𝑹𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒏𝒆

you had heard his name long before you ever saw his face. prince mydeimos of kremnos —a name whispered with reverence, with fear, with awe; carrying the weight of countless victories carved into the blood-soaked chaos of battlefields.

but none of those stories prepared you for the reality of him.

the grand hall of kremnos' palace feels colder than you imagined.

marble floors stretch endlessly beneath your feet, polished to a gleaming perfection that seems to reflect the distance between you and the life awaiting you here. the walls, adorned with banners of deep reds and golds, do little to warm the oppressive air.

servants pass by in hushed movements, their heads bowed, their whispers inaudible. the air carries the faint aroma of polished wood and lingering incense, yet there is no warmth to be found —not in the hall, not from the people, and certainly not from the man standing at the far end of the room.

you bow slightly out of instinct, a gesture of respect, though you feel foolish doing so in the context of your marriage.

dressed in the royal garb of kremnos, a deep red cloak embroidered with gold thread draped over his shoulders, his marigold eyes lock onto yours with piercing intensity. 

“princess,” he greets you, his words polished to a fault —exactly what you’d expect from a prince.

“your highness,” you reply, matching his formality.

“welcome to kremnos, i trust the journey was not too difficult.” 

it’s not a question, you realize. merely a statement to acknowledge your presence. you offer a polite nod, “the journey was smooth, your highness,” you reply, your voice steady despite the unease creeping into your chest. “thank you for your hospitality.”

you watch as he takes a glass of reddish liquid from a servant standing nearby, lifting it to his lips with ease, the vibrant color catching your eye.

the rich crimson hue seems too unnatural for something as mundane as wine. your gaze fixes on the glass as he drinks, a chill running down your spine as an unsettling thought creeps in.

is he drinking... blood?

your heart skips, a sudden nervousness, and you quickly avert your gaze, unable to meet his eyes.

he catches your stare however, “what is it that you find so fascinating?” 

flustered, you lower your head, stammering, "i... beg your pardon, your highness.”

you can feel your pulse quicken, the heat rising in your cheeks as you panic. the weight of his cold gaze is almost unbearable, and you fear you’ve already made a fool of yourself. 

for a moment, you dare not look at him, the silence stretching uncomfortably between you.

the prince casually wipes the red liquid from his lips with the back of his hand, as your eyes drift involuntarily toward the glass once more, still questioning its contents.

his eyes flicker to you as they narrow, “still curious?”

you freeze, wrecking your head for a sensible answer lest you further embarrass yourself.

with a sharp sigh, he places the glass down on the tray. “it’s pomegranate juice, nothing more.”

you blink, stunned for a moment, the absurdity of your previous assumption crashing down on you. 

“pomegranate juice,” you repeat softly, as if testing the words to see if they make sense.

“yes. is that so difficult to believe?”

that night, you lay on the luxurious bed in your chamber, the events of the evening swirling in your mind. you shake your head, embarrassed by your own overactive imagination. 

you turn onto your side, pulling the heavy blankets tighter around you, but sleep evades you.

yes, your husband is a man of few words, fewer emotions, and absolutely no warmth when it comes to you. yet within that frost lies a heart, waiting for the right touch to thaw it.

ACT I: HOW TO DRAW HIS ATTENTION

over the weeks, you've learned many peculiar things about your husband. 

you’ve noticed, for instance, that he always rises before dawn, and spends hours in the training grounds perfecting his form —an unyielding warrior at heart. or how he has an unusual preference for adding goat's milk to his pomegranate juice, a combination that strikes you as strange yet somehow fitting for him. 

you’ve also discovered that, contrary to expectations, he favors the color pink —an oddly delicate choice for a man so rigid in his demeanor. and while he is undeniably polite, he also remains stern and is not one to easily open up, not even to those closest to him.

all that you've learned, you’ve used in an attempt to earn his favor, though your effort often feels like trying to breach a concrete wall.

(one day, you deliberately rise early, before the sun fully breaks over the horizon, and make your way to the training grounds.

there, you find a concealed spot in the shadows, watching him spar with the guards. you’ve gone, in part, because you want him to know you care, but also because of the impressive display of his skill that subconsciously draws you in. 

it’s not long before he notices your presence; his expression remains impassive, but his gaze hardens, narrowing slightly as he observes you making your way to him from across the field.

as you finally reach him, you extend the water in your hand. but just as you take a step closer, your foot catches on an uneven stone. you stumble forward, crashing into him, and spilling the cold water across his chest. 

the gasp that escapes you is quickly followed by frantic apologies.

"princess," he says coolly, the water dripping from his toned muscles, tracing the lines of his broad shoulders and down his chest. "...are you always this clumsy, or is today a special occasion?"

ah. 

well at least he has jokes..?)

or after noticing how he often stays silent during meals, you decide to change the pace. 

(at the dining hall, you ask about his interests, but he only gives brief, impersonal responses; his attention fixed on his plate, quietly indulging in the honey-drenched pancakes. you try to make a lighthearted joke, but he doesn’t even look up, offering only a polite “i see” before the silence drapes over the table again.

so, you finally decide to try a more… direct approach —flattery. surely, no man can resist a little charm, right?

you lean close as you gather all the courage you can muster, batting your eyelashes at him hoping you appear as endearing as you intend.

"i must say, my dear husband, you —uh, you are unmatched in your… strength and wisdom. it’s no wonder my heart can’t help but be drawn to you..?”

well that didn’t exactly sound convincing. 

“and… your arms, they’re quite impressive. i mean —wait, that’s not what i meant—”

and that certainly didn’t make it any better!

you brace yourself, expecting a sharp rebuke or, at the very least, some irritation. but instead, he simply nods, offering a brief, detached “thank you” before turning his attention back to his meal. 

you immediately avert your gaze, feeling a pang of relief. though it’s strange to think that at any moment, your husband might decide to chop your head off for being so foolish (...if he felt so inclined) he is the crowned prince, after all; and while his politeness is unsettling, it’s still better than his wrath... right?)

either way, it’s clear that your efforts have made not the slightest dent. better luck next time!

today will be different.

failure has never sat well with you, and after last night’s mortifying attempt at charming your husband, you refuse to let things end on such a dismal note. if words fail, then perhaps actions will speak louder.

so, with a woven basket tucked under your arm, you wander through the palace gardens first, where roses and marigolds flourish in a riot of color, their petals unfurling like delicate silk under the afternoon sun. honeysuckle vines twist gracefully around the trellises, their sweet fragrance lingering in the warm afternoon air.

you kneel amidst the blooms, fingers brushing over soft petals, feeling the gentle give of each flower beneath your touch. carefully, you pluck a few of each, tucking them gently into your basket, mindful of their fragile stems. you arrange them just so, already picturing the bouquet coming together in your hands.

but as you wander further, you find yourself drawn toward the edge of the estate. past the hedgerows and beyond the garden’s stone pathway, you notice something that catches your eye, a cluster of wildflowers —soft pinks and gentle whites.

perfect! these will be the finishing touch to complete your bouquet for mydeimos.

pleased with yourself, you smile and make your way toward the water’s edge. leaning forward, you stretch out to pluck one, your body lowering toward the ground, shifting your weight slightly, when—

a sudden force slams into your back.

the breath is knocked clean from your lungs. there's no time to react as the world tilts violently, and before you can even scream, the cold shock of water swallows you whole.

it’s deeper than you thought.

icy water rushes into your nose and mouth, sending a searing burn down your throat. panic grips you as the world above fractures into shimmering light, distorted by the rippling surface. you try to push yourself up, but alas, the weight of your dress still drags you down. 

as you thrash around uselessly, your limbs start growing heavier. the surface above you slips further away; and the last thing you register is the sensation of strong arms wrapping around you —with a final strained breath, your vision dims to nothingness.

the next thing you feel is warmth.

your head rests against something solid, a steady rise and fall beneath your cheek .a firm hold keeps you close, one braced securely around your back, the other hooked beneath your knees. 

you blink sluggishly, your lashes heavy with water. that’s when you realise, you’re in the arms of your husband.

his hair clings to his forehead, damp strands framing the sharp angles of his face. droplets trace slow paths down his jawline, soaking into the dark fabric of his tunic —leaving nothing to the imagination.

for a moment, disoriented and breathless, you can only blink up at him.

did he jump in after you..?

“why did you wander off alone?” he chastises, snapping you back to reality. 

your throat feels tight, your heart hammering in your chest. "i-i just wanted to do something for you!" the confession spills from your lips, desperate, your fingers clinging instinctively to the soaked fabric of his sleeve. 

it’s foolish, maybe, but you’re still reeling —from the near drowning, from the fact that mydeimos saved you. 

he exhales sharply, exasperation heavy in his breath. "why are you like this…" his grip tightens on you, but there’s a tension in his voice as if he’s swallowing something he can’t quite put into words. “didn’t i say there’s no need to attract attention this way?"

the accusation stings, your brows knit together as you shake your head, droplets of water slipping down your temples. "i just… thought you’d like some flowers."

his fingers, still curled beneath your back, twitch slightly, his hold unconsciously steadying you.

“you don’t need to do anything reckless just to get my attention," he murmurs at last, his voice softer now, no longer edged with frustration. then, almost hesitantly, he adds, "...if you want something, just come to me."

mydeimos shifts, adjusting his hold on you before finally rising to his feet. the movement is effortless, but even so, a sharp chill runs through you as the air bites at your damp skin. before you can fully steady yourself, he places you down, his hands lingering for a second longer than necessary before withdrawing.

your dress clings uncomfortably to you, heavy with water, and when you glance down, you spot the basket lying a short distance away, half-tilted on the grass. the flowers you so carefully picked are scattered around it, petals crumpled, stems bent. 

a pit forms in your stomach. all that effort, and now—

a shadow moves beside you. mydeimos steps forward, the hem of his cloak grazing against the fallen blooms. he considers them for a moment, then looks back at you.

“well?” his voice is steady, and you can’t quite grasp the intention behind it. “you went through all that trouble to gather the flowers… aren’t you going to give them to me?”

sure they're not nearly as perfect as they were when you first picked them. still, you kneel, fingers brushing over the damp grass as you carefully pick up the least damaged flowers, smoothing out the crumpled petals as best you can.

