A Fangirl For Almost Everything

When he reaches for your face, cupping your cheek in his palm, you instinctively turn your face toward his touch.

“Good girl,” he praises.

His hand drifts slowly downward, fingers closing around your throat, holding you there without exerting pressure. The only response you offer is the flutter of your lashes. He hums softly, satisfied by your obedience.

“I have had such a trying day,” he murmurs, bending to run his nose along your hairline. He inhales deeply, holding his breath before releasing it in a slow rush of warm air. He repeats the action a second time, sighing into your skin.

You say nothing. You know better than to interrupt him.

“My frustration has been simmering all day. It makes me rash.” His fingers shift slightly against your throat. “I need it gone. You understand?”

He watches you expectantly.

“Yes, Lord Hightower.”

Margery dips her head. "Yes, my lady."

At the door you take a moment to steady yourself, pushing down the feelings lingering in your body. Only once you feel steady and calm do you lift your chin and follow the waiting Kingsguard.

It is a short walk to the royal chambers, and when you enter, you find Daeron and Gwayne seated at a small table, joined by another woman. 

Even if you had never seen the small portrait Daeron kept in his room, you would have recognized Alicent. The resemblance between Daeron and her is unmistakable, from the soft shape of their faces to the familiar curve of their nose and mouth.

Both men rise when you enter, though it is Daeron who crosses the room first, his reserve falling away entirely this time. You smile as he takes your hands in his.

“Come,” he insists. “You must meet my mother and sister.”

It is only then that you notice the woman seated on the floor behind the table, her long silver-gold hair falling around her face as she leans over the small child in her lap. The little girl grips a wooden block in her tiny fingers, carefully fitting it into the growing tower. Neither seem to notice you presence 

Alicent rises as you approach. You dip into a short curtsy and then rise. “Your Grace.”

“Daeron has shared much about you,” she says by way of greeting.

Something in her words catches you off guard, a faint coolness carefully concealed beneath her courtesy. For a fleeting moment she looks toward her son before returning to you.

“He has been very eager for you to arrive,” she continues.

“I am pleased to be here,” you reply.

“Please, join us,” Gwayne offers, speaking for the first time.

He pulls out the chair between himself and Daeron, waiting until you have taken your seat before gently pushing it closer to the table. Only then does he return to his own place beside you as the others settle in.

The table is filled with so much food, it’s nearly overwhelming. You hesitate, unsure where to begin until a small pile of pale, golden pastries at the center catches your eye.

Lemon cakes.

You have not had them in years. Ormund hated the scent of citrus and vanilla. He said they were too cloying. 

Eagerly, you pick one up, the sticky glaze clinging to your fingertips. The first bite brings a sweetness you had almost forgotten, a rich buttery taste brightened by the sharpness of the lemon. 

You make a small, pleased sound before you can help yourself.

“My uncle said you would like them,” Daeron reveals. 

You look to Gwayne, surprised.

He holds your gaze for only a heartbeat and then his eyes drop to the table. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, his thumb tracing once along the rim of his cup.

“They were served at your father’s hall,” Gwayne says after a moment. “I remember them being brought out after supper.”

“They were my favorite,” you reply.

Gwayne looks back at you, and for a long moment neither of you speaks.

“I have never seen you eat them before,” Daeron says, breaking the silence.

You glance back toward him. “My lord husband was not fond of them,” you say simply, reaching for another.

Daeron’s smile fades slightly, and you immediately regret the admission. You open your mouth, searching for something lighter to say.

“Helaena, darling,” Alicent calls sweetly. “Come eat. The food is getting cold.”

Her daughter does not answer, continuing to speak softly to the little girl in her lap. Alicent’s mouth presses into a thin line, but she does not call for her again. Instead, she turns back to the table, smoothing her expression into something more pleasant.

“Things will be better once we are in Oldtown,” she says quietly, almost as if reminding herself. 

Immediately you look to Daeron, confused, only to find the young King staring intently at his plate. You touch his arm and his mouth tighthens. You know that expression. The way he goes still and tucks whatever he is feeling somewhere out of sight. 

“There are difficult memories here for Helaena,” Daeron says finally. 

“We will stay until the coronation,” Alicent adds, reaching for his hand with a gentle smile. “After that, I shall return to Oldtown with Helaena.”

The flash of anger you feel at her words catches you off guard. Alicent’s tender expression, the way she reaches to comfort him as though no time has passed between them, only makes the feeling harder to ignore. She has only just found him again. To leave him again seems unimaginable.

When you look across the table you find Gwayne watching Daeron as well, a slight wrinkle of concern between his brow. Perhaps better than anyone, he understands what his nephew has lost.

Absently, your thumb brushes over Daeron's forearm. You are not his mother, nor could you ever take her place. But for years, while she was gone, you did what you could. During the long journey to King’s Landing, you prepared yourself to step aside. To return Daeron to the mother he had spent so many years longing for. You had been glad for it.

Yet now, hearing she means to leave, you are startled by the small, shameful flicker of relief buried beneath your concern. Everything else in your life has been swept away. You are not ready to lose him too.

“The great houses have already begun to arrive,” Gwayne says with a weary sigh, breaking the quiet. “Soon, we will be overrun.”

“So the war is truly over?” you ask. 

Daeron lets out a quiet breath.

“It is an uneasy peace,” Daeron admits. “Cregan took his wolves back north, but…” He trails off, staring down into his cup. “If Aegon had not already been poisoned, I do not know if there would have been any words that could have stopped him.”

The silence that follows is heavy.

Across the table, Alicent turns away from the conversation, her attention shifting to Helaena. She watches her daughter quietly, almost as though she has chosen not to hear what is being said.

“Perhaps the realm was spared a final battle because of it,” Gwayne says gently, lowering his head to meet his nephew’s eyes.

You squeeze Daeron’s arm, wishing you could offer him more comfort. After a moment, he covers your hand with his.

“We should speak of happier things,” he announces suddenly. 

“You will wear green again soon,” Helaena says suddenly.  

Everyone turns toward her. You’re shocked to find her looking right at you. Then, as if nothing unusual has happened, she turns back to the blocks, carefully placing another atop the small tower in her daughter’s lap.

Alicent is the first to recover, offering a small, polite smile.

“Ah, yes,” she says. “You will need a new wardrobe for the coronation and for what comes next. Black has its place, but it cannot be worn forever..”

“No. Of course, you are right,” you say, suddenly finding you no longer have any appetite for the lemon cakes on your plate.

The mention of a new wardrobe is an unwelcome reminder of the conversation you had only yesterday. Another sign that your future is already beginning to unravel, slipping from your grasp.

