you mean that?” you asked in a small, fragile voice when he didn’t respond. Your lower lip quivered, and the sight nearly brought him to his knees.

He swallowed the lump of what seemed like obsidian blade in his throat, forcing his voice an octave deeper to mask the tremble threating to expose him. “Yeah. It’s common sense.“

You nodded slowly, the harsh truth settling deep into your bones. Reaching deep down for whatever pride you had left, you managed to form a smile onto your face.

“Then... have a good life... and I wish you well,” you said, your voice breaking entirely on the final words. “I love you... so much. Even if yours was not real, mine is, Neteyam.”

Before he could break, you turned on your heel and walked away. He watched your shoulders slumped, shaking with violent, silent sobs. The moment you rounded the thick roots of Hometree, out of his sight, you broke into a desperate run, fleeing into the dark alcoves of Hometree with no idea where you were going.

                                                         ₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The rhythmic sound of your pestle grinding against the mortar filled the healing pavilion. The air was thick with the sharp, clean scent of crushed roots and soothing eucalyptus leaves.

But the quiet was soon disrupted by the sound of urgent footsteps, too light to belong to an adult, and you knew what was to come.

“Ma? Ma!“

A tiny, high-pitched voice echoed outside, making your lips twist in a smile. You stopped your grinding and lifted your head up to give your son your whole attention, immediately seeing his small and chubby form bound into the pavillion. He was clutching his Toruk plaything.

You raised a brow at him as you watched him heave, knowing he ran his way up here from only Eywa knows where. “Where were you, Ervo?”

“Mama, Toruk Makto is back! My friends... My friends... I saw him!” he jumped on the soles of his feet, showing the Toruk toy right up to your face. “Toruk is this big!” the boy chirped, his round, golden eyes wide with pure, innocent excitement.

You smiled, lifting a hand to cup his small face. “Were you so excited?” you asked. “Did you see Toruk Makto, too?”

Your son nodded enthusiastically, making his little toy dive-bomb into a pile of uncounted herbs. To him, Jake Sully was a legendary figure from the stories told around the communal fires, a hero who came from the stars. He was excited about the idea that his favorite hero once lived in this Hometree, so now you could barely comprehend his joy about Toruk Makto finally being home, sleeping under the very same canopy as him.

He plopped down to sit in front of you. “With his family!” he said. “He.. He has a big son.”

Your fingers froze just as you were reaching for the covered bowl of his fruit snacks. Your head tilted, hardening your resolve and grabbing the bowl for your son. “Now, you need to eat fruits. Toruk Makto doesn’t like kids who don’t eat healthy food.”

The boy eagerly grabbed the bowl and started munching on the cut up fruits. You grabbed a soft woven cloth to wipe his sweat off with it. At twenty-two, you were now far from the girl left weeping in the roots of the forest. You had survived the worst from the clan, the whispered gossips, and the subtle shunning due to your unique situation.

Of course, there are single mothers in the clan, too, but all of them were simply widowed by war. None of them were an unmated, nineteen-year-old girl whose child was fathered by an unnamed man. But your people were nothing but progressive, and so you were not really openly disrespected, but you knew that Mo’at’s choice to make you her tsakarem was met by a strong opposition by the council.

You watched your son eat, hoping against hope that the son he was talking about was Lo’ak. The Great War had ended weeks ago and peace was supposedly returning to Eywa’eveng, but until this exact moment, the reality of what that meant hadn't truly pierced the quiet bubble you had built for yourself and your son.

You didn't know if he was among them. For all you knew, he had stayed true to his word. Perhaps he had long since met a Metkayina woman he would actually take as a mate and not simply... play with. Perhaps she was someone proud, strong, and perfectly suited for the firstborn son of Toruk Makto, completely different from the girl he discarded three years ago.

A sudden, sharp rush of resentment and old bitterness flared up in your chest, hot and wicked. You shouldn't care. You had braved everything alone and raised a beautiful, thriving boy without a single piece of help from the man who broke you. You had sworn you would never feel a damn thing for him again.

But as you turned your head to look back at your son, who was currently making small noises as he made his Toruk toy fly, your heart clenched. The boy was growing more and more into the exact likeness of his father every single day. From the curve of his brow and nose down to the way he smiled.

It was probably a fate worst than being shunned by Eywa. Forgetting and moving forward are not for you, not when you carried and are raising a child you share with who you are supposed to forget. And the fact that those things must be so easy for him, knowing that he had discarded everything that could possibly hold him back, pisses you off at least once a day.

You convinced yourself he was not among his family who came back, or that if he did come back, it was only to show his Metkayina mate to the people. And then he will go back to where he belongs, and your son would remain yours and yours alone.

The truth did not come from the announcements for the returning warriors, it came from the idle, buzzing gossip of the clan as you made your way up the winding pathways toward your kelku later that evening. Two weavers were sitting near the common walkways, their hands busy with fiber, their voices carrying easily through the humid air.

“...and Neteyam, oh, I remember when he left. Every girl I know was upset,” one groaned, leaning in. “He’s a great warrior, they say he fought fiercely at the vanguard. I’m so glad he’s back now... and unmated still!”

“Truly? No Metkayina woman caught his eye?” the other replied, sounding surprised. “I saw him, he is so handsome... and even much bigger than he was when he left. Many must have tried.”

You forced your feet to keep moving, your grip tightening around your sleeping son that the boy let out a confused whimper. You rubbed his back, “I’m sorry, my love,” you cradled his head and he purred.

The gossip words swirled in your mind still, unleashing a chaotic storm of conflicting emotions.

A bitter, venomous part of you felt a sickening sense of vindication to know that he is unmated. Good, you thought sharply. It serves him right. He had shattered you on the pretext of finding someone better, only to return with nothing but himself. But beneath that spite lay a far heavier dread. If he was unmated, he had no anchor elsewhere. He was going to stay.

You put your son down on his cot, caressing his small head. You laid his Toruk toy beside him, smiling when you remembered his earlier excitement. You would withdraw for this night completely, choosing not to join the communal dinner and eating a quiet meal of cold roasted roots and fish, but you knew this won’t be sustainable in the long run if you would keep skipping the communal meals.

Hometree was massive, you could very much use it as a shield to not cross paths with Neteyam as much as possible. You didn't need to sit at the tables or mingle in the open clearings; you could just slip down to the communal kitchens, gather your meals, and retreat back to the safety of the healing pavilion.

​And that was exactly what you did the next day.

You arrived at the kitchens at its busiest. Huge clay pots simmered over open flames, filling the air with the rich, savory scent of roasted meats and sweet, starchy roots.

“Busy day?” you asked Marla, watching all the cooks around her moving like they do during feasts.

Marla turned to you, her kind, crinkling eyes smiling immediately at the sight of you. “A welcoming feast for the Sullys,” she told you, her smile huge and meaningful.

Years ago, before the world broke apart for you, Neteyam used to practically live in this corner of Hometree, constantly bothering and begging Marla to bake your favorite wild-berry pie when he was still courting you. You and Neteyam had been a constant fixture in her kitchen, teasing her and stealing scraps until she chased you out with a wooden ladle.

Because of that closeness, Marla was likely the only soul in the entire village who truly knew the timeline, the only one who suspected that Neteyam was the father of your boy.

​But she had never whispered a single word to anyone. She had kept your secret fiercely, protecting you from the brunt of the clan's judgment when you were only nineteen and terrified.

​As the other cooks distracted themselves with the massive platters of meat, Marla stepped up to you. “Are you alright?” she reached out, her calloused hands that had spent a lifetime feeding the Omatikaya gently squeezing yours.

You smiled, playfully scowling at her. “Of course, Marla,” you said.

She sighed. “He is back. I saw him,” she said in a small voice.

You shook your head. “It means nothing to me anymore, Marla,” you assured her, chuckling. “I am a mother now and my son is the only thing I care about. Which is the reason I’m here... I’m getting his breakfast. And mine...” you bit your lip.

The older woman’s eyes narrowed. “Not joining the communal meals like last night?”

You pushed your lips forward. “I’m busy... at the pavillion,” you said.

“Hm,” she mused, pulling away to get a heavy wooden tray, arranging a generous portion of food and right in the center, putting two large, perfectly baked slices of the very same berry pie, your son Ervo’s absolute favorite. “There is a feast tonight, but I’ll have your food delivered for lunch and dinner, too. Keep that boy of yours fed.” she murmured softly, giving you a knowing, gentle nod.

You smiled and nodded, swallowing a lump on your throat. “Thank you, Marla... For always helping me.”

She huffed a snort through her nose. “I watched you grow up, watched you brave what none could have survived. It is the least I can do.”

With the heavy wooden tray carefully balanced in your arms, you made your way back through the quieter upper branches of Hometree. When you stepped back into the cool shade of the healing pavilion, the tension in your shoulders finally began to bleed away.

Ervo was exactly where you left him, sitting cross-legged on a large woven mat. He was completely absorbed in his own world, flying his little reed Toruk toy over a pile of smooth river stones he had arranged to look like mountains.

Ervo’s ears perked up instantly as soon as you laid the tray down, his eyes widening as he spotted the two large, vibrant slices of wild-berry pie on the dish. He gasped, dropping his toy immediately, his tail giving a happy, rhythmic thwap against the woven floor. “Pie!”

“Pie after your meat and roots,” you corrected gently, tapping the tip of his nose with a smile.

You sat down cross-legged in front of him, carefully cutting up the roasted meat into small, manageable pieces. He ate eagerly, his small hands grasping the wooden bowl, his cheeks puffing out as he munched. But midway through the meal, a chorus of small voices echoed from the pavilion's entrance.

Three young children peeked inside, laughing and holding small woven balls. “Ervo? Come play! We are finding the big beetles today!”

Ervo practically vibrated in excitement. He nearly choked on his fruit, his little tail tapping the floor in a frantic, desperate rhythm. He began to scramble to his feet, ready to bolt toward his friends.

“Son, you can’t play after you’ve just eaten,” you said, your voice firm but gentle as you caught him by his waist. “You need to let your food settle in your belly.” You playfully tapped his round, full belly, and he let out a bright, tickled chuckle.

He slumped back down onto your lap, pouting slightly as his friends waved and promised to wait for him near the lower roots. He held his small waterskin with both of his little hands, taking a big gulp. “I need to stay?” he asked, blinking up at you with wide, pleading golden eyes.

You nodded, taking the spoon to feed him a bite of the sweet berry pie. “Yes. You must stay until Mama says it is time.”

“Okay...” he mumbled, pointing at the pie. “Pie?“

You chuckled and hugged him, kissing his cheek. “And because you are a sweet and remarkably obedient boy, here you are...” you took the plate and fed him.

He sat patiently, swinging his legs and chattering to you about the giant beetles his friends had promised to find. When enough time had finally passed, you wiped his sticky face with a damp cloth, kissed his forehead, and sent him off. He spent almost the entire day running wild under the massive canopy, his distant, joyful laughter occasionally drifting up to the pavilion.

By midday, the heat of the forest had settled into a heavy, hummed stillness. You were deep in your work, sorting dried herbs and organizing small clay vials of medicine, when the heavy beaded curtain at the entrance rustled.

You looked up, your posture instantly straightening as Mo’at stepped into the pavilion.

The Tsahik moved with a timeless, regal grace, her sharp eyes sweeping over the quiet room before finally landing on you. Mo’at was one of the few people who had fiercely shielded you from the clan’s harsh judgments three years ago. When the council of elders had deemed your situation immoral. Mo’at had silenced them all. She had ignored their protests, stubborn and unyielding, and had chosen you to be her tsakarem.

For some reason, she had always acted as though your situation was entirely normal. She had never once asked you who the father was, nor had she ever looked at you with anything less than absolute pride.

“You are working hard,” Mo’at spoke, walking over to your table, her long fingers brushing over the herbs you had just sorted.

“There is much to prepare for the returning warriors, Tsahik,” you replied, dipping your head. “Many have old wounds from the sea that need checking.”

Mo’at hummed. “The forest is changing,” she said. “The wind brings back what was once thought lost to the tide. Some trees bend in the storm, and some roots hold fast, hidden deep beneath the ground where no one can see them.”

You looked up at her, a sudden apprehension in your eyes. Your hands slowed over the mortar. “The clan is rejoicing their return. It is a good change.”

Her eyes, clouded with age, locked onto yours. A tiny, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips, “The Great Mother does not weave a thread without purpose, child,” Mo'at murmured. “A seed planted in secrecy still bears the unmistakable fruit of the tree it came from. The eyes of the clan may be blind to the truth, but blood always recognizes the stride of her own blood.”

Your breath hitched toward completely, your heart hammering violently against your ribs, a cold sweat breaking out across your palms.

“The boy is strong,” Mo'at continued softly, her hand reaching for yours to squeeze it with an immense, grounding warmth before she began to turn away. “He has your fierce spirit, but do not hide in the shadows forever, Tsakarem.”

You were profoundly grateful that Ervo had spent the entire afternoon running wild with the other children that by the time the distant sounds of the feast began to echo through the branches, he bounded into the healing pavilion, his little eyelids already heavy, entirely spent from the day's excitement.

“Ma…” he mumbled, dragging his feet as he leaned his small, warm body heavily against a soft woven pillow on the floor. “The big feast has started.”

You smiled, caressing his small head and his eyes fluttered shut.

“The big feast… Toruk Makto…”

He didn't even finish his sentence before his breathing deepened into a profound, undisturbed sleep. You quietly let out a breath, fixing everything to finally wrap the day up. Gently, you scooped his small, solid form into your arms, cradling his head against your shoulder as you carried him up to your kelku. You silently thanked Eywa that his exhaustion spared you from making up elaborate excuses for why you can’t attend the feast and you also wouldn't have to explain to a heartbroken two-year-old why he couldn't go see his legendary hero tonight.

Meanwhile, at the high dais, Neteyam sat rigidly to the right of his father. His family was seated with Tarsem who is at the center of the table, wearing the heavy, ornate mantle of the Olo'eyktan. Jake and Tarsem were deep in low, serious conversation about the integration of the returning warriors, but Neteyam’s attention was entirely fractured. His golden eyes restlessly combed through the crowded rows of tables, scanning every face, every laughing group, every shadow cast by the great fire.

He saw childhood friends, old sparring partners, and familiar faces of the Omatikaya. But none of them held the features that had been branded onto the back of his eyelids for three agonizing years. Every time he had closed his eyes, he sees you. When everybody thought he was going to die, it was your memory that got him crawling back to life. It was your face that kept his heart beating.

He had spent the entire day fighting the desperate urge to walk straight into the healing pavillion, refusing to ambush you considering how he left things between you two. He was hoping against hope. He had hurt you, and he wouldn’t be surprised if you would welcome him with anger or indifference, but he can work against that.

He would beg and work for your forgiveness.

Now, as the feast drew to a close without a single glimpse of you, a hollow disappointment settled deep in his chest. He thought about finally going to the healing pavilion tomorrow. To talk to you and tell you that he survived the last three years on your memories. That he lived because he wanted to get back to you.

The following morning, however, the clan's future demanded attention. The council convened in the high longhouse, the atmosphere dense and formal.

Tarsem stood before the elders, his posture proud but his shoulders carrying a visible, heavy weariness. He unclasped the ceremonial ornaments from his chest, placing them on the woven mat before Jake and Mo'at.

“The war has kept me from my family for far too long,” Tarsem announced, his voice carrying the weight of exhaustion. “My mate and my child have sacrificed enough. With Toruk Makto returning, I wish to step down from the leadership to focus entirely on my family. I am formally asking Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk’itan to succeed me as Olo'eyktan.”

Neteyam stared at the older warrior, the air in his lungs has long turned to ice. He had no idea Tarsem was even mated. He looked at the weary, determined lines on the leader's face, and then the realization hit him like a physical blow. You were the official tsakarem of the clan. The future Tsahik. Traditionally, the Olo'eyktan and the Tsahik walked hand-in-hand, their paths intertwined to lead the people.

But the Olo’eyktan could also mate the tsakarem who has not yet succeeded the Tsahik.

If Tarsem was stepping down to be with his family... A sickening, hollow sensation opened up in Neteyam's stomach. It felt as though a direhorse had kicked him squarely in the sternum. He could barely register the rest of the council's murmurs.

The thought of you mated to another man, the thought of you bearing Tarsem's child, giving someone else the love he had so brutally discarded, made him feel utterly empty. He managed to offer a strained, tight nod to the council, muttering that he would take time to consider the immense responsibility, before abruptly excusing himself.

His feet moved without his permission, operating on pure, desperate instinct until he found himself near the clearing just outside the healing pavilion.

And there you were.

You were only a few paces away, navigating the path with a hurried grace, balancing a small wooden drying rack stacked with freshly gathered herbs against your hip. Neteyam stopped dead in his tracks, his breath catching in his throat. You had grown even more beautiful, your expression guarded and fiercely mature. Yet, you were entirely unchanged.

His heart kicked against his chest, his whole body charging with a sudden, violent spark of electricity, as though for the first time in years, his heart remembered how to work. A recognition that his soul belonged exactly where you stood.

Then, his gaze flicked down. A small boy was tailing closely behind you, his little feet skipping to keep up with your brisk pace.