“…here.” slowly, hesitantly, you extend the bouquet towards him. 

his fingers brush against yours as he accepts the flowers. “sorry they’re ruined,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

he shakes his head, unbothered. “they’re mine now, so i’ll take care of them.”

there’s no mockery in his expression, no disdain for your failed efforts. if anything, there’s something almost unreadable in the way he looks at you, something that makes your heart lurch against your ribs.

he spares you one last glance, then turns. “come. you need to get changed before you fall ill.”

and just like that, your husband walks ahead, idly twirling one of the flowers between his fingers. hardened steel and soft petals, strength and fragility; it doesn't look out of place. 

somehow, it fits him too well.

ACT II: HOW TO CARE FOR A WARRIOR

once a year, the empire erupts into feverish anticipation for the annual gladiatorial tournament. a traditional competition of strength, bloodshed, and sheer willpower.

held in the heart of the capital, within the city of kremnos; warriors from across the kingdom —such as knights from noble houses, seasoned mercenaries, and ambitious upstarts, all gather within the grand coliseum, each vying for glory, honor, or a place in history.

and three weeks from now, the coliseum will roar with life, filled to the brim with nobles and commoners alike, all eager to witness the blood and glory that’ll unfold within the arena. 

the tournament may be weeks away, but mydeimos knows better than to grow complacent. 

within the castle training grounds, the clash of steel echoes through the air, each strike reverberating like a war drum. two figures move in relentless rhythm, locked in a sparring match that is as much a dance as it is a battle.

mydeimos meets his opponent’s strike head-on; phainon, captain of the royal knights, his equal in skill if not in strength, matches him blow for blow. the force of the impact ripples through his arm, but he does not waver. instead, he swiftly pivots, forcing mydeimos onto the defensive.

the crown prince presses forward, his sword carving ruthless arcs through the air, a feint —then a sudden, brutal swing aimed at his opponent’s side. 

phainon barely manages to parry, their blades grinding against each other in a fierce deadlock. exhaling sharply through his nose, he holds firm against the pressure. “mydei,” phainon mutters, breathless. “don't hold back."

mydei’s gaze remains unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something —amusement, perhaps, before he abruptly shifts his weight. with a sharp twist, he breaks the deadlock.

“HKS,” he counters, shoving forward with enough strength to force phainon back a step. “getting tired?”

phainon lets out a short laugh, adjusting his stance. “not in the slightest.” he disengages, spinning his blade in a quick counterstrike.

alas, the fight reaches no clear victor, ending in yet another stalemate.

exhaling, phainon lowers his blade. “not bad.”

but before mydei can respond; a slow, warm trickle down his arm draws his attention. his gaze flickers downward —a thin slash mars his bicep, blood welling along the cut.

the knight’s expression shifts, eyes catching on the wound. “heh looks like i take the win this time,” he gloats, though there’s a slightest hint of concern in his tone. 

“...though i do apologise, your highness,” phainon says, eyeing the wound with a tilt of his head.

mydei rolls his shoulder, testing the ache, then huffs. “nothing to be sorry for.” his lips curl slightly, eyes flicking back to phainon.

“but don’t think this means i’m letting you off easy. we’ll settle it properly next time.”

“oh? and here i thought you’d take the loss with dignity for once,” phainon snorts, sheathing his blade in one smooth motion. “but i suppose i wouldn’t want you growing too accustomed to losing.”

“you land one lucky hit and suddenly you’re talking like you’ve dethroned me.” mydei scoffs, already turning toward the weapons rack. phainon watches him go, shaking his head to himself before following suit. 

mydei doesn’t know why you’re worrying so much.

the cut is insignificant, to him at least. within hours, it’ll be gone —his body already stitching itself back together. he doesn’t need tending to, least of all by you.

and yet, here you are.

as you sit beside him, your hands deftly press a cloth soaked in cool water to his wound, cleaning away the dried blood with careful strokes. for some reason, seeing you like this —fussing over him with a tenderness he’s never quite experienced before —renders him quiet.

“…you’re frowning,” he murmurs.

“because you’re hurt,” you say as a matter of factly, setting the cloth aside before reaching for a bandage. your fingers are gentle as they smooth it over his skin, lightly tracing the curves of his biceps.

he watches the way your lips press together, tying the final knot with a delicate tug, patting the fabric down as if to reassure yourself that it will hold.

something tugs at the edge of his mind. 

you’ve pretended to love him ever since you stepped foot in kremnos; he thought he knew every expression you wore, every feigned tenderness. but this —this time, it’s different. there’s no audience here, no need for the carefully crafted role of the adoring wife.

so why do you still look at him like that?

his breath stills. he doesn’t know what to make of this.

“…please be more careful next time.” mydei glances at his arm, the ache is already fading.

you don’t know how pointless all of this is. by morning, there won’t even be a scar.

you exhale softly, your brows still furrowed in concern. then, as if unable to help yourself, your fingertips ghost over the bandage, smoothing it down with a tenderness that makes his chest tighten.

“does it still hurt?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

he should say no. he should tell you it’s nothing.

but when he looks at you —sees the way your eyes linger on him, so earnestly unguarded. he falters. 

“…not much,” he admits instead. “you act as if i’m on death’s door.”

“and you act as if you’re invincible,” you retort softly.

he freezes.

he almost laughs at the irony of it —because in some ways, you aren’t wrong. his body will always mend itself, his wounds never lasting long enough to be of real consequence. 

but his darling wife doesn’t know that.

and perhaps that’s why he lets you worry, lets you dote on him with such sweet, unknowing devotion. because, against all logic —against everything he’s told himself, he finds that he likes it.

your touch finally retreats, hands settling in your lap. “i’ll leave you to rest, your highness.”

you rise from your seat, and as you turn to leave, mydei catches himself watching the space where your hands had been, the phantom warmth still resting against his skin.

for a wound that’s already gone, he finds it strange —how reluctant he is to let it fade.

ACT III: HOW TO AVOID MISUNDERSTANDINGS

"sir phainon, thank you for showing me around the city," you say, offering the man beside you a faint smile as you step around a corner. 

the knight dips his head, “of course, milady. the pleasure’s all mine."

you’re glad phainon took time off to accompany you —wandering the city alone would’ve definitely left you lost and stewing in your own thoughts. 

phainon glances at you, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. "but i’m surprised his highness let you wander the city with another man," he muses. 

you let out a small laugh, running your fingers along the petals of a flower display as you pass by. "well, i don’t think he cares."

phainon’s steps slow, his brow lifting ever so slightly, as if he isn’t sure whether he misheard you or if you’re simply playing coy. "you don’t think he—" he exhales a sharp chuckle, running a hand through his hair. "hah. now that’s funny."

you shoot a puzzled look at him,"what is?"

to phainon, who’s seen the way mydei looks at you, heard the way he speaks of you; your words make no sense at all.

—but he holds his tongue. "nothing, milady. let’s keep walking before i say something i shouldn’t."

the warmth of the moment sours when you round a corner near the market square. there, just past a cluster of gossiping nobles, mydei stands stiffly, arms crossed as he listens to a young woman speak.

you recognize her —a lady-in-waiting that serves in the palace.

“…always playing the victim,” she sneers, voice pitched just loud enough to draw attention. “everyone pities her, but really, she’s just an outsider to kremnos—” 

your steps falter, confusion flickering across your face. is that lady… talking about you?

“she was never worthy of standing by his highness’s side!” the lady continues with simpering disdain. 

beside you, your companion stiffens, his fingers subtly curling at his sides. he’s noticed, too.

but before you can fully process the words, she lets out a haughty laugh. “she tripped herself that day. i only gave her a little push and—”

“what?” mydei’s voice cuts through the air, his eyes narrowing. 

the lady startles, whipping around to face him, but quickly smooths her expression into one of feigned innocence. “y-your highness…” she lowers her head just slightly. “i only meant that a mere nudge shouldn’t have been enough to send her stumbling so helplessly.” 

she offers a small, demure smile. “unless, of course, one lacks the grace befitting a princess.”

“it was unfortunate that your highness was troubled because of—” 

her words trail off as her gaze flicks to the side, right where you stand.

and in that fleeting moment, mydei follows her line of sight.

your breath catches. you hadn’t meant to be seen.

a small, almost imperceptible smirk forms on her lips; just as mydei glances to your side, his attention diverted for a split second; she falls toward him, her body angling toward him in a way that all but demands he steady her.

you feel a jolt of realization —her intentions are clear as day towards you. 

mydei’s eyes barely flicker as she topples toward him, but his hand moves —not to steady her, as she so clearly intended, but to seize her wrist in a firm, unyielding grip.

with a sharp tug, he wrenches her upright, the motion not even close to an act of chivalry. 

a startled gasp slips past her lips, her wide eyes darting up, stunned by the strength of his hold. the gathered onlookers murmur amongst themselves as the prince fixes her with a cold, unreadable stare.

“tell me. are you purposely trying to cause a misunderstanding between me and my wife?”

the lady blanches, her mouth opening and closing as she scrambles for a response. “y-your highness, i would never—”

“spare me the excuses.” his fingers uncoil, and she stumbles back, barely catching herself.  she cradles her wrist as though burned, whether from pain or humiliation, it’s hard to tell.

“guards.” mydeimos doesn’t raise his voice, but the command rings clear. two armored figures stationed nearby immediately step forward,  “take her away.”

 “y-your highness, i only—”

mydeimos doesn’t even spare her a glance as he delivers the lady’s fate. “for daring to put her hands on the princess, she is to be punished accordingly. let this serve as a reminder, such conduct has no place in my court.”

the color drains from her face as the guards seize her by the arms, her protests falling on deaf ears. the onlookers part to make way, some exchanging knowing glances, others whispering amongst themselves.

then mydeimos’ gaze softens —only slightly, in your direction. 

phainon leans in, “and yet, milady insists that his highness does not care?”

but you don’t respond, heart fluttering traitorously in your chest as mydeimos turns on his heel and strides toward you.

with a small tilt of his head, he nods to phainon before finally speaking.