Daeron clears his throat.

“I had thought to go riding after we are finished with our meal,” he says, his voice lighter than before. “Tessarion has been restless, and I fear she will take offense if I keep her waiting much longer.”

You smile. “A dragon’s patience is not easily tested.”

“And what of you? Have you decided what you will do today?” His gaze drifts briefly toward Gwayne.

You hesitate. “I think I would like to visit the sept.”

“You should not go alone,” Daeron says immediately. “Perhaps my uncle could accompany you.”

Gwayne lets out the faintest breath through his nose, brow lifting slightly as he stares at his nephew. Daeron only returns his look with the faintest lift of his mouth.

“If my lady would welcome the company,” he says, inclining his head, “I would be honored to escort you.”

When you meet his eyes there is no expectation in them. Only patience.

“I would like that,” you admit softly. “If you truly do not mind.”

A quiet warmth settles over Gwayne's features. “Not at all.”

–

The path to the sept is not a long one, but Gwayne still offers you his arm. This close, you find yourself aware of the warmth of him beside you and the faint scent of leather and clean linen, mingled with something distinctly his. He keeps his pace slow, his stride measured to match yours. 

You walk in companionable silence, passing surprisingly few servants. Those you do encounter greet Gwayne warmly, their expressions easy and unguarded.

“I must apologize,” he says suddenly.

You look toward him, but he keeps his gaze ahead, his expression thoughtful.

“I never had the chance to offer my condolences for your loss.” He pauses. “Not only for Ormund, but for everything that has changed since.”

Your fingers flex against his arm and you feel the subtle movement of muscle beneath the fabric. 

“You have been brought here, your future discussed before you have had time to settle into the present. I imagine that cannot be easy.”

For a moment, you do not know what to say. To have someone acknowledge your situation so plainly is both a balm and a wound. You know you should offer a polite thank you and allow the conversation to move on, as you have done so many times before. But, instead, the truth slips free.

“No. It has not been easy.”

He looks toward you, pale blue eyes steady and gentle . “Perhaps the sept might give you a moment away from all of it.”

“Is that why you go every morning?” you ask.

“Perhaps,” he says after a moment. “Or perhaps I simply find it easier to think there.”

“And you find it helps?”

The corner of his mouth lifts faintly. “Sometimes.”

“Then perhaps we should ask the Crone for guidance.” His eyes shift toward you, amused. “For me?”

“For both of us,” you admit. 

Gwayne slows as the corridors open onto the small courtyard of the royal sept. The space is surprisingly quiet, filled only with birdsong and the soft rustle of the breeze. Inside the air is cool, and sunlight filters through colored glass, painting the stone floor in shades of green, gold, and white. 

Together, you make your way toward the Crone and kneel upon the thick, cushioned pad laid before her. There is barely enough room for the two of you, leaving you closer to Gwayne than you expected. Your shoulder nearly brushes his.

You take a slender candle from the tray and hold it to the flame of the taper already burning in front of the statue. The wick catches, and you set it among the others. Beside you, Gwayne does the same.

You do not know exactly what to ask for. Courage perhaps. Or simply the strength to accept whatever comes next.  As you ponder, your attention drifts toward Gwayne. You find yourself wondering what he might be asking of the Seven. His head is bowed, strands of golden-red hair falling across half his face, his lips moving quietly as he murmurs the words beneath his breath.

He looks beautiful. 

The thought comes quickly and without permission. You draw a quiet breath and curl your fingers into the folds of your dress, embarrassed. You turn your attention back to the Crone and close your eyes, even as heat burns across your cheeks, a sudden warmth spreading through your chest.

It takes a moment to settle your thoughts, but thankfully the prayers come easily once you do. They are the same comforting words you learned as a girl, repeated so many times that you no longer need to think of them. Coupled with the warm, earthy fragrance of incense curling through the sept, they gradually ease the tension from your mind and body, wrapping you in a rare sense of stillness.

You remain suspended in that quiet until the final words fade from your mind. For a moment, you do not move, drawing in a cleansing breath through your nose before slowly exhaling through parted lips.

When you finally open your eyes, you find Gwayne already watching you. His eyes linger over your face as though he has forgotten himself for a moment. Your breath catches, and the sound seems to break whatever spell has held him. A muscle in his jaw jumps, a faint flush in his cheeks. He clears his throat and he rises. 

“Forgive me,” he murmurs. “I did not mean to disturb your prayer.”

“I am finished,” you assure him.

He offers you his hand, palm open, and you place yours in it. His calloused fingers close gently around yours as he draws you to your feet. His brow creases, and he seems about to say something when the door creaks open.

Gwayne immediately steps back, releasing your hand. The older septon who enters smiles when he sees him, though his attention briefly jumps to you.

“You are later than usual, my lord,” he remarks. “You are rarely accompanied.”

“Lady Hightower wished to pray,” he explains, gesturing toward you.

The septon inclines his head. “Then the Seven welcome you both.”

Gwayne gives a quiet nod, then extends his elbow toward you without meeting your eyes. You place your hand against his arm, and together you make your way toward the doors. He remains unusually quiet as you leave the sept, his posture still rigid, his attention fixed ahead. You find yourself wondering at the change. Only moments ago, there had been a warmth in his expression that is now carefully hidden behind a familiar reserve.

You have spent enough years learning to read a man's temper, but this feels different. There is no fear tightening your chest, no instinct warning you to choose your words carefully. Only a quiet desire to ease whatever has put him so firmly behind his guard.

The impulse surprises you.

“Do you always pray to the Crone?” Gwayne asks, pulling you from your thoughts.

“No. Not always, though she often hears my prayers.”

“Which of the Seven do you favor, then?”

You hesitate, all too aware of what most would expect you to say. The Mother or the Maiden. Both are gods you prayed to as a girl, but since becoming a Hightower, you have found yourself lighting candles before someone altogether different.

“The Smith,” you admit.

You expect surprise, but Gwayne only regards you for a moment, his expression thoughtful, as though the answer has given him something to consider. 

After a moment, he says quietly, “He endures.”

“Yes,” you agree. 

The simple word settles between you, carrying more weight than you intended.Your fingers drifting to the ring on your hand and turning it absently around your finger. There is something unsettling about how easily he seems to understand. Not unpleasant, exactly. Only unfamiliar.

You clear your throat, eager to shift the conversation. 

“And whose altar do you often light a candle at, my Lord? The Warrior?”

The corner of Gwayne’s mouth twitches. “Once upon a time.”

You glance up at him. “But not anymore?”

He shakes his head.