Neteyam’s heart plummeted into a dark, bottomless abyss.

“Mama, look!” the boy chirped. The high-pitched, innocent voice sent an unexplainable, agonizing warmth straight through Neteyam’s chest.

Mama.

The reality solidified, crushing him. You were a mother. You belonged to Tarsem. Neteyam watched from the shadows as you stopped your hurried pace, bending down to see whatever the little boy was pointing at on the forest floor.

“Glowing bug!” the boy shouted, his entire little body vibrating with pure, unadulterated excitement.

A soft, melodic chuckle escaped your lips. To Neteyam, it sounded like the distant, beautiful chiming of bells, a sound he had been starving to hear. His chest ached as you reached out, gently ruffling the boy’s dark hair.

“Yes, my love,” you told the child, your voice softening into a gentle warmth you still possessed. “Do not touch it. It is irritable during daylight.”

The boy tilted his head, his wide golden eyes blinking up at you. “Because it can't glow?”

A genuine laugh broke from your chest this time, bright and clear.

Hidden behind the foliage, Neteyam found a faint, involuntary chuckle slipping past his own lips. The question was so innocent, so entirely pure. The boy shared your exact expressions, the same inquisitive tilt of the head. He was beautiful. He was everything Neteyam had ever dreamed of having with you during those quiet nights before the war took everything away.

He watched you hold the boy’s hand, your fingers laced securely with his small ones as you guided him into the healing pavillion. The beaded curtain fell shut behind you, cutting off his view, but the image remained scorched into his mind.

It was confirmed. You were mated to Tarsem, and you two have a child together.

Grief and jealousy seized Neteyam’s heart, squeezing it until he could barely breathe. Tarsem had everything he had ever wanted, everything he had dreamed of during those freezing nights by the ocean. Everything he had bled and fought for over the last three years was now in the hands of another man. Neteyam had never moved on from you, but he understood that you did. After all, he had hurt you. He had sliced your heart open right before he left, and he couldn't blame you if you did what he had wanted you to do and did everything in your power to erase him from your mind.

For weeks, you thought you had managed to completely avoid him, using the labyrinth of Hometree in your favor to avoid crossing paths with him. What you didn’t know, though, was that Neteyam spends at least an hour a day watching your son play with his little friends whenever he’s at the training grounds.

And come nights, he would stand where he stood on the day he saw you for the first time in years. He felt absolutely immoral for coveting a brother’s wife, but he would stand here to willingly welcome the Great Mother’s wrath should she find it righteous to strike him down, but he couldn’t keep himself away from you. And your child, for that matter.

He had successfully assimilated back into the warrior ranks, his name wildly popular among the younger hunters and the children, even to your little boy, who often overheard the older kids whispering about the mighty son of Toruk Makto.

One afternoon, Neteyam was standing near the edge of the clearing by the warrior paths, leaning lightly against a massive root as he watched your son and his friends loudly play a game a few yards away. Suddenly, a stray kick sent their small, tightly woven ball flying wildly off course. It tumbled across some ground roots, rolling over the moss before finally bumping directly against Neteyam’s foot.

He blinked, looking down before he bent to scoop up the lightweight toy.

A moment later, the sound of tiny, rapid footsteps approached. Ervo came bounding over to retrieve it, but he skidded to a sharp halt when he looked up and realized exactly who was holding his toy.

The little boy froze, his round, deeply familiar eyes wide. Slowly, Ervo brought his small hand up to his mouth, nervously nibbling on his thumb as he peered up at the towering warrior. A wave of natural apprehension and deep shyness washed over his little face, his ears twitching back slightly as he evaluated the large, chiseled stranger.

Neteyam looked down at the boy, feeling his chest suddenly expand with an unexplainable, fierce warmth the moment their eyes met. Up close, the resemblance was almost dizzying, but somehow, the boy looked strangely familiar but not you familiar... But Tuk familiar.

He softened his posture completely, making himself look as unthreatening as possible. Feeling the gentle shift in the his energy, Ervo smiled just a little bit, still nibbling on his thumb.

The tiny grin was Neteyam's undoing, he suddenly felt too weak. The boy was too cute. His own lips, usually set in a serious line these days, threatened to break into a massive smile for the boy.

“This yours?” Neteyam asked, his deep voice dropping to a soft, rumbling purr as he showed the ball in his open palm.

The boy nodded quickly, his courage returning. “My ball...”

Neteyam lowered himself onto his hunches, his long legs folding smoothly so he could level his eyes with the boy. He didn't want to tower over him like a scary monster.

“What’s your name?” Neteyam asked gently.

“Ervo,” the boy said in a small but clear voice. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking into Neteyam’s eyes. Then, with a sudden flash of bravery, he tilted his head. “You?” he asked courageously, treating Neteyam less like a formidable warrior and more like an age peer he simply wanted to be friends with.

Neteyam’s golden eyes lit up instantly. A genuine, breathy laugh escaped him, and a huge smile cut through his lips, transforming his hardened features. It made the boy smile, feeling a little more comfortable.

“Neteyam,” he said.

“‘Teyam...” Ervo echoed, trying out the syllables, his voice small and endearing. He pointed a small finger at the toy. “My ball?”

“Here,” Neteyam murmured, carefully placing the woven sphere back into Ervo's tiny, waiting hands.

“Thank you...” Ervo said politely. He turned on his heel to head back to the game, but after a few paces, he stopped. He looked back at Neteyam one last time, offering a bright, lingering smile before running off to rejoin his friends.

Neteyam remained on his haunches for a long time, watching the boy's retreating form, his hand still feeling the faint, lingering warmth of where the boy's fingers had brushed his own.

You have no idea about all of these. Apparently, more interesting things happen to your son daily that literally coming face-to-face with Neteyam is just one of the ordinary moments. He told you more about the beetles he observed with his friends more than the prior fact. So, you remained blissfully unaware, thinking that you were successfully living a life where your path has never cross with Neteyam.

You had spent three years scrubbing his face from your memories, teaching your heart to go numb at the mere thought of him. You convinced yourself that if you ever came face-to-face with him, you wouldn't feel a damn thing.

Then, one afternoon, the universe finally caught up to you

You left the pavillion to get Ervo for lunch, catching him sitting in a patch of dappled sunlight in their playground, completely absorbed in watching a line of colorful bugs march across a fallen log. His back was turned to the pathway. You smiled as you rounded a corner, but then your breath trapped itself in your throat.

You saw Neteyam approaching.

He was walking toward your son, his head tilted to the side with a small smile plastered on his face. He looked intensely curious about what Ervo was doing, drawn to the boy by some invisible force.

Panic, sharp and blinding, pierced your chest.

“Ervo,” you called out to your son, causing the boy to lift his head up.

Neteyam stopped dead in his tracks, his own head snapping up at the same time your son did that it looked almost comical. His golden eyes locked onto yours for the first time in three years. And you, who did the stupid thing of forgetting, was not prepared for all the changes at all that your heart jumped to your throat.

He had grown impossibly taller, his frame wider and heavily muscled from years of brutal warfare. His jawline was more chiseled, his handsome face bearing the subtle, hardened maturity of a man who had long outgrown the twenty-one-year-old who had left you behind.

“Mama?”

Your eyes immediately darted back to your son, fortunately taking your focus away from Neteyam. Ervo scrambled to his feet, leaving his bugs behind. “It’s time for lunch and you didn’t come back to the pavilion,” you said in a very motherly voice that reminded Neteyam of how Neytiri sometimes uses her Mom voice.

Ervo laughed and ran toward you, his little body crashing against your thigh. “I saw bugs!”

You bent, lifting him into your embrace and rubbing his back. You held him like a shield, your posture rigid and defensive as you lifted your sharp, icy glare on the man before you.

Neteyam was standing frozen, watching you hold the child, and the fierce, battle-hardened warrior seemed to dissolve. Every hard edge of his chiseled face turned incredibly soft and gentle. His ears drooped slightly, and his eyes swam with something profound and unspeakable. The coldness with which he treated and looked at you three years was gone, replace with the desperation of a man who was drowning.

“Y/N—” he breathed, his voice low and carrying the weight of a thousand unsaid apologies.

You didn't let him start anything, though. Clutching Ervo tighter against your chest, you turned your back on him, refusing to let him speak another syllable. You walked briskly back into the safety of the healing pavilion, your heart racing violently against your ribs.

That night, the cold wind offered no relief from the heat building inside Neteyam's mind. Deep in sleep, he got dragged backward by a subconscious that refused to let him forget the taste of you. In his dream, he was back in the hidden cave deep in the woods.

The air was thick with the scent of moss, rain, and the intoxicating, sweet musk of your skin. He was buried inside you, his knees spreading your thighs wide as he pounded into you relentlessly. It was a searing, glorious ache. His large hands came up to frame your jaw, fingers digging into your braids to anchor you as he leaned down, kissing you hard, bruisingly deep, drinking in your frantic gasps.

The cave was alive with the raw, animalistic sound of your bodies. The wet, sliding heat, your breathless cries, and his own low groans vibrating against your chest.

You threw your head back, the muscles of your throat straining as you clutched at his broad back, your fingernails digging tracks into his skin. Your moans were hoarse now, stripped raw after the breathless screams he had driven out of you.

“Neteyam...” you cried out, your hips arching up to meet his punishing, deep thrusts, begging for the release that was coiling tight between you.

He leaned down, catching your slick, parted mouth in another heavy kiss, breathing your name back into your lungs. “Oh, baby...” he choked, his chest heaving as he reached up to tenderly stroke the sheen of sweat off your forehead, his thumb tracing your cheek even as his lower body maintained its relentless, demanding pace.

You cried out again, a desperate sound of pure pleasure, pulling him down by his neck with a fierce strength that demanded all of him... And then Neteyam jolted awake with a violent gasp, nearly losing his balance and falling off his hammock.

He sat up abruptly, chasing his breath as if he had just run a marathon, his skin slick with sweat. He squeezed his eyes shut, bringing his hand up to roughly massage the bridge of his nose. He fought the overwhelming, agonizing urge to let out a loud, frustrated groan, catching himself just in time to ensure he wouldn't wake his family.

Breathing heavily through his nose, his hand slid down his torso, grabbing his crotch. His cock was punishingly hard, straining painfully against his loincloth, throbbing with the memory of you. He squeezed himself tightly through the fabric, trying to ease the agonizing ache, but the phantom sensation of your tight, wet heat wrapping around him was too vivid, too real. Like the many other dreams in the sea.

He knew it was wrong. He was literally committing a sin, lusting over a woman mated to another man. For Eywa's sake, he was a warrior, a future leader, and he was losing his mind over you, like he had when he was a boy. Yes, memories of you had been the only thing that got him through the lonely, brutal years of the war, keeping his relationship with his own hand extremely intimate during long nights on the battlefield, but it is wrong now.

Yet, as he sat there in the dark, his pulse hammering in his ears, it didn't truly feel like a mistake.

It was just that... you were so much more beautiful up close than any fleeting glimpse he had caught of you over the past weeks. He had looked into your eyes, smelled your scent, seen the fierce, maternal beauty radiating from you, and now his body was paying the price for that proximity.

Unable to bear the suffocating confinement of the hammock any longer, Neteyam quietly swung his long legs over the edge. He stood up noiselessly, his tail twitching with restless tension as he slipped out into the cool night air, knowing he would have to find a secluded spot in the forest to take care of his hard-on before the madness consumed him entirely.

Days after that, while you were at the pavilion and your son was having his afternoon nap in his cot beside you, the heavy beaded curtain at the entrance rustled, making you look up nonchalantly, expecting an apprentice or a hunter.

But your face instantly hardened when you saw Neteyam standing in the entryway. You stopped mid-motion, your hand freezing over the mortar where you were grinding a fresh poultice.

“I got... cut,“ he mumbled, his voice low and tentative.

You raised a brow, your jaw clenching as you looked him up and down. You didn't want him here, but as the tsakarem, you couldn't turn away someone seeking care. “Let me see,” you said coldly, jerking your head toward the seat in front of you.

He walked over and sat down, but as he did, you saw his golden eyes immediately glance toward the side, curiously tracking the small, sleeping form of your son in the cot. Your chest tightened. You purposefully extended your hand, reaching for a tall stack of drying leaves and shifting a woven basket to deliberately block his view of the boy.

When he finally held out his hand, you inspected the injury. The cut wasn’t deep enough to need stitches, but it definitely required a proper disinfectant, the kind of minor scratch he could have easily treated on his own with some river water and basic sap. Both of you knew he had come here just to see you.

In fact, Neteyam prepared for days just to be able to do this.

You took his hand impersonally, your grip firm and strictly professional. Despite your coldness, Neteyam bit his lower lip, completely distracted by the sudden, overwhelming sensation of your soft hands touching his skin for the first time in three long years. A jolt of pure electricity ran up his arm, but he stayed still as you worked on the wound in absolute silence.

The quiet in the pavilion grew heavy, suffocating him. He couldn't take it anymore.

“You’ve... made a good life for yourself,” he began softly, his eyes fixed on your lowered face as you carefully applied a cool, crushed herb paste to the cut.

You completely ignored him, your expression blank as you reached for a clean strip of woven cloth.

“You have a beautiful boy...” he added after the silence stretched, his voice thick with a strange emotion.

You stopped. Your hands went completely still on his wrist, and you slowly lifted your head to look up at him, your sharp eyes piercing straight through his chest.

“Can we keep the silence?” you asked, your voice a flat, dangerous whisper. “My son’s a light sleeper.”

Neteyam blinked, the rejection hitting him like a physical blow. He immediately nodded, his ears drooping slightly as he looked back down at your hands wrapping the cloth around his palm. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

His chest tightened until it felt like a vice was crushing his lungs. Sitting this close to you, he wanted to say so much more. He wanted to scream the truth. He wanted to throw himself at your feet, to kneel on the floor and apologize until his voice gave out for the horrible lies he had told you before he left. He wanted nothing more than to pull you into his arms, to press his face into your neck and tell you how much he loves you. That he had never stopped loving you for a single second. His heart, his body, and his soul had never known another woman, and they never would.

Even now that you are mated.

But as he watched you expertly tie off the bandage with detached efficiency, reality crashed over him.

He knew it would be wrong to even try to be friends with you now. You were a mated woman. You were a mother. He had absolutely no place in your life anymore, and he had no right to disturb the peace you had built. Every time he remembered that fact, it felt like his insides were being violently wrung out. It was a constant, living nightmare, made worse by the fact that seeing Tarsem around the village brought the agonizing jealousy back to the surface every single day.

He was so deeply envious of Tarsem. It should have been him. He was supposed to be your mate. He was supposed to be the father of your beautiful child, coming home to you after a long hunt. But he had sacrificed all of it for a war he wasn't even sure he'd survive.

I hope it's fucking worth it, he thought bitterly to himself later that night.

He lay completely awake in his hammock, staring up at the dark canopy of Hometree, unable to sleep as the image of your little boy filled his mind. The child was so small, so incredibly fragile, but Neteyam knew without a doubt that the little boy held your entire heart. A soft, involuntary warmth bloomed in his chest at the thought of him. Ervo.  Remembering how peaceful the boy looked while having his nap, a faint smile touched Neteyam's lips in the dark.

You could have been mine, he thought with a heavy, suffocating grief settling over him like a boulder as he closed his eyes.

As he drifted to sleep, the weight of his emotions faded into a blinding, golden warmth.

In the dream, the sky above was a brilliant, cloudless blue, and the heat of the sun baked into his skin. He wasn't a warrior burdened by the future of a clan; he was just a boy, resting his head comfortably in your lap as the water lapped gently against the riverbank.

This was the sanctuary his mind always built for him.

It was the exact same dream that had saved his life on the blood-soaked sea. When the bullet had torn through his chest, when his breathing had rattled and his pulse had slowed to a terrifying flutter, his family had been screaming. The healers had been desperately pressing against his wound, fighting the tide of his fading life. But in his mind, he had felt no fear.

In his mind, he had only felt you.

You leaned down over him, your dark hair catching the light of the sun, casting a soft shadow over his face. Your expression wasn't cold or defensive like it was these days, it was full of that fierce, consuming love that used to belong entirely to him. Gently, you cupped his face with both of your hands, your thumbs tracing the sharp line of his jaw before you leaned down to kiss his lips softly.

Even in the depths of his sleep, the phantom sweetness of your touch made his lips curve into a faint, relaxed smile.

You pulled back just an inch, a soft, melodic chuckle vibrating in your chest at the sight of his grin. You ran a hand through his braids, your voice a gentle purr that seemed to echo from the very heart of the forest.

“‘Teyam... wake up,” you whispered, your fingers brushing against his temple. “Wake up.”

Neteyam’s eyes snapped open.

The golden river and the warmth of the sun vanished instantly, shattered by the dark, cool reality of the woven ceiling above his hammock. He sat up abruptly, his chest heaving as he gasped for air. His hand flew instinctively to his chest, his large fingers pressing hard against the thick, raised scar tissue right over his chest that he could conveniently cover with his chest knife sheath.

Your kelku were branches away, and you were wrapped in the arms of another man, but his lips still tingled with the memory of the dream.