“she was desperate,” he remarks, voice edged with dry amusement. “did you see how she threw herself at me? pitiful.”

he studies you for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze. “...you weren’t fooled, were you?”

you blink, caught off guard by his question. “of course not, your highness.”

ah. was he worried you’d misunderstand?

his lips part slightly, but no words come, instead he just exhales softly, as if to himself. “good.”

phainon, ever perceptive, arches a brow but says nothing of it. instead, he steps back with a knowing tilt of his head. “well then, i shall take my leave. duty calls, after all, milady, your highness.” with that, he turns on his heel and disappears into the crowd, leaving just the two of you.

mydei’s eyes linger on you —searching, almost reluctant, before he finally tears his gaze away. “we should go.”

he starts walking, and you follow, the quiet rhythm between you shifting in a way that's hard to place. it’s subtle, so subtle that if you weren’t paying enough attention, you might’ve missed it. 

the way his steps fall in sync with yours, slowing his usually large strides ever so slightly,  as if unconsciously matching your pace. the way his hand hovers near yours, close enough that if you swayed even slightly, your fingers might brush.

it doesn’t feel intentional, and yet, it doesn’t feel like an accident either.

the marketplace hums around you both; vendors calling out their wares, the scent of fresh bread and spices curling through the air. but your mind is elsewhere, lingering on the man beside you, on the things left unsaid.

at some point, curiosity gets the better of you. “your highne—” “mydei.”

…would it be foolish of you to think of it as a plea? that, beneath the indifference he wears so well, he cares how his name sounds when spoken by you?

(because with you, he doesn't need to be the prince of kremnos, nor the valiant warrior they call mydeimos. he’s just your husband, mydei.)

you glance up at him, but his gaze stays ahead. he doesn’t offer an explanation; your thoughts linger on that single word, and maybe that’s why, after a moment’s hesitation, you decide to give it a try.

“mydei… what were you doing in the market today?”

he doesn’t answer right away. a terribly fond smile tugging at his lips. 

he looks good like this, you think.

with a glance to the side, he replies, “nothing of importance.”

a half-truth, at best.

your thoughts drift back to the last time you were here —the flowers you had given him, bright and delicate in his hands. an odd sight, perhaps, yet somehow, they suited him.

a ridiculous thought takes root before you can stop it.

could he have been looking for ways to take care of them? …surely not.

but any doubt vanishes the moment a florist calls out to him. “your highness! you’ve returned! here, this is the care guide you requested, along with the special fertilizer. it should help the flowers bloom beautifully.”

mydei takes the offered items with a nod, thanking the florist who beams, clearly pleased to be of service.

"you must truly cherish them, your highness," they remark. "not many would go through such trouble for a simple bouquet."

mydei only hums in response, tucking the items away as he turns back to you. for a moment, it almost seems like he might explain himself, but instead, he merely lifts a brow, as if daring you to say something about it.

warmth unfurls at the edges of your chest, spreading slowly, irresistibly.

you press your lips together, fighting the smile threatening to surface. "so," you muse lightly, "you’ve been taking good care of my flowers?”

mydei exhales, the ghost of an amused smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "it would be a shame if they wilted so soon,” he says. then, as he starts walking again, a quiet afterthought —so soft you almost miss it.

"especially when they were a gift from you."

and this time, when his hand hovers close to yours, you don’t resist the urge to let your fingers brush.

ACT IV: HOW TO TAME HIS JEALOUS HEART

it’s late —past the hour most would retire, yet the training grounds remains lit by torches that flicker against the cool stone walls, their flames casting long, dancing shadows. mydeimos leans back against the walls, arms loosely folded across his chest as his gaze follows phainon sharpening his blade a few paces away —though, truthfully, his thoughts are elsewhere.

it’s phainon who breaks the silence first.

“you know,” he starts, glancing up without looking directly at the prince, “you’re awfully quiet these days, your highness.”

he wipes his sword down lazily, throwing a glance over his shoulder. "...say, mydei."

mydei doesn’t look up, but his posture shifts, "what?"

phainon lets the silence drag for a moment, almost like he’s weighing his next words. 

“do you have genuine feelings for [name]?"

the words land like a blow in the silence between them; he doesn’t bother to wait for an answer.

“because if you don’t, i was thinking maybe i’d give courting her a try.”

ah. that does it.

mydei’s eyes flick to him, and if looks could kill, phainon would be six feet under —and the former wouldn’t even spare the effort to toss dirt over his grave.

phainon laughs quietly under his breath at his comrade’s reaction, not bothering to hide the tilt of his mouth. 

“don’t cross the line.” the words fall from mydei’s lips, low and clipped like a warning.

phainon laughs —the kind of laugh shared only between men who’ve known each other long enough to grow used to the other’s sharp edges.

“relax,” he drawls, sheathing his blade with a lazy flick. “i was just joking, you can stop glaring at me now.”

“i’m not mad i—”

“you’re not mad because you think i meant it,” he cuts in. “you’re angry because you know i’m right. you’ve been walking around pretending like she doesn’t mean a thing to you, bottling up every damn thing you feel for her. if it were anyone else, they’d have given up by now.”

mydei looks away. “she’s not anyone else,” he mutters. 

phainon smiles. “then tell her.”

mydei stays uncharacteristically silent as phainon steps past with a clap on his shoulder. “you're lucky she’s patient.”

the sour look on your husband’s face whenever phainon’s name comes up is a recent development. 

you first noticed it in passing: an almost imperceptible downturn of his lips, a restrained (but still noticeable) eyeroll or the press of his lips into a tight line. at first, you thought nothing of it. but lately… it’s been happening a lot.

right now, you’re seated in the castle’s sunlit tea room with someone you can now call a friend —phainon. the scent of fresh brews curls in the air, warm and comforting, but it does little to soothe the frustration tightening in your chest.

phainon leans back in his seat as you lay your troubles before him. surely, as one of mydei’s closest friends, he could offer some worthwhile advice on how to win the latter’s heart.

because at this rate, if you don’t manage to win him over before your contract runs its course, you wouldn’t be surprised to wake up with his sword cold against the nape of your neck.

“so… what do you think?” you ask, poking at a pastry with your fork.

phainon hums, tilting his head in thought. “he’s a reserved man —you’ve probably figured that out by now. give him some time, he’s the type to take forever to realize what’s right in front of him.”

he shrugs, a smirk tugging at his lips. “though, i do hope milady won’t give up on him just yet.”

you nod, committing his words to memory, but then he suddenly straightens, that familiar glint of mischief lighting his gaze.

“actually,” he muses, glancing down at his hands, now dusted with crumbs and icing, “my hands are a bit of a mess from this cake. mind doing me a favor?” 

he lifts his sugar-coated fingers in emphasis.

you eye him suspiciously. “...what kind of favor?”

phainon tilts his head, his smile just sly enough to make you wary. “feed me.”

narrowing your eyes, you scoff at his request, “look, buster—”

“just this once,” he interrupts, grinning. “think of it as repaying me for my advice.”

there’s something almost too innocent about the way he leans in, like he’s well aware of what he’s doing… or rather, what exactly might happen if a certain someone were to walk in.

still, with an exaggerated sigh, you pick up a piece of pastry and lift it towards him—

only for a firm grip to catch your wrist before you can.

just your luck.

mydei smoothly takes the sweet straight from your fingers, his lips brushing against your fingertips in the process; his gaze locked onto yours as he takes a bite. 

and before you can pull away —the barest hint of his tongue swipes against the sugar-dusted tips of your fingers, licking away the faint trace of sweetness left behind.

did he just—?

heat rushes to your face. your mouth parts, but no sound comes out.

phainon whistles lowly. “oh yeah i forgot to mention,” he says, far too amused.

“the prince has a sweet tooth.”

for a moment, the only sound in the room is the soft clink of porcelain as phainon sets down his teacup, watching the scene unfold with thinly veiled amusement.

all you can do is stare —frozen, pulse skittering in your throat. 

mydei, on the other hand, is utterly unbothered. if anything, he looks as composed as ever, chewing leisurely, as if he didn’t just—

your fingers twitch in his grasp. finally, he releases your wrist, his touch lingering just a second too long before he pulls away.

you snatch your hand back like you’ve been burned, curling your fingers against your palm as if that will erase the phantom heat of his lips, the fleeting press of his tongue.

phainon wonders if he’s about to be thrown out of the castle with the way you and mydei glare at him (for different reasons, respectively)... but judging by his smirk, he finds the risk well worth it.

the annual gladiatorial tournament is only days away, and kremnos is already stirring with anticipation. you’ve heard the chatter in the halls, the wagers placed on champions, the hushed whispers of which warriors will rise and which will fall. 

seated on a bench near the training grounds, you let the rhythmic clash of weapons fade into background noise, your focus trained instead on the fabric in your hands. a delicate handkerchief, its edges carefully stitched, the embroidery thread gliding through with each careful motion of your needle.

you had learned from a few noble ladies: it’s tradition for warriors to receive tokens of fortune from their beloveds —most commonly, a handkerchief embroidered with care to carry into battle as a reminder that someone’s waiting for them to return.

before you, the clash of steel rings out as two men spar. you glance up just in time to see phainon nimbly dodge a particularly heavy swing, a grin tugging at his lips. “feeling a little aggressive today, aren’t we?”

mydei doesn’t respond. he simply readjusts his grip on his sword, his expression unreadable.

(if you had to put money on why mydei was more aggressive than usual, you’d wager it had something to do with that stunt phainon pulled a few days ago that had left the former in such a foul mood.)

you return to your stitching, pretending not to notice the way your husband’s eyes flicker toward you between exchanges. unknowingly, a small smile tugs at your lips as you press the needle through the cloth once more.

rumors had circulated for years that prince mydeimos had never once accepted a handkerchief from anyone. not from the ladies who fawned over him at court, not from the admirers who sighed at the sight of his swordsmanship, not even from those with the highest of pedigrees.

it was said that no handkerchief had ever found its way into his hands, let alone remained in his possession. you weren’t sure why; perhaps he found them frivolous, or maybe he had no interest in sentimental keepsakes when he relied on skill alone to survive.

…which didn’t exactly bode well for the one currently in your hands.

so as you carefully stitch your embroidery, you don’t hold out much hope that he’ll accept yours either. 

still, it wouldn’t do for the beloved wife of mydeimos to be the only one who hadn’t even offered her husband a handkerchief. whether he accepted it or not was secondary —your duty was to at least play the part expected of you.

as the sparring match winds down, mydei steps off to the side, catching his breath. you discreetly watch as him roll his shoulders, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow.

you glance back down at your embroidery, but before you can add another stitch, phainon strides up to you, shaking out his arms with an exaggerated sigh. “ow… you saw that, right?” he whines, flopping down beside you with an exaggerated sigh. “he’s being so rough with me today!”

you arch a brow, biting back a laugh as he leans against the edge of the bench. “poor thing,” you say, amused. “what did you do to deserve it?”

phainon grins. “absolutely nothing, milady.”

you shake your head, obviously unconvinced —but then, just like that, his playful pout melts into a coprophagous grin that spells nothing but trouble. 

oh no.

