lleus

lohen wishes he could forget you. he should have moved on. he thought he was moving on, but you kept showing up. during hot afternoons, he would find your shrunken self lazily thrown over a warm rock.

“won’t you join me?”

you would invite him, without ever considering the implications. why him? what drew you to him? before he could even think, you would disappear just as you did on that unforgettable day. in case you weren’t splayed out on that big, stupid rock, he would find your giant self, hidden within clouds, looking down at the earth, at the wandering and the living, with a genuine smile.

you love humans that much?

he’ll show you just how “precious” humans can be.

maybe it’s in his nature, or his rotten blood. he can’t help it, that surge of something abysmal deep within him. it’s the way your body rests on the rock, glimmering in the dappled sunlight, enticing enough for him and for his knife. so he waits and waits and waits, for you to lower your guard. he’ll make you understand, patronize your gullibility, and show you just how big of a mistake you have made.

because humans are not “precious.”

surprisingly, this afternoon, you don’t awaken at his footsteps. the meadow is quiet, as a gentle breeze flows through the area. you look so peaceful like this, and lohen almost feels envious.

lohen walks more, ignoring the tightness in his chest. he steps on a twig that doesn’t make too much noise. the knife is hot, almost blazing in his gloved palm — ready to pierce your supple skin. you weren’t human. were you immortal? invincible? would you even die? so many questions racked his brain, ones only the knife would give the answers to.

up close, lohen carefully maps out your face. you look the same as you did yesterday. sleep keeps you somewhere calm, a place he would never be able to go. again, that flashy, molten feeling guts him.

you seem to have everything he wants, don’t you?

such peace, such power.

it’s not anger, he’s not angry, lohen repeats in his mind. it’s just... mere curiosity. it’s only understandable for him to do this.

lohen presses the knife against your cheek. the tip rests on the fat. if he were to press harder, you would definitely awaken, wouldn’t you? his heart races. he can’t control himself even if he wanted to. the knife lifts, and before he knows it, it’s falling down again, gravity helping him just like it always did.

you are not human, of course. the one thing lohen constantly ponders seems to have slipped away from his mind.

one moment, there’s blood prickling on your cheek, pure gold, and the next you have him pinned down on the rock, glowing eyes glaring at him. lohen hurt you. the thought makes him more excited than scared. see... he wishes he could speak right now if only you weren’t pressing down on his throat.

you understand now, don’t you?

the hold on his neck tightens.

don’t you, oh, you mighty being?

again, lohen would have asked if he could. your hands loosen their hold when his breathing becomes a little too irregular. through blurred vision, lohen sees you step back, staring at your hands that once choked him.

you realize now, don’t you?

“you—”

you stop in between, eyes still glued to your hands, and lohen wheezes. what awaited him now? a sort of divine punishment, death? oh, lohen would gladly accept both. he finds himself smirking, despite the strain in his face, arms spreading to the sides.

“that wasn’t very nice, you know?”

you have this look on your face, one lohen can’t comprehend. your hands reach out again, and he flinches. coward, he reprimands himself mentally. you don’t notice his fear as your hands descend on his anyway, holding them in a gentle manner.

lohen thinks you are pathetic. what even are you doing?

“sorry, was i too rough?” your energy starts flowing again, and immediately the tightness around his chest lessens with each inhale. “i thought pha— uh— i mean, an old friend came for a visit, haha.”

an old friend? is this how you greet “old friends”? his eyes narrow while yours glide to his neck, a frown creeping on your face. you whisper, one hand caressing his reddened skin. “i am sorry...”

lohen wishes he could lodge that knife in your chest, deeper and deeper. how dare you touch him? he wishes he could push away your annoyingly warm, soft hands. why do they feel so safe? he wishes he could at least say something to you. but he can’t. what are you doing to him? he’s forced to bite down his tongue when you kiss his hands, rubbing the skin under his gloves.

“there,” you let go of his hands, reaching somewhere behind him. lohen ignores the feeling of you being pressed up against him, eyes falling shut. this hug is nothing but filthy. he feels you move away after a few seconds. you hold the knife in your hand now, your eyes trained on the golden caking on its tip. fire erupts in your hand, bright and orange, swallowing the bloody weapon.

“this isn’t something to play around with.”

you turn around, not before looking at him in the eyes. the wind has begun to rush now. your giant self manifests in a blink of an eye, and before lohen knows it, you are drifting amidst the clouds back to the sky.

“i hope you will understand that, lohen.”

of course, lohen laughs, head looking up at the sky. of course, you know his name too.

turning around to face the group for the last time, you smile. one that feels uncharacteristic of your former self. your time at the academy had been fun. the moments you’ve shared, the stories you’ve told, all of it has accumulated into your current self. you’ve changed. and you believe its all because of the man in front of you. it was almost poetic the way you glance at phainon, watching as his eyes start to form tears.

he has always been a crybaby. a rather sweet one. you remember your first meeting like the back of your hand. when he was just four inches shorter than you. eyes worn from tears, you still picture the red marks beside his lashes. he stood behind chartonus, nervous to meet his lifelong partner.

“i guess this is where our paths finally break, phainon.” 

phainon, barely holding onto himself, screams with his eyes: “what are you saying?”

“33 million cycles… and its because of me,” you’ve never sounded more pitiful in your life. though, beneath the surface, there was a lingering sense of acceptance. “eradicating witches won’t solve anything. they will keep coming back. and they will fight. until all of us are wiped out. a never-ending war.” 

your soul shakes. phainon feels it too. the bond between two partners, meister and weapon, lovers—trembles under the weight of the world. for everyone to be safe, the anomaly must be removed. for it has grown too big, like a tumor. the younger, more naive version of you would have thought it was fine. however, as you grew older, soaked in the blood of your former friends, you’ve stolen their wisdom. 

this power that was supposed to be a blessing ended up as a curse.

phainon steps forward but crumbles to your feet. he holds onto your thighs like a prayer. lips mumble and beg. in order to soothe his worries, your fingers graze the side of his jawline, tracing over one more time to memorize his structure. 

“i’ve never been happier,” you say, “those journeys, the times we shared, the dreams we made, it made me so happy seeing you in them. and maybe…” words betray your heart. instead of being the strong one, you’re beginning to fall apart too. tears quickly form and you’re powerless to stop yourself. “i’ll be able to see you again.” 

“you’ll always be my meister. and i’m thankful that you’ve allowed someone like me to be by your side.” 

“(name)...” he presses his head onto your thigh, wrapping his arms around you as he sobs. you fight the urge to kneel by his side again. you hate to think about all the memories you’re throwing away. when phainon told you, during one night, that he wanted to marry you, it felt like everything was going to be alright. it seems that no matter how hard you try, the worlds you keep breaking and piecing together, it will be cruel to him.

perhaps you had to be cruel too. 

“i’ll set this world free,” your smile wavers, “and set you free as well.”

“stop!” 

glancing up at stelle, you watch as her companions struggle to keep her from running forward. surely, she said, there has to be a better way. another way for them to win. to save the universe. though, fairytale endings like that are too grand and idealistic. the reality is: someone has to die. it would be better if it was you and not anyone else. one life for a million sounds like a fair deal. 

“this is going to be the last timeline. you won’t have any more second chances,” stelle steels her nerves, taking in your words with a heavy heart. “so make it count.”

phainon hurriedly grabs onto your waist, burying his face into your stomach as he continues to weep. he begs with all his soul. trying to merge with you one last time, so that the two of you could fight together and not alone. he hates the idea—he hates everything. the world. the witches. the time he has spent with you mattered more than anything else. but he can’t do anything but cry like a child. 

“for what is worth, i hope this world is still beautiful.” 

lifting his head up, phainon sees the last of your smile. before he could say anything else, anything to convince you otherwise, you close your eyes—engulfing yourself in flames. although phainon remembers your heat to be as scorching as the desert sun, today it was gentle. it reminds him of sitting by the campfire with you in the woods, heating up marshmallows as you watched the sun set. 

soft and tender—just as you always been with him.

as the last of you burns up into ash, your weapon form: dawnmaker, emerges. wielded by the last of your strength, it shoots from phainon’s arms, striking the witch in her chest as she shrieks. the surface burns her skin. as she tries to reach for you, it proves to be a futile attempt. you burn hotter than any star. sinking into her like molten lava, she is powerless as her core is exposed.

dan heng shakes stelle, and their group quickly runs forward to capture this fleeting opportunity. phainon can only watch as the two weapons transform. stelle leads the charge and she pulls dan heng through the bow strings of march 7th, using him as an improv arrow. 

surely—phainon said to himself, there was more he could do. rather than being a sitting duck, waiting for the other shoe to drop, he runs forward, chasing after the last of your flame. his chest hurts more than it usually does. the endurance training he made for himself didn’t account for his sobs. climbing the buildings, he catches up to the rest of the group. 

stelle’s eyes widen when the witch howls, getting prepared to release a barrage of arrows. in midair, she has a hard time adjusting her stance. just when it feels like their chance was fading, phainon appears, reeling up a punch. his nails were digging so hard into the palm of his hand, it had started to bleed. 

all the pent up anger, the frustrations he has built over the years, the fears and terrors that haunted him, it was leading to this very moment. this will be his last shot. a last ditch attempt to channel his rage into something. but beneath it all: he felt some sort of appreciation. if things were different, he might have never met you. while the two of you endured your fair share of hardships, he wouldn’t trade it for anything else. so when his fist collides with her cheek, the arrows scatter. 

seeing an opening, stelle pulls back harder, before releasing the spear. it breaks through the sound barrier, shattering the environment around them as dan heng strikes her heart, effectively killing her in an instant. 

with one final cry, she too sobs, right before her body dissipates and all is left are shattered remains of your sword. stelle collapses to the ground in exhaustion, heaving as all the strength in her body leaves her. march 7th and dan heng reconvene, staring at the rubble. they are surprised to see phainon still running forward, sliding to his knees as he searches the premises for any sign of you.

but there were none.

what remained were the bits and pieces of what looked like stardust. they glowed under the moon’s light, reflecting a slight red and orange hue. considering everything that has happened, phainon decides to pick them up, even if some fell through the cracks of his fingers, he tried his best to collect the rest of you. 

his tears have burned up and what remained was pure silence.

You understood your part in the clan; it was a simple task. Be careful, spy silently, keep out of trouble and attack only if you deemed it was necessary, Jake Sully trusted you knew when it was because you had good judgement unlike Neteyam and Lo'ak. You followed Jake's rules to an exact TEE, not just because he was the olo'eyktan and the Toruk Makto.

But perhaps also because he was your father-figure in a way, he trusted you. You were a good kid in his eye and since Neteyam and Lo'ak were stationed elsewhere, you promised him you'd do good and take over for eastern side.

And for this reason, you were trusted alone. Neteyam's intercom had recently broken, so all he had to contact you was to depend on his father or brother to contact people or you. His radio wasn't getting fixed up until a few days later.

So you knew you'd be alone too. No help from your yawntu, not in the moment. But you had to trust them and know they'll be here when you need them.

Your feet gentle padded against the grass as you bent down, radio around your throat tight and active. Face and body warpaint covering your skin so it'll camouflage you to the best of ability, your bow held tightly in one hand. You softly held in a breath, your kuru attached to your ikran, Hufaê's.

She softly growled, keeping quiet but also snuggled softly as if to comfort you into being more confident. You could feel her encouragement through the tsaheylu, her heartbeat as you patted her gently. You needed her around you, and she knew you did. You two were best-friends, since you'd chosen each other for your iknimaya.

You gently crouched, your tail softly flicking. Your footsteps silent while you scanned your golden-eyes around, looking at the opposite side of where humans had paused a huge vehicle of sorts. Another way to transport their resources and weaponry.

"What in Eywa's name—" you paused, watching a human jog past in what seemed to be fake pair of legs and arms to match upto your sizes. What were they going to do? Physically wrestle? Hufaê softly snorted. You shushed her gently. "We need to check them out and leave unless we need to attack, Hufaê." You whispered.

A human walked past, wearing a weirdly patterned suit—military print. Jake explained that print was worn by 'fighters' or people in excharge. They seemed to be speaking grievously, the human's voice tense, serious and steely. "Alright, eastern side, all clear." they said loudly. Everyone seemed to be guiding silently.

But, you saw the numbers, it was slightly more than you expected to see in the Eastern side.

You had to fight, nothing else could be done.

You softly took in a breath, eyes glancing up for a few seconds at the other na'vi who'd been stationed on this side of the forest, you sucked in a breath, heart-beating faster. Hufaê softly bumped you with her head, making you nod as you gently pulled your kuru away from hers, breaking the tsaheylu, but gently motioning for her to stay down and stay quiet.

Your eyes again scanned every place, hearing very subtly call of the other na'vis, which would usually be taken off the radar under the assump that they were the sound of Pandorean birds to the humans, a static hit your throat and ears,

"Eastern wing, how is everything?" Jake's voice asked. You were going to answer, when the rustling of leaves caused you to freeze, making you move a bit deeper in the foliage to stay silent. Jake received answers from others, you could hear them, but when he didn't hear you, he asked again—

"Kid. Answer, you good?" he repeated. You sucked in a breath, but hummed, "Yeah—yes, sir." you whispered. "Alright." before the static was gone. Everyone stayed silent, waiting for the signal to start the attack. It wasn't too far off, you sucked in a breath, arrow and bow in your hand.

"And NOW!"

You whipped your body quickly together as you notched your arrow before shooting, hitting two separate humans together as they groaned in pain, while Hufaê chose to stamp over, snapping her jaws as if to drive back any human she could.

Other na'vi's joined the attack in the exact moment your arrow hit the glass of a flying mobile, the glass cracking before digging into the pilot as it began descending, sending frenzy among the humans, who began garnering their weapons and guns.

The fight was no small thing. While, yes, it was smaller than the main place the Sullys were stationed in, you had BEGGED to be in this spot and it was smaller movement.

Some RDA humans seeing the attack, immediately ducked into their helicopters or air-crafts, buzzing them into life and using the attached guns to attack. You ducked, grabbing another arrow and shooting it up. Hufaê softly howled, using her size to nudge a human off their feet, while you shot the arrows.

The arrows flew through, the coloured springs on them signs of the defenders. All while the arrows dug themselves into vital parts of the humans, while the other na'vis were busy attacking the cargo for transporting their resources and weapons. The defenders yelled the fighting and battles cries loudly overhead, their weapons accurate as you tugged on another bow from your back.

Notching it and you pulled the string, before shooting. The arrow's seeding past with air almost vaporising for a second before they hit their targets with uncanny preciseness. Neytiri would've been proud, Neteyam even more so.

Your held on your arrow tightened, knuckles tight and swung it roughly against the back of a human, causing them yell loudly before crumbling infront of you, falling against the grass roughly, scratching their skin. Your snarled loudly at the ones who tried to approach you, if they even tried to, or swung as much. You sucked in a breath, trying to calm your breath, grabbing your arrow and aiming it at the blades of the aircrafts, hitting it and breaking the metal, causing the Kestrels to fall.

Your hand reaches back, grabbing mindlessly for an arrow, only you feel nothing come up at all— "Pxasìk!" you hissed under your breath, turning your head but clearly seeing it empty, as you shifted back, letting out a loud cry to alert others that you needed help in being covered.

It was responded to within a second, a large ikran and a na'vi, Mo'unyu, your friend, slammed down on the ground beside you, rolling before standing beside you, their ikran loudly roaring and pushing back the beings, snapping their sharp teeth.

You and Mo'unyu immediately crouched, falling back as they handed you a few arrows, before listening in to another cry of na'vi, "Shall you be fine here?"

"Yes! Go, help them." you hummed, nodding while you counted the arrows and began planning how to use them efficiently. Mo'unyu would insist on staying, but you seemed tense, so they climbed back on their ikran before flying off.

Your hand counted them, before silently putting them against your back.

when you heard it—

A large robotic groan came from your side, your head whipped to your side to notice another robot holding a gun. You grabbed your arrow, but before that, you heard a loud whistle of bullet as you got down on the grass.

"AGH—! Hufaê, GO! Cover!" you hissed, crawling as fast as you could away from the clearing, before standing up and running round the side of the clearing. You could hear Hufaê fly up, her wings rustling tree tops, but you ran faster. You knew these forests like the back of your hand, but right now? It felt like it was looming over you. You hoped to lose the human while your feet patterned on the soft grass and mud, a tiny stone or two sometimes piercing your foot as you winced, but didn't stop.

But the human seemed to persist, even if at a bit of distance, you could hear them yell orders back to some comrades through communication device.

"Oh, Eywa..please work." you silently mumbled, crouching, before climbing up the tree, your hands held tightly on the bark before climbing higher, you hoped the flora disguised yourself well enough..

When the branch beside your head broke apart, splinters hitting as you hissed under your breath, whipping your head to see the human smirk, "Come on down, buttercup..We'll be nice!" he hollered softly, as you snarled loudly, before turning behind the bark, and silently going up,

"No..? Tch," the human clicked their tongue, before you heard another bullet. In an acrobatic arc, you jumped onto the vine of another tree, getting higher, before settling up. You got a view, before you moved higher and onto another tree, a large arc of your arms supporting you before somehow launched yourself onto another pointed branch, rustling the plants around gently.

Luckily, the rustling confused the human a bit, with how it occurred rapidly around on different points as they shot bullets whenever the rustling of plants occurred, but didn't come up with your body.

You finally got a vantage point behind their robotic body's glass back and grabbed an arrow, notching and hitting it directly at the upper leg of the robot, another arrow onto the back and a final one, right as they moved their head to you—!

CRACK!

It hit right through the glass, right into and against their collarbone. Blood spewed and they screamed in pain before they slumped forward in their robotic contraption... You were okay.. Finished.

"Oh Eywa.." you sighed in relief, breathing out heavily, the warpaint across you smeared with grass and mud and dirt and blood, splinters and others. You took in and let out breaths you didn't know you held in.

You jumped down from the tree, grabbing on the leaves and gently sliding down before standing straight on the grass, you took in a breath. You had one or maybe two arrows more, you sighed out in relief. You took steps back away from the body of the warriors, and turned around.

You looked down, pressing your intercom, "Sir! I'm here!" you called over softly before immediately—

"Kid—?! you okay—! Shit, your team is already heading over! They said they couldn't reach you!" Jake's voice called, you could already hear somewhere in the distance a bit of arguing, and then Neteyam's voice, "Dad! Is she—Is she okay?" he asked, panicked before you heard some murmurs.

"You alright, kid?"

"Yes, sir." you replied back, looking down and taking a step ahead, a soft rustle of grass and the soft clink of your jewellery, you didn't pay much attention, more busy listening in on the instructions.

"Alright, head back. Quickly." Jake said, voice concerned but keeping warmer like he does with Tuk or Kiri, like you were already his daughter. You felt warmth in your neck, a soft smile on your lips and another jingle from your tweng's dangles.

The warmth on your neck, silently made you stretch your head, you let out a loud cry, calling onto Hufaê, hoping she was still around. Cause you weren't sure how far was the walk back to the clan. You hummed, another soft clink—wait..

That wasn't you—! Your hand grabbed your arrow, notching it and whipping around, "Sir Jake Sully, wai—!"

BANG!

Your head whipped not in time, right before the wind was knocked out of you as you fell back roughly, head hitting the bark of a tree roughly as you jerked backwards, falling behind and sitting down hard. Breathed knocked out of you, like it somebody hit your throat, your body jolted from where the pain came from, shockwaves hitting you roughly.

A bullet hit you. The vrrtep shot you—!

Pain shot through you like hot metal held against your skin and peeled back roughly, ripping skin off.

Your finger let go of the arrow, again hitting the glass of amplified mobility platform and the human in it, again it only hit their upper arm, the junction near their shoulder, and they screamed in pain like you, but again tried to mobilise their gun using their good hand. Your dazed head literally felt like it was choking you on it's own, you took a desperate shaky breath, attempting to crawl back, but red was staining the floor.

"Damn fuckin' local tails like ya really think you can overpower me?" the human treaded closer, the robotic arms holding the large gun as he began aiming it at you, the crackled glass did little and so did the arrows.

"Kid, what's going on?!" you heard over the intercom, but your mind had already begun to cloud over, your panic and adrenaline didn't do much to help.

You squeezed back, sucking in a breath to not cry, the warpaint smeared further, blood dripping into the soil and into Eywa's earth, the man had somehow managed to click the gun's safety lock, you somehow pushed yourself against the tree bark.

"Kid, ANSWER!" the intercom said, but all that came out your mouth was a lowly groan, trying to sit up, but still lolling down, eyes felt painfully sore and throat even more so.

The wetness of whatever fluids gushed out, ran through your veins. The bullet felt messy, you could feel the pain, the way it wasn't masking itself, unable to, from the way the adrenaline in you was lowering now..

But still, you tried to move away somehow. You managed to crawl aside a bit more, the tree now no longer your support, but the human was already somehow gathering it's bearings, quicker and easier than you. With two of your arrows embedded in them.

"Kid?! We're SENDING SOMEONE OVER!" You heard before the static moved off, you groaned in desperation as if saying 'don't leave now! NO! please—please..no..' but nothing came out except a slurring groan and some drool this time too. Your hand moved to wipe your mouth quickly, as the man took another step ahead

You tried to drag yourself away again, this time, your feet and one side of upper arm got tangled in thing strangly web-like vines descending from the tree.