He slid his hands over his face, letting out a long, ragged breath into the empty darkness of his quarters. Dreams of you always visited him whenever he slept with a heavy heart. It was a cruel mercy, a replaying loop of a life he had thrown away. Yet, as he stared out into the quiet shadows of Hometree, he knew those dreams were the only reason he was still breathing.

It was his mind’s instinctive way of giving him a reason to hold on, a desperate, stubborn tether keeping his soul anchored to the earth, simply because he couldn't bear to leave a world where you still existed. He prepared for the morning patrol, going about it as enthusiastically as he could, and when he got back, he was told that the high council wpuld convene once more in the longhouse.

The elders sat in a wide semicircle, their faces solemn, while Tarsem stood at the center. Neteyam took his place near his father, his eyes fixed firmly on the table, refusing to look at Tarsem so he wouldn’t and couldn’t picture out what-could-have-beens.

Tarsem cleared his throat, his deep voice commanding the room's attention. “Elders, Toruk Makto, Tsahik,” he began, bowing his head respectfully to each. “We have spent over a moon organizing the integration of our returning warriors, ensuring our borders are secure. The Omatikaya are strong. But as I stated before, the war has kept me from my duties at home for far too long. I must officially request to step down from my duties as Olo’eyktan so that I may leave and focus entirely on making up for lost time with my mate and child.”

Neteyam’s jaw clenched so hard he thought he’d break his teeth. Hearing it out loud again felt like a fresh blade twisting in his ribs. His mate. His child. He closed his eyes, forcing down the violent surge of envy that threatened to choke him.

One of the elders, an old weaver named Okan, nodded slowly, his fingers tracing the edge of his staff. “The council understands, Tarsem. A leader’s heart must be whole to lead, and yours has been divided by the sea for many moons. You have done well by our people. I wholeheartedly support your decision, and should the council follow suit, you could fly to your family as soon as we grant your request.”

Neteyam’s ears twitched, snapping backward. Fly?

He blinked, his mind faltering as the word echoed in the quiet longhouse. He raised his head, staring at Tarsem in utter confusion. “Fly?” Neteyam interrupted, his voice cracking slightly before he hardened it. “Olo'eyktan... your mate and child are here. In Hometree.”

The entire council went completely still.

The elders blinked at him. Jake shifted in his seat, a furrow forming between his brows. Even Mo’at slowly lifted her sharp, clouded gaze, her expression unreadable as she stared at her grandson.

Tarsem turned around slowly, looking at Neteyam as if the young warrior had been struck by a stray arrow to the head. “What are you talking about, Neteyam?” Tarsem asked, a small, baffled frown crossing his features. “My mate and daughter are with her clan, the Tayrangi. They have been waiting for my return by the Eastern cliffs since the sky people's vanguard fell.”

Neteyam felt the blood drain from his face. The air in his lungs turned to pure frost. He sat frozen, his fingers digging into his knees.

“Who...?” Neteyam choked out, his throat working desperately to find words. “Then... Y/N? You are not... mated to Y/N?”

Tarsem let out a sudden, startled chuckle, shaking his head. “No. Y/N is not my mate. Why would you think that?”

Neteyam’s heart leaped violently into his throat, hitting his ribs with a force that made his breath hitch. A weakened, shuddering gasp escaped his lips. He felt so suddenly lightheaded he would have fallen right onto his face if he weren't already sitting. She isn't his. She isn't mated to anyone. “But... she is the Tsakarem,” he stammered, his mind racing, trying to piece together the shattered remnants of his assumptions.

“And she will make a fine Tsahik one day,” Tarsem countered gently, his eyes softening with amusement. “But that won’t be enough reason to make Y/N mate with anyone. She is a strong woman, Neteyam. She answers to no man's timeline.”

“She... she is unmated?” Neteyam asked again, his voice dropping to a desperate, trembling whisper, completely exposed before the entire council. He didn't care. He needed to hear it. He needed the world to stop spinning.

Elder Okan sighed, his voice carrying the familiar, slightly judgmental tone of the older generation. “She did get pregnant sometime three years ago, yes. But she refused to name the father. No one in the village knows.”

“Because it is unimportant,” Mo’at’s sharp, commanding voice cut through the longhouse like a whip, silencing the elder immediately. She leaned forward, her knowing, amber eyes locking directly onto Neteyam’s pale, trembling form. Her gaze was heavy, loaded with the exact same truth she had leveled at you the day before. “Y/N can raise Ervo all on her own. She is a strong woman, as Tarsem said. She needs no unnamed ghost to claim what is hers.”

“Indeed, Tsahik,” Tarsem agreed, bowing his head.

Got pregnant sometime three years ago...

The words rang in Neteyam’s ears, expanding into a deafening sound that drowned out the rest of the council meeting. Three years ago.

Ervo.

The boy’s small, chubby face flashed in his mind. The round, golden eyes. The shy, familiar little smile that reminded him of Tuk. The way his ears twitched. The strange, unexplainable warmth that had flooded Neteyam's entire chest when their eyes met and when he saw the little boy’s smile. He had thought of his strange resemblance to Tuk, but truly, it had been a resemblance to him.

The boy was his.

Tarsem’s voice brought him back. “Neteyam, as I was saying—”

“What is needed?“ he cut him off.

Tarsem’s lips parted, his eyes volleying in confusion. “That you consider accepting my request to—”

“I accept anything,” he said in a firm voice. Heck, after today, he could build a freaking Hometree using sand.

“Are you sure?” Jake asked, turning to him with furrowed brows.

Neytiri also looked at him with concern. “Son, this is a matter of great consequence. You need to plenty of time to think.”

“Plenty of time is not something we have the luxury of right now. Tarsem needs to be with his family,” he said. And I need to be with my own, he thought.

His parents nodded. As soon as the council wrapped the meeting up, he practically threw himself out of the council longhouse, his long legs eating up the woven pathways as he sprinted toward the upper branches.

He burst into the healing pavilion, his chest heaving, his heart hammering against his ribs. But the pavilion was empty. The small cot where Ervo usually napped was neatly folded, and the mortar and pestle sat clean on the wooden table. A young healer’s apprentice, a girl of fourteen, jumped in startle at his sudden, towering entrance.

“Where is she?” Neteyam demanded, his voice rough and laced with an urgency that terrified the girl. “Where is the Tsakarem?”

“S-she went out,” the girl stammered, pointing a trembling finger toward the lower pathways. “To gather herbs—”

Neteyam didn't let her finish, he turned on his heel and descended the winding ramps frantically. When he finally reached the ground and ran to the dense brush, he immediately saw you.

The afternoon sun was filtering through the canopy, casting long, golden beams of light on you as you walked slowly, your hands reaching down to pluck a root or a leaf.

And right behind you, tailing you with his little feet skipping over the moss, was Ervo. The boy’s cheeks were completely full, puffing out comically as he happily munched on a handful of sweet berries from a leaf, clipped in his small arm is a small Toruk toy.

His boy.

The realization hit Neteyam in the gut with a force strong enough to almost make him fold, breaking the dam he had been building around his heart since he came back, to protect you from his own selfishness. The grief and the jealousy, it all melted away, replaced by a fierce, protective instinct so primal it made him tremble.

The snap of a twig under his large foot broke the silence of the clearing.

You stopped dead in your tracks, your shoulders immediately going rigid, your hand instantly moved to hover protectively over Ervo’s shoulder before you slowly turned around. The moment your eyes landed on Neteyam, your expression hardened into a deep, defensive scowl.

But Neteyam didn't look like the broken, submissive man who had mounded his head in apology in the pavillion days ago. He stood tall, his shoulders squared, his chiseled face bearing a look of absolute confidence. There was still the desperate, drowning look in his golden eyes, but there was also a burning, unyielding clarity.

“‘Teyam?” A small high-pitched voice called.

His gaze slid downward, tracking behind your hip where Ervo was now looking at him.

Your head snapped to your son, wondering at the familiarity in his voice. The little boy remained looking at Neteyam, his round eyes widened because he recognizes the tall stranger from the training grounds. He stopped chewing his berries, his tail giving a hesitant little flick.

“Hi,” Neteyam said, “Ervo.” His voice was incredibly small, a soft, rumbling purr that trembled on the edges as he tried with everything in him not to let it crack. He looked at his son’s small face, tracing the curve of his nose, the almost identical placement of his stripes.

He had been so stupid to believe otherwise. With the clarity he now possessed, he could clearly see that this boy looked more like him and nothing like Tarsem. He didn’t know how he could be so blind.

He blinked when you stepped forward, cutting off his view of the boy. You stood right in front of Neteyam, your head tilted up fiercely. Even though he towered over you, his massive frame casting a long shadow over your smaller one, you didn't show any worry. You looked at him like a mother palulukan defending her cub.

“We need to talk,” Neteyam said, his voice steady but thick with emotion.

You clenched your jaw, your fingers wrapping tightly around the handle of your basket. “I have nothing to say to you,” you told him, your voice cold and impersonal. “I am busy. Move out of my way.”

Neteyam didn't move an inch. He leaned down slightly, bringing his face closer to yours, his golden eyes burning with a truth that could no longer be hidden.

“He’s mine. Isn’t he?”

The question carried no doubt, no hesitation. He knew it in his heart. He knew it in the way his own soul had recognized the boy from the very first moment.

Your face crumpled, a sharp mix of pained exhaustion and deep-seated bitterness tightening your features. You let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-scoff, the shield you had built over the last three years cracking a little under the sheer absurdity of his sudden realization.

“Took you long enough,” you said, your voice dripping with sharp sarcasm. You tilted your head up, daring him to look you in the eyes. “Thought maybe he was fathered by any of the men I laid with after you left?”

His reaction was instantaneous, and you relished it. Neteyam’s jaw locked, his golden eyes narrowing into the sharp, dangerous slits of a furious predator. His ears pinned flat against his head, his chest rising and falling heavily. He looked terrifyingly possessive, a look that used to make your stomach flip, but now it only served as a cold reminder that he was no longer in possession of you. Or your son. In fact, he had absolutely nothing to do with either of you.

“No, I never did,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, intense rumble, emphasizing every single syllable as he fought to keep his temper under wraps. “I thought you were mated to Tarsem. I just learned now that you were not, and the moment I learned, I knew right away that your boy is mine.”

“Tarsem?” you blurted out, a genuine, bewildered chuckle slipping past your lips. It was completely ridiculous. “Tarsem is practically an older brother to me.”

“Y-You are the tsakarem,” he stammered slightly, his fierce demeanor slipping into desperate defense. “In the council meeting, I learned he was mated, and that he had a child. Because he was the Olo’eyktan, surely he would be mated to the future Tsahik... and then I saw you... and Ervo.”

You huffed, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. “And you didn't even think to ask Tarsem?”

“Ask him? I couldn't even look at him without feeling the urge to strangle him,” he admitted bluntly.

The two of you stood there like madmen, standing in a secluded patch of the forest, whispering heatedly to each other just to avoid alarming the little boy whose ears were currently perked up, trying to catch the heavy conversation.

“I suppose I should be thankful to Tarsem then,” you said, a mocking smirk tugging at the corner of your lips.

Neteyam let out a breathy huff, but honestly, nothing could ruin his mood for the rest of his entire life. The crushing weight that had suffocated him for weeks had now vanished and it felt as if he were handed a brand new life. “And I suppose I deserved every bit of that suffering... I thought I had completely lost you—”

“You did,” you cut him off cleanly, your voice turning flat. “Ervo being yours means absolutely nothing for the both of us. If you want to be in his life, you can be. I won't keep him from you.”

Neteyam stared at you, watching your face lock into a firm, business-like expression. It was true that a part of him had foolishly hoped to win back both his son and the love of his life in one breath, but he could work with what you were offering.

For the time being.

After surviving the living hell of thinking you belonged to another man, absolutely nothing could stop him now. Before today, he had accepted that the brutal way he ended things between you had forced you to hate him, to bury his memory under a layer of cold indifference. But while you looked completely detached right now, Neteyam knew his own heart. He was going to come for you so strong, so steadily, that you wouldn't even realize he was doing it until he was fully woven back into your life like he had never left. He was going to pick up exactly where he left off. He was going to get you back.

Breaking the tense silence between you two, you took a deep breath and dropped down onto your haunches, leveling yourself with your son. “Ervo, you’ve met Neteyam before?”

Ervo nodded quickly, pointing a berry-stained finger. “He.. he gave my ball back.”

Neteyam smoothly lowered himself onto his haunches too, bringing his massive frame down to the dirt. Ervo looked at him with a classic mix of childhood shyness and courage. Then, the little boy turned his head to look at you.

“Toruk Makto’s son, Mama?” Ervo asked in a stage whisper, acting as if Neteyam wasn't even sitting right there, discussing him like a fascinating object.

“Yes, my love,” you said gently, tapping his small nose before glancing up at Neteyam. “He’s a big fan.”

A beautiful, breathless chuckle escaped Neteyam, his eyes twinkling with a sheen of tears. “Is that right?” he asked Ervo, carefully placing a large, trembling hand on the boy's small shoulder.

“Yes! I love Toruk!” Ervo beamed, proudly holding up his wooden Toruk toy for Neteyam to see.

“What do you say about coming to meet him later today?” Neteyam asked softly.

The boy's jaw dropped. “Toruk Makto?” he asked in pure wonder.

“Neteyam...” you warned, your eyes widening as you gave your gaze back to him.

Neteyam turned to you, his eyes swimming with unshed tears, but his expression was entirely sincere. “It’s my son’s simple joy, Y/N. I can make it happen for him...” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion.

“But... you’ll have to...” You trailed off, gesturing vaguely toward Hometree.

“Tell them?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I want to tell them, Y/N. I want to tell the entire village, in fact,” he said, his gaze dropping back to the boy before looking at you. “But only if you’ll allow me.”

You bit your lower lip, looking at the raw vulnerability in his face. “Your family... is fine. The entire village... I think it will need time.”

Neteyam nodded firmly, accepting your terms instantly. He turned back to his son with a bright smile. “Yes, my boy. Toruk Makto. Do you want to go meet him?”

“Yes!” Ervo squealed with zero hesitation. Without warning, the little boy threw his entire body forward, launching himself against Neteyam’s broad chest and wrapping his chubby little arms tightly around the warrior’s neck.

The impact seemed to weaken Neteyam significantly. The sheer force of his son’s affection caused him to stagger back slightly, a soft gasp leaving his lips. Neteyam wrapped his long, muscular arms securely around the boy’s tiny frame, burying his face in Ervo’s hair as his tears finally spilled over, rolling down his chiseled cheeks.

Your own face crumpled in sharp pain at the sight. You quickly looked away, blinking back your own tears at how overwhelmingly emotional the moment was. For Neteyam, at least. Because right now, to your innocent son, Neteyam wasn't a long-lost father or a ghost from the past. He was simply a very kind, very cool guy who was going to bring him face-to-face with Toruk Makto.

You all walked back to Hometree together, the foliage parting easily as Neteyam carried Ervo all the way. The boy’s small, heavy weight rested securely against Neteyam’s chest, one of Ervo's sticky, berry-stained hands loosely gripping some of his braids. You walked half a pace behind them, keeping your eyes on the path but acutely aware of how naturally Neteyam’s large arm cradled your son’s frame.

You couldn’t help but notice how Neteyam could barely take his eyes away from the boy. Only looking at the path from time to time to make sure he’s still going the right path, but Ervo has his full attention. When you reached the lower levels of Hometree, you stopped him near a thick root. Several clan members were lingering nearby, not even trying to hide their intense curiosity, eyes darting from Neteyam to the child, and then to you.

“I will prepare him,” you told Neteyam, your voice clipped and entirely business-like as you reached out to take Ervo. “You could just meet us near your family's hut when it's time.”

Neteyam didn't hand the boy over immediately. Instead, he stepped way too close, his towering frame casting a shadow over you. He lowered Ervo gently to his feet, but kept a hand on the boy's shoulder, leaning down slightly so his face was level with yours. “I can help you prepare him,” he offered softly.

Too conscious of the clan’s eyes on you, you shook your head. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Sure? he murmured, his voice a smooth, infuriating purr.

“Yes,” you hissed, grabbing Ervo’s hand. You turned on your heel and marched away, thoroughly thrown off your game by his sudden, relentless proximity.

Neteyam stood alone on the root, but as he watched your retreating form, a soft smile spread across his lips. His heart soared even higher when Ervo suddenly looked back over your hip, flashing a bright grin and waving his small hand. Neteyam waved back, his chest bursting with a brand-new sense of purpose.

Later that evening, you and Ervo walked up the winding ramp toward the large Sully kelku. Neteyam was already on the outside platform, pacing restlessly on the wide branch leading to the entrance. When he saw you, his face lit up, and he quickly guided you both inside.

The rest of the Sully family was entirely clueless. They knew only that Neteyam had insisted on a private family dinner to introduce someone.

The moment you stepped inside after Neteyam, Kiri’s eyes went wide. “Y/N!” she greeted happily, rushing forward to throw her arms around you in a tight hug.

Little Tuk, who was now ten years old and growing fast, stepped closer, her curious gaze dropping instantly to the toddler holding your hand. Ervo, meanwhile, was completely unfazed by the girls. His wide golden eyes were locked onto Jake Sully, looking up at the legendary Toruk Makto with absolute, unadulterated wonder.