“Oh?” The question slips out before you can stop it.

“The Maiden.” A faint smile touches his lips. “Does that surprise you?”

“A little,” you confess. 

“Why?”

You look meaningful to the sword at his hip, and a quiet laugh escapes him, low and brief.

“Perhaps I pray to her because, after all this time, I still like to believe there is something gentle in this world.”

His words catch you off guard, as does the sincerity behind them. For a man who has spent so much of his life surrounded by swords and war, there is something unexpectedly tender in the hope he carries.

“Daeron chose well in making you his Hand,” you remark. “He will make a good King but he needs the right kind of guidance.”

“Your faith in me is touching,” Gwayne says, a hint of amusement in his voice, though his expression softens. “I shall endeavor not to disappoint you.”

The teasing takes you by surprise, and you grin despite yourself. “I meant it sincerely.” 

“I know,” he assures you. “And I think having you here will do him good as well. He has lost much,” he continues, his tone serious once more. “For all his strength, he is still young. He needs people around him who remember that he is more than the crown he wears.”

“I shall remain here as long as my…” You hesitate, searching for the right word. “Situation allows.”

Something passes across Gwayne’s face at that, gone almost before you can read it. “I hope it allows for some time yet,” he says.

The words are quiet, almost casual, but there is a weight behind them that makes your step falter. You nearly stumble before catching yourself, your fingers tightening around his arm.

“For Daeron’s sake, of course,” he adds, shifting his gaze ahead.

“Yes,” you agree. “For Daeron.”

You and Gwayne walk on in silence, but it is no longer the same easy quiet that had accompanied you to the sept. By the time you reach the end of the corridor, your thoughts have become tangled once more, that small knot in your chest tightening as you think of what lies ahead.

The man beside you is Daeron’s choice. Your father may have his own wishes, if you were to ask. And the lords of the realm, with all their competing interests, would no doubt put themselves or their sons forward.

Everyone seems to have an opinion about what your future should be. Yet when you turn the question inward, you find only uncertainty. You cannot even begin to imagine how you are supposed to choose when you have spent so long having the choice made for you.

House of the Dragon Masterlist | Masterlist

“Well, if you’re not planning on being here long, why are you even looking?” she queried. “Why not just stay with me? I’ve got the room, and you know you’re more than welcome to stay for as long as you like. I’ve loved having my sister around.”

The realtor gave a sneaky glance between the two of you, given how you looked nothing alike.

Mel caught her looking, and answered with a cheeky smile, “She’s adopted.”

The realtor ducked her head in an embarrassed blush.

“I’ve loved being with you too,” you smiled back genuinely. “But I need my own space. I want to do some art, some dance, you’ve talked me into trying more yoga… I don’t want to take up more room in your apartment, it’s yours.”

Mel hummed lightly, not entirely believing you. “And it’s not because you think this is something you have to do?”

You shook your head, taking in the views out of the large windows in the living room. They weren’t floor-to-ceiling like the ones in the penthouse, but they let in infinitely more light than the one tiny window in your old apartment did.

 “No. No, I’d like my own space for a bit.”

“Before you go back to them?” Mel tested the waters.

But you nodded easily. “Yeah.”

She came to stand beside you, both of you looking out over the nearby park.

“How’s that going?”

“Being apart?”

“The whole thing.”

You nodded again. “It’s good.”

“You’re all following the rules?”

“Uh-huh. Vi kept texting in the beginning, but she stopped after a few days.”

Mel smirked knowingly. “Her Wife probably chewed her out, not wanting to scare you off.”

“It wasn’t scaring me off,” you denied. “But it wasn’t following the rules we set, so I did tell her.”

Your friend’s head shot around to look at you in amazement. “You told Vi to stop texting you?”

“Well, yeah. We agreed to the rules. She needs to follow them.”

Mel’s jaw almost dropped. “Wow.”

You frowned. “What?”

“I’m…” She shook her head with a smile. “I’m just stunned. You actually told Vi not to text you.”

“Boundaries are important.”

“Is that what What’s-Her-Name said?”

“Elora.” You nodded. “Yeah, she agreed I did the right thing by telling Vi that.”

“And how’s therapy going with her? Is she good?”

The realtor cleared her throat from across the room. “Sorry, ladies. I don’t mean to rush, but we don’t have much long left here. How are we feeling about the apartment? We have lots of other options if you’re not keen.”

Mel smiled at you. “Y/N?”

You glanced back down at the listing in your hands. “How much was the rent again?”

“$4,500 a month, and they’ll need the first two months up-front.”

Your body instinctively twisted at that amount. Your old apartment – whilst being an absolute and undeniable shithole in a seedy part of the city – was only $700 a month. The difference in costs unnerved you, and you shifted a little.

Mel caught it. Leaning in to whisper in your ear, she asked, “How much is in your account right now?”

“Well…”

“Is it a six-digit number?”

You nodded discreetly.

“Does it start with a one? Two, three, four?”

“Four,” you admitted.

Mel started doing the maths in her head. “So, four divided by 4,500… Divided by 12 months… Angel, you could live here for seven years.”

“Plus living expenses!”

“Alright, then: six years. Do you like this place?”

You looked around the bright, welcoming space again. “Yes.”

“Then take it. As you said, you won’t be here long anyway.”

You nodded more vigorously, knowing she was right. You took a step towards the realtor. “What’s the shortest lease available?”

“Minimum is six months, but you can break it for a fee.”

You were certain you wouldn’t be there in six months’ time, but you nodded again. “I’ll take it.”

The second Sunday arrived much faster than any of you had expected.

For you, the first week had disappeared in a blur of quiet mornings in Mel’s spare bedroom, long walks through parks you had never really noticed before, and an exhausting amount of thinking. You’d also started seeing a therapist Ambessa had recommended, and had two appointments with her. After catching her up on the essentials of your current situation, Elora had gently encouraged you not to spend every waking moment analysing your feelings, reminding you that healing couldn’t be rushed.

So you tried to fill your days with ordinary things instead. You read books you had been meaning to start for months; cooked dinner with Mel on the evenings she wasn’t out with clients; started working with Mel’s personal trainer four mornings a week – an absolute machine of a woman called Sevika; and had followed your friend’s advice to start doing yoga workouts at home too.

You and Mel had spent an afternoon shopping together, and you’d found yourself instinctively reaching for your phone more than once to send Cait and Vi pictures of cute dresses you liked, before remembering you had all agreed not to message each other.

For Cait and Vi, the week had been… Quieter.