"Fuckin' blue monkeys." he hissed, venom coating his words. In response, you snarled back, baring your canine and attempting to intimidate. It didn't seem to intimidate the man, as you snarled again. One last attempt. You controlled your breath, garnered strength as much as you could. So you could be heard. Scare and be strong. and most of all, BE LOUDER.

Of-course, your snarled almost resonated nearby trees, in the energy spent, your head slumped back, revealing your neck as you moved one hand to cover your throat, again gaining control in your neck and bringing your head straight.

but the man chuckled, "Fucking mutt, you all really do act like savages." he hissed, taking a step ahead. Your head straightened with remaining strength, your golden eyes glared at him. Your eyes were blurring over, your arms giving out. Help would be too far..

He took steps ahead, his stronger arm holding the gun as he tried to garner strength in the other. You eyes squeezed shut, blurring over and throat convulsing and watering sourly. You can't die, not like this—! NO!

And that's when your heard it. A roar. A road which was loud and strong.

Your eyes opened, another figure hitting your hazy eye, too blurry but you swore you heard a small yip of joy in yourself, the figure descended right on top of the human, crushing the glass even more, before the snapping jaws of the random arial creature grabbed the human before throwing them across the forest floor, causing a deep incision in the soil itself , roaring loudly.

That had to hurt.

You couldn't tell though, your eyes were blurred with tears, throat choked up and mind dazed out. You could barely comprehend one moment to next, the adrenaline ran too high, so you swore you kept twitching. One hand held your side where the bullet had embedded itself.

The creature yipped loudly, it's wings flaring brightly. Your eyes admired the colors, even if clouded over by the sole tiredness you provided yourself, head lolling backward or slumping ahead like you could barely support yourself, but you swore your lips lilted in a small smile, before you slump back.

Thankfully the web-like vines tangled themselves, holding you up. You still looked at the beautiful creature with dazed and bleary eyes, softly crooning in weak voice, body feeling like a marionette with no strength in muscles so your joints were giving up.

"..Hufaê.."

—

"Kid?! We're SENDING SOMEONE OVER!" Jake yelled over the intercom. Neteyam's eyes widened in worry, as he urged his ikran to fly ahead further. They were almost over Hallelujah mountains. Lo'ak also seemed to be calling over his intercom, "Contact her on your own, I'll try from this side." he grabbed what was supposed to be a walkie-talkie he handed you, tugged onto his necklace, it was small, black.

"Y/N, can you hear us?.. Y/N!" he called, before shaking his head nervously, "What..? What's wrong?" Neteyam asked, voice cracking with him unable to control his throat constricting,

"She's not responding, sir." Lo'ak told Jake, almost unable to look at Neteyam's almost broken face. Neteyam softly motioned for his ikran to fly faster. He can't stand this, he shouldn't have let you go on this mission..

Jake, Lo'ak and Neteyam swooped in the underside of the mountain, entering in vertically. Neteyam lands his ikran, Oaytokx, who growled and simmered in extreme worry he was feeling from Neteyam. Neteyam disconnected his tsaheylu, patting his ikran.

"The war party is back!" Tuk came running over and pulling Kiri behind her, hugging Neteyam tightly. Neteyam forced on a smile, while Kiri frowned seeing the look on her brothers and father's faces,

"What's wrong?" Kiri asked, silently prying Tuk off Neteyam, who clearly needed space in the moment. Lo'ak gently calmed his ikran, letting him land peacefully. He didn't get off, when he answered,

"Y/N hasn't returned, she's not responding to calls either. Her last intercom seemed to have some gun noise." Lo'ak whispered. "What." Kiri's eyes darkened when she spoke, worry and concern already swirling in her as she turned to watch Neteyam walk off without a word, when Neytiri's ikran also landed beside theirs.

Upon learning of the news, Neytiri softly snarled, but she also seemed worried. She got off, pulling her kuru away as she stood straight, slightly bruised on her back, but overall fine. "Kiri, take your sister and head back inside." Neytiri ordered firmly. Kiri nodded, gently tugging Tuk away with her.

Neteyam silently waited around a bit, hoping that your intercom just got broken and nothing more. But after a while, his worry and panic was overriding his patience, so he tried to connected to you through his mother's intercom, before asking around if anyone saw you come in.

Every 'no' seemed to spike his worry, and trouble. By the time, he returned, Jake was already getting off Bob, who yipped softly at Lo'ak's ikran. Lo'ak followed their dad, disconnecting the tsaheylu from his ikran gently.

"Where is she? Dad, she-she could be in SO MUCH trouble-or hurt-or-!" he kept talking in worry. Jake took steps ahead quickly, now wasn't the time to play commander, but dad.

Jake gently grabbed Neteyam's shoulder, "She's strong, They'll be fine. Take a breather, boy, I've already sent people over." he said softly. Walking over. Your squad had returned, the ones you accompanied, but you weren't around. No one could reach you..

Jake himself doesn't want to think bad or wrong, he trusted you. You were a good kid and you trusted him, he can't be breaking your trust like this—no!

"Any news?, "No, Toruk Makto." Jake silently groaned at response from the warriors. Neteyam pacing the High Camp, despite his own injuries, his face worried. You'd be fine, he trusts you, yes. You are a great fighter, you're strong and you're smart and you're resourceful in a way he thinks is amazing of you.

But Neteyam also wants you to be as safe as possible. As safe as he can allow things to be for you.

Neteyam's tail flicked and swished in worry, ears twitching in tandem. His hand gently pats Oaytokx's head, as if trying to distract himself. Jake gave strict directions, "Both of you, stay down here. I'll go on rounds to look for them." He said, climbing back on Bob, connecting tsaheylu before Jake took off.

Lo'ak gently rubs his back, "bro, it's going to be fine. She'll return to us, the humans can't capture her!" he said. Lo'ak tried to convince him, rubbing his back. Neteyam only shook his head gently, picking at one of his braids before he silently sat down as to not pace himself and panic even more. Lo'ak also seemingly kept trying to comfort him, though he also seemed worried that you hadn't returned.

Neytiri, after being bandaged quickly, returned to her children's sides, "She shall be fine, Eywa won't let such a girl be harmed." she whispered, gently rubbing Neteyam's back. Lo'ak rolled his eyes, but tapped his feet silently. Everyone seemed to be heading in, and they had already sent four to five people to look for you, not to mention, Jake was patrolling around to look for you as well.

Neteyam's eyes were now starting to sting, even as he tried to not cry. Thoughts and conclusions were becoming worse and worse and he felt nauseated, like he was going to empty the contents of his stomach if he didn't get some news soon. His mother sat beside him, Lo'ak kept talking to him about how good they had done in the mission, Lo'ak's own tactic of comforting Neteyam.

"And remember when we ACTUALLY were called in? Woah!"

Lo'ak motioned with his hands, as if showing how they dove in. It did little to comfort Neteyam, but even that little meant something when he felt devastated that you haven't returned from your only mission away from him.

Eyes starting to grow swollen as he kept rubbing them to remove the tears before they got out, "You'll hurt your eyes." Neytiri whispered, gently pulling his hand away, hugging him against her side and kissing his head.

A genuine spot of affection from his mother.

Neteyam had protested against his father to send you around without him with you, but you had promised you'd be careful and that you both needed to built independent skills as well. Depending on each other can only do so good, right? He remembers smiling brightly at how strong and firm and confident you seemed.

Look how well that turned out.

Neteyam sighed, stretching his neck and arms slightly, even as Lo'ak kept talking and his mother sat, murmuring comfort or humming in agreement to Lo'ak's words. His eyes again trained to the sky, Jake's ikran descended back. Jake got off, face buried in his hands as Neteyam stood up,

"Dad, anything..?" he asked, nervously, hands tightening till his knuckles felt pained. Jake sighed, as Neytiri sighed in worry, "Nothing. Nothing at all, I've kept a lookout, we have to wait." he mumbled.

Neteyam looked away, before anything could happen, wiping his eyes again. Eyes stinging as he tried to not cry, he can't lose you. Absolutely not, you were one thing in his life he doesn't have to perfect for. Nothing could keep him away from you, but he didn't want to cry..It felt humiliating enough.

Lo'ak softly turned to him, "Bro, maybe—"

"Not now, Lo'ak." Neteyam said, voice more sharp than he intended it to be as he sighed out, shakily. Voice cracking and eyes stinting with blurred up tears. As if to combat them, he looked up, wiping his eyes with his palms and blinked to clear his eyes. That's when he saw a soft shadow flying, he paused, squinting his eyes.

"You were being a douche, maybe she already called for help, but we seriously—"

"Lo'ak, shut up for a second."

Neteyam barely said anything more and stood up, walking to the edge of the edge and looking to make sure he's seeing it right. Catching Neteyam's line of sight, Neytiri blinks and squints and Lo'ak follows their gaze,

"HUFAÊ—!" Neteyam's voice got caught in his throat in near relief, "That's Hufaê!" he called. The ikran roared back loudly in response, flying faster as it descended before landing. Neteyam ran over, but froze when he saw the sight in it's entirety.

His heart sunk down to his feet. He was almost buckling over and falling in his own pain at the sight of you.

You were barely holding on, your kuru wasn't even fully connected to Hufaê's, warpaint smudged, blood seeping down Hufaê's back and wings, onto her abdomen from where a large gaping wound lay.

You barely blinked and looked up, "..I-did—" before your body lost it's balance as you fell over. You luckily didn't hit the floor. Neteyam's arms quickly held onto you, gently helping you off, laying you down. Hufaê loudly snarled, as if she needed you awake. Neytiri turned to calm the ikran, while Lo'ak ran to get Mo'at, Norm and Max. ANYONE who could help.

Neteyam held your hand, holding down on the bullet wound, while Jake gently hit your cheeks, "Kid, kid you awake? Get up!" he hissed. Neteyam's voice was crumpling in itself, "Yawne, yawne! Get up. Y/N, can you hear me?" he called, gently shaking you from your shoulders.

Your eyes barely moved, barely open and slipping in and out of consciousness, "..Did my duty—" before you coughed violently. Jake rubbed your back, holding you against him on one side while Neteyam held your hand tightly.

"Shhh, yeah. i know..I know, kid. You did well. You did amazing. Great, in-fact." Jake shushed you, pushing back your braids. Tears of pain and to clear out your blurry eyes, Jake's fingers gently wiped them. Neteyam's hand held down on your wound.

"Yawne, you did so well on your mission." Neteyam whispered, even though he had no idea what actually occurred, he just needed you to hold on. Your hand gently moved around his, tightened for a second, "yeah..?" you asked, despite your eyes closing.

"Yeah, definitely." He said softly, your eyes closing as you fell unconscious, "Y/N...? Y/N!" Neteyam shook you when Neytiri pulled him back gently,

"She shall be fine, she's in Eywa's hands now, be patient." Neytiri whispered gently. Jake gently pulled off the body-came he put on you, to record in case something EXACTLY like this happens. It comes in use.

By the time Norm, Max and others came over with stretcher and whatever they needed. Neteyam could barely pull himself away from you, his sobs wrecking his body while he tried to stay strong, even if his voice cracked whenever he spoke.

"Yawne, you hear- shit," he sucked in a breath, "You hear me? You're okay-You're okay. Norm's here, you'll be okay. I promise, just...don-don't let go." His grip tightened on your hand, before he reluctantly let go to move you. Jake helped Neteyam get up on the stretcher, as he again returned to your side, to hold your hand while you were being rushed inside the High Camp.

Neteyam's hands held your tightly, while he sobbed. But after a bit, Norm and jake did have to convince Neteyam to leave so you could be treated in a sterile condition. It took a lot of convincing, not to mention Lo'ak and Spider basically wrestling him out of there. He sat the entire time outside, with Hufaê, your ikran, who seemed rather devastated herself that you were hurt.

Neteyam gently stroked her head with the back of his nails, seeing how she softly whined or let out yips of sadness since she happened to miss you so much. That sort of bond was rare between a na'vi and ikran. Neteyam felt glad that even if not him, you had someone who cared for you as much as he seemingly does. —

"Neteyam, she'll be fine. It's okay. They're fine now." on top of soft sobbing, your mind could barely comprehend anything. Like you were physically glued and stuck to the ground. Nothing moved, even if you used your entire capability to, like a web on top of you was stopping you.

Besides, your one hand was physically held by someone. It was soft, someone's soft hand. You guessed, when you finally began pulling yourself together, stirring silently.

"Neteyam. Breathe, boy. She's fine," Jake's voice carried over, before your vision opened to reveal blinding lights. The blinding lights made you immediately clamp your eyes shut again. "They returned, didn't they?"

Jake whispered, gently wiping Neteyam's tears as he held Neteyam's head to his chest. It was a bit out of the ordinary to be so soft nowadays for Jake, but right now. Jake wasn't playing commander, but rather dad to his kid. His first born.

"Yeah, returned while shot! She almost died!" Neteyam whispered, wiping his face haphazardly and then leaning his head back against Jake. Jake gently fixed your fan which was above you, watching over silently. You stirred softly, which made Neteyam perk up to sit. His eyes swollen, reddened from hours of crying.

"Y/N—Y/N. Are-are you alright?" he asked, your eyes blinking open tiredly, while you coughed a bit. Neteyam's grip on your hand tightened, while your other hand was grabbing onto the nearest thing for support which was wires from the machines.

When you grabbed onto them, Jake grabbed your wrists, gently prying them off the essential wires and held your hand in his own.

Jake's finger rubbed small circles on your hand while Neytiri was rubbing some ointment into your side, before packing it up tightly in bark-made bandages. "Your wounds were strong. By Eywa's blessings, have you seem to survive." Neytiri mumbled, voice soft but still proud of you.

Neteyam's large hand hooded over your eyes to block out some light from your eyes. Your eyes blinked, clearing up as you took in a breath, attempting to sit up,

"No..Lay there," Neteyam whispered, hand on your shoulder to just push your back. You were going to protest, but his swollen, tear-ridden eyes made you stop,

"Please, Oaretsyìp.. Just-just stay and heal."

He said it, like it'll be difficult to let you actually walk around and be active. So you silently laid back, taking in breaths for yourself while Neteyam silently played with your fingers.

Laying back down, being treated, you softly sighed out before speaking up,"What happened..?" you asked yourself, before pausing and remembering all that happened,

"right—got shot. Yeah."

You nodded to your own memory trying to teach you and remind you of everything that happened since this morning. Jake looked up, smiling silently as he fixed your hair, his own large fingers tracing tiny circles on your palm.

"You took quite a hit kid. I saw the recording, you busted some ass." He said, voice proud while you grinned, winking one eye. But paused when you realised the state you were in, hooked up to machines, bandages of both human and na'vi manner around you. Warpaint wiped clean off, but bruises spotting around. You were supposed to come back with minimal damage to yourself, now?

You looked like you got eaten by a palulukan and then spat out when it decided it was enough to use you as a chew toy. You cleared your throat, before speaking up,

"I'm.. sorry, sir. For getting in the fight. I should've stayed out of it, like you told me to." you whispered.

You always were a bit of a unintended rebel, you didn't mean to disobey when you knew it should do you good, but it felt better to do things your way sometimes.

"It's fine. You aren't the first and you won't be the last and this won't be your last ride either. You did quite well for your first solo mission than I expected, that would deserve you a drink back on Earth."

"...Earth?" you blinked in confusion, what the hell was that?

But Jake shook his head with a fond look, "Forget it." but Neteyam gently looked up, gently placing a kiss to your cheek, "It's where dad's from, where all sky-people are from." He said, softly stroking your cheek. You looked up at him, his arm propped up on his elbow and face against his palm as he watched you.

"Ah.."

Neteyam smiled, wiping his eyes lastly, even if eyelashes glistened with remnants of tears which he was unable to wipe away,

"You did great.." he whispered to you, a soft smile finally reaching his lips, "You fought amazing, even with how badly you were injured, you stayed consciousness long enough to reach us."

Neteyam's voice was warm, as he gently stroked your cheek with his knuckles or hands, before snuggling his cheek against yours to get his scent on you for a second. Your voice cracked when you responded,

"..You think so?"

"I know so. Also, Hufaê was crying while you were treating, you should go see her since she's not allowed inside here." Neteyam said gently, chuckling fondly at the idea of the ikran and how direly it was trying to enter when Neteyam was allowed in. "I'll go see her right after this."

Jake clicked his tongue, "Oh, but you're grounded on my end. No flying until you heal, you hear me, kid?" , "But, sir—", "no arguments." Jake put down his foot, firmly but in his own loving manner for you. You sighed, but nodded your head.

For your own good.

"I really didn't do a well enough job though. I was supposed to come back with minimal damage." You whispered, but Neteyam simply leaned close, kissing your lips and then cheek,

"All i'm glad for is that you came back AT ALL. You did what you thought was right, help them as much as you could. And you helped immensly. You fought like a true warrior," he whispered, his cheek gently nuzzling on top of your head, while your cheek snuggled against the side of his jaw and throat,

And Neteyam sighed. You're back, in his arms and completely okay for a while now. "And that's your personality to the core, to be strong, even if hurt."

© rxsilabeth--er. I do not give permission to modify, translate, copy or repost ANY of my works on ANY platform. Reblogs are very much welcome!

Eight Years of Isolation

The fluorescent lights of the TAP isolation wing hummed with a sterile, rhythmic buzz that felt like it was vibrating inside [Name]’s skull. At fifteen, she stood nearly seven and a half feet tall, yet she felt small—shrunk down by the heavy fabric of her tactical jumpsuit and the weight of Mercer’s expectations.

[Name] stood at a perfect "parade rest" in the center of the room. Her tail didn't twitch; her ears didn't rotate toward the sound of the door. She had been taught that those were "animalistic lapses in discipline."

Mercer walked a slow circle around her, the heels of his shoes clicking against the tile. "Report on the morning ballistics drill," he commanded.

[Name]’s voice was flat, her accent indistinguishable from any other RDA officer. "Efficiency was recorded at ninety-eight percent, Director Mercer. Adjustments were made for windage and the higher center of gravity inherent to this... form." She hesitated to say "body." To [Name], this blue skin was just a biological suit she had been forced to pilot.

"Good," Mercer leaned in, his eyes cold and clinical. "The others—Teylan and the rest—they are weak. They have not been in dirt, yet they cling to the dirt. You are the only one who truly understands that your nature is a tool, not a destiny."

[Name] felt a hollow ache in her chest, but she didn't let it reach her face. The mention of her brother’s name had almost soften her face, but she hid it. She didn't know how to be a person; she only knew how to be a success.

But then—

Chaos erupted. The Battle of Ayram Alusing commenced. 

The transition from silence to violence was instantaneous. The ground shook as the Resistance and RDA clashed outside, the vibrations rattling the metal walls of the wing.

"Move! To the cryo-bay!" Alma’s voice was frantic, a sharp contrast to Mercer’s controlled chilling tone.

[Name] was swept into the corridor. For the first time in years, she wasn't alone. She saw them. Through the smoke of the burning facility, she saw a face that lived in the back of her mind like a faded photograph.

Teylan.

He was older, taller, his face etched with a frantic terror. He was helping Tamtey and the others, his movements desperate. The recognition hit [Name] like a physical blow, shattering the "stiff military precision" she had practiced for years.

"Teylan! Brother!" She screamed. The English words felt like rocks in her mouth, but she shouted them with everything she had. "Teylan! It’s me! It's [Name]!"

Teylan stopped. He turned, his wide, wet eyes searching to the one who called. He saw her—the tall, lanky girl in the RDA jumpsuit, standing like a soldier but crying like the toddler he had lost. His lips parted to say her name, his hand reaching out across the gap of eight lost years.

"[Name]—"

"There’s no time!" Alma’s hands slammed into [Name]’s shoulders, shoving her backward toward the open pod. She felt her back hit the cushion of the cryo-pod. 

"No! Wait!" [Name] struggled, her long fingers scraping against the edge of the cryo-pod as she tried to call to her brother. She wanted to tell him she’s okay, that she’s strong, and she remembered him. 

"Get in! Now!" Alma shouted over the roar of a collapsing bulkhead.

The pod door hissed shut, sealing out the heat, the smoke, and the sight of Teylan’s hand on the glass door. She could not hear what he was saying, but she was glad to see him. 

The last thing [Name] saw through the frost forming on the glass was her brother’s face disappearing into a blur of white. The cold crept into her bones, freezing the scream in her throat before she could even say his name one last time.

Years passed. 

The cold of the cryo-pod didn't fade gently; it shattered. One moment, [Name] was staring at Teylan’s reaching hand through the frost, and the next, the world was a cacophony of alarms, blistering heat, and the smell of burning insulation.

"Teylan!" She coughed, her lungs burning as she tumbled out of the pod. The facility was crumbling. In the thick black smoke, she couldn't see the other students. 

“<Little sister! Over here!>” Faintly, she hears a voice.

[Name] stumbled, her long, uncoordinated limbs striking the jagged debris. She ran toward what she thought was an exit, but the heavy blast doors hissed shut, cutting off the path back to her brother. Countless explosions surged. Her ears popped, almost deafening as she crouched in fright.

She was alone in the dark until a spotlight blinded her. The rhythmic thwip-thwip-thwip of a Samson gunship drowned out her heartbeat. Men in tactical gear swarmed the clearing, their rifles leveled at her chest.

"Secure the asset!" A voice barked. Before she could move, a sedative dart hissed into her shoulder. The last thing she saw was the 'Death’s Head' insignia on a soldier’s vest.

The next ninety days aboard an unknown carrier were a blur of cold steel, recirculated air, and the rhythmic thud of meat against synthetic padding. 