“if he wants to be mean,” he muses, tilting his head, “then maybe i should give him a reason for it.”

you frown. “phainon—”

he says, far too casually, “i think i’ve got an idea.”

he leans in slightly, a wolfish grin on his face. “just play along, alright?”

“huh?”

"here, let me show you something." before you can react, phainon takes your hand, pulling you up from your seat with ease. a moment later, a wooden practice sword is tossed into your grasp.

you barely have time to protest before he’s already behind you, his hands resting lightly over yours as he adjusts your grip.

"see?" his voice is low, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath near your ear. "you hold it like this, and—"

“that’s enough.”

both you and phainon turn to see mydei standing a few feet away. he doesn’t look outwardly furious, but there’s the tension in his shoulders says enough.

phainon merely raises an eyebrow. “oh? something wrong, your highness?”

the air thickens and you can practically feel the sparks flying. sensing the storm that’s about to break, you quickly slip out of phainon’s grasp and rush toward mydei, practically throwing yourself into his arms.

“mydei!” you call, mustering the sweetest voice you can manage, hoping to calm him down (before phainon gets his ass kicked again). “y-you must be exhausted after all that training today… why don’t we head back and get some rest?” 

a warm hand brushes against your temple, fingers gently threading through your hair as they tuck it behind your ear. 

even though you were the one who threw yourself at mydei, you find yourself frozen, heart hammering at the unexpected tenderness in his touch. 

his gaze is so unbearably soft.

after a moment, mydei exhales and nods before leading you away.

you steal a glance back at phainon—who only winks and flashes you a thumbs-up.

(mydei lets out a quiet sigh of relief, watching as you do everything in your power to avoid meeting his eyes. if he had stayed any longer and if phainon had caught sight of the faint flush dusting his cheeks —he’d never hear the end of it.)

ACT V: HOW TO EARN HIS DEVOTION

the sun hangs high above kremnos, casting a golden blaze over the arena as the city wakes to the sound of distant drums and the clang of steel. colorful banners bearing the insignias of noble houses flutter from towering spires, while anticipation clings thick to the air.

all of kremnos knows what day it is. the long-awaited gladiatorial tournament has finally arrived.

from the highest nobles draped in silk to the lowest commoners pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the stands, all eyes are drawn to the bloodstained sand at the heart of the arena. 

the rules are simple, brutal, unforgiving: fight until your opponent yields, or until they can no longer stand. and of course, there's no word for “mercy” in the kremnoan language… as mydei would say it.

the air in the holding chambers, hidden beneath the grand coliseum, is heavy with the scent of iron and sweat. you step inside with your small offering in hand: the handkerchief you embroidered, each stitch woven with thoughts of him.

and today, you see you’re not alone. the corridor is packed with people, mostly noblewomen, some nervous sweethearts, all fluttering around their chosen champions, many bearing the same tradition in their palms.

you catch sight of more than a few stretching their handkerchiefs out to mydei, vying for even a small glance. a small crowd trails him like petals in a storm, calling his name with saccharine lilts, each desperate to be noticed.

with the way he’s being swarmed, you resign yourself with a small sigh, clutching your own handkerchief, fingers curling gently around the cloth you spent the last few evenings stitching. 

nevermind. maybe you’ll give it to phainon instead. he always appreciates the gesture, and at the very least, you’d get a smile out of him.

so your eyes scan the crowd instead, searching for—

only to freeze when you look up and see someone else already standing in front of you.

without a word, your husband takes the handkerchief from your hand, presses it to his brow, and dabs away the sweat collecting at his temple; then folds it neatly and tucks it into his belt where everyone can see.

you blink, momentarily startled.

warmth spills into your chest, it’s strange. he never accepts handkerchiefs from anyone. not a single soul has ever earned that privilege. but today, in front of all these people, he’s taken yours without a second thought.

it’s a light gesture, but it says enough coming from the kremnoan prince. 

and if he’s going to make such a bold move, you might as well tease him a little.

you tilt your head, a mischievous smile playing at your lips. “that’s sir phainon’s, you know.”

he stills for a moment, a flash of annoyance crossing his face before he furrows his brows in an almost adorable pout. 

“then he’ll just have to go without,” he mutters.

you’ve never seen him look quite like this before —caught off guard and... flustered?

“... and i wanted one today.”

“well, since you’ve gone through all that trouble,” you say with a grin, “i suppose i’ll let you keep it.”

as you study him, a thought crosses your mind. you raise an eyebrow, “are you nervous about the tournament?”

his eyes flick to yours, “there is no word for ‘fear’ in the kremnoan language,” he replies, his voice low and confident. 

it’s the kind of thing only mydeimos would say. and yet, something about the resolve in his eyes makes your heart skip a beat.

you manage a soft smile. “then bring back the victor’s crown for me, will you?”

honestly it's more of a vow than a request, you’d be content just seeing him return in one piece. but he takes it seriously anyway. 

“if it’s for you,”

his expression softens for just a moment, and without missing a beat, he nods, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

“i’d do anything.”

ACT VI: HOW TO BE VICTORIOUS

from your seat among the nobles, your gaze searches for him. the threads of your dress pinched between trembling fingers, creased from how often you’ve clutched it. 

ever since you’ve come to kremnos, you’ve grown used to the sound of battle, but today every strike echoes a little louder in your ears. 

your heart clenches every time mydei stumbles or blood splashes across the sand. even knowing how strong he is, how capable, there’s a twist of worry that doesn’t loosen its grip. 

the kind you only feel when the person you care about is the one walking straight into danger.

you’d heard stories of what the tournament demands, but seeing it for yourself… it’s surreal. 

the crowd cheers for violence.

warriors enter the arena one by one, facing off not only against each other, but against beasts dragged from the darkest corners of the empire —corrupted titankins, two-headed hounds, massive golems wreathed in flame; just to name a few.

and each time, the gates crash open with a deafening clang, releasing something more vicious than the last. still, he doesn’t falter. when a snarling beast lunges for his throat, he drives his sword deep into its ribs without a second thought. 

the nobles cheer and holler around you, drunk on spectacle. but your eyes don’t leave him, not for a moment.

because while the crowd may be here for blood, all you want… 

is to be the first thing mydei sees when it’s over.

the last of the other competitors lie in heaps of blood and sand, either devoured by the beasts or incapacitated by the prince. there’s no one left to challenge him except the creature before him.

the towering beast staggers toward him; your pulse spikes, hands gripping the edge of your seat as you hold your breath. every step it takes sends tremors through the arena floor, snarls echoing off stone as it bears down on him with a murderous roar.

the beast lunges, jaws snapping wide, but mydei meets it with unyielding resolve. his sword arcs through the air, a flash of silver against the blood-soaked dusk. the beast jerks, a guttural screech tearing from its throat as it rears back. 

for a heartbeat, you can't tell who’s fallen.

then, through the settling haze, you see mydei standing, blood splattered across his armor, chest heaving with exertion. the beast lets out a final screech —and then crumples to the sand in a thunderous collapse.

for a heartbeat, there’s silence. and then the crowd erupts into a deafening cheer.

“mydei!” you cry out, your heart racing as you push through the sea of people to get closer.

he lifts his gaze, and it’s you he finds.

the victor’s crown, gleaming beneath the sun, is placed into his hands. and he raises it high above his head for all to see. 

a roar erupts from the coliseum, the crowd surging to its feet as the name mydeimos echoes from every corner, chanted with unrelenting fervor.

and without hesitation, he strides toward you, his face softening as he approaches.

in a flash, he wraps an arm around your waist and hauls you into his arms, lifting you effortlessly off the ground. he spins you in a wide, sweeping circle before drawing you close. his eyes locking with yours, a triumphant grin playing on his lips. 

with a tenderness that belies his warrior's demeanor, he leans down and presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.

"yours," mydei whispers. he lifts the victor’s crown in both hands, and with all the devotion of a man offering his heart, places it gently atop your head.

you reach up to his bloodied face, your hand trembling slightly as the warmth of his skin seeps into your fingers. your palm comes to rest against his cheek.

“you came back to me,” you murmur.

he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for the briefest moment —like he’s been waiting for this, aching for it.

“i always will.”

you rise onto your toes, closing the distance between you.

at the end of the day, all mydei seeks is not victory or glory, but the soft sound of his name on the lips of his beloved, wrapped in an embrace that makes him forget the harshness of the battlefield.

EPILOGUE: HOW TO WIN HIM OVER

the question that once haunted your thoughts —how could i ever win his heart? —feels like a distant memory now, an answer long since found.

mydei looks at you with a softness in his eyes that you’ve come to know as a rare gift. his hand, calloused from battles fought and won, reaches for yours, his fingers brushing against yours before entwining it. 

“by the way, i’m actually… immortal. my injuries heal up after a while.”

you blink at him in confusion, and he chuckles softly, the sound warm and fond.

“wait, then that time when you—” you pause, recalling the night you carefully wrapped up his injury.

he grins, a small, playful glint in his eyes. ”i just like the way you worry over me.”

the admission leaves a flutter in your chest as his thumb gently strokes the back of your hand. 

you huff, pretending to be upset, though your heart races at the softness in his words. “you mean to say all that time i was worried sick over you for nothing?”

he tilts his head, feigning innocence. “it wasn’t for no reason,” he says, clearly trying not to smile. “i liked it. still do.”

you narrow your eyes, lips tugging into a pout. “well, you could’ve told me sooner! now i feel ridiculous.”

with a soft chuckle, mydei’s fingers brush through your hair in a gentle, almost apologetic gesture. he ruffles it lightly, his touch surprisingly tender. “you’re adorable when you’re upset,” he murmurs, his voice holding a sweetness that makes your heart skip a beat.

you can’t help but soften, the playful anger fading as his hand lingers for a moment longer. he pulls you a little closer, his forehead gently resting against yours. “don’t be mad. i’ll let you fuss over me for as long as you want, as long as you’re by my side.”