The penthouse, despite being exactly the same size as it had always been, somehow felt much larger without you wandering between the rooms. There was nobody humming quietly while folding laundry, nobody curled up beneath a blanket on the sofa watching terrible reality television, nobody appearing beside them in the kitchen asking whether they wanted another cup of tea.

It wasn’t empty; it just wasn’t home in quite the same way.

Both women had respected every boundary you had asked for. They hadn’t messaged at all, except to confirm they were available for the weekly Sunday calls. They’d even resisted every temptation to ask Mel or Ambessa how you were coping, knowing you deserved the privacy you’d requested.

That didn’t stop them wondering, constantly.

So when the second Sunday evening finally arrived, both Cait and Vi found themselves sitting together on the living room sofa nearly fifteen minutes before the agreed time to call.

Vi looked down at her phone for what must have been the twentieth time in as many minutes. “We’re early.”

Cait glanced at the clock. “We are.”

“We could call now.”

“We said nine.”

“It’s 8:57.”

Cait shook her head, emphasising, “We said nine, Violet.”

Vi sighed dramatically, slumping further into the cushions. “I hate being patient.”

Cait reached across and squeezed her hand. “I know, darling.”

“I keep wondering whether she’s okay.”

“I know.”

“I miss her.”

Cait smiled sadly. “I know. I do too. Desperately.”

The admission came so quietly that it almost disappeared beneath the hum of the city outside.

“I keep expecting to hear her in the kitchen.”

Vi nodded. “I stared at her toothbrush for a whole minute last night.”

Cait’s expression softened. “Really, darling?”

Before Vi could respond, her phone buzzed.

Video call from 🩷Y/N🩷

Both women straightened simultaneously.

Vi answered so quickly she nearly dropped the phone.

The screen flickered, then you appeared.

You sat cross-legged on… They didn’t know where you were… Wearing an oversized cream jumper with your hair still slightly damp from a shower. You smiled the moment you saw them, though it was smaller than the smiles you were all used to sharing.

“Hi.”

The single word somehow made the entire penthouse feel warmer.

“There she is,” Vi breathed, unable to stop herself smiling. She looked at you as if you were her only supply of sunshine, and it cracked your heart a little.

You laughed softly. “Has it been a long week?”

“It’s been so fucking long.”

“It has,” Cait admitted gently.

For a few moments, none of you seemed entirely certain how to proceed. The conversation wasn’t uncomfortable exactly. Just… Hesitant.

Three people trying to rediscover a rhythm that had suddenly become unfamiliar.

Normally if you were with them, by this point Vi would have kissed your forehead in greeting, Cait would have asked how your day had been while putting the kettle on, and you would already have been teasing Vi about whatever ridiculous thing she’d done that afternoon.

Instead, there was a screen between you all, a carefulness that hadn’t existed since the early days of your Sugaring arrangement.

You rubbed absentmindedly at the sleeve of your jumper. “So…”

Vi immediately laughed. “So…”

Cait smiled despite herself. “I suspect we’re all trying not to make this awkward.”

“It’s working brilliantly,” you joked dryly.

Vi snorted as she rubbed the back of her neck. “Yeah, we’re doing great.”

That finally broke the ice.

You laughed properly this time, and hearing the familiar sound seemed to relax the two of them instantly.

“Darling, where are you?” Cait asked, looking around at the blank wall behind you.

Your face lit up, but you blushed. “I got my own place this week. Just a short-term lease!” you quickly reassured when you visibly saw their hearts break.

“Your own place?” Vi asked, a little quietly. Out of sight of the camera, she started squeezing her knuckles together.

“Yeah, just a six-month lease. But I don’t plan on being here that long,” you smiled at them.

Hearing you say that made them noticeably relax, as if you’d just lifted a great weight off their shoulders.

“Mel was obviously happy to let me stay for as long as I wanted, but I felt a little under her feet. You know? And this place has a spare bedroom, so I’m going to start doing more art. Dance a little, follow some yoga videos…”

Vi nodded, stretching her hands nervously. “Can you show us?”

“Vi,” Cait whispered softly in her ear, not wanting to push you too far.

“Sure!” you replied cheerfully.

You picked your phone up, switching to the front-facing camera. “So this is my bedroom,” you said softly, slowly panning the camera around the rather-empty room. It was quite spacious, with soft cream carpeting and off-white walls. “I’ve ordered some furniture; that’s going to be delivered tomorrow, and Mel talked me into paying for assembly too. In the past I always just built my own stuff, but now I don’t have to.”

“What kind of furniture have you ordered?” Cait asked as the camera moved forward towards the en-suite bathroom.

“Oh, right!” You turned back around to show the empty room. They realised that you didn’t even have a bed, you’d just put a mattress on the floor. “Obviously the bed frame, I went for an ottoman frame so it’s got storage underneath. Matching bedside tables that have got some drawers. A big dresser that’s going to go against that wall. And there’s going to be a huge wardrobe with sliding doors over here. I might add a little vanity table too, if I want to be cute? But I might just leave it.”

“Your nails look really nice, baby,” Vi interrupted gently, looking and sounding like a sad puppy.

You straightened your hand in front of the camera, displaying your new pastel set. “Thanks! I asked them to add some little flowers too. You see them?”

Cait cooed, “Very pretty, darling.”

“Thank you,” you beamed back, but they couldn’t see your face. “So this is the en-suite.”

You quickly showed them around the bathroom, rambling on about the shiny fittings and how nice the bath was. They listened the whole time, just soaking in your voice and how happy you seemed in your new place.

It did comfort them, though, to hear you keep mentioning that you weren’t staying long, and that you hoped it wouldn’t be too expensive to break the six-month lease agreement.

Vi held in her comment about how they could pay the fee for you, knowing that the rules for this break prohibited them from doing so.

You walked them around the kitchen and living room, going on about the furniture you’d ordered and plants you were going to get.

“Have you cooked your first meal there, sweetheart?” Cait asked, sipping her wine.

“Not yet. I’ve just had some takeout. This is only my second night here. I’ll do a proper grocery shop and get cookware tomorrow.” You flipped the camera back to your face, watching in amusement how they both perked up on seeing you again. “Do you want to see anything else?”

Vi shook her head. “No, baby, head back to your bedroom. If you want,” she added quickly.

You giggled softly at her tone and returned to your sparsely furnished bedroom, sitting down on your mattress.

“So,” Cait said, settling more comfortably against their sofa, “How has your week been?”

You considered the question. “Odd, overall.”

“Good odd?”

“I don’t know.” You smiled sheepishly. “I keep reaching for my phone because I see something funny and want to send it to you.”

Vi’s face lit up. “I keep doing that too!”

You blushed. “You do?”