It didn’t even feel like cryo had given her fifteen years to rest. For her, it was like the battle of Ayram Alusing had happened yesterday. She was brought to sleep then abducted and manipulated once again for the use of Humans. For [Name], time was no longer measured by the rising of Polyphemus or the bioluminescent glow of the jungle, but by the flickering overhead lights of the training deck.

"Again! You’re telegraphing your movement, TAP moron! A Viperwolf wouldn't wait for you to find your balance, and neither will a Sully loyalist!"

The instructor, a scarred veteran named Miller, paced the perimeter of the ring. He carried a shock-baton that he didn't hesitate to use whenever [Name] showed a hint of any "Na’vi hesitation"—that natural, fluid instinct to move with grace. He wanted her jagged. He wanted her human.

[Name] lunged again. Her bare feet, large and blue, gripped the cold metal floor. She drove her shoulder into the heavy bag, followed by a sharp, short-range elbow strike. It was a move designed for cramped hallways and urban combat, a "Sky Person" technique that felt jarring in her long, elegant and bruised limbs.

"Fantastic," Miller growled, leaning in so close she could smell the stale coffee on his breath. "The Na’vi fight like they’re dancing. You fight like you’re clearing a room. They see a sister; you see a target. That’s the edge Mercer paid me for."

When she wasn't being bruised in the ring, she was being scrubbed by the "re-education" tablets. Hours were spent watching RDA tactical footage, learning to identify human superiors and Na’vi enemies. 

She was forced to wear a stiff, grey jumpsuit that chafed against her skin, and her hair—which should have been long and braided—was kept in a slick bun.

She was being broken. All for the sake of Mercer’s ego. She was being sent to Hell’s Gate—the Eastern Frontiers where humans are building their metropolis. They stripped her of everything. They stripped her world to ashes and debris.

One night, sitting in the corner of her cell, [Name] looked at her hands. They were huge, blue, and beautiful, but all she saw were tools for holding an M69. She tried to hum a melody she vaguely remembered from the TAP facility—a soft song—but the notes died in her throat. She couldn't remember the words. She didn't even know what the words sounded like anymore.

"I am Subject TAP," she whispered to the shadows, her voice flat and devoid of the tonal shifts of the Na'vi language. "I am a specialist in the service of the RDA."

The lie tasted like ash, but it was the only thing keeping her upright.

Halfway through the three months of abduction. Mercer visited her once before the transfer to Hell's Gate. He stood behind the reinforced glass, looking at her not with pride, but with the cold satisfaction of a swordsmith looking at a well-made knife.

"Look at you," he murmured over the intercom. "The others... Teylan, Ri'nela... they are failures. They kept their hearts. But you, [Name]. You are empty. And because you are empty, we can fill you with purpose."

He didn't call her a girl. He didn't call her by her name. He called her a success.

[Name] realized then that Mercer’s greatest victory wasn't teaching her how to shoot or how to fight. It was making her believe that she was an alien in her own skin. She was a Na'vi who was terrified of the forest, a girl who felt more comfortable in a pressurized metal box than under the open sky. She’s never even stepped out in the lush forest of Pandora. 

She was exactly what they wanted: a weapon that looked like the enemy, but thought like the conqueror.

When the shuttle finally touched down at Hell's Gate, the humidity hit [Name] like a physical weight. She was led through the base in handcuffs, despite being a "loyal" asset.

She was at where it all started—the colonization of her moon.

General Ardmore sat behind a desk of cold glass, barely looking up from her monitors. "So, this is it? Mercer’s prize? He spent millions to make a Na’vi that knows how to clear a room?" Ardmore finally looked up, her gaze full of pure, unadulterated disgust. "You look like a nightmare, kid. A waste of oxygen and rations."

[Name] didn't flinch. She stood at attention, her gaze fixed on the wall behind the General. "I am for the use of the RDA, General."

“Are you really?” She did not show hesitation or unease outside. 

Ardmore leaned back, a cruel idea forming. "Mercer wants you utilized. Fine. We’ll see if his 'indoctrination' holds up when the shooting starts. I’m putting you with the First Recom Squad. Quaritch needs scouts who aren't afraid to get their hands dirty. If the jungle eats you on your first patrol, at least I won't have to look at you anymore. If you survive... Maybe Mercer wasn't a total failure."

[Name] did not show any emotions. 

“Escort her to Quaritch.” Ardmore commanded.

The air in the Recom facility was thick with the smell of gun oil, stale cigars, and something heavy—the scent of apex predators who didn't belong in their own skin. As the heavy blast door hissed shut behind her, [Name] felt the immediate weight of a dozen pairs of yellow eyes locking onto her. These were the Recombinants—men who moved with a swagger that was entirely human, ignoring the natural grace their biological—Na’vi bodies possessed. 

In a way, they were similar to her. 

She felt a strange, dizzying sense of "wrongness" looking at them. They were her height, her color, but they were loud and abrasive, their blue skin covered in tattoos, tactical vests and heavy weaponry rather than the traditional beads or loincloths of the people she saw in Mercer’s old files.

"Check it out," Lyle Wainfleet chuckled, leaning back against a metal locker as he cleaned a massive combat knife. "The RDA started a youth league? Or did Mercer just find a runt in the litter?"

The other Recoms laughed, a harsh, guttural sound that echoed off the metal walls. [Name] didn't flinch. She kept her chin tucked, her shoulders squared in the rigid posture of a soldier. To her, this wasn't a room full of her own kind; it was a unit of superior officers.

Colonel Miles Quaritch stood in the center of the bay, checking the magazine on his customized rifle. He looked up, his gaze cutting through the room. Unlike the others, he didn't laugh. He walked toward her, his boots thudding against the deck, and stopped so close she could see the faint scarring on his blue temple.

He didn't see a Na’vi girl. He saw a project. He noticed the way she didn't hiss, the way her tail stayed perfectly still—tucked in line with her leg rather than lashing in agitation. She was a biological mirror of the enemy, but her soul was wrapped in RDA wire.

"Skills?" Quaritch barked, his voice a low, raspy growl.

"Expert marksman, Master-level CQC, and tactical reconnaissance, sir," [Name] stated flatly. Her voice was devoid of any Na'vi lilt, sounding exactly like a human cadet.

Quaritch walked a slow circle around her, his eyes scanning her short-cropped hair, her human-style military boots, and the way she held her M69 AR. It wasn't just a prop; she held it with a familiarity that suggested she had slept with it since she was a toddler.

"Fifteen years old," Quaritch mused, stopping in front of her again. He smirked, a jagged expression that didn't reach his eyes. "Well, at least you aren't singing to the trees or hugging fucking hexapedes. Mercer might be a pencil-pusher, but he knows how to break a spirit. You look like a jarhead, kid. Better than some of these grunts I've been saddled with."

He turned back to the squad, raising his voice. "Pack it up! We’re hunting Sully, and we’re doing it by the book. This one’s coming with us as a specialized scout. If she’s as skilled as the reports say, she’s our hidden card."

"You really trust a native, Boss?" one of the Recoms muttered.

Quaritch glanced back at [Name], who remained in a perfect, fearful silence. "She ain't a native. She’s an asset. And out there in the green, nobody cares what your DNA says. They only care if you pull the trigger when you're told."

[Name] followed him out of the barracks, her heart like a lead weight in her chest. She was stepping out of the metal walls for the first time in years, armed with a weapon designed to kill her own people, led by a man who saw her only as a biological tool. She didn't know the forest, and she didn't know herself; she only knew how to follow the boots in front of her.

The transition from the sterile, recycled air of the RDA carrier to the living atmosphere of Pandora was a physical assault on [Name]’s senses. As the ramp of the gunship lowered, the humidity rolled in like a wave, thick with the scent of crushed moss, sweet nectar, and damp earth.

When her boots—heavy, rubber-soled human boots—finally struck the soil, her knees buckled. For the first time in fifteen years, she wasn't standing on cold tile or grated metal. The ground was soft, vibrant, and seemed to pulse beneath her feet.

Dazed, she reached out a trembling hand toward a spiraling, fan-like leaf. It was a brilliant, bioluminescent green that seemed to glow from within. Just as her fingertip brushed the velvet surface, a massive blue hand clamped down on her shoulder, spinning her around with violent force.

"Eyes on the prize, kid!" Quaritch roared, his face inches from hers. His yellow eyes were cold, devoid of the wonder she felt. "This ain't a field trip. You start daydreaming, and the local wildlife will have you for lunch before you can blink. You're my soldier now. You betray this team or go soft on me, and I’ll personally feed you to the Viperwolves. Copy?"

"Yes, sir," [Name] whispered. The wonder vanished, replaced by a cold, familiar dread. She felt smaller than ever, a blue-skinned ghost in a world that felt like it was screaming at her to wake up.

Fast forward. The sky turned black and the jungle gleamed blue. The squad had moved deep into the lush jungles and stumbled upon young na’vis. The mission was a surgical strike to draw out Jake Sully. Toruk Makto. And by shocking wonder, [Name] and the recoms stumbled upon the children of the very man they were hunting. 

One of the Na’vi kids had five finger. [Name] seemed enthralled. 

“Is that you, Mrs. Sully?” She heard Quartich. Chaos had started, quietly. 

[Name] stayed back, crouched in the thick undergrowth, her M69 rifle held in a white-knuckled grip. Through her tactical sights, she saw one of the na’vi kids—Kiri. The girl wasn't looking at the Recoms; she was looking directly at the bush where [Name] was hidden. Her eyes were soulful, filled with a deep, confusing curiosity. It was the first time another Na’vi had truly seen her, and the guilt hit [Name] like a physical blow to the stomach, leaving her nauseous.

Then, the canopy exploded.

Jake Sully and Neytiri arrived like a whirlwind of vengeance. Gunfire and hissing arrows filled the air. [Name]’s body seized. Her training screamed at her to return fire, to find a target, to be the "success" Mercer promised. 

“Fo, focus. Aim. Kill.” 

But as she watched Neytiri move—fluid, lethal, and devastatingly beautiful—[Name] couldn't move. These weren't "hostiles." They were the people she saw when she looked in the mirror.

Suddenly, her gaze shifted to a Recom positioned fifty yards to her left. He was leaning against a mossy trunk, leveling his high-powered rifle at a boy—Neteyam—who was holding his bow and positioning himself for aim. The boy was distracted, his back turned, a clear shot for a professional killer.

[Name] didn't think. She didn't calculate windage or remember Mercer’s lessons on loyalty. A primal instinct, buried under years of conditioning, surged to the surface.

She swung her rifle. The world slowed down to the beat of her own heart.

Bang.

The recoil bruised her shoulder, a familiar sting. Her supposed ally’s head snapped back as he collapsed into the ferns. He didn't even scream. It was as smooth as she remembered. 

[Name] gasped, the rifle suddenly feeling like a serpent in her hands. She had made her choice. She had killed her own teammate to save a boy who didn't even know she existed. She was no longer a soldier, and she wasn't yet a sister. She was a traitor in the eyes of the only world she had ever known.

The boy—Neteyam gasped as he realized the swift moment of near death. He caught her eye, confusion evident in both of them.

Jake Sully, acting on the battle-hardened instincts of a warrior, didn't stop to question why a Na’vi in RDA gear had fired a shot on a fellow RDA. He saw a threat and neutralized it.

“Move, Neteyam!” He yelled and stepped from where his son was. He pointed at [Name].

The bullet tore through the air, catching [Name] in her thigh. The force spun her around, sending her crashing into the dirt. She didn't scream like a Na'vi; she let out a short, stifled grunt—the way she had been trained to take a hit in the ring back on the carrier.

Neteyam nabbed at the side of his father’s weapon.

"<No, Dad! Stop!>" Neteyam’s voice cracked through the chaos. He didn't hesitate, leaping over a fallen log to place his own body between his father’s rifle and the girl in the brush. "<She saved me! She shot them!>"

Jake froze, his eyes narrowing in confusion, but the battle didn't wait. More Recoms began pouring fire into their position. "Move! Get your siblings out of here!" Jake roared, covering their retreat. He urged and made a run from it, along with Neteyam. Leaving behind the injured [Name].

[Name] didn't try to stand. She dragged herself through the mud and rotting leaves, her fingers clawing at the earth until she was wedged behind a jagged rock. The pain in her leg was a white-hot pulse, but it was nothing compared to the blackness swallowing her mind.

The only thing lighting her surroundings were the various flower-like insects surrounding her—atokirina. [Name] trembled at the idea that even sure pure creature are willing to attach themselves to her.

She looked at her hands—blue, yet covered in the grease of a human rifle. She looked at her jumpsuit, the symbol of the people who had erased her soul. I killed Miller, she thought, her breath hitching. I’m a traitor to the only home I’ve ever known. And to the Na’vi... I’m just another demon in a blue skin.

She was a ghost. A mistake. A "success" that had finally reached its breaking point.

Her trembling hand reached out and snagged her M69. She didn't check the safety; she knew it was off. With a sob that felt like it was tearing her throat open, she pressed the cold, oil-slicked muzzle under her chin.

"Don't!"

The gun was ripped from her hands by a powerful kick. The woodsprites immediately scattered. [Name] looked up, her vision blurred by tears and the shadow of her messed up hair. The boy she had saved stood over her, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with a mix of horror and pity. He didn't see a soldier; he saw a girl drowning in her own despair.

He dropped his bow and scooped her up. “<Za’u>!”

"Leave me!" [Name] wailed, her voice cracking into a high, pathetic shriek. She swung her fists faintly at his chest, her human-trained strikes failing her as her strength ebbed away. "Let me die! I have nothing! I am nothing!"

Neteyam didn't say a word. His grip was like iron, grounding her even as she fought him. He whistled, a sharp, piercing note that brought his Ikran diving through the canopy. With a grunt of effort, he hauled her onto the creature's back, mounting behind her to keep her upright.

As the Ikran beat its massive wings, surging upward through the mist of the Hallelujah Mountains, the wind whipped against [Name]’s face. The sensation was too much. The rush of air, the height, and the searing pain in her leg triggered a fractured flood of memories: the sharp bite of RDA needles, the hum of the carrier’s engines, and Mercer’s voice whispering, “You are a tool, TAP.”

She threw her head back and howled. It wasn't a cry for help; it was a raw cry of a spirit finally breaking under the pressure of two worlds that didn't want her. It was the sound of fifteen years of isolation finally catching up to her.

Neteyam felt the vibration of her cries against his own chest. He leaned forward, wrapping his arms tightly around her waist, pressing his forehead against the back of her neck.

"<Hold on>," he murmured into her skin, his voice steady against the roar of the wind. Though his words were alien to her, she understood his intentions. "<Just hold on. I have you.>"

High above the trees, [Name] finally stopped fighting. She slumped against Neteyam, her blood staining his hands, as the bioluminescent world of Pandora blurred into a dark, welcoming fog.

From another ikran below, Neytiri watched them ascend, her face a mask of fury and confusion. "Neteyam! What are you doing with that... that thing?" she hissed, her bow still half-raised as Kiri and Tuk rode with her.

“<Mom! Stop!>” Kiri urged.

"Neytiri, stop!" Jake caught her arm, watching the trail of blue blood falling from the sky. "She saved him. We talk later. For now, we move! We are still in the vicinity of our enemy!"

The air inside the medical facility of the Omatikaya High Camp was heavy with the scent of crushed teylu and medicinal herbs, a sharp contrast to the sterile atmosphere of the RDA carriers. [Name] lay motionless on the cot, her breath hitching in shallow, uneven intervals.

"Her vitals are stabilizing, but her neural activity is off the charts," Norm whispered, leaning over a holographic display. He looked at Jake, his expression troubled. "She’s been hardwired, Jake. The way she moves, the way she reacts... It's all Marine. Whoever’s behind it didn't just train her; they rewrote her.”

“What do you mean?” Neytifi asked as she stood with Jake.

“She’s pure Na’vi, but she’s... she's been broken from the inside out."

Mo’at stepped forward from the shadows, her presence commanding an immediate silence. She didn't look at the monitors; she looked at the girl. She traced the unique, subtle patterns on [Name]’s skin that had been partially obscured by RDA tactical grease.

"She is not just of the People," Mo'at announced, her voice resonating with a weight that made Neytiri gasp. "She is Sarentu. The Travelers. Nomad. The clan we thought was lost to the wind."

The room went deathly quiet. 

Jake felt a cold chill run down his spine as the pieces finally clicked together. "The Ambassador Program, Tap," he muttered, rubbing his face. "John Mercer’s program. She’s one of the kids the RDA took in—I mean, abducted. She’s been in their grip since she was a toddler."

Neteyam sat on a low stool by her bedside, his eyes never leaving her face. He saw the way her eyelids flickered, the way her fingers twitched as if reaching for a phantom trigger.

“Dad,” He stood, looming over her. “She’s awake.”

Suddenly, [Name]’s eyes snapped open at the sight of Neteyam. They weren't calm; they were wide with a primal, terrifying panic. She didn't see healers; she saw "hostiles."

"Get away!" She screamed, the English words tearing from her throat.

Neteyam reached out, his voice soft. "It's okay, you're—"

Slap. She struck his hand away with a precision that was startling. Despite the agonizing tear in her thigh, she threw herself off the bed. 

“Jake! Get her! She isn’t stable!” Norm and Max shouted in unison. 

Her movement was a blur of desperate, human-style kinetic energy. She scrambled toward the exit, ignoring the way her stitches groaned under the strain. She dodged everyone’s hands with sloppy precision. 

She burst through the rough and heavy door of the medical facility and stepped outside. The humans present inside the clinic scrambled to get their masks because of this. The bright light of Pandora hit her, blinding and overwhelming. She tried to run, but her injured leg finally gave out. She collapsed into the dirt, her breath coming in ragged, sobbing hitches. A pool of blood began to darken the soil beneath her.

The Omatikaya people in the highcamp drifted closer, their movements silent and fluid. They didn't draw weapons. They watched her with a mix of sorrow and reverence.   

"Sarentu!" an elderly woman whispered. “<Oh, the stories of them, such entertainment.>” The word rippled through the crowd like a prayer.

[Name] looked up, her vision blurring into a haze of green and gold. "I'm not... I'm not that," she gasped, her voice breaking. "I don't know what that is."

She expected a blow, a cage, or a command. Instead, she felt the same warmth from before. Neteyam was there, sliding his arms beneath her, lifting her head away from the dirt. He held her close, shielding her from the curious eyes of the tribe.

"You are safe here," He whispered, his voice steady and grounding, the only constant in her shattered world. "With us. With me."

For the first time in fifteen years, the "Subject TAP" in her mind went quiet. [Name] leaned into the warmth of his chest, the scent of the forest finally feeling like something she was allowed to have. Her eyes drifted shut, and she fainted into the arms of the boy she had risked everything to save.

The morning light filtered through the woven canopy of the medical hut in soft, dappled patches of gold. [Name]’s eyes fluttered open, the transition from darkness to reality slow and heavy. Her body felt like lead, but the sharp, biting chill of the RDA carrier was gone, replaced by a humid warmth and the rhythmic song of the highcamp outside.

She wasn't alone.

Neteyam sat on a low stool beside her cot, his posture relaxed but his eyes alert. He had been there since he carried her through the crowd, a silent sentinel against the world she didn't understand. When he saw her stir, he leaned forward, his expression softening.

"You are awake," he said quietly. His English had an accent, but it had a melodic lilt that her ears—trained for the harsh, flat tones of the military—found jarring yet beautiful.

[Name] took a ragged breath, her throat feeling like it was filled with sand. "Why... why are you still here?"

"Because you were hurting," he answered simply. He reached for a small wooden bowl of water, offering it to her. "I wanted to say thank you. For what you did back there. You saved my life, and you risked everything to do it."

[Name] remained quiet, looking at the water but not taking it. She was still processing the weight of her choice. She had fired on her own unit. She had abandoned the only structure she had ever known. To her, it wasn't a heroic act; it was a terrifying leap into a void. What would Mercer say?

"What is your name?" Neteyam asked. 

She was caught off guard, almost spilling her bowl. She had never used her name in decades now. It was only Teylan, her older brother, who spoke it with such familiarity. 

“They call me TAP,” She said. Neteyam frowned at the answer.

“Do you not recall your name? Your Na’vi name?” Neteyam tilted his head to get her attention. She looked into his eyes, encouraging and bright.

"[Name]," she whispered, the word sounding small and fragile in the vastness of the place. "And yours?"

"Neteyam."

She repeated it under her breath. She had heard many human names—Mercer, Ardmore, Quaritch—names that sounded like iron and stone. But Neteyam sounded like the wind through the leaves. It was the most comforting sound she had ever heard.

"How do you know my language?" she asked, her brow furrowing. "You speak like a... like a Sky Person."

"My father is Toruk Makto," Neteyam explained with a faint, proud smile. "He was a Sky Person once, a long time ago. He taught us." He paused, his gaze intensifying. "The adults... They say you are Sarentu. They say your clan was one of storytellers and peace. I want to learn those stories from you."

The word Sarentu hit her like a physical blow. The "Subject TAP" inside her recoiled. "I’m not that," she snapped, her voice cracking with a sudden, sharp defensiveness. "I don't know what that is! I’m a soldier. I’m a success. I don’t have stories."

The bowl of water she held spilled. Realizing what she had done, she crouched in shame. 