Meanwhile, Neytiri took one look at Ervo, at the inquisitive tilt of his head, the unmistakable slope of his nose, and her breath caught. She didn't need to piece anything together. Beside her, Jake was already grinning, recalling Neteyam’s uncharacteristic, panicked outburst at the council meeting about Tarsem and the tsakarem. The pieces fit together perfectly.

“Neteyam?” Neytiri called out, her voice trembling slightly with an emotional weight.

Neteyam took a deep breath, standing taller before he took Ervo cleanly into his arms, lifting the boy up so his family could see him properly. “Dad, Mother... This is Ervo. My son. Born to the woman I love.”

You turned Neteyam with wide eyes but his tearful eyes were entirely on Ervo. The kelku erupted with gasps. Your son, of course, was entirely clueless about the gravity of the moment, only thrilled that the legendary Jake Sully was looking at him like he was some kind of grand prize. Neytiri’s eyes filled with tears as she rushed forward, her hands hovering over Ervo’s face, murmuring about how much he looked like Neteyam as a toddler.

Then, she turned to you. Without a word, she took your hand, pulling you into a fierce, deeply emotional embrace. “Oh, Y/N,” she breathed. “You were all alone...“

Ervo, ever attentive and fiercely protective of you, instantly tracked the movement. Seeing his mother surrounded, his high-pitched voice cut through the loud chatter. “Mama?”

“I’m here, my love,” you smiled, gently pulling away from Neytiri so he could see you.

Reassured, Ervo smiled brightly. He turned back to Jake, excitedly thrusting his Toruk toy forward. His small tail curled tightly around Neteyam’s forearm in a subconscious gesture of comfort, making Neteyam let out a breathless chuckle as his tears rolled down his nose. Neteyam’s eyes found yours across the room. You gave him a very small, hesitant smile before turning back to talk with Neytiri.

The dinner itself was smooth and warm. At first, Ervo was a bit shy, the large family becoming slightly overwhelming for him. Once, he even wriggled in Neteyam's lap, his small hand reaching out toward you. “Mama...” he whined softly.

You leaned over, offering a reassuring smile as you caressed his rounded cheek. “Papa will feed you, baby...” you told him gently.

You looked at his tiny face properly. He was so small. For all the years of his existence, he had never had a father, and he had never asked about one, either. You were only fortunate that he was still too young to be truly curious about the missing piece of his life.

“Papa...” Ervo echoed, testing the word on his tongue.

You nodded, reaching out to gently tap Neteyam’s chest to emphasize the word. “Papa.”

But as your fingers brushed against his chest, your tap inadvertently shifted his leather knife sheath. The strap slid aside, and your eyes caught a glimpse of the faint, thick, raised scar tissue hidden underneath. Right over his heart.

Your eyes snapped up, locking onto Neteyam’s face. He was staring back at you, his eyes completely misty, entirely focused on the profound fact that you had just introduced him to his son as Papa. He hadn't even noticed that his sheath had moved, or that you had seen the mark of the bullet that had nearly taken his life. Your forehead creased in a brief, sudden moment of worry and realization, but before you could dwell on it, Ervo snagged your attention.

The boy jumped in Neteyam’s hold, a demanding grin breaking across his face as he looked up at his father. “Feed me!” he ordered cutely, wrapping one chubby arm securely around Neteyam’s neck.

A massive smile broke across Neteyam’s lips, but a soft, choked sob escaped him at the same time. He bowed his head, a single tear rolling down his pointed nose. Your face crumpled in a sharp pain at the sight. Your hand instinctively balled into a tight fist at your side, forcing yourself to restrain the sudden, overwhelming urge to reach out and comfort him.

Neteyam quickly wiped his face, recovering his composure to feed Ervo, who began eating happily while the rest of the family absolutely doted on him.

“It’s like seeing Neteyam as a toddler all over again,” Jake noted, his own food completely forgotten as he watched Ervo chew his food rapidly, his cheeks puffing out. In fact, everyone at the table was too busy watching the boy to eat. “The kid eats like a syaksyuk.”

Neytiri smiled warmly at you. “Y/N, your blood did not fight back at all,” she joked and you chuckled. She looked as though she wanted to ask a thousand questions about the last three years, but she wisely chose not to meddle between you and Neteyam.

“How old is he?” Tuk asked you shyly, leaning over the table to peek at Ervo.

You smiled at the girl before turning to your son. “Ervo, how old are you?”

Your son proudly held up two fingers. “This many,” he said grandly.

Neteyam chuckled, and the entire table burst into a loud laughter. Ervo smiled proudly, soaking up the attention.

“Oh, you are still a baby,” Tuk teased gently.

Ervo’s ears immediately pinned back as he scowled, shaking his head. “Not a baby!”

You pursed your lips, trying not to laugh as the family shared another collective chuckle over his little outburst. You reached over, pressing  a palm against Ervo’s chest to calm him while Neteyam instinctively began rubbing the boy's back in perfect synchronization. “Sorry, he’s in that stage...” you murmured.

Ervo quickly forgot his anger anyway, his eyes locking onto the sweetroot pie. He pointed a finger at Neteyam, asking his father for a piece. Neteyam chuckled and glanced at you for permission.

You nodded slightly. “Just a little. Too much sweets keep him up all night,” you whispered softly.

You immediately clamped your mouth shut when Ervo’s head swiveled toward you, his ears perking up at the word 'sweets'. Neteyam let out a quiet laugh, quickly distracting the boy by showing him the pie.

After dinner, the family moved outside to catch the cool evening air, stepping onto the wide woven platform that wrapped around the exterior of the kelku. Jake and Neytiri had asked to spend time with Ervo, and Jake was currently enticing the boy with wild, grand stories about Toruk. Ervo was completely captivated, though his golden eyes still occasionally flicked back to the edge of the platform to make sure you were still there.

“He is so protective of you,” Neteyam noted softly, stepping up to stand beside you.

You kept your gaze fixed on Ervo, who was currently talking to Jake like he was a grown warrior, wildly gesturing with his hands and adding his own imaginary details to Jake's Toruk stories. A soft, genuine smile touched your lips, and you rubbed your arms with your palms against the evening breeze.

“He is...” you replied quietly. “But it’s also because we are always together. For a little boy like he is, I am the whole world. Now... that world will be expanding for him.”

Neteyam looked down at you, his expression intensely wistful, the bioluminescent dots on his face glowing brighter, telling you of the intensity of his feelings. “I’m sorry about everything being so rushed... will it be a shock for him?” he asked, his voice laced with genuine worry.

“I don’t think so... he’s still very young, and I don’t think he truly understands the concept of what a father is yet,” you admitted, biting your lower lip. “I no longer have parents where he can see a normal family dynamic, and he hasn’t gotten to the age where he asks about his friends’ fathers. To him, you are just a new, wonderful person in his life.”

You heard him let out a heavy, shuddering breath. “I’m sorry, Y/N...” he whispered, his voice cracking, dropping to a small, broken tone. “I am so fucking sorry I was not here with you. That I didn’t know when I should have known—”

“Because you were fighting a war to make sure he would have a safe world to live in, Neteyam,” you cut him off cleanly, turning your head to look at him. “And you couldn’t have known because I chose not to tell you. You have done nothing wrong to our boy, but you do have a lot to make up for.”

Tears pooled heavily in his golden eyes, reflecting the soft blue light of the forest. “But I have done you wrong. I hurt you, Y/N... I didn’t have to leave the way I did. I was so cruel—”

You shook your head slowly, letting out a soft sigh as you looked back out at your son’s laughing form. “Let’s leave the past behind us, Neteyam,” you cut him off again, your voice unyielding. “I am a mother now. The one thing it did to me is make me realize that all of my woes and heartaches before I became one don’t matter nearly as much as my son’s well-being.”

Neteyam stared at you, watching the solemn, fierce, and beautiful maturity of your face. He found his chest aching, completely melting for this version of you, too. The incredible, unbreakable woman that his son had made of you. You were stronger than any warrior he had ever fought alongside, stronger even than himself.

He loved you so deeply it terrified him. And as he watched you watch his son, Neteyam swore a silent vow to Eywa that he would stop at nothing to make you feel, believe, and trust in that love again.

The next day, you woke up with the familiar weight of your son’s small body missing from your side, not an unusual occurrence, as Ervo was a notoriously early riser, usually content to play quietly with his wooden toys near the entrance of the kelku.

But your attention was quickly snagged by the sound of the woven flap being opened wildly. Ervo came rushing back inside, his little feet pattering frantically over the mats. You sat up, seeing his face was flushed with pure, unadulterated excitement, his golden eyes wide as plate saucers.

“Mama! Mama, look!” he chirped, dragging you up. “Papa is sleeping outside!”

Your breath hitched. Papa. The word still felt entirely foreign. You pushed yourself up, your forehead creasing with confusion. Stepping out onto your kelku’s small, private platform, your jaw nearly went slack as you looked up.

There, suspended between two thick branches just a few steps away from outside your entrance, was a sturdy hammock. Hanging carelessly from a nearby knot in the wood were Neteyam’s massive longbow and a leather quiver full of arrows, swaying gently in the morning breeze. Neteyam himself was just waking up, his long, muscular frame shifting as he stretched, his tail lazily dropping over the edge of the woven fabric.

He looked down, his golden eyes instantly locking onto yours. The moment he saw your stern expression, he smoothly swung his legs out, dropping down onto the main branch. He looked a bit rumpled from sleep, but his posture was instantly alert, a soft, eager smile instantly forming on his lips when Ervo peeked out from behind your thigh.

“Neteyam, why are you sleeping out here?” you asked, keeping your voice low.

“I just thought it would be convenient,” he said, his deep voice carrying a gravelly, morning rasp. He rubbed the back of his neck. “If you need anything, I’m right here. If there is danger, I’ll be here to protect you both.”

Your lips parted, a frustrated, disbelieving breath escaping you. “There’s... there’s absolutely no need for this, Neteyam. Truly. We have lived here for years, and none of that danger has happened. And if we ever need—”

“Please,” he cut you off gently, stepping forward. The towering, confident warrior from the previous evening seemed to completely vanish, replaced by a man looking down at you with a gaze so heavy with repentance it made your chest ache. “I want to help you in any way I can. I want to be of use to you. Tell me anything you need done, and I will get it done. Anything you want, I will find it. I came back too late, Y/N. We should have been a team raising Ervo from the moment he was formed... but you were all alone in it.”

You could see the raw, agonizing struggle on his face. You know Neteyam. He was never one to just do things to force his way into your bed. And right now, he was literally begging for the dirty work. He was begging for the labor and the heavy lifting.

You remembered the promise you had made him the day before: you wouldn't keep Ervo from him. You looked down at your son, who was already staring up at Neteyam like he was an invincible giant, and you let out a long, defeated sigh.

“Fine,” you said, your voice entirely flat, masking the way your heart gave a traitorous thump against your ribs. “Ervo needs to wash, and he hasn't had breakfast yet. I need fresh fire-roots from the lower gatherers, and the water basin is completely empty.”

Neteyam’s eyes lit up instantly, a profound, breathless look of gratitude washing over his features as if you had just handed him a decree rather than a list of mundane chores. “I'm on it,” he said quickly, nodding with an intense, ironclad seriousness. “I’ll get the water first.”

Neteyam moved so fast you’d think he had a visible countdown ticking away right on his face. He practically flew down the branches of Hometree, returning in record time with heavy, sloshing containers of clean water to completely top off your large storage basins. Not stopping there, he immediately grabbed every single empty waterskin from its woven basket, jogging down to the river to fill them with cold water. He lined them up perfectly, wiped clean, as if he were preparing a high-ranking commander’s tent for inspection.

With the water sorted, he disappeared again, darting toward the communal kitchens to fetch breakfast.

Down at the bustling cooking fires, he came face-to-face with Marla for the first time in years. The older woman paused, a warm, knowing smile spreading across her wrinkled face as she looked at the young warrior. “What do you need, boy?” she asked, as if he never left and this was just a normal day where he comes to you food.

“A tray of food for Y/N and our boy,” Neteyam said, a small, nearly imperceptible smile tugging at his lips at the words our boy.

It felt like a normal day three years back, but this time, he was getting food for you and the child you two made.

Marla’s eyebrows raised in surprise, just a fraction, before she hummed softly. “And none for you?” she asked, her hands already deftly assembling a generous tray of fresh fruit, roasted fish, and steamed roots.

Neteyam shook his head quickly. He didn't think you’d particularly enjoy having his him hovering around the mat for breakfast just yet. He didn't want to push his luck.

As she wrapped the food in clean leaves, Marla looked at him gently. “How was the eastern sea like, boy?”

“Beautiful...” Neteyam murmured, his voice dipping into a wistful, quiet tone. “But I wasn’t really there for its beauty.”

The truth was, not only was the war cold and brutal, it had been a psychological prison for him. Every Na’vi was taught from birth to put their full trust in Eywa, to meet death without fear because all energy is borrowed... and one day, you’ll have to give it back. But Neteyam? Neteyam had feared death every single day. He had been terrified of dying, not out of cowardice, but because of the sheer agony of what he had left behind.

He had wanted to go home to you so badly. Sure, he had cut things off and hurt you deeply before leaving, foolishly convincing himself that making you hate him would be better than leaving you to mourn a dead mate if he never returned. But the moment the sky people's bullets started flying, all he wanted was to live. To survive, go home, and hold you in his arms again.

“I didn’t know how much I missed...” he voiced out softly.

Marla sighed, her expression softening with deep maternal sympathy. She reached out, patting his hand with a heavy, grounding comfort. “You were fighting a war, boy. To keep the sky people from ruining this world,” she reminded him gently. “If you must know... she is very strong. Very strong. And your boy is, too.”

Neteyam’s eyes snapped up to her, pooling with fresh tears. The words were meant to comfort him, but they only fed the monster of regret clawing at his chest. He had missed so much. No matter how many times you or Marla told him that it was a time of war and he couldn't have known, he still felt the agonizing weight of his absence. He should have been there to hold your hand while you were heavy with Ervo, he should have been there to witness every single one of his son's first milestones.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he thanked Marla, took the heavy tray, and walked back up to your kelku.

By the time he stepped back inside, Ervo was already cleanly bathed and changed into a fresh, tiny loincloth. The boy was energized as ever, and the moment Neteyam set the tray down and lifted him up, Ervo smelled so naturally of a baby and sweet sap that Neteyam couldn't help but bury his face in the boy's hair, snuggling into him with a soft sigh.

Ervo giggled loudly, his little hand immediately reaching up to grab at Neteyam’s braids. He looked over at you as you knelt by the tray, arranging the food. “Papa will feed me?” Ervo asked, his high-pitched voice filled with easy trust.

You paused, looking up from the food to glance at Neteyam. Neteyam froze, his eyes wide and pleading, nodding down at you rapidly as he immediately lowered his massive frame onto the woven floor, setting Ervo securely on his lap.

“What about your morning patrol?” you mumbled quietly, keeping your voice low so only he could hear.

You watched as Ervo settled against Neteyam’s chest like it was the absolute best seat in the entire world, vastly bigger, sturdier, and much more comfortable than any mat.

“It won't be for another hour,” Neteyam replied softly, his attention snagged by your son, who was aggressively pointing a sticky finger at the specific fruit he wanted to eat. Neteyam immediately jumped into action, carefully peeling it and breaking it into perfect, toddler-sized bites.

Your lips pushed forward slightly, a tiny, involuntary twitch of amusement hitting you as you watched a legendary, hardened warrior completely smitten, utterly held captive by the small hands of your little boy.

Without a word, you pushed your own leaf of food toward Neteyam. You couldn't finish everything anyway, and he clearly hadn't brought anything for himself. You immediately looked away, deliberately avoiding his reaction, completely missing the way his golden eyes literally lit up with a breathless joy just because you shared your food with him.

Once breakfast was done, Neteyam practically refused to let you touch a single dish. He cleaned up everything in a flash while you gathered your stuff and prepared for your day at the healing pavilion.

As you moved around the kelku, Neteyam bit his lower lip, his eyes quietly tracking your every movement. A heavy, aching tightness gripped his chest. It felt so beautifully, agonizingly domestic. This was the life that should have been his if he had just played his cards right. If he had only known there was still so much left to live and play for.

When it was time to leave, he insisted on walking you to the pavilion, with Ervo still riding happily in his arms.

As you stepped inside the shade of the healing pavilion, you glanced back at the pair. “That boy will forget how to walk if you keep carrying him everywhere,” you noted, your tone carrying a humored edge.

Neteyam smiled warmly, stepping into the pavilion after you. “Just let me,” he murmured softly, gently cradling the back of his son’s head in the crook of his neck. “He fits so perfectly in my arms.”

He carefully set Ervo down on a soft mat, ruffling the boy’s fluffy hair.

“Papa will come back right after my patrol, okay? We’ll go play. What do you think about that?”

Ervo nodded rapidly, already thoroughly distracted by some scattered wooden toys he had left there the day before. “Okay. I wait,” Ervo chirped.

Neteyam smiled breathlessly, leaning down to press a tender kiss to the top of his son's head. As he straightened up, his golden eyes flicked up to meet yours, holding your gaze for a long, quiet beat.