“So many times. I have a folder.”

“A folder?”

“Of memes.”

You stared. “You’ve been saving memes to show me?”

Cait pinched the bridge of her nose, “So many memes. There are forty-three.”

You burst into laughter. “There are not.”

“There are.” Vi looked unapologetic. “I figured I’d show you all of them once you come back.”

You laughed so hard you had to wipe your eyes. “You’ve made me a meme dowry?”

Vi nodded thoughtfully. “I also have eight videos of cute dogs.”

You covered your face. “I’ve missed you.”

Her grin softened. “We’ve missed you too, sweetheart.”

The words settled quietly between you all. None of you tried to rush past them.

Eventually Cait spoke. “And therapy?”

You nodded. “It’s good.”

“Do you like your therapist? What’s their name?”

“Elora. And yeah, I really do.” A thoughtful smile crossed your face. “She’s annoyingly good at asking questions.”

Cait’s eyebrow lifted. “Annoying?”

“I’ll think I’ve addressed something and worked through it, and then she’ll ask one question, and suddenly I’ve burst into tears.”

Vi winced. “That sounds awful.”

“It is.” Then you smiled. “But it’s helping.”

Cait’s shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly. “I’m glad, darling.”

For a while, you all simply talked. Nothing particularly important. Mel’s latest attempts at teaching you to make ‘proper’ cocktails. A project Cait was working on at work. Vi trying a new routine in the gym.

As the conversation drifted into a comfortable lull, you found yourself simply looking at them. Really looking.

You noticed the tiredness behind Cait’s eyes. The way Vi absentmindedly kept touching the empty space beside her on the sofa… Clearly where you should have been.

Neither woman complained, neither woman asked you to come home, neither woman hinted that the separation had gone on long enough.

They simply accepted where you were, even though you could see how much they missed you.

“I...” you hesitated.

Both women immediately looked up.

“I just wanted to say...” You searched for the right words. “Thank you.”

Vi frowned. “What for?”

“For respecting this,” you said quietly. “I know it probably doesn’t make much sense.”

“It doesn’t,” Vi admitted honestly. “But that’s okay.”

Cait nodded in agreement. “We don’t need to understand every feeling you have in order to respect it.”

You felt something tighten painfully in your chest. “I was worried you’d think I was running away.”

Vi exchanged a glance with Cait before looking back at the screen.

“We think you’re trying very hard.”

Cait leaned slightly closer to the camera. “We miss you.” Another gentle pause. “The penthouse misses you.”

Vi nodded vigorously. “I walked into the kitchen yesterday and actually got sad because nobody had rearranged the dishwasher.”

You blinked, then laughed. “I reorganise your dishwasher?”

Vi gave you a look. “Baby, you reorganised almost everything.”

“You alphabetised the spice rack,” Cait added.

“You rearranged the wine rack by name and then year,” Vi continued.

Cait smirked, “You somehow convinced us that towels needed to be folded differently.”

You stared back, blushing. “I did do that.”

The three of you laughed together.

The sound felt normal. Wonderfully, beautifully normal.

Eventually, the clock crept towards 10:30, and you let out a quiet yawn before you could stop it.

Vi noticed immediately. “You’re tired.”

You nodded. “It’s been a long week.”

Cait smiled warmly. “Then we’ll let you rest.”

None of you wanted to end the call.

You all lingered for another few minutes, talking about nothing in particular, each one reluctant to be the first to say goodbye.

Finally, you smiled softly. “I’ll see you next Sunday?”

“You will,” Cait replied.

“Definitely,” Vi agreed.

You hesitated for just a heartbeat before lifting your hand towards the camera in a small wave. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, darling,” Cait said gently.

“Night, baby.”

The screen went dark.

For several seconds, Cait and Vi simply sat there looking at their own reflections.

Then Vi quietly set the phone down on the coffee table and leaned her head against Cait’s shoulder. “I feel better,” she whispered.

Cait intertwined their fingers. “So do I.”

Neither of them had realised just how much they’d needed to see you smile.

Even if it had only been through a screen.

Elora’s office had become familiar and comforting over the past few weeks. It was comfortably furnished rather than clinical, with bookshelves lining one wall, leafy plants occupying the corners and windowsill, and an armchair and sofa positioned at a slight angle rather than directly opposite one another.

When you had first started therapy after everything had happened, you had dreaded your first appointment. The thought of sitting with a stranger and talking about the mess inside your head had seemed unbearable. You had expected judgement, clinical questions, awkward silences, or someone trying to ‘fix’ you.

Instead, you’d found Elora.

A woman slightly older than Cait and Vi, who was kind without ever being patronising; insightful without pretending she knew you better than you knew yourself; patient enough to let silences exist when they needed to.

She never rushed you. She never filled every quiet moment with advice. More often than not, she simply asked the right question, then allowed you to arrive at your own answer.

It had made therapy feel… Safe.

That afternoon, however, you had barely managed to settle onto the familiar sofa before Elora noticed something was different.

The therapist smiled warmly as she crossed one leg over the other, her notebook resting open in her lap. “You’ve brought something heavy with you today.”

You looked up from arranging your skirt over your thighs, surprised. “I have?”

Elora nodded gently. “Well, we usually spend the first few minutes chatting about how our weeks were, or you telling me about something Mel did that made you laugh.” A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Today you’ve barely looked at me,” she accused with a playful wave of her pen.

You hadn’t even realised. You sighed and rubbed absentmindedly at the sleeve of your jumper. “I have been thinking,” you admitted.

Elora’s voice remained warm. “I gathered. What have you been thinking about?”

For several moments, you simply stared at the rug between you. You had rehearsed this conversation in your head on the drive over.

Now that you actually had to say it aloud…

It sounded childish, and petty.

You almost decided not to mention it at all.

“It’s about Cait and Vi.”

Elora nodded. “Okay.”

“I don’t really know how I feel about something, and it’s weighing on me.”

“You don’t have to know for sure before we can talk about it. What do you think you’re feeling?”

You considered the question carefully, then let out a small breath through your nose. “… Hurt.”

The word surprised you with how true it felt.

“Hurt,” Elora repeated softly.

You nodded. “I know they didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You say that quite confidently.”

“I mean it. They genuinely didn’t know Maddie and I were together when they were. I can’t be angry at them for it; it wasn’t their fault.”

Elora nodded once.

“So logically…” you grimaced a little, “They didn’t betray me.”

“No.”

“They didn’t cheat.”

“No.”

Elora watched you quietly.

You swallowed. “So, if they haven’t done anything wrong, why does it still hurt?”

The question lingered between you.