Neteyam didn't flinch at her outburst. Instead, he moved closer, his hand rising slowly. He didn't touch her, but he pointed a finger toward the bridge of her cheek, tracing the air just above the unique bioluminescent markings that shimmered there. 

"It is written on your skin," he said softly, his hand so close she could feel the heat radiating from his palm. "The mark of the Sarentu. It is who you are, even if you do not remember it yet."

The tension in the room became suffocating. [Name] looked at his hand, then at the medical walls, feeling the walls of her identity crumbling. She didn't know anything about her clan. She didn't know how to hunt, how to pray, how to sing or how to connect to Eywa. She was a weapon that had been broken, and the only "self" she had was a serial number and a jumpsuit.

She broke. The tears didn't come with a cry; they simply spilled over, hot and silent, as she began to sob. "I have nothing," she choked out. "The RDA made me a monster, and the Sarentu... they are gone. I’m just a shell. I don’t know how to be Na’vi. I don’t know how to be anything."

Neteyam watched her, his heart aching at the sight of her raw, jagged grief. He saw the girl beneath the soldier—the sister Teylan had lost. An idea struck him—a way to bridge the gap between the metal world she had left and the living world she was in.

"Then start over," Neteyam said, his voice firm and filled with a new purpose. "Forget… forget everything. Forget the Sky People. Learn the ways of the Omatikaya. Walk with me, see what I see. Be one of us."

“That is not—” [Name] retorted, but Neteyam stops her. He holds her shoulder, and his other hand making a sign that was unfamiliar to her. 

“<Oel ngati kameie, ma’[Name]>” 

“We are almost neck and neck by now! If the wind hadn't shifted and caught my ilu’s belly, I would have left you in my wake. You’re just lucky the Great Mother gave you a win for your pride.”

“In your dreams, forest boy!” Ao’nung barked back, his tail giving a sharp, arrogant flick against the wood, the tip of it nearly hitting Rotxo’s leg.

As the argument escalated, your focus narrowed. The world around you began to fade out—the sounds of Tsireya’s melodic giggle, Rotxo’s rebuttals, and Kiri’s occasional snarky comment all became background noise. Your eyes wandered, tracing the intricate patterns on Ao’nung’s skin before landing on his kuru.

The braid was a masterpiece of Metkayina tradition, thick and dark, adorned with small, bioluminescent shells— likely the work of his sister. Almost mindlessly, your hand wandered toward it. Your fingertips were cool against his warm skin as you began to lightly follow the spiraling patterns of the braid.

The moment you made contact, Ao’nung flinched. It wasn't a small movement; it was a full-body jolt, a silent shock that traveled from the base of his neck down to his heels.

His voice, which had been mid-boast, died in his throat for a split second. He gasped, a sharp intake of air that made his ribs expand. It was unfamiliar for him to feel anything just from his kuru, he was not a child or some pervert.

“And—and another thing!” he stammered, his voice jumping an octave as he recovered. He didn't pull the queue away. He stayed exactly where he was, though his ears were now swiveling wildly, trying to track your every move without him having to look back.

You were too tired to care about the whole thing over touching someone else’s kuru. You lifted the braid entirely from his back, cradling the weight of it in your palms. It was heavy and smooth, and as you ran your thumb over the weave, you could feel the faint, rhythmic pulse of his nervous system underneath.

Ao’nung couldn't maintain the facade for long. The sensation of your fingers—gentle, curious, and persistent—was driving him to distraction. He stopped mid-sentence, ignoring Lo’ak’s latest jab about his diving form, and swung his head around.

He had meant to look terrifying. He had intended to give you mean mug that usually sent the younger kids scurrying away. But as he turned, the words died in his throat.

He froze.

From his position, looking up at you from his seat on the floor, you looked like something out of a dream. The setting sun was behind you, creating a halo of gold around your head.

You were so focused, your brow slightly furrowed as you traced a specific shell in his braid. Your curls were falling forward, framing your face in a messy, beautiful tangle that caught the light.

And your eyes—they were still so wide even though they were half lidded, so focused, and so devastatingly pretty that he felt the air leave his lungs entirely. You had a small, unconscious pout on your lips, the kind of expression someone makes when they are deep in thought.

Ao’nung’s heart did a strange, violent thud against his ribs. A heat crawled up his neck, a deep violet blush that bypasses his cheeks and settled intensely at the very tips of his ears. He looked at you, and for a moment, he wasn't the arrogant son of the Chief; he was just a boy who had forgotten how to speak.

He forced his expression back into a scowl, though it lacked any real heat.

“Do not touch that, it is not a toy,” he spoke in a hushed, strained tone.

You didn't flinch. You didn't even look guilty. Instead, you noted the lack of aggression in his body language. His nose wasn't scrunched up in a real snarl, his tail wasn't stiff or rigid, and his ears weren't pinned back against his skull. He was attempting to appear mad, but he was failing miserably.

You shrugged at him, your voice sarcastically sweet as you tilted your head. “It is just dangling here in my face, Ao’nung.” You waved the end of the braid in his face, the bioluminescent shells clicking together. “What do you expect me to do?”

You watched as his ears twitched back, a visible sign of his internal struggle. He breathed harshly out of his nose, a sound that was supposed to be a huff of annoyance but came out more like a frustrated sigh, and he turned back around abruptly.

The conversation among the others had moved on, but the shift in the atmosphere was palpable. Neteyam was leaning back on his elbows now, his golden eyes flicking between the two of you with a look of extreme amusement. He knew his friend was struggling.

“So, the migration patterns of the ilu,” Tsireya said, her voice a bit too bright as she tried to bridge the awkward gap. She kept glancing at her brother, watching the way he was sitting—shoulders hunched, his tail lying perfectly still on the deck, almost as if he were holding his breath.

“I think they are moving further south this year,” Rotxo added, though his eyes were fixed on the way your hands were now idly petting the braid as if it were a domesticated animal.

Ao’nung tried his best to ignore you. He really did. But the feeling of his kuru being handled by you was overwhelming. Every time your skin brushed his, the tiny, pale pink tendrils within his queue reached out instinctively.

They were sensing your proximity, yearning to make a bond, to make tsahaeylu just from the warmth of your palms. It was an intimate, buzzing electricity that made his skin prickle.

He stopped dead in the middle of a sentence about the reef's tide. He stayed silent for a three-beat count before slowly, almost reluctantly, looking back at you again.

“Must you act like a child?” he quipped, his eyes narrowing as he tried to regain his cool.

Tsireya gasped softly. “Brother! Be kind!” she scolded, though there was a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She knew he wasn't actually angry.

You didn't back down. You leaned back, looking down your nose at him with a defiant glint. “Must you be so selfish?”

Ao’nung looked genuinely bamboozled. The look of utter confusion on his face was almost comical. “How is it selfish if it is MY kuru?”

“Because I am well content with playing with it,” you replied, your fingers curling around a particularly thick section of the braid near his neck. “Do not be selfish and take away my entertainment. I am tired, and this is helping.”

Lo’ak let out a loud, bark-like laugh. He saw the opening and he dived in, a predatory grin spreading across his face. He caught Neteyam’s eye and gave a quick, sharp wink.

“Yeah, bro,” Lo’ak chimed in, leaning forward and poking Ao’nung’s shoulder. “Don’t be selfish. If Y/N wants to play with your hair, let her. Why are you being so difficult? It’s not like it’s hurting you.”

Ao’nung’s head whipped toward Lo’ak, his fangs bared in a warning. “I am not being—it is a part of my body, skxawng!”

“And it’s a very nice part of your body,” Rotxo added, his voice dripping with mock-sincerity. He reached out as if he were going to grab the braid too, and Ao’nung reacted instantly. Leaning further back— onto you, to avoid roxto’s reach.

"Stay back, Rotxo! Your hands are covered in stinky fish scales," Ao'nung snapped, though his body was now settled comfortably against you.

"Oh, but Y/N's hands are fine?" Neteyam asked, his voice low and teasing. He watched the way Ao'nung's tail gave one singular, content thud against the wood.

You didn't hesitate. You were beyond the point of being shy; the exhaustion of the day had stripped away your filter, leaving only a sleepy, playful boldness. You lifted the thick, dark braid from your lap, holding the end of it between your thumb and forefinger like a pointer.

With a slow, deliberate movement, you pointed the end of the kuru back toward your own chest. You puffed your chest out proudly, a smug, triumphant grin spreading across your face as you looked Neteyam and the others right in the eye.

“In fact, they are,” you continued, your voice ringing out with mock authority over the sound of the waves. “Because Ao’nung loves

The reaction was like a physical shockwave hitting the circle. Lo’ak, who had been leaning back, lost his balance and nearly tumbled off the dock, his tail splashing into the water as he scrambled to right himself.

Rotxo’s jaw hit his chest, his eyes darting between you and Ao’nung as if he were watching a collision in slow motion. Kiri let out a sharp, surprised bark of laughter, her yellow eyes glowing with wicked delight.

But it was Ao’nung whose world seemed to tilt on its axis.

His face didn’t just drop; it fell into a state of pure, unadulterated horror. He didn't hiss, he didn't snap, and he didn't move away. Instead, he let out a strangled, muffled sound and slapped his large, teal hand over his face, dragging it down slowly until his fingers were digging into his cheeks.

He swung his head around to look at you, his eyes wide and shimmering, the pale blue of his irises almost swallowed by his blown-out pupils. The blush was a deep, bruised violet now, spreading from his neck to the very tips of his ears, which were twitching so fast they were practically a blur.

“You... are too unserious,” he finally managed to choke out. His voice was thick, lacking any of its usual sharp edge. He shook his head, his hand still partially covering his eyes as if he could hide from the truth of your words. “You are a menace. A literal plague upon my house.”

“A plague he’s currently using as a pillow,” Lo’ak wheezed, finally regaining his seat. He pointed a finger at the way Ao’nung was still braced firmly against your knees. “Bro, your face is the color of a berry. If you don’t love her, why are you still sitting there letting her use your kuru like a pointer?”

“I am paralyzed by her stupidity.” Ao’nung argued, though even he knew how weak it sounded.

“He is not paralyzed,” Neteyam added, his voice smooth and teasing. He leaned forward, catching the light of the bioluminescent shells you were still twirling. “Look at his tail. It’s practically trying to tie itself to her ankle. That’s not paralysis, Ao’nung. That’s utter devotion.”

“It is not!” Ao’nung shouted, though he made no move to pull the tail away. In fact, the tip of it gave an involuntary, happy curl right around your calf. “It is a reflex! Like a fish flopping when it is caught!”

“You’re the one who got caught, brother,” Tsireya giggled, her eyes bright with affection. She leaned over, whispering just loud enough for everyone to hear. “He didn't even deny it. Did you hear that? He didn't say he didn't love her. He just said she was unserious.”

You didn't let go of the braid. In fact, as they teased him, you leaned closer, your fingers mindlessly twirling the dark hair around your knuckles. You looked at him—really looked at him. Up close, his face was a map of beautiful contradictions.

He was trying so hard to look annoyed, his brow furrowed and his lips pressed together, but the way his eyes kept darting back to yours told a different story.

He was incredibly handsome in this state of total fluster. The bioluminescent dots on his skin were pulsing in a frantic rhythm, like tiny stars under water. You watched the way his throat moved as he swallowed hard, his sharp jawline tightening as he tried to find a comeback that wouldn't make things worse.

“Must you all gawk at me?” Ao’nung muttered, his gaze finally dropping to your hands. He watched your fingers work through the braid, and his expression softened for a split second before he caught himself.

“We’re not gawking,” Kiri said, picking up a small shell and tossing it at his shoulder. “We’re witnessing a historical event.’”

“whatever!” Ao’nung barked, but he immediately leaned back into your touch as if seeking comfort from the very person teasing him.

You gave the kuru a gentle, rhythmic squeeze, feeling the faint vibration of his nervous system. “It’s okay to admit it, Ao’nung,” you teased, your voice a soft, low murmur meant only for him, even though the others were leaning in. “The shells don’t lie. Your sister made this braid, and it’s telling me everything.”

Ao’nung let out a long, shuddering groan, his head falling back until it rested against your shoulder. He looked up at the darkening sky, his eyes full of a mixture of embarrassment and a strange, quiet peace. He’d given up.

“You are all insufferable,” he repeated, but this time his tail didn't just curl—it settled firmly over your feet, anchoring you both together. “Especially you, Y/N. You are the worst of them all.”

“The worst?” you asked, tilting your head so your curls brushed his cheek.

He didn't look back, but you saw the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “The worst,” he whispered. “Now keep doing that. My head hurts from all this shouting.”

Back then, the world felt permanent.

It was around that age that you were bonded to your first ilu. You did not think of it as a mount. Or even truly as an animal. To you, it was simply… yours.

You recognized it by the pale crescent-shaped mark along its fin, a faint curve like a smile etched into its skin. You talked to it the way children do—to the sea, to shells, to anything that felt like it listened. You believed, with the fierce certainty of youth, that it would always come when you called.

So when it grew old,  you did not understand what your parents saw long before you did.

It died quietly. Not in a hunt. Not in violence. Just time.

You cried the way children do: loudly, openly, with your whole body folded into the ache. You cried into your mother’s chest until your voice went hoarse and you fell asleep. You asked if it would come back. Your grief then was bigger than your small heart could handle, but your parents helped you through it.

Ao’nung and Tsireya’s births came next.

And that grief was different. It was confusing, almost shameful to name.

You loved them dearly. Before them, you had longed for company, for someone to follow you into the water and listen when you spoke too much. And suddenly, you were given not just one, but two. Their arrival was a blessing. You learned their faces by heart, learned the way their hands curled around your fingers, the way they quieted when you hummed the songs your mother sang.

You were happy. Truly. 

And yet—a lot of things have changed.

It was then that the weight of responsibility first settled onto your narrow shoulders. You were old enough to know better now. Old enough to help. Old enough to wade the waters on your own. Old enough to recite ancient stories and songs. Your parents’ attention did not disappear—but it divided, stretched between smaller bodies that needed more, demanded more. You were praised for being understanding. For being easy. For not needing to be held as long.

They still loved you. You never doubted that. But it was different.

That was when you stopped being only a child. Not all at one, but in quiet moments you barely noticed until later. When you were asked to watch instead of play. When you were trusted instead of comforted. When you learned how to swallow wants before they reached your mouth.

You did not resent them. You never could. 

But grief does not always come from losing what is taken away. Sometimes it comes from losing what will never return.

And so you mourned. You mourned the version of yourself who did not have to be strong yet. The child who could be held without also being needed to hold others up, who could ask for attention without earning it first. 

After that, grief stopped belonging to you alone.

It became shared, carried in unison through the village, pressed into Eywa'eveng with many hands. Fallen spirit brothers and sisters, brave hunters who did not return with the tide, elders whose voice once anchored the clan, now gone quiet. And you believed that grief, when shared, could be lighter.

And for a time, it was. 

The way the sea could fill with quiet so dense it pressed against your chest. The way voices blended into one long mourning chant, grief softened by harmony, by the knowledge that you were not alone in it. You learned how hands reached for hands without looking, how tears felt lighter when they were not yours alone. 

You thought, then, that this was how it worked. That grief would become easier with age. That each loss would teach you how to carry the next.

It never did.

Grief remained too large for you. You had grown taller now—hands roughened by sand, arms strong enough to carry nets and burdens—but your chest had never learned how to bear the weight grief brought. Each loss settled somewhere deep, layering itself over others until you were never truly untouched by it again. 

You learned that time did not erase the ache, that grief does not leave. It spreads itself everywhere, reminding you of love with nowhere left to go.

Some days you wake feeling steady, almost whole. And then something small would undo you: the curve of a fin that looked like a crescent, the sound of laughter that sounded familiar, an empty place in the water where someone should have been. Reminders of what had been, of who had been.

But the sea gives, and the sea takes.

You had believed it meant balance. Birth and death. Joy and loss braided together the way tides are. You had believed it was something slow. Natural.

You realized how wrong you were the day the water turned red.

The day Ta’unui’s village burned from the shore outward, flames climbing wet wood as if the sea itself had betrayed them. Smoke curled low over the water, thick enough to sting your eyes, to choke the breath from your chest. 

Avatars moved through the village like something torn from a nightmare. Too cruel for the world they were breaking open. At first glance, they almost looked like forest people—tall silhouettes, familiar limbs, the same borrowed shape from Eywa. Almost.

Up close, everything was wrong. Their movements were sharper, heavier, stripped of grace. Their eyes did not carry the quiet depth of the People, only a cold focus that slid past suffering without catching on it. Where Na’vi presence felt like the tide, theirs felt like iron dragged through water. Familiar in shape, monstrous in intent.

That was what made it worse. That they wore something so close to your own skin.

You remember clutching your knife then when they grabbed you from the tsahìk’s marui pod, the weight pitiful in your palm. The newborns you were trying to carry, when warmth was still kind and not from metal, whimpering from a distance as they dragged you. Feeling how small you were. Knowing that no amount of love, no depth of grief, could stop what was happening.

“Light ‘em up. All of them.”

They have left as abruptly as they had come. You remained frozen, unmoving, letting the world blur around you. Your limbs felt heavy, unresponsive, as if the very air pressed against your skin. The heat, the smoke, the cries—it all pressed in, yet you felt oddly detached, as if watching from a distance, outside yourself.

It took a long, hollow moment before your voice came, barely more than a rasp. 

“Vey’irva…”

The name caught in your throat, but you forced it out, raw and trembling. Your knees wobbled as you tried to rise, your hands scraping against the sand, eyes blinking rapidly as you forced yourself to focus. Around you, the fire still roared, climbing higher into the sky, sparks flying like burning stars scattered across the night. The acrid scent clung to your throat, burning with every breath.

Vey’irva, the clan’s tsakarem, the one who had been beside you throughout your stay. You didn’t know why she was the one you were searching for, only that you had been together before all this.

Your legs felt like they weren’t fully yours as you stumbled across the wreckage, each step heavy. Your head throbbed, dull at the base but sharp with every inhale. Fingers curled into fists and loosened, trembling with the uselessness of it all. Your eyes flicked over the debris, over the scattered clan members, over shapes that might have been familiar until your mind swam past them, not really seeing.

Every sound—a crack of burning wood, a distant cry, the slap of water against the shore—felt magnified, yet muffled, as though you were underwater. Your body moved on instinct, legs carrying you forward, arms reaching toward vague forms, but your mind was elsewhere, tracing the steps that might lead you to… someone.

And then you saw her.

She lay limp, surrounded by clan members, dust and ash clinging to her hair, her armband torn. Your chest tightened so sharply it felt as if the air had been stolen from you. 

Tears stung your eyes, throat raw as a sharp, ragged sound tore through you. Your legs move of their own accord. You fell to your knees beside her, hands clenched in the grains beneath you, trembling, too afraid to touch her, too terrified to feel the absence of warmth where life should have been.

Not yet, Great Mother… please.

The tears came freely now, scalding and relentless, trailing down your cheeks, while your mind struggled to process what you were seeing. You called her name again as your eyes scanned her body frantically, searching for any sign of movement, a twitch of a finger, the rise and fall of her chest. Anything that could tell you this wasn’t real, that if you looked hard enough, reality would bend, and she would still be alive.

Before you could even gather the courage to touch her, strong hands pulled at your arms to stand. You stumbled, breath uneven, tears still streaking your face, and looked up to see the clan’s olo’eyktan. His strong hands gripped your shoulders, steadying you. His eyes were sharp, commanding, but there was an unspoken understanding in their depth—a recognition of your grief, even as he refused to let it consume you entirely.

He placed a firm palm against your chest, holding you in place. “Stay strong, child,” he said, voice low but unwavering. “We need you. Go help the others.”

The words felt like a tether pulling you back to the present, anchoring you even as your heart threatened to shatter completely. Every instinct screamed to stay, but you obeyed. The world spun around you: flames climbing higher, sparks dancing like cruel fireflies, smoke curling into your eyes. Still, you lifted yourself, hands trembling, chest tight, and forced your legs to carry you.

Every step away felt like a betrayal, but there was no choice. The living still needed hands. You wiped at your cheeks, tasting salt and ash, and tried to push the pain down.

The sea gives, and the sea takes—but sometimes it is not the sea at all. Sometimes it is fire. Sometimes it is strangers who wear your skin and do not know your names. Sometimes it is standing still while everything you love is set in flames, and realizing there is nothing you can do but witness it.

It was hours before the heat of the fire began to fade. The sky above the village was dimming, streaked with smoke and ash, the last remnant of sunlight struggling to reach the scorched ground. The whole clan had regrouped closer to the forest, farther beneath the vast, intertwining roots of the elder trees. Their thick limbs arched overhead, offering shelter and a sense of guarded enclosure, though the air was still heavy with smoke and the bitter scent of burned wood.

Around you, the survivors moved like shadows, their figures hunched, carrying what they could salvage. Some cradled waterlogged baskets, others tended to cuts and burns, while the injured leaned on each other for support. The quiet murmurs of mourning threaded through the soft rustle of leaves and the distant lapping of water against the shore.

You had been helping with injuries, the salt of sweat and soot burning in your eyes as you pressed cloths and applied balm, when Iwei, the clan’s olo’eyktan, called you over. He stood with hunters you knew, their faces set with the weight of what had happened.

“You should go home,” Iwei said, his voice firm but not unkind, the lines around his eyes deepened by exhaustion. “They will go with you to ensure you travel safely once the first light rises.”

