Short neyrang ficlet because theyre underappreciated and I can’t be normal about 2 people hating each other (crossposted on ao3- @https_b3a, “She Whispers While Im Sleeping” )
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When Neytiri falls deep into slumber, unconsciousness taking her battered and wethered body into rest, she dreams of fire.
She dreams of the Witch’s den, the loud percussive music thrumming rhythmically before you even see the camp.
It was an omen to the pain to come, to flames that towered, the screeching, the bone and the ash and the metal that splintered like glass with the light, sending shards of amber-yellow dancing on the ash below.
The circle of warriors moves as one catastrophic being, swaying and yipping and ululating as a concordance, shadowed faces revealed by the sprays of light.
The fire exposed everything.
And in the centre of the great mass of raw violence, was the witch- holding two twirling buugengs of stone. She orchestrated the fire, and in route, the warriors. She sprayed dust from her palms into the centre of the flames, erupting in a great column of heat, spitting embers from its gaping maws.
And the witch laughed, a horrifically beautiful sound, like a silver bell. It was not innocent, but pure to the point of truth, and expression of true enjoyment and pleasure in the display of power as she undulated with the horde.
And in her dreams, Neytiri strides towards her unafraid. She is strong-hearted. She does not fear witches as little girls do, she does not fear false prophets. She does not fear Medusa despite her many snakes, if she does not turn her enemies to stone.
The time slows as the witch takes notice, crimson body paint still twisting and rippling with every flick of her body as she moves with the flames. And Neytiri is filled with hate. It dug into her forehead like an arrowhead, and spread through her brain in a river of anguish, dripping hot and heavy in his limbs and igniting her ribs like lightning. It wriggled into her spine like a maggot, twisting and turning and writhing like it had touched a hot pan. And it settled into her gut, weighted and warm (hate should not feel like this. Hate should not feel good)
And in her dream, she lunges and tears as her throat, wanting to rip and seethe, to drag her nails through her shoulders like soft, overripe fruit, to burn the feathers that adorned her, to bare her, and shame her, and hiss and spit and tear open and drink whatever liquid poured out. To pull apart whatever made up the witch made from ash and fire and stolen lives and consumes with sickening hunger.
And in her dream, the witch of fire softens. She becomes pliant, and pliable, and flashes of white smiles and softer touches.
And in her dream, the witch holds her tight and rocks her slowly, and pressed ash marked fingers to her forehead and whispers sweet nothings.
And Neytiri wakes up in the home of her broken family, torn apart by hate and anguish, and held together by devotion to the strange thing that is family.
And Neytiri wakes up and thinks of the witch’s hands.
janainaart
snowghoul
origamiaround
yousharknotpass
annaxmalina
jacobvanloon
dailybridgerton
germansingergirl