You found, with a sudden leap in your chest, that you still knew him entirely too well. You didn't even need words to understand the silent message written all over his face: Please let me keep coming back.

For the next weeks, it’s all he ever did.

He sleeps in a hammock outside your kelku, wakes up to fetch you and Ervo breakfast, and goes to his morning patrol only to come back to spend time with Ervo. He climbed the treacherous upper water-vines three times a week, bringing back the sweetest, clearest mountain run-off before you even had the chance to check the waterskins for refill.

Most days, you won’t even need to ask the gatherers the specific, rare herbs that needed replenishing, you’d find them already restocked, knowing that Neteyam had to have gone to the slippery, moss-covered undersides of the floating mountains to get them, and still be back before dinner.

One hot afternoon, you walked down to the lower training clearing to find him completely surrounded by the village children. Ervo was sitting securely on top of Neteyam's broad shoulders, holding onto his ears like reins, his little tail swishing with absolute pride.

Neteyam was kneeling on one knee in the dirt, completely unbothered by the weight of your son. In his hands, he held a small, practice bow, the kind given to young children just beginning their training, and a single blunt arrow.

The village kids were huddled around him in a tight, breathless semicircle, their wide golden eyes glued to his every movement. None of them questioned why a decorated warrior of the Great War was spending his precious afternoon off hanging out with a bunch of kids. To them, he was simply the coolest person alive.

“You must not just look with your eyes,” Neteyam explained, his deep voice dropping into a quiet, captivating whisper that had every single child leaning in closer. He adjusted his grip on the tiny bow, his massive hands looking almost comical against the small wood. “You must feel the wind on your skin. Listen to your surroundings and keep sharp, Eywa will tell you exactly where to go.”

With an effortless, fluid grace, Neteyam drew the string back. High above them, a single, broad green leaf loosed itself from a branch, lazily fluttering down. The blunt arrow struck the falling leaf and with a dull pop, the arrow and leaf landed on the bush.

The clearing absolutely erupted. The children gasped, clapping their hands and jumping up and down in pure amazement. Ervo, right on top of his father's shoulders, let out a high-pitched, victorious shriek, bouncing so hard that Neteyam had to quickly reach up with one large hand to steady the boy, a soft, booming chuckle escaping his chest.

“Me next! Papa, let me try!” Ervo said excitedly.

Neteyam’s ears twitched forward, a breathless smile breaking across his face at the title. He carefully hoisted Ervo down from his shoulders, cradling him against his chest as he looked up and finally spotted you standing at the edge of the clearing.

The moment his eyes met yours, the confidence vanished just a little. His posture softened completely, his golden eyes searching your face with that familiar, quiet hope. He turned to the kids and told them something you couldn’t quite hear before he headed over to you, wiping sweat from his forehead, his breathing slightly heavy.

“Is it time for his nap?” Neteyam asked eagerly, his ears perked up, entirely ready to carry the boy back up the massive tree.

“No,” you replied softly, holding Ervo’s hand and kissing the palm of it, causing him to giggle. “But it is almost his nap time.”

Neteyam adjusted his grip on Ervo, his fingers splaying protectively over the boy’s small lower back. “Going somewhere?” he asked, looking down at you.

You hesitated, your eyes briefly scanning the woods beyond the clearing. You bit your lower lip, a sudden wave of distraction clouding your features. “I’m just getting something.”

“If you need anything, I’ll get it for you,” he said instantly, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. He stepped closer, his shadow falling over you like a shield. “That way you can put Ervo down for his nap and you don’t need to go out there.”

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, weighing your options. The mid-day heat was picking up, and Ervo’s eyelids were already drooping against Neteyam’s chest. “I just need some moon lily and tealo leaves,” you admitted, your focus drifting.

You were entirely too preoccupied to notice the way Neteyam’s head reared back slightly, a heavy shadow of fear and surprise violently washing over his chiseled features. He knew exactly what those two herbs combined to create. You used to drink that exact eclipse tea years ago, back when the two of you were stealing moments in the dark, desperate to prevent a pregnancy before you two were properly mated. He used to be the one to get them for you.

“I’ll get it for you,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, thick and strained as he forced a weak, hollow smirk onto his face. “I know exactly where to find them, remember? Been here, done that.”

He was trying to play it cool, to inject some humor into the air, but inside, his chest was collapsing. Yes, you weren't mated. But that didn't mean you didn't have a lover. Even when the two of you had been secretly together, half the young men in the clan had tried their luck with you. He didn't doubt for a single second that they were still trying, and the thought that one of them might have finally won, that you needed this tea... made him want to curl up and scream into the dirt.

“Are you sure?” you asked, completely missing his inner turmoil.

“Yes,” he nodded tightly, carefully transferring a sleepy Ervo into your arms.

“Thank you, Neteyam,” you murmured, adjusting your hold on your son and turning to head up toward the pavilion.

An hour later, the bead curtains of the pavilion rustled, and Neteyam stepped inside. Ervo was already fast asleep on a small cot in the corner, and you were at your workspace, meticulously washing the fresh moon lily and tealo leaves Neteyam had brought back.

Neteyam’s golden eyes instantly tracked a young woman sitting quietly in the corner of the room, her tail twitching nervously.

“I am so sorry for the hassle, tsakarem...” the girl, Peyra, whispered for the nth time. She watched you grind the herbs into a paste, completely uncaring that Neteyam was standing just paces away.

You let out a heavy sigh, pouring hot water over the mixture. “This is not a hassle, Peyra. It is only that I wish you would be more responsible with your intake if you are going to be having regular sex.”

And oh, the irony of your own words was not lost on you. The literal, living proof of your own past irresponsibility was snoring softly just a few feet away. Peyra nodded sheepishly, gratefully accepting the wooden bowl of steaming tea you handed her, drinking it down quickly before offering a polite nod and slipping out of the pavilion.

Once the curtain settled, you glanced up. Neteyam was still standing exactly where he had been minutes ago, rooted to the floor like a massive, awkward tree.

“What?” you asked, wiping your hands on a clean cloth.

He shrugged his broad shoulders, shifting his weight. “I thought...”

Your eyes narrowed at his sketchy behavior. “You thought what?” When he didn't answer, the pieces suddenly clicked in your mind. A look of sheer disbelief crossed your face. “You thought that was for me?”

Neteyam licked his dry lips, his ears pinning back in pure embarrassment as he looked away. “Not... not in a bad way,” he muttered, his voice quiet. “I just thought... well, the men of this clan would have to be incredibly stupid not to shoot their shot while I was gone.”

You raised a single eyebrow, entirely unamused but secretly startled by the possessive edge in his tone. “I have a toddler and a healing pavilion to run, Neteyam. I have absolutely no time for that.”

“Of course,” he responded instantly. The sheer, overwhelming wave of relief that washed over him practically took all his words away. His shoulders dropped, the suffocating tension leaving his frame.

Trying to break the sudden silence, you went back to organizing your tools, casually asking, “Do the reef people have their own contraceptives? Perhaps made of seaweeds?”

Neteyam blinked, thoroughly caught off guard. His brow furrowed in genuine confusion as he actually had to think about it. “Not that I know of. I never laid with anyone back there.”

Your fingers froze over your grinding stone. Your forehead relaxed for a brief, traitorous second, a strange lightness hitting your chest before you quickly forced your features back into a harsh, defensive scowl. “I didn’t ask you that.”

“Right. Of course,” he said, a tiny, breathless smile tugging at his lips at the sight of your incredibly cute, stubborn scowl. He knew he was pushing his luck, so he quickly cleared his throat, stepping back toward the exit to return to his normal programming. “I’ll get going. I have a meeting with the council.”

You watched him walk out, the beads clattering behind him. The moment he was gone, you bit your lip, lowering your head to lean your forrhead against the table as you tried to calm the frantic beating of your heart. You had tried so hard over the last three years to bury your curiosity, to force yourself to believe he had found a woman in Awa’atlu just so the pain of him leaving would finally numb out.

But hearing him say, so casually and honestly, that he had never been wth anyone else... it unleashed a warmth you weren't prepared to handle. You were still so deeply affected by him, and you hated how easily he could still disrupt your peace.

Meanwhile, inside the council longhouse, the atmosphere was heavy. The village elders were gathered in a circle, mapping out the upcoming leadership transition between Tarsem and Neteyam. Tarsem was set to return from the Tayrangi clan on the day of the mantle passing, but before that could happen, the elders were strictly focusing on political technicalities.

When Neteyam arrived and sat beside his parents, Neytiri leaned over, quietly explaining the current topic of discussion. Neteyam’s brow furrowed in deep confusion.

He looked across the fire at one of the senior elders leading the discussion. “Forgive me, but why are we discussing a list of prospective betrothals for me? Doesn’t the clan already have a tsakarem?”

The elders shifted uncomfortably, exchanging uneasy, pointed glances. Finally, Elder Okan cleared his throat, leaning forward. “Well... we do, Neteyam. But... Y/N is... for lack of a better word, disgraced. She had a child outside the sacred bond. She is a—”

“Elder Okan,” Neteyam interrupted cleanly, instantly silencing the entire longhouse.

Neteyam stood up, his massive frame towering over the council fire. He looked the elders, the warriors, and every single member of the council dead in the eye, his gaze burning with a fierce, protective fury.

“If she is a disgrace to this clan, that is only because I disgraced her,” he stated, his voice echoing off the woven walls with absolute authority.

The room remained silent, listening to him.

“I am the father of her child,” Neteyam said. “I got her with child, and then I left her here, completely alone, to bear the weight of my absence and raise our son. I broke her heart and left her in the dark to go fight the war for our people. And through all of it, she did not break. She rebuilt herself again and again, she raised a beautiful boy, and she proved her worth and her devotion to the healing of our people every single day.”

He watched realization and shame dawn in their faces. If it weren’t for Mo’at years ago, these people wouldn’t even have considered you as the tsakarem. They overlook what you do for the people and it didn’t mean anything to Neteyam anymore now that they seemed to have feel a deep respect for you only after he spoke on your behalf and destroyed his own perfect son, perfect soldier reputation.

He is far from perfect. Not when he left you alone to be ravaged by these people.

“She is the only woman I will ever mate with. And if this clan wants me as their Olo’eyktan, they will accept her as their Tsahik.”

Neytiri patted his hand on the table. “Has she agreed to be your mate, Neteyam?”

Neteyam swallowed, glancing down at his mother. He shook his head, “No,” he said. “But I'm going to court her...”

Jake scoffed, stifling a smile. “Better get to it, son,“ he said as he cleared his throat.

One morning, Neteyam walked you two to the pavilion as per usual, but you noticed some elders watching from a far. It had felt like you were in a circus in the past moons, with the clan members watching your every move like they were trying to unleash a secret.

When you were younger, you were more eager to please, more  eager to belong because you grew up an orphan. But being a mother had changed all that, you care for no one’s opinion now, and you genuinely feel like you owe none of them an explanation about Ervo, and who his father was, even though it has gotten rather obvious who exactly it was.

“I'll come back later, baby,“ Neteyam told Ervo, kissing his temple but when you glanced at him, his eyes were on you as though he was talking to you.

You looked away when you felt your heart jostle inside your chest. Sometimes, when he talks to Ervo... It feels like he was talking to you. He put Ervo down and your son waved up at him quietly as he began to walk. You dropped down on one knee, wrapping an arm around your son. He always seems so sad when Neteyam has to leave.

“Bye, Papa!” you said in a small voice, urging him to mimic you.

Neteyam looked down at you both, waving at Ervo, his eyes soft on you.

“Take care, Papa,” you urged Ervo to say.

“Take care, Papa!” your son parroted in a high-pitched voice and you kissed his round cheek.

Neteyam laughed and waved at him again. When you entered the pavilion, you remembered your stone mortar that Neteyam had painstakingly sourced and gifted you years and years ago when you became one of the apprentice healers. It had cracked right down the middle the previous afternoon and you couldn’t help but sigh in a moment of grief as you thought of trudging down to the claymakers on the lower levels to seek a replacement.

You did a double look on your workable, though, when you caught sight of a brand-new mortar and pestle.

You made your way to it, your heart soaring excitedly. You ran your fingers over the smooth, flawless grain of the dark river stone. It was perfectly weighted, the edges meticulously shaved down and grooved to explicitly fit the unique contour of your palm. It was a signature style you recognized instantly, only Neteyam worked stone with that specific patience, and only he knew the shape of your palm.

You looked beyond the curtains, on the pathway where Neteyam had disappeared for morning patrol.

Over the next weeks, a quiet wave of things you were still just about to need and want was already manifesting before you, though Neteyam had never given you a reason to question this. It was as though he was anticipating your every need before you could even vocalize them, entirely devoted to your convenience.

One night, a chaotic hunting accident had kept you at the healing pavilion until long past eclipse, stitching deep lacerations and mixing poultices. Marla had already kindly sent up a tray of dinner hours ago, and you had eaten in quiet intervals between patients.

By the time the pavilion cleared out, you were exhausted, sitting on the woven mat to sort the remaining herbs. Ervo was leaning his small, heavy body completely against your side. His eyelids were heavy, blinking slowly against the soft glow of the hanging firepots, but his stubborn little fingers were tightly hooked into your beaded top, desperately holding out.

The soft clatter of the curtains made both of you look up, seeing Neteyam step inside, fresh from what must have been a grueling, late-night council meeting.

The moment your eyes landed on him, an involuntary warmth flooded your chest, and your face lit up before you could even think to mask it.

“Papa!“ Ervo voiced the exact excitement you were obviously feeling.

“Hello, my boy,” Neteyam smiled, the exhaustion instantly draining from his face. He dropped to one knee as Ervo scrambled up and ran toward him, his small body crashing directly into his father. Neteyam’s golden eyes flicked up to meet yours, and you didn't even try to remove the soft smile lingering on your lips.

“The little man won't sleep without you,” you said, shaking your head with a gentle huff before looking back down at the roots on the table.

Neteyam chuckled, looking down at his son, whose eyes were suddenly twinkling with newfound energy. “Is that so?” he grinned, immediately digging his large fingers into the boy's sides to tickle him, earning a loud, breathless fit of giggles that made you look up again, completely charmed. “Is that why you were practically leaning against Mama already, but still you won’t sleep, hm, little warrior?”

You watched as Neteyam smoothly scooped the boy up, cradling him in his massive arms like an infant. Ervo threw his head back, laughing endlessly as Neteyam leaned down to blow air against his exposed neck, tickling him until the toddler was completely out of breath.

“Neteyam...” you called out, your voice a soft, warning murmur to break up the rowdiness. “He needs to sleep.”

He grinned, settling the boy deeper into the crook of his arm as he sat down properly on the mat across from you. “You sleep now, little man. Close your eyes.”

“But tomorrow... tomorrow...” Ervo mumbled, his small hands weakly waving in the air, trying to animate a bow and arrow. Neteyam had been taking him out for archery practice with a blunt arrow, and the boy had been entirely crazy about it.

“Yes, yes, tomorrow, Papa will teach you again,” Neteyam promised softly, leaning down to press a tender kiss to the tip of his nose.

“Ervo, don’t you miss your bugs?” you interjected from your spot, crushing a handful of dried leaves.

“I miss... I watched bugs today, Mama... many bugs... many colors...” Ervo trailed off, his voice dropping into a sleepy slur. His heavy eyelids finally fluttered shut, his little head snuggling deep into the warm expanse of Neteyam’s chest.

Neteyam let out a quiet, breathless sigh, his eyes snapping to yours as a soft, private smile pulled at his lips. You smiled back, the quiet domesticity of the room wrapping around the three of you like a blanket.

“You're here late today,” he noted quietly, his gaze dropping to the sheer volume of plants around you.

You sighed, rolling your shoulders out. “Most of the herbs needed restocking after tonight, and I just felt the sudden urge to clean everything up... for my own convenience tomorrow.”

“Ever the perfectionist,” he murmured, his lips twisting into a fond, nostalgic smirk.

As he shifted to get more comfortable, Ervo’s heavy head moved against his shoulder, once again pushing his chest knife sheath completely out of place. Your eyes lowered instinctively, and under the steady light of the fire, you saw the scar clearly. It was a vicious, jagged scar of raised, pale flesh.

Your brow furrowed, a sudden chill running through your veins. “What happened?”

The easy, playful aura around Neteyam evaporated instantly, turning deeply serious. “The war,” he answered bluntly.

You huffed, frustrated by his brevity. “I know it's from the war, Neteyam. I am a tsakarem. I am asking what happened.”

He looked at you for a long beat, adjusting his sleeping son securely against his torso. “I got shot,” he said in a tone that undermines what happened. “The metal went deep. Almost died.”

You took in a sharp, ragged breath as a terrifying tremble shook through your core, but you quickly steeled your expression, trying desperately to hide how profoundly the thought of his near death shook you to the bone. You bit your lower lip hard enough to draw color. “I'm glad you lived...” you mumbled, your eyes glued to the floor.

He let out a wistful, quiet scoff, a tiny smirk forming on his face. “You pulled me back,” he murmured softly. “Otherwise, that version of Neteyam never would have known about your struggles, or the fact that you brought Ervo into this world. I never would have known my son.”