“you better mean that! i’m holding you to it.”

he hums, the sound low and content as he presses a kiss to your temple. “i do,” he whispers. “if there’s one thing i’ll always be sure of, it’s you.”

you think back to every hesitation, every guarded glance, the walls he built high around his heart. and now, that same heart rests in your hands. 

“looks like i managed to win you over after all,” you tease softly.

the way he looks at you says more than words ever could —as if you’re the only war he’s ever been glad to lose.

his fingers stay curled around yours; his heart laid bare with the quiet, breathtaking certainty that he is yours, as much as you are his.

"i love you, [name]."

and if this is victory, it’s the sweetest one yet.

thank you for reading!! reblogs are appreciated <3

The Resistance was quiet, most of its members already sleeping. Soft snores and murmurs echoed through the cave as the sky people had turned their lights off, signalling they were all turning in for the night.

So’lek couldn’t sleep.

 Not while his brain whirred with thoughts. Rosters to review, errands to keep track of. Soldiers to hunt.

 He sat outside the cave hidden away in a small nook in a tree. His back pressed on the bark, the rough surface scratching the skin that wasn’t covered with his protective gear.

You softly stepped to him, leaves crunching below your feet. So’lek’s ears perk, his tail pointing up mid-air.

“It is me Ma So’lek” You whisper out softly, your body glowing softly in the dark light.

So’lek’s stern expression melted into something soft and gooey as he stood to see you. “You should be resting.” His hands come to your sides, enveloping your waist as he pulls you close.

“I can say the same about you.” Your hands travel down from his shoulders to his forearms to hold onto them lightly. Your thumbs softly caressing the rough scarred skin that adorned his arms.

“I cannot sleep.” A sigh escaped his lips looking down at you, his hands grazing your skin. “Need to think, sort my thoughts out.”

You tilted your head at him with a small frown. “At least go to sleep soon, you need rest. You are working too hard.”

So’lek nodded. He knew he was. Every moment of his life was being consumed by the work he threw himself into only able to be torn away from it by the likes of you. “I will.” He leant down placing a soft kiss on your forehead. “Go on, get back inside it is late.” You smiled as his lips met your skin stepping away as you headed back for your cot inside.

The mission went south almost as soon as it had started.

You were careless. Firing on a RDA soldier without checking the rest of the perimeter, instantly alerting the entire facility of the ‘enemies’ on the premises.

You disappeared into the chaos quickly, smoke covering your shadow. Disappearing into the gunfire for just a moment too long.

A moment that almost broke So’lek.

You were too fast to follow, carelessly running headfirst into the battle as if you had nothing to lose. But as So’lek called out to you he realised he had everything to lose.

By the time you two had regrouped back at Resistance adrenaline rushed through his veins, sharp and unforgiving. His hands shook as he gripped onto his rifle planting his feet onto the soil desperately trying to clutch himself back to reality.

You found So’lek standing in the clearing outside the Resistance entrance. He was almost frozen looking out towards him his ribs trembling with every exhale.

“Ma So’lek” Your words were careful as you approached him from behind “Priya wanted to talk to you-”

“What were you thinking?” He snapped, his voice acting like a blade cutting into you.

Your eyes widened. You had never seen him like this. Chest heaving, eyes wide, ears and tail stiff and threatening.

“You were careless.” He continued stepping closer to you. “You know better.”

“I did not see the other on patrol.” You let out a shaky exhale. Your confusion bleeding into defensiveness. “I had it under control…eventually.”

So’lek let out a quiet hiss of disapproval.

“And what if you didn’t get it under control?” His body seethed, eyes wide with anger. “What if you-” His voice cracked. “What if you had been shot?”

Your speech faltered. “I wasn’t. It’s fine.”

“Fine?” So’lek’s voice was low, a vicious tone biting you in the heart. “This is far from fine.” His fists clenched tightly as he let out a shaky exhale. “You always do this. You take risks. You are careless. And I am left behind you-” His eyes shut tightly trying to get rid of the image he was conjuring in his head.

Blood spurting out of your skin, taking your last breath because he wasn’t fast enough to save you.

You voice was softer now, your hand wrapping around his forearm trying to ground him. “So’lek…I can take care of myself.”

His control shattered. Quick and brittle as his head shot up to look you in your eye. “No.” A sharp breath. “No! You cannot. You always need to be watched. As if you cannot help yourself from throwing yourself into a situation much bigger than you.”

His words hung between you. Cruel, unforgiving and heart-breaking.

Your arm drops from his. Your heart tightening in your chest. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” His words were sharp shooting you right where it hurt. “You are always causing trouble. I cannot do anything on a mission because I cannot take my eyes off you. In case you throw yourself into reckless danger once again.”

Your eyes burned, hands shaking as you took a small step away from him. Yet watching you distance yourself felt like there was a sea of woes between you.

“Is that what you think of me?” It was weak, voice cracking as you wouldn’t dare to look him in the eyes.

So’lek broke out of his angry haze as he heard your voice crack. Simultaneously cracking his heart. “That is not-”

You cut him off, pain bleeding through your composure as your lips quivered. “I didn’t know I was such an inconvenience.”

The moment the words left your mouth his face drained of colour. All the anger in his body churning into horror as he looked at what his words had done to you.

The regret hit him like a physical blow, hands shaking to reach out to you. His mouth opening and closing as he struggled to find the right words.

You turned away before he could reach you, before he could utter an apology.

"You keep talking about how we do not belong here," you hissed, your ears pinned so far back they were practically invisible against your skull. You poked him again, harder this time, forcing him to take a stumbling step back through the waist-high waves.

"But all I see is a boy who is so insecure about his own position that he has to pick on the people who came here for help, people who know nothing of this ocean." You poked him a third time, driving him further back. "You think you are a big warrior because you can swim? My father was Toruk Makto. My mother has killed more Sky People than you’ve seen fish.” you boasted, tilting your head up as to look down on him, despite him being taller.

“And me?" You drove your finger into his chest again, pressing him backward with every syllable. He really was taller than you, broader too— you began to notice it but chose to ignore the fact that if a fight broke out he’d have you beat. But your sheer ferocity was a physical force. He was mesmerized, his eyes blown wide as he watched the way your amber eyes flared.

"I have lived through a war you cannot even begin to imagine.” you seethed through your teeth “So if you think i am going to sit here and let some half-brained, arrogant piece of shit tell me Im 'pathetic' because I do not have a tail like a paddle, you’ve got another thing coming." You didn't stop. You kept pressing into his space, forcing him deeper into the shallows, your tail standing straight up behind you like a spear.

"Your father told you to teach us?" you hissed, your face inches from his, your accent dripping with venom. "Then teach. Stop being a dickhead and do your job. Otherwise, get out of the water before I show you exactly how this 'clumsy' forest girl can whoop ass. Do you understand me, or are your ears filled with sea-foam, fish boy?"

The silence was absolute. Rotxo and the other Metkayina boys were frozen, eyes wide. Tsireya looked like she wanted to hide under a rock. Neteyam just crossed his arms, a small, hidden smirk playing on his lips as he watched his twin sister absolutely bamboozle the boy.

Aonung didn't move to strike back. He didn't even try to push your hand away. He just stared at you, his skin flushing a deeper shade. His wide pale eyes looked at your finger still pressed against his chest, then back up at your face. For the first time, he wasn't smirking. He looked dazed—almost intoxicated by the heat of your rage.

"Well?" you challenged, your chest heaving with exertion. "Are we going to swim, or are you going to keep catching flies with your mouth open?" Your ears flickered forward, the rage you felt finally flowing out of your body after getting it all out.

Aonung finally pulled his gaze away from yours, though it seemed to take a physical effort. He cleared his throat, trying to regain some of his lost composure. "Yes. We... we are wasting daylight. Everyone, under. Now."

As the group began to submerge, you stayed on the surface for a moment longer, breathing deeply to calm the fire in your veins. You felt Aonung’s eyes on you again. He was watching you as he dove, but the look in his eyes had changed. He didn't think you were pathetic you were toruk makto’s daughter for eywas sake. He thought you were the most terrifyingly beautiful thing he had ever seen.

As you finally dove under, joining your brothers, you caught Aonung looking at you through the clear water. He wasn't even watching Lo'ak's form anymore; he was just watching the way your slender tail moved, and the way your amber eyes never once lost their spark. He was in deep—and it had nothing to do with the ocean.

The following morning, the heat was a physical weight, pressing down on the woven platforms of Awa’atlu. The lesson today had shifted from the physical strain of swimming to the mental strain of communication. You sat cross-legged on the cool, braided reeds of a teaching gazebo that jutted out over the lagoon, the water below so clear it looked like glass.

You were flanked by Neteyam and Lo’ak. Your tail was still stiff, a lingering sign of your mood from the day before, and your ears were turned slightly outward, catching every whisper of the village. You were still annoyed—annoyed at the heat, annoyed at the salt, and specifically annoyed at the boy sitting directly across from you.

Tsireya sat in the center, her presence a calm pool of water between two fires. Aonung, however, was a different story. He sat with his broad shoulders squared, his thick tail sculling the water through a gap in the floorboards. He wasn't smirking as much today, but his eyes were fixed on you with a focused, predatory intensity that made the fine hairs on your arms stand up.

"In the water, the tongue is silent, words are quite literally drowned out" Tsireya explained, her hands moving in fluid, melodic patterns. "We speak with the hands. It must be precise. If the hand is lazy, the meaning is lost."

She demonstrated the sign for Tulkun—a grand, sweeping motion. You mirrored her, your slender fingers moving with a natural grace.

"You are doing it wrong," Aonung’s voice cut in. It wasn't the loud mockery of the previous day; it was lower, sharper. You stopped mid-motion, your eyes snapping to his. "Excuse me?"

"Your fingers," Aonung said, leaning forward until he was encroaching on your space. "They are too close together. You’re signing 'small fish,' not 'Tulkun.' Unless you believe a Tulkun is the size of a minnow?"

You didn't break eye contact. "I think i am signing it just fucking fine, Ao’nung. Perhaps your eyes are as useless as your teaching has proven to be."

The mention of his name—or rather, your sharp use of it—made his ears flick back. Neteyam shifted beside you, sensing the temperature rising. "Tsmuke, just widen your hand," he muttered under his breath, trying to play peacemaker.

"No," you said, the word sound like a snap of a dry branch when rolling off your tongue. "If he wants to be a teacher, he can teach me. But he does not get to lie about my form just to hear himself speak."