You shook your head, voice hoarse but determined. “I can stay longer. The village still needs hands, and I can—”

He held up a hand, cutting you off gently but firmly. “No. You’ve done enough. Your family asked for you to return, they worry for you. It is safer with them now.”

You looked down at your hands, still smudged with ash and dried blood, the ache in your muscles a distant throb that only now began to register. You realized that you had been moving for hours without truly deciding to—hands working, feet carrying you from one injured body to the next, mouth murmuring reassurances you barely heard yourself say. It had been easier that way. To keep your body busy so your mind did not have to return to the shore, to the fire, to the stillness you could not unsee.

For a fleeting moment, you felt anger—not at him, but at yourself, at the helplessness pressing in on all sides. Yet the truth of his words settled in your chest like stones. Your family’s concern, the exhaustion clawing at your limbs, the uncertainty of what remained of Ta’unui’s village. They drained the fight out of you. You nodded slowly, voice barely audible.

“...I understand,” you nodded slowly, the motion feeling distant, as if it belonged to someone else.

Then her face cut through your thoughts, sudden and without a warning.

Not as she had been laughing, but as she lay on the sand. Still and unmoving. Ash in her hair where your fingers had wanted to be. The image struck so sharply it stole the breath from your lungs.

“No—” the sound slipped out before you could stop it. Your head snapped up, eyes wide, unfocused. “How about Vey’irva?” The question came out too fast, as though someone might tell you it had been a mistake. That she had risen after you were pulled away. That she had laughed and told you not to look so worried.

Your hands curled into themselves, nails biting into your palms. “The funeral— her ceremony.” Your voice faltered, tangled in itself. 

Neilomya stepped forward then, her presence quiet but grounding, like cool water over scorched skin. The clan’s tsahìk rested a gentle hand over yours, waiting until your gaze finally found hers. Her eyes were tired, rimmed red, but kind.

“She will be tended to,” Neilaomya said softly. “You may visit her when you return. She would not mind waiting for you.”

Something in your chest cracked at that. Your shoulders trembled as the strength finally began to drain out of you, the weight of holding yourself upright growing unbearable. 

“What matters now,” Neilaomya continued, her thumb brushing a slow, reassuring circle against your skin, “is that you are safe. Go home to your family, child. We will be okay here.”

She did not rush you after that. She stayed closer as you gathered what little remained. Things that no longer felt like yours, yet were all you had left. She folded and arranged them carefully, as if the care itself might restore what fire had taken, and she handed them to you one by one to put on the canoe.

As you worked, she spoke of her daughter.

You listened. Not because the stories distracted you—they didn’t. It only sharpened the ache, filled your mind with impossible what ifs. What if she had stayed close that day. What if the humans didn’t arrive. What if she had lived long enough to become tsahìk herself.

But you listened anyway.

Because Neilaomya’s voice softened when she spoke. Because grief, when shared, became something bearable for a moment. Because after everything that had been taken, this was something you could still give

When your things were packed, Neilaomya pressed her forehead briefly to yours, a gesture steady and maternal. No words followed. 

Two hunters escorted you from the settlement before dawn fully broke. It was safer to travel in small numbers, they said—fewer bodies, less noise, less chance of drawing the eye of metal aircrafts if they still lingered above the horizon.

The journey back to Awa’atlu felt unreal. The sea breathed steadily beneath you, waves rising and falling as they always had. Stars dimmed and slipped away with the coming light. Fish darted through the water, unbothered, alive. The world continued as if it had not just ended for so many.

Back in Awa’atlu, Ao’nung and Neteyam found themselves unexpectedly tolerating each other’s presence.

Ao’nung hadn’t agreed at first.

He had scoffed when Neteyam asked, brows drawing together in something between surprise and irritation. Forest boys weren’t meant to handle Metkayina weapons, and certainly not the speargun—he reasons that it’s too tied to the sea. That was what he said, already turning away as if the matter were closed.

“I won’t be slow,” Neteyam followed him, voice steady, not raised. “I am a good shot. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

Ao’nung stopped.

He glanced back, irritation flashing across his face. “That’s not the point.”

What he didn’t say was that he had seen how quickly Neteyam learned.

His sister’s voice echoed faintly in his mind, about the Sully boy who watched once and remembered everything, who adjusted after a single correction. Ao’nung had seen it himself in the water. There was a quiet competence there. The kind that crept up on him.

The kind that might outpace him, if given the chance.

So instead, Ao’nung had shrugged and thrown out the excuse that felt safest. “My father didn’t ask me to teach you,” he said flatly. “And I don’t teach without permission.”

“Please,” Neteyam met his gaze, “I want to help my mother hunt.”

That did it.

Ao’nung exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw tightening.

“Fine,” he said at last. “But if you embarrass yourself, that’s on you.”

Neteyam had listened carefully to him the entire time. He had watched his father use it before. He knew you used one too, though you had only ever spoken of it in passing as you sharpen your arrows, of using it beyond the reef where the water grew darker and deeper. He had never seen you use it himself.

And he did not want to think about it now.

The thought of you, so far away now and among another clan, pressed too sharply against his chest. The last few days had left him hollowed out, the kind of tired that sleep did not touch. Thinking of you holding the speargun, steady and capable, would only open something he had been carefully keeping shut.

So he focused on Ao’nung’s words instead.

They moved farther from the shore, past the shallows where the sand still glittered with light, into water deep enough that the shapes of fish grew larger and slower, their shadows cutting lazily through the blue. Not beyond the reef, but far enough that the current began to speak more clearly.

Below the surface, sound fell away.

Ao’nung’s voice disappeared, replaced by sharp, practiced hand signs. “Be patient. Feel the current before you shoot.”

The speargun felt different in his hands. It was heavier than a bow, its weight concentrated forward instead of spread along the length. With a bow, everything came from the body: the draw of the shoulders, the tension in the back, the steady burn in the arms. The show was released, and the arrow belonged to the air.

Here, the water demanded something else.

Neteyam adjusted his grip, easing his hold instead of tightening it. He angled the weapon slightly lower, compensating for drag the way Ao’nung had shown him. The current tugged at his forearms, insistent but not hostile, and for a moment he understood. This was about patience.

A flash of silver cut through the water ahead.

Neteyam steadied himself, legs drifting just enough to stay balanced. He waited. Not for the fish to come closer, but for the water to still around the barrel. Then he fired.

The recoil was muted, absorbed by the sea, but the bolt flew true. It struck the fish just behind the gill, clean and precise.

Neteyam blinked.

Ao’nung’s eyes widened, just slightly, before he caught himself. He circled once, inspecting the catch, then shot Neteyam a sharp look that was half-annoyed, half-impressed.

“Not bad.”

By the time they had returned to shore, rain had begun to fall.

It came soft at first, a fine mist that dimpled the water’s surface, then heavier, drumming against skin and stone alike. Neteyam hauled the fish up the sand, its weight solid and undeniable in his arms—proof of something done right. He couldn’t wait to show it to his mother.

Ao’nung followed a few steps behind, speargun resting against his shoulder. He shook the water from his bun like a displeased ilu.

Neteyam broke the silence first. “Thanks, bro.”

Ao’nung turned to him quickly, rain sliding down his face, eyes narrowing. “Don’t bro me,” he muttered, clearly annoyed, though the bite didn’t quite land.

Neteyam huffed out a quiet breath, almost a laugh.

Ao’nung glanced at the fish again, then away. “You learn fast,” he said, as if the words tasted strange. “My sister was right.”

There it was. The reluctant admission.

They stood there for a moment longer, rain filling the space between them, the shore empty save for the hush of water and sky. Neteyam adjusted his grip on the fish, the weight shifting against his forearms. He hadn’t meant to ask.

But the question rose anyway.

“When will your sister return?”

Ao’nung stiffened just barely.

He didn’t look at Neteyam as he answered, gaze fixed on the gray horizon. “Four more days.”

He shot Neteyam a sideways look then, sharp and knowing, rainwater dripping from the tip of his nose. “Why are you asking?”

“It is nothing,” he said, a little too quickly. “Just wondering.”

Ao’nung stared at him for a second.

Then he laughed.

It burst out of him, sudden and sharp, echoing against the rain and the empty shore. Neteyam frowned, thrown off.

“What?” he asked.

Ao’nung shook his head, still grinning, like he’d just been handed the most obvious answer in the world. “You—” he pointed, then laughed again. “You both are so obvious.”

Neteyam scoffed, turning away, eyes suddenly very interested in the wet sand, the treeline, anything but Ao’nung’s face. “What are you talking about?” He said, tone carefully flat.

Ao’nung snorted. “Sure.”

Neteyam’s jaw tightened, but there was something almost-smiling at the corner of his mouth. He scrubbed rain from his face, then muttered, “…Is it?”

Ao’nung made a face immediately, exaggerated and dramatic. “Ew. Don’t ask me that, brother,” he said, shoving Neteyam lightly with his shoulder. “I don’t want to think about that.”

The conch shell’s cry split through the air, sharp and urgent, echoing over the reef and into the shallows. Ao’nung’s chest tightened instantly. He knew that sound. He had only ever heard it like this once before: a signal that someone had returned or that something had gone terribly wrong.

Neteyam stiffened beside him, eyes narrowing, scanning the horizon with a sudden tension that made the rain drip unnoticed from his lashes. The wind carried faint, frantic shouts, too muffled to understand, yet clear enough to twist their stomachs.

“Something’s wrong,” Ao’nung muttered, already moving, muscles coiled to run.

The fish slipped from Neteyam’s grip, forgotten, thudding into the wet sand. He followed Ao’nung, rain blurring the past as they crested to rise toward the heart of the village.

The center was already alive with motion. People poured from marui and platforms, voices overlapping, sharp with panic.

Neteyam’s chest tightened without understanding why at first, until he saw the movement on the shore. Figures moving quickly, carrying someone between them. The closer they came, the more his blood ran cold.

It was you.

You were slung across the back of another reef na’vi. Even from a distance, Neteyam could see that you were slumped, your head tilted awkwardly, your limbs hanging with a dangerous slack. The rain plastered your hair to your face, a pale teal smear against the dark wetness. Small cuts traced across your forehead, a smear of blood mixing with the rain. And something in the way you didn’t move made his heart seize.

The canoe you had ridden before, spoke of the struggle that had brought you here. Pieces of broken wood floated in the shallow surf, twisted and slick. Neteyam’s stomach turned.

Ao’nung had called your name before breaking into a sprint toward the commotion.

Neteyam barely had a moment to react before his father’s hand pressed against his shoulder, holding him in place. “You’ll only get in the way,” Jake said, low and unyielding. “Now is not the time.”

Neteyam’s mind refused to register the words. All he could see was you—your body pressed against the reef Na’vi’s back, your chest rising shallowly if at all, your arms dangling like reeds in the water. Every second you’re not moving made his chest pound harder, the rain soaking through him, and the world felt impossibly slow.

You were being passed into Tonowari’s arms now, the motion careful and urgent, but all the more terrifying for your limpness. Your head lolled, and he saw the blood matted in your hair glint faintly in the torchlight. Your torso bore scrapes and bruises, some already crusted with rain-soaked dirt. Tonowari’s hands worked to steady you, but your injuries made it clear just how close the last moments had been to something final.

The crowd gathered fast, murmurs rising like waves, gasps breaking through the rhythmic sound of rain. Flickering torchlight cast long, trembling shadows across the wet sand, illuminating your pale face and the stillness that shouldn’t belong to you.

Your family followed, eyes wide, hands placed over yours as if sheer will could force your body to move. Every glance at you was a silent plea, a desperate hope that you would awaken, that your chest would rise more than just faintly.

Neteyam’s fingers itched to reach out, to help, to shake the world itself into fixing what had been done—but his father’s hand kept him rooted. All he could do was watch, helpless, as you were carried to your mother’s pod.

The days stretched long and heavy for Neteyam. Since that night, he had spent every waking moment asking after you. The memory of your limp form in Tonowari’s arms, the blood in your hair, the way your body had seemed so impossibly small in someone else’s grasp. He could not remove it from his thoughts. 

It had been four days since he had last seen you that way, and two days since Tsireya had told him you’d woken. And since then, he had asked every time if he could see you, if he could know you were alright. He counted those days, trying not to, trying to tell himself it was silly, that you were healing, that your family would take care of you. But he couldn’t stop.

Tsireya, patient and amused, never got tired of him asking. She found it sweet—how he, usually so careful to mask what he felt, allowed himself to worry, to show concern without reservation. The corners of her eyes would crinkle with quiet amusement whenever he hovered, waiting for news. She heard Lo’ak teased him once, “You’re ridiculous,” and he flushed, but did not deny it. The truth was written plainly in his furrowed brow, the way he barely slept like his brother told her, the way he tried to busy himself yet circled back to your name in every conversation.

Even his parents had noticed, too. The repeated questions, the restlessness, the tension in his shoulders. They whispered among themselves that he had never been like this, not for anyone, not ever.

On the other hand, you were healing.

Slow and steady. Enough that your body no longer felt like it was betraying you with every breath. The pain dulled into something manageable. But there was still that heaviness, sitting deep in your chest, unmoved by rest or medicine. The image of a clan still mending itself without you. The funeral you hadn’t been able to attend properly. The journey home that blurred together in rain and blood and half-remembered voices.

Still, you were home. Safe and wrapped in familiar sound and the steady presence of your mother, who rarely left your side. She slept close, checked your bandages with practiced gentleness, brushed your hair back when you drifted in and out of sleep. After the first time they asked—after your voice had broken, after the tears had come fast and uncontrollable—they stopped. You were endlessly grateful for that mercy.

Being surrounded by people who loved you helped more. And you weren’t going to lie—you were enjoying the attention. Your parents fussed over you shamelessly, feeding you by hand, scolding you softly when you tried to sit up too fast, treating you like a child again. It was comforting in a way that made your chest ache, a reminder that you were still allowed to be taken care of.

But what you enjoyed most were your siblings’ stories.

They have filled the room with words. They told you about the Sully kids, animated and warm, their hands moving as they spoke. About their visit to the Cove of the Ancestors. About the tulkun’s return, voices rising in song across the water. About Lo’ak and his impossible bond with Payakan, told with a mix of disbelief and fond exasperation.

You listened, smiling softly, even as something tight tugged in your chest. You were sad you had missed it. Those moments would never quite be yours. But you were happy too—happy they had happened at all, happy your siblings had lived them.

And then Tsireya mentioned him.

Almost casually, at first. As if it were just another detail. 

She told you how Neteyam kept asking, again and again. If you were resting, if you were healing well, and if he could see you.

Something in you stilled at that.

It felt warm and terrifying all at once, like standing too close to a fire. Your heart did something traitorous, beating a little faster, a little louder. You tried to keep your face neutral, tried not to let the feeling show—but inside, it bloomed, fragile and bright. The thought of him worrying, of him counting days, made your throat tighten. Knowing that while you had been unconscious, while your world had narrowed to pain and darkness, someone else had been thinking of you, holding your name carefully in their thoughts.

It wasn’t just concern—it was persistence. Care that didn’t fade after the danger passed. Care that lingered. And knowing it came from him, from someone whose approval you’d never dared to hope for so openly, made your heart ache in the softest way.

“He was distracted,” Tsireya said, shifting closer like she was sharing a secret. “Almost all the time. I have never seen him like that.”

You looked up at her immediately, interest lighting your face before you could stop it. The corners of your mouth tugged upward, a smile you didn’t bother hiding. “Distracted how?” you asked, genuinely curious.

She tilted her head, eyes glinting. “Like he was somewhere else. He’d ask about you, then forget what he was doing. Ao’nung had to repeat himself to him more than once.”

You shook your head a little, a quiet laugh slipping out as warmth spread through your chest. You traced the edge of the mat absentmindedly, clearly listening, clearly wanting more.

You hesitated only briefly before asking, trying—and failing—to sound casual. “Did he… say anything else?”

Tsireya’s gaze lingered on your face, amused. She didn’t answer right away, clearly enjoying how invested you were. Then she shrugged lightly. “Not much,” she said. “He just asks about you. All the time.”

“All the time?” you echoed, smiling openly now, the words coming out with a breathy laugh.

She laughed with you. “Everyone is almost getting tired of it,” she teased. “If I hear your name one more time, I think Ao’nung might actually snap at him.”

You laughed again, brighter this time, the sound easy and real. Your shoulders relaxed, eyes soft, like the world felt a little kinder than it had moments ago. 

After a moment, still smiling, you spoke again, quieter but sure.

 “I want to see him too.”

You didn’t have to wait long.

It was later that night, your body heavy with the pleasant ache of healing. Ronal sat beside you, careful hands changing the kelp covering your stitches.

You were just beginning to relax when voices carried from outside the marui pod—low, hurried, unmistakably close. Before you could ask, the cloth flaps at the entrance rustled sharply.

Ao’nung stumbled in.

Or rather, was shoved in.

He caught himself at the last second, blinking in surprise as he looked between you and your mother, clearly not expecting to be the one crossing the threshold. Ronal’s eyes snapped up instantly.

“Ao’nung,” she said sharply. “You should announce yourself.”

He grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know,” he muttered, then stepped back as she returned her attention to you, smoothing the new covering into place with firm care.

You watched the exchange, confusion and amusement flickering across your face. Ao’nung met your gaze briefly, rolled his eyes in exaggerated suffering, and looked away like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

Your mother spoke again without looking at him. “What do you need?”

You could see him hesitate, before exhaling through his nose. “Someone wants to see her.”

That finally got your mother’s attention. She looked up, clearly unimpressed. “Who?”

Your brother sighed, resigned. “Neteyam.”

The name landed harder than you expected.

Your breath hitched despite yourself, surprise flashing across your face even though Tsireya had told you—again and again—that he’d been asking. Knowing it and hearing it aloud were different things.

And then there was the other realization.

Your mother was still there.

Ronal’s gaze flicked to you, then back to Ao’nung, irritation sharpening. “He will wait,” she said. “She is still being tended to.”

Ao’nung opened his mouth like he might argue, then thought better of it. He glanced at you again, lips twitching, as if to say told you, before stepping back toward the entrance.

But the knowledge lingered, buzzing under your skin.

Neteyam was here.

You did your best to behave. You nodded when your mother adjusted the final wrap, bit back the urge to speak when silence stretched, swallowed down the smile that kept threatening to give you away.

But your heartbeat refused to slow, thudding a little too loudly in your ears. You could almost picture him standing just outside, waiting, and the thought made your shoulders tense with anticipation.

Ronal noticed. Of course she did, she had been with you ever since you were a baby. It would be impossible for her not to know.

She put the last covering with a careful pat, then leaned back slightly, studying you. You lifted your gaze to meet hers, doing your best to look calm.

For a long moment, she said nothing. Her expression was unreadable, the kind that reminded you she was still Tsahìk before she was your mother. She took in the way you were sitting too straight, the tension in your shoulders, the effort it took for you not to speak.

Her sigh, when it came, was quiet but weighted.

“You are not fully healed,” she said first, tone firm, leaving no room to forget it. She gathered her tools with deliberate care. “And you will not strain yourself.”

Then, without looking toward the entrance, she added, “You may come in, child.”

Ronal rose to her feet and moved to the far side of the marui pod, her presence still felt even as she gave you space. She did not smile, but she did not object either.

The doorway cloth shifted, and Neteyam stepped inside.

He looked hesitant at first, but his eyes found you instantly. For a heartbeat, he forgot everything else. Then he caught himself, straightened, and turned to your mother.

“Tsahìk,” he greeted, voice respectful, hands moving in the formal gesture.

Ronal inclined her head in acknowledgement, nothing more.

Only then did he move closer until he crouched beside you where you sat cross-legged on the woven mat. He was close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the faint scent of salt clinging to his skin.

For a brief, disorienting second, the past rushed in. The last time you had spoken. The things left unsaid. The image of him frozen in your memory, untouched by everything that followed.

You pushed it aside. For now.

“Hi,” he said.

It came out softer than you expected, a little awkward, but unmistakably him—carrying that quiet, boyish warmth that had always undone you. His gaze swept over you openly, not trying to hide it: the bandages, the tiredness in your eyes, the fact that you were sitting upright at all. Like he was checking, again and again, that you were real. That you were here.

You found yourself doing the same.

Your eyes followed the familiar lines: the slope of his shoulders, the way his braids fell to the sides of his face, the darker patterns flowing toward his chest, the intricate swirls on his forehead. And then his eyes—the ones you’d missed dearly, the ones you silently thanked Eywa that you could see again.

You both smiled.

“Hi,” you said back.

Neteyam chuckled then, low and almost shy, looking down briefly before meeting your gaze again. 

“How have you been?” you asked, letting your voice carry across the space between you. It was way bigger than both of you usually bask in.

He shook his head, a small grin tugging at his lips. “I’m fine. I’m supposed to be the one asking you that.”

The words were simple, but layered with everything he hadn’t said over the last days. And just like that, the tension between you softened.

You talked, careful not to speak too loudly, knowing your mother was still in the pod, but you savored the moment nonetheless. It was as if both of you knew how far you could stretch the conversation without drawing her attention, though neither of you fully understood what she might be suspicious of.

He told you stories, of small adventures and trivial happenings, and you answered in kind, letting the laughter and light teasing skim the surface without carrying too far. 

After a while, your mother stood up, eyes meeting yours with a quiet weight that said more than words could. She turned and left the pod, the flap rustling behind her. 

Both of you were finally alone.

You glanced back at Neteyam, and in that shared silence, something shifted. You both laughed, unrestrained by the caution that had kept you measured before. The sound echoed lightly against the walls, a small rebellion against the quiet you’d been keeping.