Your forehead creased deeply, a sudden sting behind your eyes as tears began to pool. “Pulled you... back?”

“I succumbed to darkness then... But I dreamed of you,” he confessed, his gaze dropping to Ervo as if the absolute intensity of your stare was too much for him to bear. “We were at the river... You kissed me and told me to wake up. So I did.” He swallowed hard, finally forcing his golden eyes back up to lock onto yours. “Y/N, I know I said stupid, unforgivable things to you before I left three years ago. I hurt you, and I—”

“And you shouldn't have?” you cut him off, your voice cracking as the buried agony flared to life in your chest. “I think I already know what you're going to say, Neteyam, and I tried to understand—”

“No, you don't understand,” he pressed, taking a step forward on his knees, his face entirely open and desperate. “I said what I said, but that didn't mean I meant a single word of it. I love you, Y/N. I loved you so much then, and I love you so much still. Even much more now.”

“You told me it was not serious,” you said, the words slipping out in a small, broken voice that felt like an open wound. “You told me to my face that it was a passing thing, that you would find someone better in the reefs and you’d settle down there. You were so cruel to me... and I must admit, I rejoiced when you came back entirely alone.”

You knew you had told him then that the past didn't matter anymore since you became a mother, but sitting here in the dark, looking at his scar, you realized you were still entirely haunted by that.

A small, incredibly tender smile formed on his lips at your confession. “I bet you did,” he murmured softly. “But I lied about all of it. How could I find someone better when I had already had the best thing in this world? And I was never going to settle down with anyone that wasn't you. It sounds stupid, but I was so terrified I would die out there, Y/N. I thought it would be easier for you to mourn a man you hated, rather than a man you were waiting for. I didn't want you to be hurt when I couldn’t be here.”

“I got hurt anyway,” you whispered, your lips pulling down as the first heavy tear spilled down your cheek.

Seeing your tears, Neteyam didn't hesitate. Moving with extreme care so as not to disturb the sleeping toddler wrapped in his left arm, he slid across the mat until he was kneeling directly beside you. He reached out a trembling hand, his fingers stopping just inches from your knee, desperate to touch but terrified of crossing the line.

“I know,” he whispered, his voice thick and fractured. “I thought I was protecting you but all I did was poison what we had and the time we had left then. All I did was leave you with that pain while you carry my child. The desire alone to bring back time and change everything is already the heaviest burden I will carry.”

You turned to him and the sight of your tears knocked the air out of him like he had been struck in the gut. His arm reached up to wrap around you and pull you to him and you allowed him to hug you. The moment his scent hit you, everything in you collapsed. You buried your face against the crook of his neck, resting your forehead heavily against his sturdy shoulder as a quiet sob escaped you. Neteyam held you tight, his large hand pressing firmly into your back, burying his face in your hair as his own silent tears flowed.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered over and over into your hair, his voice trembling. “I am here and I will never leave your side again. I love you so much...”

A sudden, rhythmic rustle of the bead curtains echoed through the pavilion.

You both stiffened slightly, pulling back just enough to look toward the entrance. Your breath hitched. Standing in the doorway, illuminated by the moonlight, was the Tsahik herself. Mo'at stood, her sharp, knowing eyes sweeping over both of you. You with your tear-stained face, Neteyam with his arm wrapped fiercely around you, and little Ervo snoring peacefully between you.

You pulled away and wiped your tears off, while Neteyam looked everywhere but his grandmother. Mo’at shook her head, completely ignoring the emotional wreckage but she couldn’t let the shyness slip.

“Are you really acting like two teenagers caught hugging? Please. Not while your little boy was between you two,“ she said with an experience that remained entirely unbothered. “The moon lily roots need to be steeped, tsakarem—”

“Yes, Tsahik. I... know what to do,” you said in a soft voice.

“Hm,” she responded before slipping back through the curtain, leaving the three of you in the quiet darkness.

You finished up your work at the pavilion in the quiet hour following Mo’at departure. Neteyam walked you up to your kelku, the cool night air wrapping around you both while he carried a deeply sleeping Ervo in his arms.

When you stepped inside the familiar dome of your home, you struck a flint to light the hanging firepot, casting a low, golden glow across the woven walls. Neteyam moved silently, laying the sleeping mats out properly so he could ease Ervo down. But the moment the boy’s back touched the mat, he stirred and let out a soft, tiny whimper. His small, chubby arms reached up blindly, wrapping tightly around Neteyam’s neck.

“Papa...” his small voice croaked in his sleep.

Neteyam let out a profoundly endearing sound, his chest hitching as he immediately wrapped his broad arm around Ervo to anchor him. “I’m here, boy,” he mumbled, leaning down to press a tender kiss to Ervo’s small head.

He looked up at you from his position on the floor, a quiet, slightly hesitant smile playing on his lips. Your lips twisted into a soft expression. “You can stay,” you said quietly, stepping onto the mat. “If you want.”

“I want,” he answered right away, without a second of hesitation. His large hand splayed over his son’s chest, the gentle weight calming the toddler completely. Ervo settled back down, his grip loosening slightly, though his arms remained loosely draped around Neteyam's neck.

You sat on the edge of the mat, leaning over to carefully pry Ervo’s arms away so Neteyam could sit up, but your son only tightened his hold, nuzzling his little face directly against his father’s cheek as a cute, stubborn sound escaped his mouth.

You let out a soft chuckle and shook your head, giving up. “Well, I guess you’ll just have to wake up with a stiff neck tomorrow,” you whispered.

Lowering yourself onto your side on the mat, you tucked your hand under your head to use it as a pillow. Your soft eyes looked at your son, watching his peaceful, even breaths. As you stared, your gaze naturally traveled past the boy's face and met Neteyam’s eyes.

The two of you were entirely silent for a long moment, just staring into each other’s eyes across the space of your sleeping child. It didn't feel awkward, and the tension had translated into something incredibly warm, grounded, and so deeply familiar that your eyes pricked with unshed tears for a fleeting second.

“How was it like?” he mumbled, his voice a low rumble.

“Hm?” You shifted your hand, gently caressing Ervo’s soft head.

“When you were alone here... everything,” he murmured, his ears dipping slightly in a display of profound vulnerability. “I want to know... if I can.”

Your lips twisted into a faint smile. “I didn't move here until after I gave birth. I was still living at the communal shelter before that... so I was basically the prime example of what not to be,” you noted, trying to chuckle the memory off with a soft smirk.

Neteyam’s brows furrowed deeply, his chest tightening. “Were you shunned?”

“Not really... Mo’at made me her tsakarem,” you said softly. “And then, when I finally gave birth, we moved into this kelku... and we made it our home.”

Neteyam smiled weakly, his eyes scanning the cozy hut. It was filled with woven baskets, drying herbs, and small wooden toys, everything that meant so much to you and your son. “How was it like? When he was a baby?”

“He was hungry all the time, but he didn't cry much. He was the goodest boy,” you mumbled, leaning down to press a soft kiss against your son’s round cheek. “I’ve heard most of the other mothers speak of being awoken in the dead of night by their screaming babies, but Ervo just didn't cry at all. When he woke up in the morning, he was always so entertained by the sun’s rays seeping through the woven walls. He would just lay there, watching the light and waiting for me to wake up, even though he was clearly hungry.”

Neteyam sniffled. You pulled your eyes away from your son to look at him, and your heart twinged when you saw a heavy tear roll off the tip of his nose, catching the firelight.

“I should have been here...” he choked out, his jaw clenching.

“You were fighting a war, Neteyam...” you mumbled softly.

“Still... I am entirely too acquainted with regret,” he whispered, his golden eyes raw with grief. “With you, and with our son... there is so much I missed. So much I wish I could take back.”

You reached across Ervo’s small frame, gently placing your hand over Neteyam’s large hand where it rested on the boy’s chest. “But it just wasn’t the case, Neteyam...” you whispered, pushing yourself up onto your elbow. “Everything that happened is the will of Eywa. I didn’t have it easy, but you didn’t have it easy either. You almost died out there, I almost lost you completely. The war hurt every single one of us.”

He looked up at you, his eyes swimming with tears. “It was I who hurt you...”

“And I am letting it go. I am forgiving you,” you murmured.

Leaning across the small space, you lowered your head and pressed a soft kiss against his lips. You felt his breathing hitch instantly under the gentle touch. When you pulled away, a soft, breathless smile formed on your face, while his wide, golden eyes remained glued to you in absolute reverence.

“I love you so much, Y/N...” he mumbled, his voice thick with emotion.

“I’ll bring you to some of my memories with Ervo tomorrow,” you whispered, settling back onto the mat.

“I would like that very much,” he smiled, his hand turning over to interlock his fingers with yours.

The next morning, you woke up to the sound of Ervo’s energetic chirping. The boy was moving like a happy little worm right between you and Neteyam, his tiny feet kicking at the blankets.

Throughout the night, Neteyam had shifted, wrapping his long, heavy arm securely around your waist, his head cradled directly against yours. He stirred the moment you shifted, his large hand playfully catching Ervo’s tiny hand as the boy reached up toward a bright ray of morning light cutting through the ceiling.

“Papa!” Ervo shrieked with absolute delight, laughing loudly as he rolled over on the mat to face the two of you.

Neteyam instantly scooped him into his arms, hugging his small body tightly against his chest. You pushed yourself up on one arm, leaning over to kiss Ervo’s cheek. “Are you hungry, little man?”

“Yes!” he chirped, aggressively struggling to free himself from Neteyam, who had immediately begun to tickle his ribs. “No!! Help me, Mama!” he shrieked, giggling uncontrollably.

You laughed, sitting up to fix your messy braids as you watched them play. Ervo’s bright giggles completely filled the kelku, and when he finally managed to wiggle free from his father’s grip, he scrambled across the mat and ran straight into your lap, still laughing. You hugged him close, and his small body melted into you.

Your eyes found Neteyam, who was sitting up, a soft, incredibly contented smile gracing his chiseled face as he watched you both.

“I should go get your breakfast from the kitchens,” he said, preparing to stand.

“Or we could just join breakfast downstairs,” you offered casually, adjusting Ervo’s small loincloth.

You didn't catch the exact moment Neteyam’s face literally lit up, but by the time you were all walking down the winding ramp, it was entirely obvious that both he and Ervo were far too excited. Ervo had never asked why you rarely ate at the communal meals anymore; to him, the only important thing had been eating. But now that you were actually walking toward the communal ground, he was far too energized to be trusted on foot.

Neteyam happily scooped him up. When you finally stepped into the bustling communal clearing, the sheer volume of eyes turning toward the three of you was completely overwhelming. It wasn't as if the clan hadn't seen Neteyam practicality living outside your kelku and serving your every need for the past moons, but seeing the three of you walking into the morning light together was an undeniable confirmation. The whispers faded into respectful, wide-eyed silence.

You sat down and ate together as a little family, Ervo comfortably splitting his time between sitting in Neteyam’s lap and snuggling into his side.

Once breakfast was over, Neteyam walked you both back up to the healing pavilion before his morning patrol. Ervo immediately ran inside the bead curtains after loudly telling Neteyam to take care. You turned to follow your son, but before you could take a step, Neteyam caught you gently by the elbow and pulled you back to him.

Before you could even speak, his lips came down to crush against yours.

It was entirely unlike the soft, gentle kiss you had given him the night before. This was hard, deep, and all-consuming. A possessive, breathless demand that told you exactly how much he had starved for you over the last three years. By the time he finally let you go, your breath was completely trapped in your throat.

You licked your wet lips, blinking up at his towering frame. “Take care...” you mumbled, entirely at a loss for words.

His smile was lopsided and entirely boyish before he turned on his heel and trotted down the path for patrol. You stood there, your face burning incredibly hot. He was still exactly the same, disciplined and perfectly behaved on the outside, but the moment he was provoked, it was like letting a wild animal out of its cage.

You worked diligently until midday, and the moment Neteyam’s rotation ended, he arrived at the pavilion so the two of you could take Ervo out. You had originally planned to leave the boy with Kiri while you two visited the Tree of Souls, but you miraculously ran into Neytiri and Jake near the lower levels, both of whom were practically eager to babysit.

Apparently, Neytiri had been secretly spoiling your son with sweet fruits and rare treats for weeks now, to the point where Ervo recognized his grandmother as the ultimate source of good food. Jake, on the other hand, had a much grander bribe.

“I promise him a ride on Toruk,” Jake said with a laugh, winking at the boy.

“Looks like he’s going to have the absolute time of his life today,” you said as you and Neteyam walked away, laughing together.

“The luckiest boy alive, if you ask me,” Neteyam smirked, stepping over a thick root. “Lo’ak, Kiri, and I never even had a chance to ride on Toruk when we were kids, you know?”

You pushed your lips forward thoughtfully. “I also don’t recall having Toruk around much growing up. Did your father claim him back during the war?”

Neteyam nodded, reaching out to pluck a small, vibrant purple flower from a low-hanging vine. “He did, right after the first major battle we had against the sky people.” He stepped closer, gently handing the flower to you. “I guess Dad’s releasing Toruk back to the wild soon. But not before giving our boy a ride.”

You smiled softly, tucking the stem of the flower securely into your dark braid.

When you finally reached the sacred sanctuary of the Tree of Souls, the air grew thick with a profound, spiritual quiet. Without a word, you reached out and grabbed Neteyam’s large hand. He squeezed your fingers tightly, and together, you stepped under the massive, glowing canopy, the silver, crystal-like tendrils brushing against your skin.

You reached behind you to pull your kuru forward, looking at him with a soft smile. He did the same, his golden eyes watching you with so much raw devotion it almost made you want to look away.

“I want... to be at his birth,” Neteyam said suddenly, his voice thick. “I want to be there for it.”

You bit your lip, a soft chuckle escaping you. “Alright... but warning, I look like an absolute mess in this memory.”

He let out a quiet groan, stepping into your space to press a deep, tender kiss against the side of your head. “You can never look like a mess to me, my love.”

You smiled, raising your braid to connect with the glowing tendril. Neteyam followed suit, and as your neural paths linked to the sacred tree, the world dissolved. Suddenly, you were both drifting into a memory that was permanently tattooed onto your brain.

Neteyam found himself standing in the corner of the healing pavilion, the vision so sharp and vivid he felt as though he could physically reach out and touch the woven walls. You were lying on a pile of soft mats, a mountain of pillows supporting your back as you struggled to breathe, your skin glistening with sweat. You looked so young, so exhausted, and so deeply pained.

Neteyam stood there, watching you writhe, feeling his heart being brutally torn in two every single time a sharp cry of agony escaped your lips. Mo’at was hovering over you, doing her absolute best, encouraging your breathing and guiding you through the final, grueling moments until a sharp, loud cry echoed through the space.

Neteyam craned his neck, a massive, breathless smile breaking across his face as he watched Mo’at lift a large, healthy baby boy.

“A boy, Y/N,” Mo’at’s echoed voice filled the memory.

He watched you weep with pure exhaustion and relief as you reached out your trembling arms, taking the boy against your bare chest. Mo’at gently helped you latch the hungry baby, and Neteyam watched the scene in absolute wonder, his large hands balling into fists as his chest tightened with an overwhelming wave of emotion.

Sensing the sheer, heavy weight of Neteyam’s energy through the bond, you slowly disconnected from the tree. The vision slowly faded, and when you opened your eyes, you looked over to find him crying silently, heavy tears streaming down his face.

Your breath hitched, and you immediately moved into his space, cupping his wet cheeks with your hands to wipe the moisture away.

“I’m so sorry... I’m so sorry I wasn't there,” he kept repeating, his voice breaking.

You shook your head firmly. “No. Quit apologizing, alright? You’ve been crying entirely too much lately,” you teased softly, peering up into his eyes. “Come, I promised to show you the funny memories I have with him.”

He let out a breathless smile, his large hands wrapping gently around your wrists to keep your touch against his skin.

You reconnected, and as promised, you pulled him into the lighter moments of your son's life. You showed him the exact moment Ervo let out his very first, bubbling laugh; the clumsy afternoon he took his first, unbalanced steps across the hut; the quiet, breathless second he first babbled the word Mama. You showed him the quiet, lazy afternoons spent in the pavilion, and one particularly hilarious afternoon where Ervo had been utterly terrified of a bug attack, only to clumsily brave his fear and swat it away when he noticed that you had pretended to be scared, too.

By the end of the memories, Neteyam was completely nonverbal. He was crying even during the moments you considered funny, his heart overflowing with the years he had missed.

You pulled away from the tree, looking at him with pursed lips and incredibly soft eyes, reaching up once more to brush the tears from his sharp cheekbones. By now, the eclipse had fully brought darkness over the land, causing the long, sweeping tendrils of the Tree of Souls to pulse with a vibrant, deep purple bioluminescence.

“Thank you for allowing me to be a part of all of it...” he mumbled, his large hands gently cradling your hand, lifting it up to his face so he could press a fervent kiss directly into your palm. “You make me so incredibly happy, Y/N. I never thought I would have the chance to hold you again... and now, you have given me Ervo, you allow me back into your life... it all just feels like a beautiful dream.”