Aonung’s jaw tightened. He didn't back down. Instead, he raised his hands and began to sign rapidly, his movements aggressive and clipped. He signed clumsy, then stubborn, then forest-dweller. He did it with a sneer, his eyes challenging you to keep up.

"You move like you are still a monkey swinging through trees," he said, his voice a low challenge. "This is the ocean. We do not have time for your 'refinement.' We need clarity."

You rolled your eyes dramatically. "And we don't have time for a teacher who spends more time looking at my face than the gestures you are trying to teach. Are you going to teach, or are you going to keep staring at me like I’m a stranded stingbat?"

The air between you turned brittle. The tension was so thick that even the breeze seemed to avoid the gazebo. Tsireya looked between the two of you, her brow furrowing. She saw the way your tail was lashing, and the way Aonungs chest was heaving as if he’d just run a mile.

"I am staring," Aonung said, his voice tightening, "because you are doing it wrong."

"Then show me," you challenged, thrusting your hands toward him. "Show me, oh great Master of the Sea. Show me how a real warrior signs it."

Aonung reached out, his large, cool hand grabbing your wrist to adjust your fingers. He didn't do it gently. He moved your hand with a rough, impatient jerk, forcing your fingers into the correct position. "There," he hissed. "That is a Tulkun."

You didn't pull away. You stayed there, your wrist in his grip, your eyes boring into his. "you are shaking, Aonung."

He froze. He was. A fine tremor was running through his fingers where they gripped your dark skin. He looked down at his own hand, then back at you, and for a split second, the bravado cracked. A deep, bruised indigo flush began to creep up his neck, staining his cheeks a dark, tell-tale purple.

He was blushing. Hard.

Tsireya’s eyes went wide. She looked at her brother’s face, at the way he was still holding your wrist, then at your defiant, narrowed eyes. She saw the way the air seemed to vibrate between you—with a raw, unfinished energy that was making everyone else in the gazebo incredibly uncomfortable.

"Aonung," Tsireya said, her voice small. "You can let go now."

Aonung snapped his hand back as if he’d been burned. He turned his head away quickly, but the purple flush on his ears was unmistakable. He let out a sharp, frustrated huff, his tail lashing the water so hard it splashed up through the floorboards.

"Her hands are just... they are too small," Aonung muttered, his voice cracking slightly. "It is frustrating."

"My hands are fine," you snapped back, though your own heart was thudding against your ribs. "it is your head that is the problem."

Lo’ak leaned over to Neteyam, his voice a loud whisper. "What the hell is happening? Are they going to kill each other or what?"

Neteyam didn't answer. He just watched the way you and Ao’nung were pointedly not looking at each other now, both of you looking like you wanted to jump into the ocean just to cool off. Tsireya caught your eye and then looked at her brother, a knowing, slightly worried look crossing her face. She realized right then that Ao’nung wasn't just annoyed by you. He was completely rattled by you once again.

"Let us try the sign for hunt," Tsireya said, trying to break the spell.

"Good," you muttered, your ears flicking forward. "I’m very good at hunting things that annoy me." Aonung didn't respond, but you saw his tail give one final, violent lash against the water. The tension stayed, thick and heavy, a silent storm waiting for the right moment to break.

Days later, after a fight between your brothers and Ao’nung and his friends over them picking on kiri. Lo’ak informed you that Ao’nung offered to take him hunting with their group as an apology— but the sun was dipping below the horizon, and a cold, oily dread had begun to pool in your stomach the moment the hunting party returned without your youngest brother.

You stood on the main braided walkway, your hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. Beside you, Neteyam was a statue of vibrating tension, his eyes scanning the darkening surf. Ao’nung and his circle of friends emerged from the water, their movements hurried, their faces pale under the bioluminescence beginning to glow on their skin.

"Where is he?" Neteyam’s voice cracked like a whip. "Aonung! Where is my brother?"

Aonung stumbled onto the walkway, dripping wet. He wouldn't look at Neteyam. He wouldn't look at his father, Tonowari, who was approaching with a terrifying, silent gravity. But his eyes flickered to you for a split second, and in that moment, you saw it: the guilt. The stuttering, pathetic shadow of a boy who had played a game he wasn't man enough to finish.

"He... he was right behind us," Aonung stammered, his voice thin. "We were just swimming. He must have gotten turned around. You know how forest people are, they can't—"

"Aonung," Tsireya’s voice rose in a sob as she broke through the crowd, her face streaked with salt and tears. "Tell them! You took him past the reef! You left him in the deep water!"

The world seemed to tilt. The deep water. The hunting grounds of the Akula.

Something inside you didn't just break—it incinerated. Every ounce of restraint you had practiced for your father, every "diplomatic" breath you had taken to keep the peace, evaporated in the heat of pure rage.

Your ears didn't just pin back; they once again vanished against the curve of your skull. Your pupils dilated until your amber eyes were nothing but twin pits of black fire. You didn't growl; you let out a sound that was half-hiss, half-scream.

"You piece of shit!"

The curse, sharp and jagged in the Sky People’s tongue, shocked the nearby Metkayina, but you weren't finished. Before anyone could track your movement, you lunged.

You were a blur of dark skin and fury. You hit Aonung with the force of a falling tree, the momentum carrying both of you off the walkway and into the shallow, churning water below. You didn't care about the splash. You didn't care about the gasps of the village. You were on top of him in an instant, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you shook him.

"You cowardly, bottom-feeding son of a bitch!" you shrieked, the language of your father flowing out of you in a gutteral torrent of filth. "I told you! I warned you not to fuck with us! You left him to die? You left my kid-brother in the dark?"

Aonung’s hands came up instinctively to shield his face, his eyes wide with genuine terror. He had seen you angry, but he had never seen you like this.

"It was a joke—we were just—"

"A joke?" you roared, and before he could finish, you pulled back your fist.

You didn't hit like the frail girl your frame suggested. You put every bit of your weight, every bit of your betrayal, and every bit of your fear for Lo'ak into a single, devastating punch. Your knuckles connected with his cheekbone with a sickening thud that echoed off the nearby pods. Aonung’s head snapped to the side, his skin split at the contact.

You raised your fist again, a string of curses falling from your lips that would have made a Marine raider blush. You were reaching for his throat, your hands ready to leave marks that would never heal, when two powerful arms wrapped around your chest.

"Sister! Stop! Let go!"

It was Neteyam. He hauled you back, feet splashing in the surf as he struggled to keep his grip on you. You were a thrashing, wild animal in his arms, your heels kicking at the water as you tried to get back to Aonung, who was slumped in the shallows, clutching his face in shock.

"Let me go, Neteyam! I’ll kill him! I swear to Eywa, I will gut him like a fish!" you screamed, your accent making the threats sound like a dark prayer. "You motherfucking coward! Look at me! Where is my goddamn brother!"

"(Y/N)! Look at me!" Neteyam shouted, spinning you around so you had to face him. His own face was a mask of panic, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "He’s not worth it! Lo'ak is still out there! We have to find him! Do you hear me? We have to go now!"

The mention of Lo'ak’s name acted like a bucket of ice water. The adrenaline didn't leave you, but it redirected. You stopped thrashing, though your body was still vibrating with a violent tremor, ears swiveling. You looked past Neteyam to where Aonung was being pulled up by Rotxo, his face already beginning to bruise, blood dripping from his wound into the turquoise tide.

You pointed a trembling finger at him, your voice dropping to a deadly, vibrating whisper that carried over the sound of the waves.

"If my brother is dead," you promised, "there is no corner of this ocean deep enough to hide you from me. I will find you. And I will finish this."

Neteyam didn't give you another second. He gripped your hand tight, pulling you toward the banshees. "Move! We're losing light!"

You turned your back on Aonung, leaving him standing in the red wash of the sunset, broken and humiliated by the girl he found himself most drawn to. You didn't look back as you mounted your Ikran, your mind screaming one name over and over again as you took to the dark, unforgiving sky.

The return of Lo’ak had been a frantic, saltwater-drenched blur. You remembered the agonizing wait, the silhouette of the Tulkun against the moon, and the bone-crushing hug you’d given your brother—a hug that was half-relief and half-threat to never scare you like that again. Then came the shock of his lie. You had watched through narrowed, disbelieving eyes as Lo’ak stood before the Olo’eyktan and took the full weight of the blame on his own shoulders. You had scoffed, rolling your eyes so hard they ached, but you had remained silent. You knew the price of that peace, and though it tasted like shit in your mouth, you didn't contradict him.

The rage that had fueled your punch the night before had cooled into a heavy, throbbing ache by the following morning. Your right hand was swollen, the knuckles a bruised indigo that matched the dark markings of your skin, the heat already beginning to shimmer off the turquoise water.

Inside the Tsahik’s pod, the only sound was the rhythmic scraping of a pestle and the distant, hollow call of an ilu. Ronal’s hands were steady and clinical as she worked; she had tended to Aonung first, her silence more piercing than any scolding could have been. You sat a few paces back, nursing your swollen right hand, watching as she finished bandaging his face.

Aonung didn't look at you. He stood up slowly, nodding to his mother with a quiet "Irayo," and ducked out through the woven entrance without a word.

When it was your turn, Ronal took your hand. Her touch was firm, her eyes scanning the deep indigo bruising across your knuckles. She applied a cooling, pungent paste that made your skin tingle, then wrapped it in clean, white sea-fiber. She didn't offer any maternal comfort, only a sharp, knowing look that told you she understood the fire that had driven the blow. When she finished, she tapped your hand twice and gestured to the exit.

You stepped out of the shaded pod and into the blinding brightness of the walkway. You expected to be alone, but Aonung was leaning against one of the carved wooden pillars, his tail trailing listlessly in the water below. He looked up as you approached, the bandage on his face stark against his teal skin.

He didn’t smirk. He didn't even try for a witty comeback. He just looked at your bandaged hand and then back at your face.

"You punch harder than your brothers," he said, his voice raspy. He gestured with a tilt of his head to the fading yellow bruise around his other eye—the mark Lo’ak had left on him during that fight over teasing Kiri. "Lo’ak’s was good. But yours... I felt that in my soul."

You looked at your hand, then back at him. "Yeah. Dad’s strength. He says if you’re going to punch something, you make sure it’s worth the pain."