When your laughter softened, he looked at you fully, eyes steady and warm.

“I’ve missed you,” he said your name softly.

The words hit you in a way you hadn’t expected. You had felt the same for days, but hearing it, spoken just to you, made your heart thrum faster. You bit your lip, trying not to let your happiness burst through, and glanced at the hand he had rested just beside you.

Without thinking, you reached out and closed your hand over his.

“I missed you too, Neteyam,” you whispered, your voice trembling just enough to betray the joy you had been holding in.

His hand hovered above the cover at your forehead, tentative, as if he wasn’t quite sure he was allowed to touch you yet. 

“I was so worried,” he murmured, a tremor betraying how much he’d held it in. “I couldn’t stop thinking about— I kept wondering if you were okay. I didn’t know how I'd feel if anything happened to you.”

Something—courage, recklessness, the weight of missing him—pushed you. You placed your hand over the one that hovered above your injury, feeling the warmth of the back of his hand, and moved it so that your cheek leaned against it. His surprise was immediate, a faint hitch in his breath, but then a small, soft smile tugged at his lips.

“I am here now,” you said. “I am doing better. I could still shoot a fish straight in its eye if I could.”

He laughed at that, but believed you wholeheartedly. “I’m sure you could. No doubt.”

Without even thinking, his thumb began brushing against your cheek, as if his adoration couldn’t be contained. You froze for a heartbeat, your own chest tightening in a way that made it hard to breathe.

Neither of you spoke. Neither moved. And yet the weight between you buzzed like electricity, impossible to ignore.

Then, as if the universe had suddenly reminded you both of everything else, you each jerked slightly back, cheeks warming instantly, eyes darting away. His grin faltered, flushed, and he quickly drew his hands back as if realizing for the first time what he’d just done. You stifled a laugh, glancing down at your hands, feeling the absurdity of the moment yet unwilling to undo it completely.

The silence stretched between you before Neteyam finally spoke, a shy grin tugging at his lips.

“I caught my first fish with a speargun.”

Neteyam went home that night with his chest lighter than it had been in days. The worry he’d been carrying no longer pressed so heavily on his shoulders, and there was an ease to him that hadn’t been there before.

His family noticed immediately.

It wasn’t anything obvious, but he was different. More present. His steps lacked their usual tension, his gaze less distant than it had been since your injury. Even his silence felt… content.

They all knew where he’d been. 

What Neteyam didn’t know was that Tuk, ever curious and far too young to understand which observations should stay tucked away, had already shared her thoughts—wide-eyed and unfiltered—with Jake and Neytiri. About how their oldest son lingered near the clan’s tsakarem. About how he spoke your name without realizing it. About how close he sat, how careful he was.

By the time Neteyam arrived home, his family was already eating.

He didn’t comment on the way their eyes followed him as he entered, nor did he seem to notice the quiet that briefly settled over the circle. He only reached out, ruffled Lo’ak’s hair in passing, grabbed a leaf plate, and sat down among them as if nothing were different at all—ready to take his share, light-hearted in a way that made their curiosity impossible to hide.

“Where have you been?” Neytiri spoke.

Neteyam didn’t hesitate. “I went to see her,” he said, saying your name easily, as if it had never been a question.

Tuk’s head snapped up immediately. “How is she?” she asked, words tumbling over each other. “Is she better? I wanna see her too—it’s not fair you got to see her first!”

Beside him, Kiri spoke up, her voice carrying a rare, bright excitement. “I want to see her too.”

A small smile tugged at Neteyam’s mouth. “You can,” he said. “We can go together next time.”

Lo’ak scoffed, leaning closer. “Yeah, right. You just wanna keep her all to yourself.” He squinted, then grinned wider. “Look at your tail—it’s moving so much it’s hitting me.”

Neteyam hissed lightly and knocked his knuckles against Lo’ak’s head, more habit than anger. “No, I do not.”

He heard his father sigh, shaking his head. “Just don’t stay out too late,” he said, voice dry. “Or better yet, visit in the morning.”

Lo’ak perked up instantly. “Yeah,” he added, far too amused. “If it’s at night, who knows what they could be doing.”

“Lo’ak,” Neytiri warned, sharp but not unkind.

Neytiri watched her eldest son from across the firelight, noting the way his laugh came easier now, how his shoulders seemed less tense, how a quiet confidence had settled in him like something new and solid. Pride swelled in her chest—bittersweet, fierce, and impossibly tender all at once.

He was growing. Really growing. Stepping into feelings bigger than himself. And yet, worry lingered, because you were the clan’s tsakarem, and love, even in its smallest forms, carried risk. But just for this moment, she let herself bask in the warmth. After all, she and Jake had been the same once.

“Why didn’t you call me first? To visit you?”

Tuk’s small arms were crossed over her chest, lips pressed into a stubborn line. Her voice was sharp, a little high-pitched, all indignation and urgency.

It had been two days since Neteyam finally made his visit, and yesterday there had been chaos—the whole group had crowded into the tsahìk’s marui pod. Your siblings, Sully children, and even Roxto had all come by, making the space feel impossibly full, warm, and loud. You had barely had a moment to breathe.

And now, Tuk was here, standing in front of you like a tiny storm cloud, complaining with all the energy only a little sister could summon. “You let him see you first!” she exclaimed. “First! Me? I should’ve been the first!”

You blinked, trying not to laugh at her dramatic flare. “I wasn’t expecting anyone, Tuk. He just came by suddenly. I didn’t think that—”

Tuk’s lips curled, eyes narrowing. “Didn’t think about me?”

From the corner of the pod, Neteyam leaned against the wall, trying to look casual, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, twitching in amusement. “I don’t see what the problem is. I just checked in. She’s fine. Smiling, laughing… what’s the big deal?”

“The big deal,” Tuk hissed, stepping closer, “is that I should get to see her first! I’m her first friend!”

Neteyam raised his hands in mock surrender, grinning wide. “Okay, okay. But I didn’t plan it. I came because I wanted to see her. You think she’d say no? I’m her friend.”

“Second friend!” Tuk shrieked, stomping a tiny foot. “I swam with her first when we came here!”

“She smiles when she talks to me,” Neteyam interrupted smoothly, now crouching beside you and leaning slightly with a cheeky grin, “and I also make her laugh.”

You bit your lip to stop yourself from laughing, glancing at Tuk’s flustered face, her fists balled at her sides. Tuk’s eyes narrowed, fire practically spitting out of them. “She laughs at everyone! That doesn’t mean you’re special!”

Neteyam tilted his head, eyes glinting with mischief. “Oh? Well, maybe I’m her favorite.”

Tuk groaned, throwing her head back. “I’m her favorite!”

You couldn’t stop yourself from laughing this time, shaking your head. “You’re both ridiculous,” you said, but your eyes sparkled with amusement. Tuk’s fists tightened, lips pursed, but she couldn’t help the small smile creeping onto her face.

“I—fine,” she muttered. “Maybe you’re… a close second.”

Eventually, Tuk was pulled away by a younger Metkayina child, inviting her to play. Tuk’s excitement won, and with a dramatic huff of annoyance at being “forced away,” she scampered off, leaving you and Neteyam behind. And, since you were finally allowed to roam again, you both slipped outside.

The two of you sat on the rock you had claimed long ago, knees tucked to your chin, the waves stretching endlessly before you. Your arms brushed occasionally, small touches that made the quiet between you feel alive. The wind tugged at your hair, the salt air filling your lungs, and for a moment, nothing else existed.

Finally, you swallowed, hesitated, and then spoke, your voice quieter than you expected. “Neteyam…” You paused, the weight of unsaid things pressing in. You weren’t used to opening up first, and the words tasted strange and vulnerable on your tongue. Avoidance had been your shield, but now it felt heavy.

“I… I waited for you here,” you admitted, eyes fixed on the waves instead of him. “Before I left.”

Neteyam’s gaze dropped to you. He didn’t rush you, didn’t press. He waited.

When silence stretched, uncomfortable and thick, he moved just slightly, shifting in front of you so that his knees were closer to yours. His hands rested lightly on the rock, and his eyes met yours.

“It’s okay. Take your time,” he said softly. “I’m here.”

And in that quiet, he wished—more than he could ever say—that he could take every burden from you, lift the weight pressing against your chest and carry it for you. He didn’t need you to say them aloud, somehow, he just knew. Every tight line in your shoulders, every hesitation, every small tremor in your voice.

You finally looked at him, meeting his gaze, and then the words slipped out before you could stop them. “I am sorry. About—about what I said before. It wasn’t your fault. I was just being stupid—I wasn’t thinking. I pushed it on you and…”

Neteyam’s lips curved gently, already forgiving you, long before your apology had finished. His eyes held no anger, just that warm golden you have grown to love. He had already forgiven you, had always been ready to—and that scares him. No matter what you said, what you did, or what burdened you, he would take it.

His hands moved almost on its own, cupping your cheek gently. His thumb brushed against the small, unnoticed tears that had slipped down your face, and he murmured softly, “Hey… it’s okay. You are not stupid. I know you didn’t mean it.”

“I’m… I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have… I—” you babbled, words tumbling out in a rush, little choked apologies spilling between sniffles. “I don’t know why I’m crying… I just… I—ugh, I’m sorry!”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head, thumb still brushing your cheek. “Hey, hey… shh. It’s fine. Really.”

There was something in the way he looked at you then: open, unguarded, with that quiet warmth that made the world shrink to just the two of you. The curve of his lips, the subtle glimmer in his eyes, the way he lingered on you without a word—it was enough to make your chest tighten and your thoughts betray you. Just like that, you wanted to kiss him. Badly.

The thought startled you and for a heartbeat, your eyes flickered instinctively to his lips. Your mind scrambled, but the thought wouldn’t go away. It pulsed, teasing the edges of reason, and panic mingled with longing in a confusing, burning knot.

You could feel the warmth radiating from him, steady and grounding, and every instinct in you wanted to close that space between you. But you couldn’t, not really, not like that. So you did the next best thing—or at least what your frantic brain told you was next best.

You lunged forward, arms winding around his neck, pressing your nose to the corner of his neck and shoulder. Your body shivered against him, heart hammering in your chest, and for a moment it felt like the only way to quiet the chaos in your head was to press yourself close, to anchor yourself to him without actually breaking the line you couldn’t cross.

For a second, he froze, startled, caught off guard by the sudden movement. Then, without hesitation, his arms tightened around you, holding you close. “I’ve got you,” he whispered.

You rested there for a moment, muffled apologies spilling again against him. 

Your arms around his neck were soft, trembling slightly, and the faint scent of salt and earth clung to you—something so familiar yet intoxicating in its immediacy. He could feel the steady rise and fall of your chest against his, the small shiver that ran through you, the brush of your hair against his cheek, and each tiny detail hit him like a drumbeat in his chest. He’d never been this aware of someone before, not like this. Not like you.

There was a selfishness in him he didn’t even try to hide from himself. He wanted to freeze the moment, to keep you pressed here, close, safe, and warm. He wanted to forget the world outside the rock, forget all the rules and the waiting, and just exist in the scent of you, the weight of you, the soft sound of your apology muffled against his shoulder. 

He tightened his arms unconsciously, just a little, almost possessively. It was overwhelming, and yet comforting, and terrifying all at once.

When he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, the weight of it made something in him ache, a quiet longing mixed with awe. “Shh,” he murmured, “you’re here. That’s all that matters.”

The days after that moment passed like a blur, though not without their small, precious highlights.

You barely saw Neteyam, not because he wasn’t around, but because the preparations for the Tulkun return ceremony had consumed the clan. The air was thick with planning and purpose, the village alive with movement, with voices calling, weaving nets, and making new clothes.

You were mostly helping your mother, assisting with small but important tasks. There was a rhythm to it that soothed you: weaving, checking, organizing, keeping the sacred spaces ready. Your hands moved with ease now, and it felt almost miraculous how the pain of before had begun to fade. The heavier weight of grief and fear, the anxiety that had pressed on your chest for so long, still lingered faintly—but it was no longer suffocating. 

Finally, you were allowed to swim in the waters again. The sensation of gliding through the current with your spirit sister was like reclaiming a lost part of yourself. You could feel the gentle push and pull of the water around you, your muscles strong and responsive. The familiar rhythm of swimming, the coolness of the sea, and the brush of her fin through the water alongside yours felt comforting in a way that words could never capture.

You told each other stories—small, silly things, the kind of shared secrets that made your chest ache with quiet happiness. The waters carried your laughter and the echoes of your voices, and for a few fleeting hours, it was just the two of you. 

“On my journey home. The sky people have attacked us. One hunter was shot.”

You floated beside her, letting the current carry you, your limbs moving easily, your hair drifting around your face like soft waves. You pressed your palms together in a sequence of quick signs, fingers tracing arcs and lines as you relayed your story.

“I went back for him, but my tsurak got shot too! Its weight pulled me under, and I hit my head.”

Your spirit sister responded instantly, her massive form undulating beside you. A series of clicks, whistles, and soft hums rolled through the water, echoing in the coral-filled shallows. 

“You are strong, sister. Stronger than you know. The tides could not take you.”

But responsibility waited, as it always did. In a few days, you would perform a dance with your clan sisters, a display of unity and grace for the returning Tulkun. So even as you swam, even as you laughed, your mind kept one eye on the schedule, on the preparations, on the tasks that couldn’t be ignored. That meant that your time with Neteyam, while precious, was brief—rarely more than an hour before the duties of the clan called you away.

Neteyam, however, noticed everything. The closeness you had shared, the way your hand brushed his accidentally—or intentionally—did not escape him. Every touch, every fleeting brush of your arms, every small smile or laugh that lingered just for him, added up. Even the short moments of stolen connection felt enough.

“It’s more… heavy than usual,” you said without turning. “The ceremony’s coming, so it’ll be even better on the day itself.”

You had your back to him, fingers absently adjusting the heavier braid adornments tangled in your hair. The shells and threads caught the moonlight filtering through the water, making them shimmer like tiny stars.

Neteyam’s gaze softened as he looked at your hair, lips quirking into a kind of quiet, unassuming smile.

When you finally turned, catching him staring, his fingers were holding a strand of your braid loosely, brushing it almost absentmindedly. His eyes, half-lidded with lashes casting shadows, looked up at you in that tilted-down, boyish way that made your stomach twist.

“Do you like it?” you asked softly.

His heart hammered. He liked it. He liked you. So much that he had to pray to Eywa to stop himself from leaning in and kissing you right there.

Because the way you looked at him—the subtle tilt of your head, the warmth in your eyes, the gentle curve of your lips—took his breath away. Every detail of your face was magnified in his mind: the soft arch of your eyebrows, the freckles across your nose, the way the moonlight seemed to catch in your cerulean eyes. If he thought he was captivated now, he couldn’t imagine the day of the ceremony. He didn’t even want to think what he’d do.

He swallowed, fingers tightening slightly around the braid, voice low, steady but charged. “It's beautiful. You’d be the prettiest,” he said, carrying something unspoken, something that made your breath catch.

He watched the way your hair clung to your cheeks, the way your shoulders relaxed when you laughed, the curve of your smile even when brief. He wanted to hold onto it all, to bottle the warmth and simplicity, to protect it—and yet, a small, selfish part of him wanted more, to keep you near forever, to make these fleeting touches stretch into infinity. He just lingered and reveled in it silently, knowing it was enough for now.

The day of the ceremony arrived.

By dusk, the village had transformed. Drums carved from reefwood and stretched with cured hide began to sound—deep, steady heartbeats that rolled through the sand and into the water. Conch shells answered them, hollow and haunting, blown like flutes, their notes rising and falling with the tide. Other instruments followed: clicking shells, coral chimes, woven rattles filled with polished stones. All born of the sea, all singing back to it.

The air was rich with scent. Roasting fish glazed in oils and herbs, steaming broths thick with salt and spice, sweet fruits split open and shared. Smoke curled lazily upward from fire pits, carrying warmth and comfort, clinging to skin and hair. Firelight danced everywhere, reflected in shells strung between posts, in beads woven into nets, in polished bone and coral.

Decorations lined the shore and the walkways—braided kelp, luminous shells, strings of pearls and glassy stones that caught the light and scattered it. Bioluminescent patterns along every Na’vi body glowed brighter than usual, soft blues and greens, each design unique.

Clothing was more intricate than he had ever seen. Layers of woven sea fibers draped over one another, shells sewn carefully into hems so they chimed softly with each step, stones and braided kelp arranged in complex patterns. Every movement made them shimmer. 

And the water—Eywa, the water. It brightened with every passing moment, the surface alive with light as shapes gathered beneath it. Massive shadows moved slowly and reverently, the Tulkun drawing near, their presence announced in ripples of blue, violet, and soft white. Around them, schools of bioluminescent fish wove through the current, scattering sparks of light like living constellations.

Anyone else would have been swept up in it. But Neteyam felt it anyway, a tightness in his chest he couldn’t name, a restless energy that had nowhere to go.

He shifted his weight, then adjusted the armband on his forearm. Again. And then again, fingers worrying the edge as if it had suddenly decided to sit wrong.

Lo’ak noticed immediately.

“Bro,” he said, eyeing him with blatant disbelief, “are you serious right now? Why do you look like you’re about to fight a whole palulukan herd?”

Neteyam shot him a look. “I’m not.”

“You’ve fixed that thing, like—” Lo’ak gestured vaguely. “Six or seven times.”

Neteyam dropped his hand at once, jaw setting. “I said I’m not nervous.”

Lo’ak grinned, clearly unconvinced, but let it go—for now.

Truth was, Neteyam had also dressed with more care than usual. He wore his forest necklace and armband, more layers than his everyday ones, their patterns intricate, carved with stories of home. Another armband rested on his opposite arm, and his loincloth was reef-made—shell pieces stitched carefully into it, kelp of different colors wrapped at the waist. A technique Kiri had shown him. One you had helped refine, laughing softly when he fumbled it the first time. His usual cummerbund remained the same; he hadn’t made a new one, partly because time hadn’t allowed it, partly because he wanted to wear something from the forest. His mother had said it suited him.

More beads and feathers threaded through his braids, catching the firelight when he moved. And then there was the paint.

It wasn’t common among the reef people, not like this. But at his parents’ request, the elders had helped them prepare something that would hold beneath the water. Neteyam had painted himself—white and bright green, patterns blending forest tradition with something new. His hands had been steady when he did it. Now, standing here, he felt strangely exposed beneath it.

“Neteyam.”

He turned to his mother’s voice. It was when he’s still in his family’s pod, just right after he finished putting the paint and the rest of his hair accessories.

She was looking at him with an expression that made his chest tighten for an entirely different reason. Awe, softened by something tender. This was the look she’d once given him when he was small and first learned to hold a bow properly. Now it carried pride too.

“Come here,” she said.

She placed her hands on his shoulders, thumbs pressing lightly as she studied him. Neteyam felt his ears warm, his gaze dropping despite himself.

“You are grown,” she said quietly, smiling. “Handsome. Strong.”

“Mother,” he muttered, embarrassed.

Her smile widened, just a little mischievous. “She will like you like this.”

Neteyam inhaled through his nose, fighting the way his heart jumped. “It’s not— it’s not like that.”

Neytiri laughed softly, giving his shoulders a final squeeze. “Ah. Enough. Do not tie yourself in knots.” Her voice gentled. “Enjoy this moment. It does not come twice.”

So he let himself enjoy it.

Neteyam let the night carry him—its noise, its warmth, the way awe rippled through his family as they took everything in. He ate until his fingers were slick with oil and salt, watched dancers move in rhythms unfamiliar yet beautiful, laughed when Lo’ak tried (and failed) to follow along, all flailing limbs and misplaced confidence. It was ridiculous. And somehow, that alone made it worth it.

He noticed his parents too. The way his father stood less rigid than usual, shoulders eased, gaze softened as he took in the ceremony. The way his mother smiled more freely, laughter slipping out without restraint. Seeing them like that was rare. It settled something in Neteyam’s chest he hadn’t realized was still restless.

For the first time since arriving, he thought, quietly, that Awa’atlu could be home. 

And yet, his eyes kept wandering.

They scanned the crowd again and again, searching for a familiar shape. Every time his gaze swept over a group of dancers or passed a cluster of people, his heart gave a small, foolish leap. 

He’d heard the dancers wouldn’t join the rest of the village until after their performance. Kiri had mentioned it in passing, also wondering when they’ll see you and Tsireya. He clung to that thought, grounding himself with it. He would see you then. During the dance. And—Eywa willing—after.

The thought of how you might look tonight sent his heart into dizzy circles.

It didn’t take long. Three fish skewers. A handful of fruit. One round of conversation with family and friends. Then the conch shell sounded, cutting cleanly through the hum of voices. The energy of the village shifted instantly. People began moving toward the water, some breaking into a jog, others hurrying with eager steps.

This was it.

You hadn’t told him you danced. He’d only learned through overheard conversation, your sister’s voice carrying pride when she mentioned it. That you were good. That you always had been. He had no idea what it would look like—how Metkayina dances differed from those of the forest, how the sea would shape the movement.

But as he followed the crowd toward the glowing shoreline, anticipation buzzing through him, he realized one thing with absolute certainty:

No matter what it looked like, no matter how different it was—

Seeing you would be enough.

Neteyam followed the others beneath the surface, the world above dissolving into muffled echoes and wavering light. The glow intensified instantly—blues and greens blooming brighter the deeper they went, the sea alive with motion. Tulkun voices resonated through the water, vibrating through his chest more than his ears.