You smiled, squeezing his hand tightly. “You deserve to be a part of all of it, Neteyam... and to be a part of our lives, too.”

He smiled, a sudden, familiar mischievous light sparking in his golden eyes as he stepped closer, closing the remaining distance between your bodies. “And what if I stay for life?”

You shrugged playfully, pressing your palm flat against the center of his warm chest. “I wouldn’t mind...”

Neteyam looked up, admiring the breathtaking beauty of the glowing canopy above before lowering his gaze back down to you. The playful light vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, unyielding confidence.

“I want to court you properly, Y/N,” he stated firmly. “Until you choose me as your mate.”

Your brows furrowed, a highly amused smile pulling at your lips. “Aren’t you doing that already?” you asked, a soft blush hitting your cheeks. “I thought you were already courting me... I kissed you last night, and you kissed me today.” You bit your lower lip. “And we have Ervo...”

Neteyam’s eyes narrowed playfully, though you could tell he was practically elated, his ears twitching rapidly just like your son’s did whenever he was too happy. They truly were identical.

He caught both of your hands, enveloping them in his massive grip. “I love Ervo very much... but he and his future siblings are entirely separate from us in these matters. This is about us. You and me.”

Your brow twitched, your eyes widening slightly. “Future siblings?”

He bit his lip, a boyish smirk creeping onto his face. “If you want...” he mumbled, leaning down slightly. “Don’t you think Ervo wants playmates?”

“I think he wants us home right now so he can tell us his grand stories about Toruk,” you countered, turning to drag him by the hand out from under the tendrils.

Neteyam didn't let you step away. With a sudden, firm tug, he pulled you right back to stand flush against his front. You looked up, your breath hitching at the dark, blazing heat suddenly swirling in his golden eyes. You put a hand up to press against his chest to steady yourself, but he smoothly caught your wrist, pulling your hand up and draping it over the back of his neck before lowering his head to claim your mouth.

His large hands found your waist, gripping you tightly to pull your body flat against his hard, heavily muscled frame. He deepened the kiss instantly, his tongue sliding past your lips, and you lifted your other hand to hook tightly around his neck, pulling him down further. His hands began to frantically feel up your sides, a low, needy moan escaping his throat when his hand slid upward to firmly squeeze the soft weight of your breast. You pulled him down by his braids, practically eating him up as the years of starvation melted away.

“I missed you... so much,” you moaned against his lips, your hips tilting instinctively into his.

His hand rubbed down your back, pulling away just a fraction of an inch, his breathing ragged. He cupped the back of your neck with his large palm. “I missed you more, my love. You have no idea how many times I dreamed of this,” he growled softly, before burying his face back into your neck, kissing you hard.

You smiled against his skin, breaking away only to kiss your way down the sharp line of his jaw and the column of his throat. You trailed your lips down over his collarbone, tracing the taut, heavy muscles of his chest and abdomen. Neteyam’s breathing hitched violently, his abdominal muscles contracting sharply by the time you sank down onto your knees in front of him on the soft grass.

You looked up at him, deliberately licking your lips wet, your fingers immediately working the ties of his loincloth. He helped you with a trembling urgency, and the moment the fabric fell away, you came face-to-face with his thick, fully aroused length.

You bit your lip, angling your head as you darted your tongue out to lightly lick the bead of precum glistening on the wide head.

Neteyam let out a harsh, guttural groan the moment the wet warmth of your mouth enveloped the entire head, his hips twitching forward as you began to suck softly. Your hand wrapped securely around the base of his length, pumping him with a slow rhythm while you licked and sucked. You flicked your eyes upward, catching him watching you with a fierce, ravenous intensity, his gaze completely dark. You smiled around his girth, swallowing more of his length, your hand caressing the remaining skin.

You licked the entire length of him, from the head down to the base, kissing and tasting him before sliding him back into your mouth, sucking hard while your hand pumped his shaft.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck...” Neteyam was whimpering and groaning into the quiet night, his thighs quivering violently as his fingers tangled tightly into a handful of your braids to anchor himself.

When he finally braced his legs and came, you firmly refused to let go, ignoring his weak attempt to gently peel your head back. You swallowed his hot come, your tail swishing frantically behind you in the grass.

The moment you cleaned him off, Neteyam’s hand gripped your jaw as he lowered himself onto the grass, his lips coming crashing down on yours in a bruising kiss. His hands were frantic against your skin, quickly untying the loincloth around your tail, kissing you deeply the entire time and tasting himself on your tongue.

The moment your fabric was cleared away, he gently guided you down onto the soft grass beneath the purple glow of the tree. His mouth slid down to suckle fiercely on your breasts, his tongue swirling aggressively over your pebbled tips. He was moving like a man who didn't know what part of you to kiss or touch first, the sheer desperation consuming him.

After suckling your breasts, his large hand pried your legs apart. He knelt heavily between your thighs, lowering his head down to press his mouth directly against your wet, aching core. You let out a loud gasp as his lips and tongue found your sensitive nub, sending violent vibrations of pure pleasure straight up your spine.

“Ah... shit, Neteyam,” your head fell back into the grass, your fingers gripping the earth as his mouth went to work on your pussy. He grabbed the back of your thighs, lifting and pushing it against your body, his tongue licking your wet slit with a deep hum. He was holding your thighs with such a tight, bruising grip that when your body began to quiver and your hips buckled, you couldn't move away from the intense stimulation.

By the time he finally pulled away, you were as weak as a sun lily in the dark, your breath coming in ragged gasps. He hovered over you, his lips glistening wet with your essence, before he simply licked his lips clean. You pulled his neck down for a kiss, which he gladly gave you, before he pushed himself up on his hands, his fingers gripping his hard girth and lining the heavy head up with your pulsing entrance.

You spread your legs wider for him, your hand wrapping tightly around his thick bicep. He lowered his head to catch your lips in a deep kiss just as he sank his cock completely into your tight heat.

You let out a sharp whimper at the sudden fullness, and he instantly deepened and hardened the kiss, driving himself all the way in until his hips slammed against yours. The sheer girth you hadn't experienced in three long years gave you a moment of sharp discomfort, but your body quickly adjusted, your walls squeezing tightly around him, making him let out a breathless, deep chuckle against your mouth.

You chuckled weakly back, reaching up to cutely pinch the tip of his pointed ear.

“Nothing says home better than that,” he mumbled, peppering kisses along your jaw.

You intentionally squeezed your muscles around him again, tilting your chin up. “That?” you bit your lip.

He groaned loudly, his hand sliding down to grab the back of one of your thighs, pulling it high up over his hip as he drew his pelvis back. You let out a loud moan when he pushed all the way back in. When you looked up at him through the dark, the gold in his eyes were entirely gone, completely consumed by the black. You knew you were about to get it.

And you did. Neteyam began to thrust, pounding into you with a heavy, relentless pace that always had you screaming his name. His broad arm wrapped securely around your shoulders, while his other hand caged the side of your face, his forehead resting firmly against yours as he fucked you hard into the dirt. The friction and depth brought you straight to the edge, your grip on his shoulders tightening until your nails dug into his skin, your entire body quivering under his weight.

He continued to pound relentlessly into you even as you crashed over your high, shivering violently as he finally stiffened, coming deep inside you in hot, pulsing spurts. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as you hugged him tight, both of your breaths echoing loudly under the canopy.

You chuckled softly after a long moment, caressing the smooth skin of his back. “You’re heaving too much, baby. What? Has the mighty warrior lost his extraordinary stamina?” you teased lightheartedly. “Used to be... you’d be attacking me for the next round right about now—”

You shrieked with a laugh when you felt his teeth sharply nip the sensitive skin of your neck.

He pushed himself up onto his elbows, his hand sliding down to possessively caress your waist before traveling back up to your breast. “Well, I am attacking you now...” he mumbled, his golden eyes flashing as he spread your thighs apart once more, his heavy length sliding right back into your slick heat.

You chuckled, pulling him down by his neck to lose yourself in another kiss. The succeeding rounds were slower, much more thorough, as though his body perfectly remembered exactly what to do with every single inch of yours.

Though you desperately wanted to stay wrapped in his arms and spend the entire night under the glowing tree, you couldn't forget your son.

“He’s probably looking for us by now,” you said, a trace of motherly worry bleeding into your voice as you sat up and began fixing your beaded top. “He hasn’t been away from me for this long.” Your heart gripped slightly at the thought of him crying because you had been gone too long.

You and Neteyam quickly dressed and walked back to Hometree, arriving just in time for the evening meal. You were openly holding hands, your fingers tightly interlocked as you stepped into the light of the communal clearing.

You were fully expecting to see a crying, frantic Ervo being consoled, but as you scanned the area, your jaw nearly dropped. He was not crying at all. In fact, he was up on the dais, sitting comfortably on Jake’s lap while Jake, Neytiri, and Tuk completely fussed over him. There wasn't a single trace of sadness on his face. He was eating happily, his high-pitched, energetic voice reaching you from across the clearing as he rambled animatedly to Neytiri. The surrounding clan members watched you and Neteyam enter, their eyes tracking your joined hands with knowing smiles.

“He’s definitely not looking for us,” Neteyam noted with a deep chuckle.

“This little traitor...” you jokingly whispered, laughing as you shook your head.

Your son finally spotted you from across the room, and his bright smile vanished instantly, his lower lip pulling down into a pout the second he realized his parents were back.

You walked up toward the dais, and Neytiri looked up, smiling warmly at you. “Oh, he’s going to cry...” she mouthed in playful horror. “He’ll be out like a light in minutes, Y/N. He’s had a very long day.”

You chuckled, reaching out your arms to take your son from Jake. “Mama!” Ervo said, his voice instantly turning shaky as large, dramatic tears pooled in his eyes.

“No, no, no, my love...” you murmured softly, cradling his head against your shoulder and gently rubbing his back.

“You are gone long?” his small voice asked, the slight accusation breaking your heart. Neteyam’s breath hitched beside you, his large hand immediately splaying over Ervo’s small back to soothe him.

“Yes... did you miss me and Papa?” you asked gently, kissing his temple.

The boy sniffled, his large golden eyes looking up at you with an expression that looked exactly like you had just caught him stealing sweet berries before breakfast. “No... I was with Toruk,” he stated bluntly.

Jake’s booming laughter echoed off the wooden pillars, and Neytiri laughed out loud as well. Your jaw went completely slack, your wide, laughing eyes glancing over at Neteyam. This boy!

“We fly, Mama! With Grandpa and... and... Grandma!” he chirped, his hands waving in the air. He looked over at Neteyam with absolute pride. “Toruk is bigger than Hometree, Papa!”

You passed Ervo over to Neteyam when the boy reached out for him, immediately chattering a mile a minute about his grand flying experience. You all sat down together on the dais, listening to Ervo ramble about the wind and the sky. He was truly the center of the family's joy, and as you and Neteyam sat back against the cushions, you caught Neteyam’s eyes pooling with fresh tears.

He glanced over at you, and you breathlessly chuckled when a heavy drop of tear rolled down his nose. He angled his head closer to yours, his breath warm against your skin. “I love him so much, baby...” he whispered, his voice trembling with an overwhelming gratitude. “I love you so much.” He leaned in, affectionately nuzzling his face against yours.

You held the side of his face in your hand, your thumb wiping the tear away. “I love you, Neteyam...” you whispered, leaning in to press a soft kiss against his cheek.

When Ervo saw you kiss him, the toddler quickly scrambled forward in Neteyam's lap, leaning his small body up to aggressively kiss Neteyam’s other cheek, his tiny hands cupping his father’s jawline. You grinned brightly at Neteyam as he blinked at his son in pure, breathless adoration.

The ride back was quiet in the way that meant everyone had things to say and nobody wanted to start.

Jake flew ahead. His riders fell in around you both without making it obvious they were doing it, the way soldiers do when they’re not sure if they’re escorting or guarding. You noticed. Neteyam noticed too, from the way his jaw shifted whenever one of them drifted a little too close.

You didn’t say anything about it.

You just watched the trees below and let the wind take whatever was left of the last few days with it.

When the camp came into view, your stomach dropped the way it always did when something familiar became something you weren’t sure you were welcome in anymore. The shapes of the structures. The movement of people below. The smell of smoke and food and something green underneath all of it that your body still recognized even when your head wanted to forget.

Neteyam’s hand found your arm before you could think about it, not grabbing, just there. Like he knew.

You didn’t pull away.

The landing was worse than you expected, which was saying something because you hadn’t expected it to be easy.

People stopped what they were doing the second they saw you. Not all at once. One by one, the way bad news spreads, the stillness moving through the camp in a slow ripple until it felt like the whole place had turned to look at you. You kept your chin level and your eyes forward and told yourself it didn’t matter.

It still mattered.

Jake spoke before anyone else could. Something short and firm, the way he always talked when he wanted people to accept something without giving them time to argue about it. You didn’t catch every word but you caught enough — something about the situation having changed, something about decisions being revisited, something about trust being earned.

That last part landed somewhere unpleasant in your chest.

A few people dispersed. Most of them didn’t.

Neytiri was standing near the edge of the crowd, and you felt her eyes find you the second you stepped off. She didn’t move toward you. She didn’t look away either. You held her gaze for exactly as long as you needed to before looking somewhere else, because this wasn’t the moment for that conversation and you both knew it.

Someone pointed you toward a space at the outer edge of camp.

Not a real dwelling. More like a place they’d cleared out, covered overhead, just enough to make it functional without making it feel like you were welcome enough to stay. You looked at it for a second and then looked at Neteyam.

He looked like he wanted to say something about it.

“It’s fine,” you said, before he could.

“It’s not.”

“I’ve slept in worse.”

He stared at you. “That’s not the point.”

“I know what the point is,” you said quietly. “But fighting about where they put me on the first night isn’t going to help anything.”

He didn’t like that. You could see it in the way his shoulders stayed tense even when the rest of him went still. But he also didn’t argue, because you were right and he knew it.

He helped you settle in anyway.

He didn’t make a production of it. He just came with you and moved the things that needed moving and didn’t leave until he was sure the space was at least livable. At one point he found a gap in the side where the wind was getting through and packed it without being asked, pressing the material in with his thumb until it held.

You watched him do it and didn’t say anything.

When he finally straightened and looked at you, the camp noise a low hum around you both, neither of you spoke for a second.

“You’re not going to be alone in this,” he said.

You looked at him. “You keep saying that.”

“Because you keep acting like you don’t believe it.”

You opened your mouth and then closed it again, because that was the kind of thing that didn’t have a clean answer. He wasn’t wrong. You didn’t fully believe it. Not yet. Believing things like that took time you hadn’t had, and trust you were still rebuilding from the bottom up.

But you also weren’t running.

That had to count for something.

“Go eat,” you said finally. “You look terrible.”

He blinked, then huffed out something that was almost a laugh. “You too.”

“I know.”

He left, but not without looking back once. You pretended not to notice, the way you always did.

That night, the camp settled into its usual rhythms around you. Fires lit. Voices quieted. The dark came in slow and heavy the way it always did out here, full and warm and deeper than anything you’d grown used to in the Mangkwan camps where the night always felt like it was waiting for something to go wrong.

You sat outside your space and listened to it and tried not to think too hard.

You were almost convinced you could sleep when you heard footsteps coming toward you that weren’t Neteyam’s.

Jake stopped a few feet away. He didn’t crouch. He didn’t sit. He just stood there with his hands at his sides and looked at you the way people do when they owe you something and haven’t figured out how to start.

You looked back at him and waited.

He said, “I’m not going to ask you to forgive me tonight.”

“Good,” you said. “I’m not going to.”

He nodded once, like that was what he’d expected.

The silence sat between you. Not comfortable. Not clean. Just real.

“There are things you don’t know yet,” he said finally. “About why it happened.”

“I figured.”

“When the time comes,” he said, “I’ll tell you.”

You studied his face in the firelight, the way it looked older than it used to, the way it looked like a man who had made too many calls he couldn’t take back. You didn’t feel sorry for him. You weren’t there yet. But you also recognized the shape of it, the guilt that had nowhere to go, the apology that didn’t know how to be enough.

You’d carried that yourself.

“Alright,” you said.

He looked at you for one more second, then turned and walked back toward the main camp without another word.

You sat there for a while after that, the fire small and steady in front of you, the dark pressing in from all sides, the sounds of the camp winding down around you like a tide going out.

You didn’t know what tomorrow was going to look like.

You didn’t know how long it would take before people stopped watching you like you were something they hadn’t decided about yet.

You didn’t know when the thing with Neteyam would stop feeling like something fragile you were both trying not to drop.

But you were here.

And for tonight, that was the whole decision.

ᴘᴀɢᴇ ᴛᴇɴ

The Great Hall is a roar of sound that makes your head throb. Candles hover overhead, dripping wax into the void, but all you can feel is the suffocating weight of the red-and-gold tie Dumbledore practically forced around your neck.

Twice. Sorted into this house of loud-mouthed idiots twice. It was an insult to your bloodline, an insult to your intelligence, and quite frankly, an insult to your wardrobe.

"Keep moving," you hiss under your breath, nudging Harry. He’s walking like he’s in a trance, his boots dragging on the stone floor.