Aonung let out a soft, dry huff—a laugh. "He taught you well."

The walk back toward the village center was quiet. For the first time, the silence wasn't jagged or filled with the need to sharpen your tongue. You walked side-by-side, the rhythmic thump-thump of your feet on the braided walkways matching the pulse of the tide. You passed hunters preparing their nets and children splashing in the shallows, but your focus remained on the path ahead.

The weight of the previous night still hung between you. You knew why Lo’ak had lied, and Aonung knew that you knew. The guilt was visible in the way he kept his shoulders hunched, his usual bravado stripped away to reveal a boy who was finally realizing the cost of his own pride.

Just before you reached the clearing where the other teens were gathering for the final lesson of the Way of Water, Aonung stopped. He turned to face you, the morning sun catching the pale skin of his chest.

"Wait," he said softly. You stopped, turning your head to look at him, your amber eyes searching his.

Aonung hesitated, his throat working as he searched for the words. Then, he reached out. His large, cool hand hovered for a second before he gently took your bandaged hand in his. He didn't grip it; he held it with a reverence that made your heart skip a beat.

"I am sorry," he said, his voice steady and clear. "For everything. For the things I said, for the way I treated your siblings... and for leaving Lo’ak." He looked down at your joined hands, his thumb brushing lightly over the white fiber of your bandage. "I was a coward. I wanted to be a leader by making others small, but all I did was make myself look pathetic."

You didn't pull away. You felt the sincerity in the way his hand trembled slightly against yours.

"I wish to start over," Aonung continued, finally meeting your gaze. "With you. With your family. As of today, after this lesson, you are no longer just guests. You are brothers and sisters of the Metkayina. I want to be someone who you all can depend on ."

You looked at him for a long moment, the salt air blowing a loose strand of hair across your face. You saw the boy who had mocked your tail, but you also saw the man he was trying to become.

"Fine," you said, your voice softening as you looked him in the eye. "But if you call me a 'forest monkey' one more time, I am using the other hand. And I won't be going to the Tsahik for paste afterward."

Aonung let out a genuine laugh this time, the sound bright and clear. "I think I’ve learned my lesson."

He didn't let go of your hand until you were in sight of Neteyam and Lo’ak. As you approached your brothers, you saw Neteyam’s eyes dart to your joined hands, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. Lo’ak just smirked, a knowing look passing between him and Aonung.

The final lesson was beginning. As you dove into the water together, the transition felt seamless. You weren't Omatikaya and Metkayina anymore; you were a single unit, moving with the tide.

LO'AK SULLY

you sit two rows ahead of him in history.

lo’ak slouches in his chair, boots hooked around the metal legs, tapping a pen against the desk like he’s daring it to break. he hasn’t slept. you can tell— dark circles, jaw tight, knuckles raw like he’s been punching walls or worse.

the teacher drones on about revolutions.

ironic.

you feel it before you see it— his gaze.

not predatory. not mocking. just… heavy. like he’s trying not to look and failing.

you turn slightly, just enough to glance back.

he freezes.

caught.

his eyebrows lift in a lazy challenge, mouth quirking like what? but then you look away again, cheeks warm, and something in his expression softens. his pen stops tapping.

after class, chaos spills into the hallway. lockers slam. voices overlap.

you’re struggling with your books when suddenly they’re lighter.

you blink.

lo’ak is holding half of them.

“you walk like you’re carrying bricks,” he mutters.

you stare at him. “i didn’t ask—”

“yeah, yeah,” he interrupts, already walking. “i know.”

you hurry to keep up, heart pounding because this is dangerous territory. being seen with him. being talked about.

“you’re gonna get me in trouble,” you whisper.

he scoffs. “relax. people already think i’m a problem. you’re just collateral.”

“that’s not comforting.”

he glances at you, something amused flickering in his eyes. “wasn’t meant to be.”

when he hands your books back, your fingers brush.

electric.

he pulls away first.

lo’ak notices everything about you but pretends he doesn’t. the way you chew your pen when you’re thinking. how you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re nervous. the way you avoid eye contact when you’re lying to your parents. he never swears around you at first. catches himself mid-word and grumbles under his breath. your parents hate him without even meeting him. they’ve heard the rumors. lo’ak skips class constantly — except the ones you’re in. he’s fiercely protective, even when he has no right to be.

it’s raining.

your parents are late.

you’re standing under the awning by the front entrance, arms crossed, trying not to panic. you text your mom. no reply.

a motorcycle engine growls nearby.

you know that sound.

“you’re gonna catch a cold,” lo’ak says, helmet under his arm.

you frown. “you shouldn’t be here.”

“why?” he challenges. “scared someone’s gonna see us?”

“yes,” you say immediately.

he snorts, but there’s something bitter in it. “figured.”

the rain gets heavier.

after a moment, he sighs, running a hand through his curls. “get on.”

your eyes widen. “absolutely not.”

“your parents aren’t answering. it’s pouring. and i’m not leaving you here.”

“they’ll kill me.”

“they don’t have to know.”

you hesitate. every rule you’ve ever lived by screaming in your head.

lo’ak softens his tone. “i swear i’ll get you home safe.”

you search his face. for lies. for recklessness.

you find sincerity instead.

“…okay,” you whisper.

he helps you with the helmet, hands careful, respectful. when you climb on, you keep a polite distance.

the bike roars to life.

“hold on,” he says.

you hesitate again— then wrap your arms around his waist.

he stills.

just for a second.

then he rides.

slow. controlled. nothing like his usual reckless speed. every turn calculated. every stop smooth.

when you get home, you climb off shakily.

“thanks,” you murmur.

he shrugs, suddenly awkward. “anytime.”

as he rides away, your phone buzzes.

where are you? — mom.

your heart drops.

your parents ground you for a week.

no phone after nine. no going out. no excuses.

at school, you ignore lo’ak.

not out of cruelty— out of fear.

he notices.

of course he does.

he corners you by the lockers, jaw tight. “did i do something?”

you swallow. “we can’t… i can’t.”

“can’t what?” his voice sharpens. “talk?”

“be seen together.”

that hurts him. you see it.

he laughs, hollow. “right. forgot you’re perfect.”

“that’s not fair,” you whisper. “you don’t know what it’s like—”

“yeah,” he snaps. “i don’t. i don’t have anyone checking if i get home alive.”

silence.

then, quieter, “i’d do anything to keep you safe.”

you look at him, eyes shining. “then stay away.”

that breaks him.

he steps back. nods once. “got it.”

and he does.

for days.

lo’ak takes the fall for fights he didn’t start if it means you won’t be questioned. he watches you from afar, making sure no one messes with you. you keep his old hoodie hidden in your closet. you don’t remember how you got it. it smells like rain and gasoline. he changes. slowly. not for school. not for teachers. for you. everyone sees him as a problem. you see him as a boy trying to survive. and someday— not yet, but someday, you’ll choose each other openly.

AO'NUNG

practice is loud. sneakers squeak, balls thud, coach shouts.

you’re scribbling numbers when a shadow looms over you.

“you missed one.”

you flinch.

ao’nung crouches in front of you, sweat-damp curls pushed back with a headband, hands on his knees. close. too close.

“missed what?” you ask softly.

“my assist. second quarter drill.”

you check your sheet. “…you’re right.”

a grin spreads across his face, proud, smug. “told you.”

you swallow. “sorry.”

“don’t be,” he says easily.

he jogs back onto the court, calling plays like he owns the space— because he does. but every time he scores, he glances at you.

making sure you’re watching.

ao’nung loves that you’re quiet. it grounds him. he starts bringing you water without asking. everyone assumes you’re invisible. ao’nung never does. he teases you gently, never cruel. saves his sharp edges for everyone else. you know his stats better than anyone. that secretly matters to him.

after a game, they win.

of course they do.

the gym is chaos— cheers, chants, phones out. ao’nung is swarmed by teammates and friends, clapped on the back, lifted into laughter.

you’re packing up quietly when he finds you.

“hey,” he says, breathless. “you’re leaving?”

“i didn’t want to get in the way.”

he frowns. “you’re literally part of the team.”

then, without thinking, he grabs your wrist and pulls you toward the locker hallway.

you panic. “ao’nung—!”

he stops, realizing. releases you instantly. “…sorry.”

you stare at the floor. “it’s okay.”

he exhales, running a hand down his face. the bravado slips.

“i just—” he hesitates. “you disappear too fast.”

your heart stutters. “why would that matter?”

he looks at you. really looks.

“…because i like it when you're around.”

you start studying together.

at first, it’s just homework. you tutor him in math. he helps you with confidence— correcting you when you apologize too much, making you repeat answers louder.

“again,” he says gently. “you know it.”

you nod. “i know it.”

“then say it like you do.”

slowly, you do.

one night, he shows up late. quieter than usual.

“rough practice?” you ask.

he shakes his head. “scout said i’m good. not great.”

you blink. “that’s… bad?”

“it is when everyone expects perfection.”

he sinks into the chair beside you, shoulders heavy.

“people think i don’t care,” he mutters. “that i’m just arrogant.”

you look at him. the real him. “you care more than anyone.”

his jaw tightens.

“…thanks.”

that’s the night he stops performing around you.

pep rally.

the cheerleaders surround him. cameras flash. someone kisses his cheek. the crowd screams.

you watch from the back, heart sinking. of course this is his world. loud. bright. nothing like you.

you leave early.

later, your phone buzzes.

ao’nung— where did you go you— home. didn’t want to bother you

there’s a knock at your door an hour later.

you open it to find him standing there, hoodie pulled tight, eyes serious.

“don’t decide what i want for me,” he says quietly.

you whisper, “i don’t belong in your life.”

he steps closer. “you’re the part that feels real.”

silence stretches.

he doesn’t kiss you. doesn’t rush.

just rests his forehead against yours.

“when you’re ready,” he murmurs. “i’m here.”

ao’nung stops showing off when you’re around. doesn’t need to. he listens to you. really listens. you attend every game. he plays better when he knows you’re there. he defends you fiercely when people underestimate you. you teach him humility. he teaches you confidence. he falls hard. slowly. completely.

NETEYAM SULLY

you meet because of student council.

you flop into the seat beside him like you own the place, ponytail swinging, lip gloss freshly applied.

“hi,” you beam. “you’re neteyam, right?”

he looks up from his neatly organized notes, blinks once.

“…yeah.”