He looked for you immediately.

His eyes darted, adjusting slower than those born of the reef. Shapes blurred together at first—moving bodies, streaks of light, the vast silhouettes of Tulkun circling with reverent patience. The dancers were already taking their places, forming arcs and spirals around the great beings.

The routine began.

Na’vi bodies moved like currents given form—twisting, spinning, flipping effortlessly through the water. Some danced in perfect synchronicity, mirroring one another in clean, sweeping motions; others broke away in alternating patterns, weaving between Tulkun fins and massive bodies, then returning to the group as if pulled by an unseen tide. Arms extended, then folded. Legs kicked and curved. Whole bodies arched and rolled, weightless and precise.

The Tulkun joined them as partners.

They turned slowly, gracefully, their immense forms moving with a gentleness that defied their size. Fins guided dancers forward; a tilt of a massive head became a cue. Together, they created living shapes—circles within circles, expanding and collapsing like breath.

And then Neteyam saw you.

Your movement caught his eye like a change in the current. You flowed through the water with an ease that made everything else feel louder in comparison. It stole the air from his lungs. Not in the way water ever had, but in the way something precious does when you realize, all at once, how deeply it matters.

Your clothing was more intricate than he remembered, layers of woven sea fibers trailing softly behind you, shells and beads catching the light with every turn. Kelp strands wrapped and knotted with care moved like extensions of you, accenting each spin, each arch of your back. Your hair fanned out around your head, braids drifting, ornaments glowing faintly as you turned.

And your skin. Your bioluminescent patterns glowed brighter beneath the water, lines and curves glowing softly with your movement. Every twist of your torso made them show. Even from a distance, he could see your face—focused, serene, eyes sharp and alive, completely at home here.

You smiled mid-turn, not at anyone in particular, just at the dance itself.

Neteyam forgot to look away.

He followed you through the entire routine without meaning to. When you dipped low, his gaze followed. When you rose, spinning upward toward the light filtering down from above, his chest tightened. He watched the way your hands cut cleanly through the water, the way your body curved and straightened in perfect balance.

You were far from him. Close enough to see, but too far to touch.

And still, you were all he could see. 

He realized that even if you were doing nothing at all, you would have caught his eye just the same. 

The routine came to its end in a slow, reverent spiral, dancers and Tulkun drawing together before drifting apart once more. Applause didn’t exist here, not underwater—but the water itself seemed to hum, alive with approval.

When the dancers surfaced, Neteyam was already waiting on the shore with the others, voices rising in cheers. He joined in, but his eyes searched only for you.

Then he saw you.

The smile came without permission, easy and wide, and he cheered again, louder this time, though it was meant for only one person. He watched you greet your family first, waiting back to give you space, even as his feet carried him instinctively behind his own. When the moment felt right, he slipped away, weaving through bodies and laughter, shells chiming and firelight flickering everywhere.

He searched for you the way someone searches for shore while treading water. Faces blurred past him, bodies crossing his line of sight, laughter and voices colliding into noise. For a moment, he thought he’d missed you entirely, that you were swallowed somewhere deeper in the crowd.

And you were doing the same.

Turning, scanning, eyes slipping over strangers, pausing too long on silhouettes that weren’t him. The space was too big, the people too many. It felt unfair, almost cruel, that after all of that—after the sea, the dance, the waiting—you still hadn’t found each other yet.

Then it happened.

Not all at once. Not cleanly.

Neteyam caught movement first—your hair, the familiar sway of your shoulders—and he froze, breath caught halfway in. At the same time, you turned, eyes lifting instinctively, like you’d felt him looking.

People moved between you. Someone laughed loudly, another stepped directly into his line of sight. For a second, he lost you again—and his heart dropped with it.

Then your eyes found his.

Across the crowd. Too far. Far enough to hurt.

You stared at each other through the shifting bodies, the space between you opening and closing as people passed, like the world was testing how badly you wanted this moment. Neither of you looked away. You couldn’t. 

You both lifted your hands at the same time, waving, then laughing when you realized how perfectly in sync you were. The distance suddenly felt unbearable.

So you both closed it.

Slow at first, then faster, weaving through people who barely registered anymore. The crowd thinned, parted, blurred. All Neteyam could see was you, glowing even here, even now—proof that no matter how vast the space, you always seemed to find each other.

And when there was finally nothing between you at all—

You stopped.

For a moment, both of you only smiled.

“Hi,” he said finally, soft, like it meant more than the word ever should.

“Hi,” you answered, just as quiet.

Your eyes traced him slowly. The paint along his face caught both the firelight and the lingering glow of the sea—white and green etched with care, vivid against skin still damp from the water. His braids were threaded with beads and feathers that swayed faintly when he breathed, and you noticed—couldn’t help noticing—how his chest still rose a little faster than it should have

He was looking at you the same way. Taking you in, memorizing the way the water had left your skin glistening, the droplets tracing your collarbones and arms, soft reflections of the bioluminescent patterns that flowed along your body. The way the light caught in your hair, outlining every strand as it clung damply to your shoulders. The intricate layers of your clothing, sea-woven and luminous, moving with you even when you were still.

Without thinking, you said it, confidence rising in your chest like a tide. “You look good.”

The words surprised you, where they had come from. But looking at him—seeing the way his gaze lingered—you guessed he thought the same.

A boyish chuckle escaped him. “You look good too,” he said, his voice low, and the way he said your name made it feel like sunlight warming the hollow of your chest.

You laughed softly, a little breathless, and the sound loosened something between you. Without a pause, you closed the space between you, reaching for his hand. Fingers entwined with his, warm and steady.

“Come,” you said, tugging him gently. “You should meet my friends.”

He blinked, slightly confused, the question clear in his eyes. But he didn’t hesitate. He followed, weaving through the crowd as you led him, hand in hand, laughing softly as you navigated between clusters of celebrating clan members.

You stopped before a circle of Metkayina close to your age, the space clearing almost as if by instinct for the two of you. They made room, smiling, curious. You guided Neteyam down to sit beside you, the wet fabric of your clothing brushing lightly as you settled.

“One by one,” you introduced your friends, careful to gesture to each, murmuring names. “And this is Neteyam,” you said, looking at him with a smile to encourage him.

He smiled in turn, polite but relaxed, greeting each of them with easy words. You noticed the way his lips curved naturally, how at ease he was despite the unusual crowd, and your chest warmed at the sight. He fit here, just as he fit anywhere he chose to be.

“And he’s a great hunter,” you continued, nudging him lightly, “so you should hear his stories!”

Neteyam’s eyes lit up at the invitation, and he began to speak, weaving tales of hunts and skill, of the forest and the water. The Metkayina listened, rapt, nodding, smiling. Their eyes brightened at his words, echoing the excitement you had always seen in him. And as he spoke, swelling with pride, you felt the same: the joy of seeing him seen, accepted, even celebrated.

The circle leaned closer to him, intrigued, hanging on every word. And you, beside him, couldn’t stop smiling—not just because of the stories, but because, for now, this was his world and yours.

“Well… you wouldn’t have to worry about hunting in the future now, Tsakarem,” Nìkxey said, one of the girls you did iknimaya with, her tone playful.

Your cheeks warmed, and a laugh escaped before you could stop it. “Nìkxey!” 

Neteyam’s laugh followed hers, low and amused, and he nudged you gently with his shoulder. “I wouldn’t worry either,” he murmured just for you, a smile tugging at his lips. His hand brushed yours lightly as it rested in your lap, sending a small thrill up your spine.

You shouldn’t think about what that really meant, but those words refused to leave you the whole night.

Hours had passed since the bulk of celebration had wound down. The drums and conch shells had faded, the fire pits now smoldering low, sending only wisps of smoke curling into the night. Most of the village had retreated, laughter and chatter reduced to distant murmurs, leaving only the gentle crash of waves and the occasional call of someone walking home. 

You and Neteyam, hand in hand, slipped away from the remaining crowd, laughter spilling freely between you as you ran deeper into the forest behind the village.

You hadn’t spent much time here yourself—only occasional trips for fruit or to explore—but enough to know secrets that few others did. And tonight, you wanted to share one with him. You weaved through giant leaves, brushing past ferns and low-hanging branches, each step on the cold, damp soil grounding you. The sound of Neteyam laughing behind you, calling out, “Where are you taking me?” made your chest swell with a happiness you hadn’t expected.

“Be patient, forest boy,” you called back, a grin tugging at your lips.

He didn’t complain. In fact, something about the forest—the way the leaves whispered, the soil gave slightly beneath his feet, the shadows of the trees stretching into the night—made him feel at home.

After a while, the running slowed, and you finally stopped. You turned to face him, seriousness replacing the playful energy in your expression. “This is a secret between the two of us,” you said, voice earnest, “got it?”

Neteyam’s gaze met yours, unwavering, and he nodded, almost too quickly. “I promise,” he said, his tone low.

“Good,” you replied with a small smile, turning back to move forward. You pushed aside long, draping leaves, revealing an entrance tucked almost perfectly into the undergrowth—a small hollow, cave-like, hidden from casual eyes.

Neteyam didn’t question it. He trusted you, and that was enough. He let you pull him inside, hand still intertwined with his, feeling a thrill of anticipation, knowing you had chosen to share this secret with him.

Just a few steps in, and after a small turn, the hollow opened to reveal a pool of water, still and dark, its surface reflecting nothing. Neteyam paused, brow furrowed, unsure what to make of the shadowed space.

You only smiled, that quiet, knowing smile that made him uneasy in the best way. Your eyes flicked from him to the pool and back, gauging his reaction, waiting for the spark of curiosity—or maybe wonder—to light in his gaze.

“Come,” you said softly, squatting at the edge. Your fingers dipped into the water, and it shimmered immediately, a soft, ethereal glow radiating outward. As you swirled your hand, the pool brightened in response, ripples scattering points of light across the cave walls. You looked up at him, eyes wide, grin stretching across your face.

Neteyam’s hesitation melted into a laugh, and he joined you at the edge. But mischief colored his expression. Without warning, he splashed water toward you, droplets flying through the air. You shrieked, laughing, but the moment his playful grin met yours, you couldn’t resist returning the favor.

Back and forth it went: splashes, laughter, circles around the pool, each movement coaxing the glowing water to flare brighter. The bioluminescent moss clinging to the walls seemed to pulse with your motion, lighting the cave in soft, undulating waves of green and blue.

You finally gasped out, giggling, “Okay, stop—enough!” but neither of you really meant it. Your chest heaved, hair plastered to your face, droplets tracing your collarbones, and your laughter mingled with his. Neteyam, soaked and grin still wide, mirrored your exhaustion.

You paused, breathing heavily, standing on opposite sides of the pool, the glowing water between you. Then, on impulse, you bent your knees and jumped. The pool was small but deep enough that your feet wouldn’t touch the bottom if you leapt. The water swallowed you, cold and alive, and when your head surfaced, glowing reflections danced along your skin.

“Your turn,” you said, eyes flicking toward him.

He didn’t hesitate, launching himself in with a splash that nearly sent you under again. You spun quickly, trying to shield yourself, sputtering and laughing as he laughed at your frantic movements. When he surfaced, you both simply stared at each other giggling. The pool was small—you could feel the slight push of his arms with every stroke, the movement of his kicks under the water.

“Do you like it?” you asked softly.

Neteyam’s gaze lingered on you. “How did you even find this place?”

You shrugged, eyes tracing the glowing moss and scattered bioluminescent plants along the cave walls. “Curiosity. I followed a lizard here a year ago. I accidentally found it.” 

Your gaze swept the pool, the cave, the soft shimmer of light across every surface. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

He didn’t answer immediately, because he wasn’t looking at the cave. He was looking at you. The glow of the water caught your skin, yes, but it was more than that—you looked radiant, almost angelic, every feature defined in the soft reflected light.

The strands of hair plastered to your shoulders, the faint curve of your lips, the gleam in your eyes—it stole his breath. 

A soft, low “yes” finally left him, and your heart skipped.

Catching him already staring, you couldn’t resist. With a small, playful chuckle, you splashed water at him.

Neteyam’s voice cut through the gentle ripples of water. “You were amazing back there,” he said, eyes never leaving yours. “I was right. You are the prettiest.”

The way he looked at you—the closeness, the subtle shift of his shoulders forward, the slight lean toward you as the water carried you both—made your heart race. Unknowingly, you two had drifted closer, the small pool no longer just space. 

You smiled, glancing away for a moment, trying to hide the sudden flutter in your chest. But curiosity, and something bolder, pulled your gaze back to him. “And you look very handsome,” you said softly. “Have I said it before?”

“Yes,” he replied, smiling. “Just in a different way.”

You could only smile at him, eyes tracing his face again, memorizing what you had seen so many times but never enough: the patterns painted along his skin, the sharp line of his nose, the depth of his eyes, the curve of his lips. You felt a shiver run through you, not from cold, but from the ache of desire that had been gnawing at you, quiet but persistent, all this time.

To push the thought down before it took over, you sank deeper into the pool. The light from the glowing water bent around you, illuminating your path as your eyes followed his movements. He mirrored you almost instinctively, descending into the water with ease.

Now face to face beneath the glowing surface, the light refracted over him, casting gentle patterns across his features, highlighting angles and planes you had never appreciated fully before. And somehow… somehow, he looked even more handsome down here, framed by the light and water, and closer than ever.

The water cradled you both, holding your bodies in a slow, drifting stillness. Your hair floated weightlessly around your face, strands glowing faintly as they brushed his wrists.

Neteyam felt unsteady in a way no battlefield had ever made him feel. 

The water muted the world, but it did nothing to quiet his thoughts. If anything, it made them louder—spinning, overlapping, all of them circling you. The way you hovered there in the glow, hair drifting like something alive, eyes fixed on his as if he were the only thing in this hidden place worth seeing.

He thought of the small moments that had led here. Your laughter by the shore. The way your hand always seemed to find his without either of you acknowledging it. The looks that lingered just a second too long. The careful distance you kept, as if afraid of what would happen if you stepped closer—and the way that distance somehow made everything sharper.

Neteyam, who had faced danger with steady hands and a clear mind, had never felt this nervous. Not like this. Looking at you felt like standing at the edge of something vast and unfamiliar, something he had dreamed of without ever naming. You looked unreal, like the answer to a question he hadn’t known how to ask.

Enjoy this moment.

His mother’s voice surfaced in his mind.

And then you moved. Your hand drifted forward and settled against his chest, right over his heart, fingers splayed as if you were listening rather than touching. The contact was light, but it had unraveled him completely.

His breath hitched. His heart responded instantly, pounding hard beneath your hand, wild and unhidden. He wondered if you could feel it, if you understood what you were doing to him. Part of him hoped you did. Part of him was terrified you did. 

Hear it. Hear how much it’s beating for you.

You looked at him then—really looked at him—and there was so much meaning in your eyes that it felt heavier than words ever could. The glow of the water reflected back in them, soft and shifting, and for the first time since stepping into this hidden place, Neteyam felt certain.

Certain enough to move.

He swam closer. The space between you narrowed until his legs brushed yours, then lingered, your tails grazing and curling together as if the water had guided them there. The contact sent a quiet jolt through him. Real. You were here. So close.

Your body hovered just inches from his now, the glow outlining you in soft light. He could feel the movement of the water between you, feel the warmth of you even through it. His gaze flicked to your eyes, searching, asking—is this okay?

You answered without speaking.

Your lashes lowered slightly, your head tilting just enough to close the last uncertain angle between you. An invitation. A trust so open it stole the breath from his lungs.

When his hands lifted to your face, the water resisted just slightly, like it wanted to test his resolve, like touching you was something sacred. His palms cradled your face, thumbs resting just below your cheekbones, the deep blue of his skin a stark contrast to your glowing teal. You leaned into his touch instinctively, and the world seemed to narrow to that single point of contact.

When he leaned in, it was slow enough that you felt every second of it: the faint current shifting between you, the brush of his nose against yours, the way your breath mingled in small silver bubbles before drifting away.

Then your lips met.

The kiss was brief. Soft. Gentle. Slowed by the water, shaped by it. For that moment, you were suspended together—no ground beneath your feet, no urgency. 

When you finally pulled back, your foreheads rested together, noses brushing, eyes still open as if neither of you wanted to risk losing sight of the other. Bubbles escaped you both in uneven bursts, laughter caught somewhere between breaths.

In that instant, something settled, like a tension that had lived in both of you for far too long had finally been answered. The question that had hovered in glances and half-touches, in every moment you almost reached for each other, was no longer unanswered.

You wrapped your arms around him, and he returned it just as naturally—strong arms closing around you as if he’d been waiting to do that all along. Together, you kicked upward, breaking the surface at the same time, air rushing back into your lungs in shared, breathless laughter.

Water streamed down your faces, clinging to lashes and braids, the glow of the cave softer up here but no less intimate. For a heartbeat, you were still pressed close, foreheads nearly touching, the echo of the water rippling around you.

Neteyam pulled back just enough to look at you.

His hand lifted, gentle as before, fingers tipping your chin up so you’d meet his gaze. There was something unguarded in his eyes now—warm, almost shy, like the bravest thing he’d done all night was still finding its words.

“Can I…” He hesitated, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “…kiss you again?”

Your answer left no space for doubt.

His breath caught when you kissed him, a barely-there sound against your mouth. It was clumsy this time—your teeth bumped, a soft, startled laugh breaking between you—but neither of you pulled away. His hand slid from your chin to your cheek.

You feel him, the warmth of his lips, the careful way he adjusted just to fit you better. The faint taste of saltwater lingered as your lips moved against his.

Your arms slid more securely around his shoulders, fingers curling into the damp strands of his hair. He responded instinctively, hands settling at your waist. The water lapped softly against your sides, rocking you together in slow, gentle movements.

His forehead brushed yours between breaths, noses touching as he paused just long enough to breathe you in before kissing you again. You smiled into the kiss without meaning to, and he felt it—felt the way your lips curved, the way your body relaxed against his.

When you finally pulled away, it was only because your lungs demanded it.

The space between you widened just enough for breath to return—yours shaky, his uneven. Your arms loosened, hands slipping down from his shoulders but never fully leaving him. His hands stayed where they were, steady at your waist.

For a long second, neither of you spoke.

The glow of the cave caught in the paint on his skin, and without really thinking, your hand lifted. Your fingers traced along his forehead, following the lines of paint that had somehow survived the water. Down his temple. Beneath his eye. Along his cheek, down his throat, where his breath hitched almost imperceptibly under your touch.

Your hand continued—over his shoulder, and finally came to rest at the center of his chest. Right where his heart still beat too fast.

You looked at him then, earnest and open, your palm warm against him.

“I see you."

The words hit him harder than any kiss had.

Neteyam swallowed, emotions crowding his chest all at once. He lifted one hand, placing it over yours where it rested on his heart, holding it there as if to keep it from breaking free. With his other hand, he brushed the damp strands of hair from your cheek, fingers barely grazing your skin.

“I see you too,” he murmured back. Then, quieter, almost shyly, “Sevin.”

You laughed softly, the sound echoing faintly against the stone. “Sevin?” you teased, tilting your head. 

His mouth curved into a hopeful smile. “You don’t like it?”

You pretended to think about it, lashes lowering as if you were suddenly bashful. “I like it,” you admitted.

Silence settled again—but it wasn’t empty. It was full. Of looks held too long. Of breaths that hadn’t quite steadied. Your hands drifted lower, sliding from his chest, skimming the edge of the cummerband he wore. Not lingering—just noticing. He looked good. Strong in a way that made your chest warm.

When you looked back up at him through your lashes, his gaze softened even more.

“What else do you want to do?” he asked quietly.

You bit your lip, just for a moment, then lifted both hands to his face, framing it like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your thumbs brushed his cheeks, your touch sure now.

“We should just kiss,” you said.

And you did.

Roxto burst into the entrance of the marui, a whirlwind of salt and unbridled energy. He was drenched, his teal skin glistening with seawater, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. He looked exactly like what he was: a boy who lived for the thrill of the hunt and the warmth of the sun.

"Quiet, you noisy pup!" Sa’eyla scolded, though her face immediately softened. "You’ll knock the beads right off our strings. The net is by the pillar, exactly where it was this morning when you forgot it."

Roxto laughed, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "I didn't forget it, I was... detained. The ilu were restless."

"The ilu were fine, you were racing Aonung," Saeyla countered.

Roxto grinned, his teeth bright against his skin. "Maybe. But I won."

He stepped further into the shaded hollow, heading toward the pillar. But as he moved, his gaze drifted away from the elders and landed on the quiet figure tucked away in the corner.

He stopped. His breath, which had been coming in short, jagged gasps, suddenly hitched in his throat.

Roxto knew who you were. In a village as tight-knit as Awa’atlu, it was impossible not to. He had seen you many times before—walking along the shore at dusk, your eyes fixed on the horizon, or diving from the high cliffs with a grace that made his heart stutter. He had seen you a thousand times, of course. Awa’atlu was a small community.

He knew your name, he knew your family, and he knew you were the one the elders praised for your "golden hands." But usually, you were something he deemed unapproachable. Your beauty to him was unparalleled, and no matter how friendly he was, or how everyone knew him— he could never find a way to talk you, let alone muster up the courage. 

He had spent months wanting to speak to you. He’d practiced lines in his head while out on his ilu, imagining himself saying something clever that would make you smile— or even telling his spirit brother how he wished he could just walk up to you. But every time he got close, his resolve would evaporate like sea foam in the sun.