As you approach the long Gryffindor table, the sea of red robes feels like an eyesore. Then, a boy with sleek, shoulder-length raven hair and a smirk that screams 'trouble' leans back on his bench, waving a hand lazily in your direction.

"New faces!" he calls out, his grey eyes sparking with a dangerous, cool arrogance. "And look at that—a fresh lioness who looks like she’s ready to bite someone’s head off. I like the fire."

Your blood runs cold. Sirius Black.

He looks nothing like the haunted, ragged man from the posters. He looks young, untouchable, and utterly insufferable. Beside him, a girl with dark skin and a sharp smile—Mary Macdonald—whispers something in his ear, making him bark out a laugh that echoes too loudly for your liking.

You don't wave back. You stare at him with the cold, aristocratic disdain you’ve perfected since you were five, but Harry doesn't notice the tension. He’s come up behind you, nearly tripping over your heels.

"Harry, move," you snap, turning to glare at him.

But Harry isn't looking at you. He isn't looking at Sirius. He’s staring further down the table, his face draining of every drop of colour until he truly does look like a ghost.

You follow his line of sight, and the air leaves your lungs.

Sitting there, mid-laugh with a piece of toast in his hand, is a boy who is a literal clone of the one standing next to you. The same messy hair, the same knobby shoulders, the same reckless tilt of the head. James Potter. He’s leaning far too close to a girl with hair the colour of a sunset and eyes that you recognize instantly.

Lily Evans.

She’s rolling her eyes at something James just said, a small, fond smile playing on her lips. Beside her, Marlene McKinnon is loudly cheering about a Quidditch play, her voice cutting through your nerves like a dull saw.

They’re all there. The "Golden" generation. The Marauders and their shadows. To everyone else, they’re the heroes of the school. To you, they’re a collection of the most obnoxious, self-important Gryffindors to ever draw breath, and you're currently wearing their colours.

"Potter," you whisper, your voice low and sharp as you grab Harry’s arm to keep him from collapsing. "Stop staring. You’re making it weird."

"It's them," Harry chokes out, his voice cracking. "It’s actually them."

"I can see that," you retort, your Malfoy pride bristling as Lily looks up and catches your eye, offering a welcoming, "prefect-perfect" smile that makes you want to gag. "And they’re already exhausting. Now sit down before you faint and embarrass us both."

James Potter looks up then, his hazel eyes landing on Harry, then shifting to you. He nudges Sirius, a grin spreading across his face—that infamous, cocky Potter grin.

"Oi, Sirius," James calls out, his voice carryng over the din. "Looks like we’ve got company. You reckon they’re lost, or did they just hear this is the table where the fun happens?"

The girls giggle. Sirius winks. You feel a headache forming behind your eyes.

You and Harry end up squeezed onto the bench right beside them—of course there’s nowhere else to sit. Just great, you think bitterly, the red-and-gold tie around your neck feeling heavier than ever.

James’ voice cuts through the chatter, deep and amused: “Merlin, he’s got Lily’s eyes… and looks exactly like me.”

The table erupts in laughter—Sirius barking, Marlene cheering, Lily rolling her eyes with that fond smile. You roll yours in return, aristocratic disdain firmly in place. To them, it’s just a joke, another Marauder moment. But beside you, Harry looks like he’s on the verge of breaking, his face tight, eyes glassy.

Something in you softens—just a fraction. You lean in, lowering your voice so only he can hear. “Breathe, Potter. They don’t know. You’re fine.”

The words are sharp but steady, a lifeline disguised as a sneer. Harry swallows hard, shoulders stiffening, and you can feel him pulling himself back from the edge.

Before either of you can say more, a tall, lanky boy across the table shifts toward you. His face is marked with scars, his expression curious but kind. “So,” he says, voice calm and even, “what are your names?”

The question hangs in the air, the laughter fading just enough for the group to turn their attention to you both.

Harry clears his throat, voice shaky but determined. “Harry…” he begins, and you feel the panic spike in your chest. His lips are already parting to say Potter when you squeeze his thigh hard under the table, a sharp reminder. His eyes flick to you, wide, and then he stumbles over the word.

“…Rivers,” he finishes, forcing it out with a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Harry Rivers.”

You nod smoothly, picking up the thread without hesitation. “And I’m [Name] Willow.”

The tall, scarred boy—Remus Lupin, though younger, less weary than the man you’ll one day know—regards you both with quiet curiosity. His gaze lingers, thoughtful but not suspicious, before he offers a small smile.

“Well then,” he says, voice calm and steady, “welcome to Gryffindor.”

Mary Macdonald, ever the ecstatic one, leans forward with a mischievous grin, her voice carrying over the chatter. “So… are you two together?”

The question lands like a spark in dry grass. Sirius perks up immediately, grey eyes gleaming with mischief. James’ grin widens, Lily raises her brows in quiet amusement, and even Remus tilts his head, curiosity flickering behind his calm expression. The whole table seems to lean in, suddenly invested.

You and Harry both freeze, then immediately recoil in perfect sync.

“Absolutely not,” you snap, disgust dripping from every syllable.

Harry shakes his head so hard his glasses nearly slip off. “No. No way. Not even close.” His voice cracks with urgency, his cheeks flushed with mortification.

The Marauders erupt—Sirius barking with laughter, James grinning like he’s just been handed the best joke of the evening, Marlene giggling, Lily hiding a smile behind her hand. Even Remus’ lips twitch, though he’s clearly trying to stay neutral.

You roll your eyes, aristocratic disdain firmly in place. “Merlin, you Gryffindors see two people breathing in the same vicinity and assume romance. Disgusting.”

Harry mutters under his breath, “I’d rather kiss a Blast-Ended Skrewt.”

That earns another round of laughter, Sirius nearly choking on his pumpkin juice. James leans forward, hazel eyes gleaming with mischief. “Alright, alright, we believe you. But you’ve got to admit—you two bicker like an old married couple.”

You glare at him, sharp enough to cut glass. “Or maybe we just hate each other.”

The table roars again, but beneath the noise, Harry’s shoulders ease just a little. The disgust you both showed was so genuine, so sharp, that it killed the suspicion before it could take root.

Breakfast ends in a blur of noise and laughter, the Marauders still buzzing with energy as the hall empties. You push yourself up from the bench with a sharp flick of your robes, determined to put as much distance between yourself and that table as possible.

Potions. At least it’s a class where you can disappear into the shadows, where the smell of crushed herbs and simmering cauldrons might drown out the memory of Sirius’ barking laugh and James’ smug grin. You might be stuck here—trapped in this era, tangled in history—but you don’t have to be disgusted all the time.

Harry lingers behind, still pale but steadier, his eyes flicking once more toward Lily and James before he forces himself to follow. You don’t wait for him. You stride ahead, chin high, already plotting the seat furthest from the Marauders, furthest from Potter, furthest from the suffocating red-and-gold circus you’ve been shoved into.

At least in the dungeon classroom, you think, you can breathe without choking on Gryffindor pride.

The dungeon air is cool and damp, heavy with the scent of crushed herbs and simmering cauldrons. You slip into the Potions classroom early, deliberately choosing a seat at the far edge—away from the Marauders, away from Harry, away from the suffocating Gryffindor noise. At least here, in the shadows, you can breathe without gagging on their arrogance.

The benches fill quickly. Sirius and James swagger in, loud as ever, Harry trailing behind them with a tight jaw. You keep your gaze fixed on your parchment, refusing to acknowledge their presence. You might be stuck here, you think, but at least you don’t have to be disgusted all the time.

And then the door opens again.

Two figures step inside, their robes neat, their posture sharp. Lucius Malfoy—your father, though younger, unscarred, his pale hair tied back with immaculate precision. Beside him, Narcissa Black—your mother, elegant and composed, her laughter soft as she murmurs something to him.

Your chest tightens. Seeing them like this feels wrong, like staring at a photograph before the edges have yellowed. They are students here, just like you, but untouched by the years you know will carve them into something harder.

Lucius takes his seat with effortless grace, Narcissa beside him, their presence commanding the room without a word. For a moment, you forget to breathe.

You force your eyes back to your cauldron, fingers digging into the wood of the bench. You can’t afford to stare. You can’t afford to slip. But the knowledge burns in your chest: your parents are here, alive, young, and you are sitting in their time.

You steel yourself, spine straight, chin high. If you’re going to be stuck in this era, you refuse to cower in the shadows. So instead of hiding at the edge of the classroom, you make your way across the dungeon, robes swishing, and slide onto the bench right beside Narcissa Black.

Her pale eyes flick toward you, sharp and assessing, but not unkind. Lucius glances up too, posture immaculate, his expression cool and curious. For a heartbeat, the weight of their presence presses down on you—your parents, young and unscarred, sitting here as classmates.

You force your features into calm neutrality, the aristocratic mask you’ve worn since childhood. “Willow,” you say smoothly, introducing yourself as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Narcissa tilts her head, lips curving faintly. “You’ve got a spine,” she murmurs, approval hidden in the softness of her tone. Lucius studies you a moment longer, then nods once, as if silently acknowledging your boldness.

Slughorn sweeps into the dungeon with his usual jovial energy, robes billowing, his round face lighting up as he takes in the class. His eyes catch on you immediately—new faces always draw his attention.

“Well, well!” he booms, clapping his hands together. “Two new Gryffindors, I see. How marvelous. Why don’t you introduce yourselves to the class?”

You glance at Harry, who looks like he’d rather sink into the flagstones. He starts, voice tight but steady: “Harry Rivers. I… transferred here from Beauxbatons Academy of Magic.”

Slughorn beams, delighted. “Beauxbatons! Splendid institution, splendid. Fine dueling program, if I recall.”

You lift your chin, meeting Slughorn’s gaze without flinching. “I’m [Name] Willow. Also from Beauxbatons.” Your voice is smooth, confident, the lie sliding off your tongue like it was rehearsed.

“Excellent, excellent,” Slughorn says, clearly pleased. “We’ll have to see what talents you bring to my little club, eh? For now, let’s get to work. Today we’ll be brewing a simple Sleeping Draught—though simple, mind you, does not mean easy.”

The class stirs to life, cauldrons clattering, ingredients passed around. The Marauders are loud at their bench, Sirius already cracking jokes, James nudging Lily, Harry caught in their orbit despite himself. But you sit tall beside Narcissa, her presence steady and sharp, Lucius on her other side, both of them working with quiet precision.

Class ends with the lingering scent of herbs and smoke clinging to your robes. You gather your things quickly, eager to escape the dungeon’s heavy air, but pause when you catch sight of Lucius leaning toward Narcissa.

His voice is low, smooth, threaded with amusement as he says something only she can hear. Narcissa laughs softly, her eyes bright, her posture relaxed in a way you’ve never seen before. There’s warmth there—love, happiness, a tenderness that feels almost alien compared to the cold, sharp figures you know they’ll become.

You freeze, watching them. Are these really my parents? The thought claws at your chest. They look so young, so untouched by the years that will harden them. Their smiles are genuine, their laughter unscarred.

What happened to them? What twisted this light into the shadows you grew up with?

The question burns in your mind as you turn away, heart pounding. You might be stuck here, but seeing them like this—seeing what they once were—feels heavier than any broken Time-Turner.

it got worse before it got better. jabber never studied in the room, but he was always there. music low. window cracked. lighter clicking. laughing at nothing. inviting people over and then forgetting they existed ten minutes later.

zanka tried noise-canceling headphones.

tried the library.

tried ignoring the way jabber's voice dragged through the room like smoke, low and amused and constantly pushing.

"you ever relax?" jabber asked one night, watching zanka rewrite the same paragraph for the third time. "or you just live like that? tense as hell."

zanka didn't look up.

"some of us care about our futures."

jabber leaned back in his chair.

"some of us don't need to kill ourselves to feel smart."

silence.

zanka finally glanced at him.

jabber was watching him differently now. not just amused, assessing. eyes dragging slow over the way zanka's sleeves were rolled neatly to his elbows. the way his fingers tightened around his pen.

"you're always mad," jabber murmured. "what's got you so wound up, mr bad attitude?"

"maybe you."

jabber's grin sharpened.

"yeah?"

zanka stood abruptly.

"i can't breathe in here."

he moved toward the window. jabber stood too.

"window's already open."

"it's not enough."

jabber stepped closer, close enough that zanka could feel the heat of him. the faint scent of weed and something darker underneath, skin and smoke and recklessness.

"you're not mad about the smell," jabber said softly.

zanka's breath stuttered once before he caught it.

"you don't know what i'm mad about."

jabber tilted his head.

"i think i do."

and then he reached out. just two fingers. hooked into the fabric of zanka's sleeve. not pulling, just there. zanka could've stepped back yet he didn't.

"don't," he warned.

jabber's voice dropped lower.

"don't what?"

their chests were almost touching now. zanka's pulse was visible in his throat. jabber's thumb brushed against his wrist, slow. testing.

"you act like you hate me," jabber whispered. "but you look at me like you wanna break something."

zanka's composure cracked first.

he grabbed jabber by the front of his hoodie and shoved him back against the desk. the chair scraped loud against the floor. papers scattered. jabber's breath caught — not scared.

thrilled.

"there he is," he murmured, eyes darkening. "knew you had it in you."

"shut. up."

zanka's hands were still fisted in his hoodie. jabber didn't move them. instead, he leaned forward into the grip.

"make me."

the kiss wasn't soft or romantic. it was teeth and tension and weeks of pretending they didn't feel it. zanka kissed like he studied — precise at first. controlled. jabber didn't. jabber bit and laughed against his mouth.

"you're so fuckin' angry," he breathed. "it's hot."

zanka shoved him down onto the desk fully this time. the lamp tipped and books slid. jabber's hands finally moved — gripping zanka's waist, dragging him closer.

"say you don't want this," jabber murmured, voice thick, teasing even now. "c'mon, mr bad attitude. say it."

zanka didn't say it. he kissed him again instead. harder. angrier.

consent wasn't spoken — but it was there in the way jabber arched up into him, in the way his fingers hooked at zanka's belt and tugged.

"you're impossible," zanka muttered against his neck.

jabber laughed breathlessly.

"you love it."

clothes came off in uneven pieces. shirts first, buttons flying, fabric tugged hard. then hands everywhere — desperate, clumsy, heated, gripping, exploring. zanka's anger had been loud and sharp, but once jabber's back hit the mattress, it turned into something else entirely. something jagged and raw, and entirely under his control.

he hovered for a second. breathing heavy. jaw tight. pupils dark. you could feel the tension in his chest radiating through every inch of him.

jabber reached up and brushed his thumb along zanka's cheek. softer now. careful. grounding.

"you good?" he asked quietly. no teasing. just checking.

zanka swallowed and nodded once. that was enough. then jabber's hands found him fully. sloppy, heated, wandering, gripping. palms on shoulders, fingertips dragging along ribs, thumbs brushing over skin that shivered under contact. zanka's back arched instinctively, hips tilting against him, desperate for friction.

it wasn't gentle. not really. not even considerate. but it wasn't cruel either. it was friction and heat and hard, shouted curses, lips colliding, teeth grazing, gasped breaths mingling. jabber's lazy voice, usually so cool and teasing, had gone rough and breathless. broken phrases, half-formed praise, each word scraping against zanka's ear like fire.

"that's it— yeah… you're so fuckin' tense… let go…"

zanka did. in pieces. in shards. each sharp inhale. each shuddering grip. each soft whine pressed into jabber's shoulder. each grunt of effort and release. every time jabber whispered "mr. bad attitude", it was intimate, almost worshipful despite the mockery.

jabber's hands didn't stop. explored every ridge, every curve of tension, finding places that made zanka hiss and buck instinctively. fingers pressed, dragged, thumb rubbing, skin burning under his touch. each time zanka came, jabber held him there, steadying, teasing, pulling, until the shivers subsided just a little before starting again.

the mattress creaked, soft and uneven under their movements. zanka's own hands gripped at jabber's arms, pulling, scratching lightly, claiming him as desperately as he was being claimed.

then jabber shifted, pressing closer, mouth brushing the nape of zanka's neck, teasing, biting just enough to make him groan and arch again. zanka's legs tangled with jabber's, hips grinding without conscious thought, desperate, needing more friction, more skin, more heat.

his fingers slid along zanka's sides, tracing the taut muscles, teasing over sensitive spots, brushing along inner thighs, pressing and curling. each touch, deliberate, almost intimate in its chaos. the room filled with breaths and wet sounds, curses, laughs broken by moans, and the occasional sharp hiss of pleasure.

when zanka came again, it was harder, messier, loud enough to shake the thin walls. jabber's hand moved with him, coaxing, stretching the release, never letting go, never letting him fall too far.

afterward, the room was quiet except for their heavy breathing, slow, ragged exhales. the fan hummed weakly in the window. the moonlight spilled over the tangled bodies, catching beads of sweat on skin that glimmered in the dim light.

zanka laid on his back staring at the ceiling, chest heaving, limbs trembling. his fingers still twitched where jabber's had been moments ago.

"you're gonna pretend that didn't happen tomorrow, huh?"

zanka didn't answer. jabber smiled faintly.

"that's fine," he said. "i like when you're mad at me."

a pause. then, softer:

"just don't switch dorms."

zanka closed his eyes and didn't move away when jabber's fingers slid into his.