Elora didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she leaned back slightly. “Tell me what hurts.”

You frowned. “I just did.”

But your therapist shook her head, squinting at you. “I don’t think you did.”

Silence.

“I think you told me what didn’t hurt.”

You blinked.

Elora smiled gently. “You’ve spent the last minute defending Cait and Vi. Now I’d like to hear about what you’re thinking.”

You looked back down at your hands, your thumbs brushing together nervously.

For a long while, neither of you spoke.

Then, very quietly, you began. “A few months into being their Sugar Baby, they asked me to be exclusive.”

Elora nodded. “I remember.”

“And I was so excited. I wanted to say yes immediately, but I asked Mel for advice on the amended contract, because of her experience.”

She jotted a few notes, then prompted, “What did saying yes mean to you?”

You answered without thinking. “That it meant I was special.”

The words escaped before you could stop them.

You stared at the floor. “I know how stupid that sounds.”

“It doesn’t sound stupid.”

“It does.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Elora’s voice remained wonderfully calm, even as she firmly corrected your negative self-talk. “It sounds human.”

You felt tears beginning to prick at the corners of your eyes. “I knew they had other arrangements before me. That never bothered me. It actually felt nice; knowing they had experience, and could lead the way a bit.”

“So, this isn’t about knowing they had previous Sugar Babies.”

“No.”

Elora made a few more notes. “What is it about, would you say?”

You took a shaky breath. “I think I built a story in my head. When they asked me to be exclusive, I thought it meant I was different.”

The confession hurt.

“I thought that although there’d been Babies before me, I was the one they wanted to keep.” Your eyes filled. “I thought I was the first person they’d wanted like that.”

Elora nodded almost imperceptibly. “And then?”

You closed your eyes. “Then Maddie happened.”

The room became very still.

“I found out they’d asked her to be exclusive too.” A tear escaped despite your best efforts. “They’d done it before. So suddenly…” you looked helplessly at Elora. “I wasn’t special anymore.”

The therapist jotted a few notes, then tapped her pen a few times. “Let’s imagine, for a moment, that Cait and Vi had never met Maddie.”

You nodded along with her words as she spoke.

“They meet you, and they ask you to be exclusive. You feel… Chosen?”

“Yes.”

“Okay… Now imagine they had met Maddie.”

Your shoulders tensed against your will.

“They were exclusive; they broke up; then Cait and Vi meet you, and ask you to be exclusive.”

You looked confused. “… That’s what happened.”

Elora smiled. “Yes, it is. So, tell me: what changed about you between those two versions?”

You opened your mouth.

Nothing came out.

You tried again. “Nothing.”

“Exactly.” Elora let the answer settle for a second. “You are exactly the same woman in both scenarios. The only thing that changes is information you didn’t previously have. But your brain has treated that new information as though it travelled back in time and changed who you were.”

You frowned. You tried to refuse, “No, I-”

“You weren’t less kind, or less funny, or less gentle. You weren’t less worthy of being loved. The only thing that changed was your understanding of Cait and Vi’s past.”

You sat very still. “I… I never thought about it like that.”

“I know.” Elora smiled. “Our minds are very good at rewriting history, especially yours.”

Your eyes drifted toward the window. “I think...” You swallowed. “I think I wanted to be their first.”

The admission surprised even you.

“The first Baby they’d want forever. To be special to them.”

Silence settled between you.

Eventually Elora spoke. “I don’t think…” She seemed to choose her next words carefully. “… You’re truly talking about exclusivity.”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

She leaned forward slightly. “When you use the word ‘special’, what I think you mean is ‘unique’.”

Your breathing caught. “… Yeah.”

Elora shook her head. “Those aren’t quite the same thing.”

“I don’t understand?”

“You believed you were the first person they liked enough to ask for exclusivity.”

“Yes.”

“And discovering that that wasn’t true, hurt you.”

You blinked a few times. “Yes.”

“But tell me...” Elora tilted her head slightly. “Are you the first woman either of them has ever fallen in love with?”

You blinked. “Obviously not; they’re married.”

“Does that make their love for you less real?”

“No.”

She thought of another example. “Are you… The first woman Cait ever kissed?”

You actually smiled. “No.”

“What about the first person Vi was ever intimate with?”

“No.”

Elora smiled gently. “Would you say you are replaceable to them?”

You answered immediately and firmly, “No.” You paused. “No. I’m not replaceable to them. One…” You had to take a deep breath. “One similarity between their relationship with Maddie, and our relationship doesn’t mean I’m not special to them.”

Your therapist let you sit with that understanding for a few seconds, just smiling patiently.

You laughed through your tears, wiping at your face with the sleeve of your jumper. “How did that take me six weeks to work that out?!”

“Mel!”

“Hi, angel,” she greeted over the phone with an audible smile. “How are-?”

“I’m about to do something kind of crazy, so talk me out of it!”

“Never. What is it, my love?”

You took a deep breath, still giggling as you ran across the road, almost skipping with a manic energy. “I’m gonna dye my hair pink!”

Her client stirred next to her in bed, tightening his arm around her waist. “I love it. Do it immediately. How long will it take? We can meet for a sweet treat afterwards.”

“Mel!” you laughed. “You’re supposed to talk me out of it!”

She just laughed back at you as her date kissed her neck. “Why on earth would I do that? You love pink; you’ve always loved pink. And you’ve wanted to dye your hair for years now, but could never afford to. Plus, it’s been three months since your pause with Cait and Vi – I’m honestly surprised it’s taken you this long to dye your hair. So… Do. It. What shade are you thinking?”

“Bright! Neon! I wanna glow in the dark!” You hurried down the road, heading to the salon.

“Fantastic. I want to see you after, okay? Tell me when you’re done, and we’ll meet up somewhere. … Alright?” she prompted when she didn’t get a response.

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry, I just arrived. Yes, I’ll text you.”

“Okay, angel. Have fun! I love you.”

“I love you too!” You put the phone down, grinning apologetically at the hair stylist you were about to torment – unintentionally – for the next few hours. “Pink, please!”

Just after lunchtime, Mel sat with her back to the door in the expensive café. She typed away on her phone as she waited for you, messaging one of her favourite clients.

You entered the establishment, saw your friend, and decided to sneak up on her for fun. You tiptoed over to her, tapping her shoulder gently.

She glanced over her shoulder, and paused. She blinked, then forced a smile on her face. “Hi, angel. You did go for the pink, I see?”

You grinned widely, sitting down in the chair opposite her. You brought your hair forward, lightly combing your fingers through the newly-coloured length. “Do you like it? I love it! It’s perfect!”