And seeing you now, bathed in the golden needles of light in a way that made time seem to liquefy.

You were leaning into your work, your chin tucked down, the line of your neck elegant and decorated with a fine necklace. A stray lock of dark hair had escaped your top-knot, hanging precariously over your eye.

You didn't brush it away; you were too far gone in your craft. Your tongue was caught between your teeth in a look of such intense, fierce concentration that Roxto felt a strange, sudden hitch in his lungs.

He had seen warriors look like that when facing an Akula. He had seen the Tsahìk look like that when interpreting the will of Eywa. But he had never seen a girl look like that over a piece of wood.

He watched, mesmerized, as your hand moved. It wasn't just carving; it was a dance. The obsidian blade shaved off a sliver of wood so thin it was translucent, drifting through the air like a fallen petal.

"Wow," he breathed. It was barely a whisper, a tiny exhale of pure admiration that he didn't even realize he’d let out.

Finally, Sa’eyla reached out with her foot and gave Roxto’s ankle a sharp poke.

"The net, boy! Unless you intend to stand there until you grow barnacles!"

Roxto jumped as if he’d been stung by a jellyfish, ears darting back. "I—yes! The net! I see it. I will get it."

He lunged for the net, his usual coordination failing him. He fumbled the bundle, nearly knocking over a basket of dyed fibers. His face was burning now, a deep, dark indigo flush spreading across his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

The commotion finally broke your trance. You blinked, the world of spirals and wood-grain receding as you looked up.

Your eyes, still sharp with the intensity of your work, landed directly on Roxto.

He was staring at you, clutching a heap of netting to his chest like a shield. He looked breathless, as if he had just finished a sprint across the entire island.

"Oh," you said, your voice a little airy. You hadn't realized anyone else was there. "Hello, Roxto."

You gave him a small, polite smile— a smile he had yet to see until today. For Roxto, it felt like being hit by a sneak wave.

"I... uh... hello Y/N," he managed. He wanted to say something clever. He wanted to tell you that the carving looked incredible. He wanted to ask how you could sit so still when the whole world was spinning.

Instead, he said: "The wood is white."

The grandmothers erupted. Sa’eyla nearly fell off her mat laughing. "The wood is white! Truly, a scholar among us! A poet of the Metkayina!"

Roxto wanted the floor to open up and swallow him into the deepest of the trenches Eywa had blessed this land with. He squeezed the net tighter, his tail simply dropped in mortification.

You, however, didn't laugh— a little the shake of your head sure but you looked down at the piece in your lap and then back at him, your expression ever so slightly softening. You saw the way his eyes were darting around, the genuine embarrassment written in every line of his body.

"It is," you said gently, unintentionally coming to his rescue. "It’s tidal-wood. It takes the sun's light and keeps it."

Roxto felt his heart do a strange, clumsy flip. You had spoken to him. Not just a greeting, but a real thought. Your voice was like the calm water inside the reef’s own lagoon—smooth and cool.

"It looks like you," he blurted out, once again.

But this time room went dead silent, even your ears flickered forward at his words, lips parting with confusion. Even Sa’eyla stopped laughing.

Roxto’s eyes went wide. He hadn't meant to say that. He hadn't even planned the thought. It had just escaped. "I mean! The... the detail. It’s... strong. It looks strong. Like you... I mean, your work! Your work is strong!"

He was digging a hole so deep he might find the core of Pandora.

You felt a warmth creep up your own neck, ears darting back. No one usually talked to you like that. Most people admired your work, but they spoke to you as if you were only an extension of the tools you held.

"Thank you, Roxto," you whispered, eyes looking any direction but at him.

He stepped closer, drawn to your orbit like a moon to a planet. He forgot about the net as his hands dropped to his side, said net now dangling loosely. He forgot about his father. He forgot about the eels.

"That's, uhh— a lot of work for a branch," he said. He tried to sound casual, but his voice had a slight tremor to it, a crack in his usual bravado.

You hummed, looking back down into your lap. Your obsidian tool continued its slow, rhythmic journey along the wood. "It isn't a branch. It is a story."

It wasn't mean; it was just a statement of fact. You were trying to focus back on your craft, and he was becoming a distraction.

Roxto felt a flush of dark indigo heat rise to the tips of his ears. He fighting his inner excitement as he spoke to you. "A story? It looks like a fish to me. A very... stiff fish."

You paused. The tool stopped moving. You didn't look up yet, but the air around you seemed to grow a little colder. "It is stiff because it is not finished. Movement is the hardest thing to capture in something that does not breathe."

"I know a thing or two about movement," Roxto said, regaining some of his footing. He leaned against a nearby support pillar, trying to look comfortable even though his heart was hammering against his ribs. "I spend all day in the water. If you want to see how a fish moves, you should be out there, not in here with the dust."

Finally, you lifted your head.

Your eyes met his. They were once again clear, analytical, and devastatingly calm. You looked at him not as a peer, or a hunter, or even as a boy, but as an object of study. You noted the salt on his skin, the dampness of his hair, and the way he was leaning—measuring him the same way you measured a piece of timber.

"I am a skilled diver, Roxto," you said, your voice still calm. "I know how the water moves. I choose to be here because the current is fleeting. This," you gestured to the wood, "remains."

Roxto felt the weight of your gaze. It was like being submerged in a cold current—it took the breath right out of him once again.

He had always thought you were pretty, but up close, with that intense, focused fire in your eyes, you were breathtaking. He felt a sudden, desperate need to prove himself to you, to show you that he wasn't just a "noisy pup."

"I know who you are," he said softly, his playful tone dropping into something more honest. "I've seen you dive at the Spirit Tree. You stay down longer than anyone. I have always wondered why you didn't join the practice hunts."

You looked back down at your work, the brief connection severed. "The hunts are loud. They are for the stomach. This is for the soul. One does not need a crowd to speak to Eywa."

"I guess not," Roxto murmured. He stood there for a moment, watching the way the light played off your hands. He felt a strange ache in his chest—a mixture of awe and a sudden, sharp longing.

He had wanted to talk to you for so long, and now that he was here, he realized that a few clever words wouldn't be enough to bridge the gap between your world and his.

"Roxto!" Saeyla barked, breaking the spell. "The net! Or I will tell your father you spent the afternoon staring at the wall!"

Roxto jumped, his tail flicking in embarrassment. "I—yes! The net! I'm going!"

He grabbed the bundle of hemp, but he didn't move immediately. He took one last look at you—at the way you leaned back into your work, at the way the lock of hair fell over your eye. You hadn't looked back up. You were already gone, lost back into the grain of the wood.

As he walked out of the marui, his feet felt heavier than they had when he arrived. He felt like he had touched something rare and beautiful, and he wasn't ready to let go of the feeling.

Behind him, Sa’eyla watched him go with a knowing smirk. "The boy is hooked," she whispered to Tswaya. "I’ll bet you my finest sea glass he will be returning sooner than needed"

"I’d rather not lose my seaglass Sa’eyla," Tswaya chuckled before continuing "i know that scene from a mile away."

You didn't hear them. You were focused on the wood, but for the first time in a long time, the silence of the marui felt a little different. It felt like it was waiting for something. You made a cut, a perfect, curving line, and for a fleeting second, you thought of the boy with the salt on his skin and the way his eyes had widened when you looked at him.

He was noisy, yes. He was distracting. But for a hunter, he had a very quiet way of looking at things.

You pushed the thought away, returning to the wood.

The following morning, the marui of threads was bathed in a hazy, ethereal light. The sun was just beginning to climb over the distant cliffs of the archipelago, casting long, bruised shadows of indigo and violet across the woven floors. The air was cool, carrying the dewy scent of the jungle behind the village mixed with the sharp, waking tang of the salt spray.

You were in your alcove before the first hunters had even mounted their ilu. Your hands, usually so sure and steady, were currently resting idle on your knees. In front of you lay the tidal-wood fish—the one Roxto had so clumsily called "stiff." You hated that he was right.

No matter how many times you adjusted the angle of your blade or how carefully you mapped out the interlocking spirals of the fins, the wood remained wood. It lacked the spirit of the water. It lacked that sudden, violent snap of life that occurred when a fish turned on a dime to escape a predator.

You were stuck. For an artisan of your caliber, a mental block was more than a frustration; it was a crisis of identity. You stared at the wood until the grain began to blur, your brow furrowing into a deep, frustrated line.

The rhythmic thwack-clack of Sa’eyla’s loom began behind you. The elders were arriving, settling into their spots with the ease of ancient sea turtles.

"The fish still refuses to swim?" Sa’eyla asked, her voice dry but not unkind.

"It is a stone in the shape of a fish," you muttered, your voice tight. "It has no soul."

"Perhaps you are looking for the soul in the wrong place," Tswaya added, setting down a basket of dyed fibers. "You look at the wood as a master looks at a servant. Maybe you should look at it as a partner."

You didn't answer. You felt too irritated to decipher her elder knowledge, instead youou picked up your obsidian blade, turning it over in your hand, but you didn't make a cut. You didn't want to ruin the piece with a movement born of irritation.

The peaceful atmosphere was suddenly altered—not by a loud crash this time, but by a presence. The air in the marui seemed to shift, a subtle change in pressure that made the fine hairs on your neck stand up.

A low, melodic whistle drifted through the air. You didn't have to look up to know it was Sa’eyla. She had seen him first.

Roxto entered the marui. This time, there was no splashing, no shouting, and no frantic excuses. He moved with a quiet, deliberate grace that felt entirely out of character for the boy who had fumbled a net only twenty-four hours prior.

He was still damp from the morning surf, his teal skin glowing with a healthy, vibrant sheen, but his energy was contained. He looked like a hunter stalking something fragile.

He paused at the entrance, offering a respectful, silent nod to the grandmothers. He didn't say a word to them, his gaze already sweeping the room until it locked onto your corner.

He began to walk toward you. Every footfall on the woven floor was muffled, yet to your ears, they sounded like drumbeats. He stopped a respectful distance away, kneeling on the mat with a slow, controlled movement.

"Good morning, Grandmothers," he finally said, his voice surprisingly soft. Then, his eyes shifted to you, and that familiar, wide-eyed wonder returned, though it was tempered by a new, focused shyness. "Hello, Y/N."

"Hello, Roxto," you replied. You kept your voice as even as possible, but you could feel the elders watching you like hawks. You didn't look at him directly, instead focusing on the way the light caught the water droplets still clinging to his collarbone. "You are quiet today. Did the waves finally tire you out?"

Roxto gave a small, lopsided smile—one that didn't reach for a joke, but seemed to settle for a shared secret. "Not the waves. Aonung. We were practicing close-quarters defense near the reef pillars. That skxawng... he’s as stubborn as a shark-glider."

He reached for his belt and pulled out a hunting knife. It was a sturdy piece, but the blade was slightly misaligned from the hilt, and a jagged, ugly crack ran through the bone where it met the grip.

"He hit it against a rock during a parry," Roxto explained, holding the weapon out toward you. He looked genuinely saddened by the damage. "He says I should just carve a new one, but this was my father’s before it was mine. I thought... well, I hoped you might be able to heal it."

You reached out, your fingers brushing against his as you took the knife. His skin was warm, a sharp contrast to the cool morning air. You inspected the damage with a professional eye, feeling the weight and the balance.

"He hit it with a great deal of force," you noted, your artisan’s brain beginning to calculate the repair. "The bone is deep-sea marrow. It’s strong, but brittle under high impact. I can fix it, but it will require resin and a steady hand."

"I trust your hands more than any in the village," Roxto said. The honesty in his voice was disarming. He didn't say it like a flirtation; he said it as a simple, undeniable truth.

You felt a warmth creep up your neck, and you quickly reached for your kit to hide it. "Sit," you commanded softly. "It will take time for the resin to set."

Roxto didn't need to be told twice. He settled into a cross-legged position across from you, his tail curled neatly behind him. For a long time, the only sound was the scraping of your tool as you cleaned the crack in the bone. Roxto didn't speak. He just watched.

Usually, the presence of others while you worked felt like an intrusion, a layer of static that interfered with your connection to the material.

But Roxto’s presence was different. He was like the tide—constant, rhythmic, and strangely grounding. He sat with a wide curiosity in his eyes, his head tilted slightly as he watched you mix the thick, translucent resin with ground shell powder.

"Does it hurt the wood?" he asked suddenly.

You paused, a dollop of resin on the end of a fine needle. "What?"

"The wood. The bone. When you cut into it," he clarified, gesturing to your tools. "You talk about them like they’re stories. I wondered if they feel you changing them."

You looked at him, truly looked at him, and saw that he wasn't joking. "They don't feel pain, Roxto. But they have a will. If you fight that will, they break. If you listen to it, they transform. I am just... the interpreter."

Roxto nodded slowly, as if processing a profound piece of philosophy. "I think I do that with the ilu. If I try to force them to turn, they buck. But if I just... think the turn, and let them feel it, we move together."

"Exactly," you whispered, returning to the knife.

The conversation drifted into the small, quiet spaces between your movements. You found yourself telling him about the different types of resin—which ones were for strength and which were for flexibility.

He told you about the way he tracked game in the sea, and how the bioluminescence of the coral was usually a big indicator of how powerful of a creature lived there.

He was a good listener. He didn't interrupt; he just absorbed everything you said with that same intense focus you usually reserved for your carvings. It was a strange feeling—being the object of someone’s absolute attention.

As you began the delicate process of binding the hilt with fresh aquatic fiber, Roxto’s eyes wandered to the side, landing on the unfinished tidal-wood fish resting on your mat.

His expression shifted from curiosity to concern. He looked at the fish, then at you, noting the tension in your jaw that you hadn't even realized you were holding.

"What's up with that one?" he asked, nodding toward the carving. "It’s been in the same spot since yesterday. Usually, your hands don't stop moving."

You sighed, the frustration of the morning rushing back. You set the knife down for a moment, the resin still tacky.

"It’s a commission for the tsahik in her teachings. But it’s wrong. It’s exactly what you said it was—stiff. I want it to look like it’s darting through the currents, but every time I try to carve the motion, the wood stays flat. It’s a mental block. I can see the fish in my head, but my hands... they’ve forgotten how the water feels."

You looked down at your palms, feeling a sudden, rare sense of vulnerability. "I spend so much time in here, Roxto. I think I’ve started to treat the ocean as a memory instead of a living thing."

Roxto didn't laugh. He didn't make a joke about you being "Ice." He looked at the carving with a deep, contemplative frown, his tail giving a slow, thoughtful flick.

"You're trying to carve the fish," he said finally.

"Of course I am," you replied, a bit of your old coolness returning. "What else would I be carving?"

"No," Roxto said, his eyes brightening as a thought took hold. He leaned forward, his energy beginning to bubble up again, though he kept his voice low so as not to disturb the grandmothers. "That's the problem. You're trying to carve the shape of a fish. But a fish isn't just a shape. It’s a reaction. It’s the way the water pushes against the scales and the way the fins fight the current."

He looked at you, his grin growing wider, more confident. He looked like he had just discovered a new island.

"You need to see it," he said. "Not as a memory. You need to feel the push and the pull. You need to see how the light breaks over the fins when they’re actually moving, not just when you’re thinking about them."

He stood up, his excitement now too great to keep him seated. He looked down at you, his teal skin practically vibrating with a new mission.

"I have an idea," he said, his voice full of a sudden, infectious certainty. "Actually... I have the perfect idea."

You looked up at him, the unfinished knife in your lap and the "stiff" fish at your side, feeling a sudden, fluttering anticipation in your chest that you couldn't quite explain.

"Roxto?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

He just beamed at you and threw a “thumbs” up— a quick movement that made your heart skip a beat. "Just finish my knife, Y/N. I'll be back. And tomorrow... tomorrow, I’m going to show you how to make that wood breathe."

The moment Roxto vanished, the marui of threads seemed to lose half its light. You sat perfectly still, your obsidian tool hovering inches above the tidal-wood, staring at the empty triangular doorway where he had been just seconds before.

The "confused as hell" expression on your face must have been quite the sight, because a sharp, rhythmic sh-sh-sh sound started up behind you—the sound of the grandmothers trying to hide their snickering behind their weaving shuttles.

"Confused, little fin?" Sa’eyla asked, not even bothering to look up. "He is a boy of the tides. When they get an idea, it is best to simply hold on to your ilu."

You didn't answer. You looked down at his father’s knife, the resin now beginning to bond the bone hilt back into its rightful place. It felt heavier than it had before.

You spent the rest of the afternoon in a daze, the "mental block" on your fish carving still firmly in place, but your mind was elsewhere, replaying the way his eyes had brightened when he said he had a plan.

The next morning, the sun hadn't even fully cleared the horizon before a shadow fell across the entrance of your family’s pod.

"Y/N! Are you awake? The tide is waiting!"

You emerged, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, to find Roxto practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. He looked like he hadn't slept a wink, his teal skin glowing with an almost manic level of excitement.

"Do you have it? The fish? And the knife?" he asked breathlessly.

You nodded, holding up your satchel. You hadn't even had time to tie your hair up, the curly locks falling over your shoulders. Without another word, he grabbed your wrist—his hand warm and rough—and led you away from the village.

He took you to the eastern spit, a place where the reef met the open sea in a series of shallow, crystal-clear tide pools protected by towering limestone pillars. The water here was so still it looked like a sheet of turquoise glass.

"Look," Roxto whispered, his voice dropping as if he were showing you a secret grotto of Eywa herself.

In the center of the largest pool, Roxto had staked several fine-mesh nets into the sandy floor, creating a series of underwater pens. And inside? It was a riot of motion.

He had caught dozens of fish—iridescent fan-tails, needle-fish with their sharp, silver snouts, and even a few of the rare glow-fins that usually stayed in the deeper channels.

He stood at the edge of the water, his chest puffed out just a little, his tail giving a proud, rhythmic sweep behind him. He looked at the nets, then back at you, his eyes wide and searching, practically begging for your reaction. He looked so incredibly proud of himself—like a young hunter bringing home his first catch.

You stepped onto a flat, sun-warmed rock that sat barely an inch above the surface of the pool. As you looked down, the "Ice" didn't just melt; it shattered. The fish were darting, weaving, and snapping in the exact way you had been trying to imagine.

"Roxto..." you breathed, your voice soft with genuine wonder. You looked up at him, and for the first time, a full, radiant smile spread across your face—not the polite, distant one from the marui, but a warm, brilliant expression that made your eyes crinkle. "You did all this? Since I saw you yesterday?"

"I went out before the eclipse," he admitted, his grin turning sheepish but staying just as wide. "I wanted you to see the real snap of the tail. Not a memory."

"Thank you," you said, and the sincerity in your voice made his ears give a happy, frantic twitch. "Truly, Roxto. This is... it's the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for my work."

Roxto looked like he might actually float away. "Well, you know. I couldn't have the village's best artisan stuck on a 'stiff' fish. It would be a tragedy."

"Sit! Sit here," he commanded, gesturing to the rock.

The rest of the morning was a kind of new peace you hadn't known you were missing. You sat on your rock, your carving tools spread out and feet swishing in the cool water while Roxto stayed in the pools. He didn't just watch; he became your live-action reference library.

"Okay, look at this one!" Roxto laughed, plunging his hands into a net and emerging with a vibrant fan-tail.

The fish wriggled frantically, its fins flapping like wet silk. Roxto waded closer, his knees bumping against your rock, holding his cupped hands up so they were level with your face.

"See how the spine curves right at the base of the tail?" he pointed out, his wet finger tracing a line in the air. "It’s not a straight line, Y/N. It’s like a spring!"

You leaned forward, your face inches from his hands—and his chest. You could smell the salt on him, the scent of the deep ocean mixed with the warmth of the sun. You watched the fish, then immediately made a sharp, aggressive cut into your wood.

"Yes, I see it now Roxto" you chirped, your usual clinical tone replaced by more a bubbly excitement.

Every few minutes, Roxto would find a new species to show you. He was in his element—splashing, laughing, and constantly checking to see if you were watching. When a needle-fish managed to slip through his fingers and slap him across the nose with its tail before disappearing back into the net, you let out a genuine, melodic laugh that made Roxto freeze in the water.

He stood there, dripping wet, a look of absolute doting adoration on his face as he watched you laugh.

"What?" you asked, wiping a stray drop of water from your cheek.

"Nothing," he said, his voice unusually soft, his smile turning into something tender. "I just like that sound. I think the fish like it too."

You felt the blush return, but this time you didn't look away. You reached for the bone knife—his father’s knife—which was now perfectly fixed, the resin clear and the hilt stronger than ever.

"Here," you said, handing it to him over the water. "It is healed."

He took it, his wet fingers lingering against yours. He didn't even look at the knife; he kept his eyes on you. "Thanks, Y/N. For everything."

You turned back to your carving, the wood finally beginning to "breathe" under your hands. Roxto stayed in the pool, leaning his arms against the edge of your rock, watching you work with a quiet, happy sigh. But you paused, and his ears swivels forward as he straightened himself— no longer leaning against the rock.

“Is something the matter?” He asked with a tilt of his head, his wet curls falling with the movement. But his lips parted when you looked at him and placed your hand on his own—bringing it closer to your chest.

“I see you, Roxto.” You spoke, tilting your own head to look up at him— causing the sunlight to perfectly hit your irises and your loose hair falling around your shoulders. stealing the breath from his lungs once again.

“I see you, Y/N.” He replied, squeezing your hand as he smiled down at you.