“cool, i'm... cheer captain. i talk a lot.”

a corner of his mouth twitches. “i noticed.”

you laugh, unbothered. “good. keeps things interesting.”

he glances at you again — really looks this time. the confidence. the ease. the way you fill space so naturally.

interesting is one word for it.

neteyam admires your confidence even if he doesn’t understand it at first. you tease him for color-coding his notes. he pretends to be annoyed. he always holds doors open for you. always. everyone assumes you’d never go for someone like him. everyone is wrong. neteyam is quietly protective. always watching. always aware.

cheer practice runs late.

football practice runs later.

you’re stretching on the sidelines when neteyam jogs over, towel around his neck, hair damp with sweat.

“you okay?” he asks.

you grin. “me? always.”

you attempt a stunt again. land wrong. wobble.

he’s there instantly, hands on your waist, steadying you.

“careful,” he murmurs.

your breath catches. “you stalking me, sully?”

he exhales a soft laugh. “someone has to make sure you don’t break your neck.”

“wow. romantic.”

he meets your eyes. steady. serious. “i mean it.”

for the first time, your smile softens.

you sit together during lunch now.

people stare. whisper. speculate.

“they think we’re dating,” you say lightly, popping a fry into your mouth.

neteyam stiffens. “does that bother you?”

you tilt your head. “does it bother you?”

he considers. honest as always. “…no.”

later, you catch him rubbing his temple, staring at a test score like it personally offended him.

“hey,” you say. “you got a 94.”

“i know.”

“neteyam, that’s basically illegal.”

he sighs. “i just don’t like slipping.”

you lean closer. “you don’t slip. you breathe.”

he looks at you — really looks — and for once, he lets himself smile without restraint.

“you make things feel lighter,” he admits.

you grin. “told you i was useful.”

pep rally night.

you’re electric. chants, jumps, smiles so bright they hurt. neteyam watches from the bleachers, arms crossed, eyes never leaving you.

after, he finds you behind the gym, sitting on the steps, energy finally winding down.

“you okay?” he asks, mirroring your earlier question.

you shrug. “being ‘on’ all the time gets tiring.”

he sits beside you. close, but respectful.

“…you don’t have to perform for me,” he says quietly.

your throat tightens.

“you don’t have to be perfect for me either.”

he turns to you, surprised.

and in that moment, something shifts.

it’s late. quiet. just the hum of the lights.

you lean back on your hands. “you ever do something just for yourself?”

neteyam thinks. “…not enough.”

you smile softly. “you should.”

he watches you. your openness. your warmth.

“…i am,” he says.

you lean in first.

he meets you halfway.

gentle. careful. like he treats everything precious.

when you pull back, his forehead rests against yours.

“i’d protect you with my life,” he says simply.

you laugh softly, eyes shining. “yeah. i know.”

neteyam walks you to your car every night. you drag him to dances. he pretends to hate them. he cheers the loudest for you. always. you remind him life isn’t a checklist. he reminds you you’re more than applause. together, you’re unstoppable — heart and honor in perfect balance.

You had met Ao'nung maybe seven years ago, the first time your parents allowed you to accompany them. It was a cold winter, before humans could approach the snowy mountains of your clan where at present, they were already settling. You remembered how you had run your hands through the water, excited to smell new scents and meet new people. You remembered the warmth inside your big coat that tried to cover you and also, of course, you remembered the faces of those who welcomed you to their lands.

"She is our daughter, we hope that in the future she will be the designated messenger for these islands, Tonowari" your father spoke, extending his pale hand to yours which despite being covered, was the same shade. Looking up you bumped into the one who was the chief, with his partner and hidden behind the Tsahìk were their eldest son and the youngest daughter.

You didn't really like it when your parents introduced you to other clans in the mountains. Not only because they might see you as weak or clumsy due to your moon-shiny skin, but also because they often wanted to get their hands on the 'gift of Eywa'. However, from Ronal's gaze you immediately picked up that your physique was not something that caught her attention in the least and even, she seemed to disown it, looking at you with disdain when she passed by you those five days you stayed as a young na'vi.

"The previous winter you didn't come. I thought--we thought you wouldn't come this time" the boy corrected himself ominously, positioning himself to one side of you, feeling how the rain was gradually lowering its intensity.

"You missed me?" by the way he looked at you, you noticed he was surprised by your comment, but when you laughed he could only roll his eyes.

"Please, you?" he grumbled, smiling. "You people teach slow, that's all. I had a hard time understanding them. I needed my designated teacher" he gave a false explanation to which you added other words with derision.

"Or maybe we are too fast for you" you started to walk back to the marui, but he took your hand. It felt warm, unlike yours which was always cold.

"Where are you going, are you planning to hide?"

"Show, actually."

...

Ao'nung wasn't an idiot. He knew that since the first winter his feelings for you had begun to blossom, ironic as it seemed. Though there was always something that made him recoil when he sought to express himself to you. Perhaps the idea that by having a beauty beyond perfection -according to him- you would be paired with someone from the snowy mountains, maybe because he belonged to the water and you to the snow or simply, the voice of his mother and friends was stuck deep in his mind and heart. But there was always something that stopped him from showing you his true personality.

His sister called him childish, but for him there was no other way to express himself to you. Give you a necklace? Not at all, he'd rather you find it and he'd just tell you that when you found it it was yours. Express directly how he wanted to court you? Those words would never come out of his lips.

"Why are we here?" he asked, escorting you to the marui where there were some furs.

"You told me my people teach too slow, so I'll teach you from now on" you shrugged to the side and began to speak.

But while, your voice was calm when you spoke and it was one of the things he admired most about you, he couldn't help but notice your braids, adorned with brown feathers that highlighted your colorless hair. You pointed and traced with your pale fingers the animal skins you brought from your lands, but now he looked at your eyes, similar to his, blue, no, yours were the color of the water between his hands, light blue.

"…Over there they don't grow, but here they do, so with them you can adjust them and they will remain as the drums for the return of the tulkun" you finished explaining.

The rain had returned and with your poor vision, you could only see things sharply from up close. You wondered if it was his hair, maybe his eyes, but something made you notice that the boy's presence was much closer than before.

"You understood, didn't you?" you preferred to believe it was just your condition about bad view and noticed that the boy nodded. "Well, would you rather I talk to you now about-?" but he interrupted you.

"Customs. Tell me about the customs of your clan" you blinked a couple of times and cocked your head.

Customs? It wasn't necessary. Nothing had to do with them in that winter's delivery.

"What, did I speak like an animal? Come on, tell me" at his insistence, you had no choice but to explain.

First you named the ways of hunting you had, explaining with a smile how unlike the forests, there were animals with thicker skin and even fur, so they were used for clothing, especially for you or your parents, who had to take more care of their skin.

Then you talked about the artistic expressions, showing him the designs of the baskets, then telling him about the tattoos of his clan, comparing them to the face paintings in your clan. You continued to explain to him for so long that the freedom felt incredible, at least until your mother walked in, surprised.

"Oh, it's time for dinner" she reported, putting on her best smile.

As you both made your way to the place, the boy couldn't help but notice that you were attentive to everything around you and whispered, behind your mother's back.

"If you want, tomorrow I can show you a couple of things about my clan" and your smile was enough to make his heart pound, almost silencing the insecurities deep inside his body.

...

"It's not funny!" you spoke once you surfaced, having been knocked down by the ilu you had tried to hold on to and which, because of your nerves, shot out. Ao'nung's laughter was impossible to mistake and that alone made you give a grunt as you returned to his side.

"You said it was like going fishing, but you don't look to me like your fish are the size of an ilu" he put a hand on his waist, amused and quieting his laughter little by little.

"Apparently you listen to my words, huh" you folded your arms.

The day was for Ao'nung to allow himself to show you around and explain his clan to you every time you finished teaching your classes to his people. This he told his parents and, Tonowari, happy to see that his son at least once in his life was doing something for pleasure and not by command, decided to assign him that task. Besides, soon both he and you would be village chiefs and this tradition would have to continue for several generations so that the exchange of goods would be normalized.

Now, his mother was more… careful with the change in the boy's personality, after all, she was his mother, especially when she heard her son's arrival so late after the first day. Then the second.

By the third day, the two were debating methods of courtship.

"Competitions? Really?" he questioned when he came in from the hunt to your marui. You nodded.

"For example, if you have three suitors, they must face various tests. Sled races, fire dancing, there are several" you listed. "My favorite is the Säwem!"

"Säwem? Like… Fighting?" he grimaced in confusion, but you could tell how interested he was.

"Not with each other, of course. But with yourself." you clarified. "Do you consider yourself good for that person? How would you rate your efforts? How far would you go for that person? It can be internal or external factors, and you can also struggle with it spiritually or physically."

You continued with the explanation and Ao'nung felt a pain in his chest as his mouth went dry. What he felt could be a form of courtship? He even found it funny.

"…My father once stayed under a blizzard to try on mom" you recalled, laughing. "I mean, they were paired up, but still, he wanted to prove to her that he was worthy."

He wanted to consider himself worthy. Him. Just him. He didn't want someone else from your clan to try any of those things. He didn't want to know that other boys were fighting over you, even if it was at races or dances. He wanted to-

"I would do that for you" his words came out matter-of-factly. You were surprised, but his own face showed you that he was much more shocked to say it out loud.

You looked away and felt your cheeks blush a little. You felt annoyed that your own skin could give you away so easily. "Friends don't need that kind of courtship" you tried to push the idea away, embarrassed, but right now, the boy had already screwed up and there was no way to take it back.

"No, friends don't" he acknowledged, moving a little closer to you. "Friends don't" he arranged one of your albino braids carefully and looked at you. He wasn't the Ao'nung that teased you as a child. He wasn't the boy who stuck his tongue out at you, hiding behind his mother. He wasn't the one who laughed at you with his friends.. It was Ao'nung. Your Ao'nung…. "May I-" but you didn't give him time until you moved closer and kissed the corner of his lips.

You both looked at each other for a while and your cheeks were already between a very strong purple and pink.

"Sorry. I forgot my vision wasn't the best. I wanted to kiss your lips" you admitted, covering your mouth with one of your hands.

He pushes your hand away with his, laughing, and intertwines your fingers. His laughter surrounded you and so did his arms.

For him, 'Moon skin' as his mother used to say with unpleasant voice matched perfectly.