Mel put her phone down, leaning forward on her crossed arms, taking in your hair. “Yes, yes… It, uh… Definitely suits you.”

You faltered a little. “What’s wrong? Does it look bad? I know the money pieces are different, but I think the colours go well together.”

She nodded. “Yes, they do. They really do. Those colours are a perfect match for each other. And you’ve… Got both of them.”

You tilted your head, frowning lightly. “Why are you being weird? You told me to dye my hair.”

Mel recovered. “Yes, angel. I did. And you look perfect. You truly do. I just…”

You reached across the table in concern, worried for your friend as you took hold of her hand. “Mel, what is it? What’s wrong?”

She squeezed your hand a few times, then nodded. “I think it’s time, Y/N.”

Buy me a coffee! 💜

The home that you had devoted so many years learning to defend by perfecting skills to make it possible for you to disappear within the clouds. With an ikran that has shared in the heartbreak of having chosen someone to give your heart to and then have them turn your heart to ash, you have become an unstoppable force sharing one joined mind. The ikran beneath you with colouring light like the sky on the clearest day, and the richness of vines that you have clung to when you were challenged to climb higher, faster than boys your age.

You fly with the feeling of freedom beneath you that acts as a barrier and a shield to temporarily block you from the task you had been assigned by Olo’eyktan Tarsem. For a moment, a breath of the wind that rattles the broad leaves of trees far below you, you are alone flying with your ikran.

For a moment in time, you are given the allowance to lean back and allow your braids to drape behind you, to be caught in the wind that rises from beneath the steady beating of your ikran’s wings. You close your eyes and feel the warmth of the sun; you take a deep breath and fill your lungs with the revitalizing scents of the Omatikaya forest and all it’s beauty.

This is home.

You revel in the journey, the trip that still seems like it is between you and your ikran alone. And then the moment of peacefulness ends, and you are drawn back into the task and the reality of your situation.

You are a scout, one of the best in your clans with heightened and finetuned abilities that allow you to disappear within the clouds. You had been given a task to escort the Suli’s back home to the Omatikaya after their extensive stay with the Metkayina reef Na’vi.

The moment of quiet bliss ends when you hear his voice, the voice that belongs to the eldest son of Toruk Makto—Neteyam Suli. The voice of the boy who you had once endeared yourself to, the boy who you had followed around like a little shadow because you, like Spider, had been so infatuated with one of the Suli children.

The tone of his voice echoes in your mind and you lift your head, you right your posture upon your ikran. Your fingers curl tighter around your ikran’s saddle, and you turn your head to look behind you, to catch the glimpse of the boy who had once laughed at the idea that you could have been his. He had thought the idea of you being his girlfriend and his future mate was so audacious, he had made fun of you to the other hunters he had been trying to impress. The words that he had uttered, the heartbreak that he had put you through at the age of 14 had shattered that illusion.

‘She is a skxawng; she annoys me.’ Words that acted as the fine yet deadly wire that cut grooves into your heart, had once again filtered through your mind when you had seen him—long dark braids that were thin and woven with beads that made delicate sounds when they brushed against each other.

‘Oe sweyivì kawkrr fa uniltìrantokx tìkawng payä.’ Neteyam had told those older hunters he was trying to impress that he would rather drink acid.

The idea of you as his mate, as his girlfriend as the Sky-People would call it, was so detestable that he said he would rather drink acid.

You had illusioned yourself with the idea that you were friends, that you were someone who he wanted to be around. Yes, you could have admitted that you might have been overzealous about hanging around the Suli’s, but Neteyam had never had any problem with Spider being around. Neteyam liked Spider, he liked having the human friend-like-a-brother around.

You had foolishly assumed that he had enjoyed your company as well, and maybe you could have remained in that delusion had you not overheard him. But Neteyam was a fool and Neteyam was a fool who was in pursuit of approval from older hunters who had still not passed their iknimaya and bonded with an ikran. He had broken your heart for the sake of impressing warriors and future hunters who, themselves, were still not ahead.

“Nga nìswey tswayon to oeyä tsmukan!” Neteyam calls out from behind you, those golden eyes crinkled slightly with a laugh as he takes a jest at his younger brother. Lo’ak responds in a manner that is so like the brothers, a signal that had been adapted from the Sky-People—Lo’ak raises a hand and extends his middle finger toward his elder brother.

You know that Neteyam wants you to respond, that he is trying to ease you into a conversation with him by taking a jab at his brother. Just as you know that he is only attempting this because you had not responded to him calling your name, and now this second attempt is also futile. You do not give Neteyam the attention that he seems to want, you do not respond with a verbal sound that could have been dignified as a response. You sparsely give him a visual once-over before you turn your head and focus back on the path that leads to home.

To the Omatikaya.

As you turn back away from Neteyam the tips of your ears twitch in response to the auditory cues that come form behind you. The sound of Jake and Neytiri’s conversation about what it would be like to be home, to see their families again, are blending almost definitely with Tuk speaking to Kiri about seeing their grandmother.

And beneath the conversations that blend together, you hear Neteyam’s voice rising to meet your ears as he attempts to question Lo’ak on your silence. You do not turn around but you can picture the furrowing of hairless eyebrows and the pinch of his lips as he attempts to produce a valid reason as to why you are ignoring him.

You let him wonder. You let him stew. You do not give him the satisfaction of carrying a conversation with you.

You remain in the front of the pack of ikran that are making their way back toward the welcoming celebration that will be waiting for them at Hometree. You and your ikran are the scouts, one unit that can move with imperceptible silence and agility to become silent phantoms that will not be seen until you choose to be. It is a task that you will carry out to the fullest of your abilities and only because it is asked of you by your Olo’eyktan.

“Ma eylan—” Neteyam calls out again, to you, and his ikran has begun to pick up speed as he tries to catch up with you. You can hear the steady beating of his banshee’s wings and from the corner of your eye you can see the pretty colourings of his female ikran.

But he does not reach you, you will not let him reach you. When he is close, you and your ikran dive to the side and begin a series of rolls and spins that feel like dancing. The actions are quick and graceful, the movements producing butterflies in your stomach that flutter like the very ikran you are on.

As your ikran dives down toward the roost where the other bonded ikran will rest. It is there where you will depart your beloved friend, where you will thank your ikran for being so in tune with you, and where the Suli’s will be welcomed back. You feel the wind streaking through your braids and the familiarities of home greeting you with the warmth of a cooking fire and tenderness of a blanket.

Your ikran screeches to the others, a welcoming to the other banshee’s that are friends with your own. The highly social animals of Eywa are gathered together in their own community and you are pleased that your ikran seems to comfortable with others like it.

“We are home.” You dismount your ikran and run a hand down it’s neck, feeling the smooth pattern of it’s skin beneath your palm. You lean forward and rest your forehead against it’s neck, mumbling a thank you, a phrase of understanding and appreciation for the animal.

“Home.” Little Tuk is just as eager to be home as Neytiri, and she has not even allowed the ikran she is riding on to stop before she jumps off. Her bright smile and eagerness to be back in the forest is capable of making your lips form a grin, something that little Tuk has always been capable of no matter who she sees.

You remain standing by your ikran, one hand upon it’s neck and the other running along the saddle to grab your spear that is notched into it’s holster. Once you had freed the spear you swing it up over your ikran’s head in a smooth circle and into the leather holster that keeps it secure across your back.

“The Suli’s have returned!”

“Toruk Makto is back!”

“Ma Eywa, irayo si, po tsyìl tu tìng mikllpxezì.” Someone cries out Oh Eywa give thanks they have returned.

The village knows they have returned now, as the welcoming chirps of other Omatikaya Na’vi will travel like water downstream. You listen to the welcoming the na’vi have given the Suli family and cast a glimpse at them, observing the reactions of the family that have been gone for so long.

There is relief upon Neytiri’s face and the shining gleam of tears that build in her golden eyes. She is emotional and has raised her hand to cover her mouth to stop the audible gasp that you suspect she was unleash. Beside her stands her mate, Jake Sully, who has one hand on her hip and the other upon her hand that rests on his chest, the two are absorbing the warmth of being home.

“I am going to see grandmother!” Tuk is already gone, running along the mossy-soft ground that will lead her home while the ikran’s surrounding her make their own chorus of welcoming’s.

It is not long before a familiar head of blonde hair and pink skin appears hanging off one of the branches, calling for Kiri. The eldest daughter of the Suli’s entire face lights up when she sees ‘her monkey boy’ and barely bids her parents goodbye before she darts on after Spider. The two reunite a few trees down from the roost, greeting each other with a long-held hug that you know will become a bridge that leads to a more intimate greeting of a kiss.

“Olo'eyktan zene ngati tse'a.” You raise your voice from the silent thread it was at and inform the remaining Suli’s who stand in the ikran roost that Tarsem will want to see them.

It is just Jake, Neytiri, Lo’ak and Neteyam now, and by giving them an escort back to the ikran roost like your Olo’eyktan has ordered you to, your job is done. Your duty to them is done and you make it known that there is nothing more for you to do by tipping your head in acknowledgement and turning away.

You do not look back at them, not when you take the first few steps and not after. You do not acknowledge the hard pointed stare of Neteyam that burns into your back as you begin to navigate back to the village. Instead, you focus on the riding leggings and the smooth leather that protected the inside of your thighs from the journey to find them. Rather than dare to give him attention he does not deserve, your run your fingers over the clasps of the hair beads that are nestled into your braids, woven and secured enough that even the strongest winds would not take them from you.

“Pey, oel new ngarivìntxu!” You do not slow down when Neteyam calls after you, yelling from the distance between yourself and him that he wants to talk to you. The directive that he desires to speak with you is understood verbally, you register the words he speaks but you do not care.

You do not care for the boy who told you that he would rather drink acid than court you.

You do not care for the hunter who had wanted approval of others who did not matter, who called you annoying and a moron in front of others.

You do not stop walking; you do not look back.

“Uktsyìp!” You do not react until you feel a warm hand upon your skin, strong fingers that wrap around your forearm and prevent you from moving. Only when the power of a boy turned into a grown hunter, who spent the last three years on the cusp of sand and sea, grabs you to prevent you from walking do you stop.

You turn your head and look back at him and the place where his hand wraps around your forearm, and you study the colours of your skin. The darker blues of your own skin that have not been lightened under the direct glow of the sun meet the light hues of Neteyam’s sun kissed skin. The slight haze of purple, from potential sunburning spots, has marked itself as a viable difference that is a reminder of where he had gone.

“Why are you ignoring me, ma uktsyìp?” There is a warmth to his voice that has sparked itself as a seed of anger that begins to grow deep inside you.

Your eyes begin a slow trail up from the hand that grabbed your forearm, raking along the lighter hues of blue skin that belong to Neteyam Suli. As your eyes rake over the boy who had broken your heart when you were 14, the unpreventable tension that was building during the ride back to the Omatikaya forest begins to rise again.

The proximity of his body to yours feels like needles beneath your skin that prick you with every micromovement. The way his fingers flex against your forearm are a reminder that he has you momentarily trapped in place while he is questioning why you are ignoring him, which makes you think that he is either blissfully ignorant to what he has done or perhaps he does not remember those words he had spoken.

But you do. You remember every word, every syllable of those spoken insults that had hit you dead centre in the chest when you were 14, when you were trying to find your friend to share good news with him that you could attempt your iknimaya.

I would rather drink acid – the words revitalize themselves in your mind and the resurgence of the ache in your chest presents itself with the same tangible instincts as fight or flight. It prevents itself as an act of survival and there are so many sensations that seem to be hitting you head on.

Tension, thick as vines that are threatening to wrap around your neck and cut off your oxygen, grows. It spikes.

The questioning in Neteyam’s eyes rises to meet the celebratory beating of drums to welcome the Suli’s home, and you are somewhere caught in the brambles.

“Ma uktsyìp—” Neteyam tries to speak to you again, making an attempt to open up a conversation with you.

He calls you his little shadow, the nickname that his father had called you. Every syllable, the rise and fall of his voice is another reminder of what he had done. Of the heartbreak that he had put you through, the words that stung with the viscosity of acid that burned you from the inside out.

Little shadow – your hand is already reaching for the smooth wood of your spear, fingers wrapping around the weapon that is an extension of yourself.

You react viscerally. You react with an outburst of anger that has you unsheathing your spear and using the polished, carved staff of the spear to sweep his feet out from under him. It is a powerful act that has the eldest son of Toruk Makto crashing unceremoniously against the ground with a thud that has the wind being knocked out of him.

The cocky prince of the Omatikaya, as you had heard him being called, lies against the soft mossy ground and stares up at you, lips parted in shock. You stab the deadly sharp tip of the spear into the ground and grip the staff of the spear as you drop yourself to a crouch and lean forward, speaking to Neteyam as if you are speaking to one of the Mangkwan.

“Moe ke lu 'eylan, ma vopxì.” The insult lands with as much venom as you can conjure without physically harming one of your people which would ultimately put you in line with punishment from the Olo’eyktan or Toruk Makto.