SCENTWAVE STUDIO

Every clan seems fluent in silence as sunlight spills over the hills in streams of pink and amber, chasing away the thread-thin comfort of darkness. The only song that fills the morning air is the whistling of the wind through the trees and the crackling of fires as warriors gather to eat what might be their last meal. Each bite tastes like ash on your tongue, ash and the salt of unshed tears. 

Food is eaten in quiet contemplation, paint mixed in meditative silence. The stillness is only broken on the first notes of a songcord. Soft music rising from private alcoves where warriors mourn their own deaths. So much is uncertain of the future, the only truth is that of the past. What has already been will never come again. Nor is your next sunrise, your next breath a promise from the Great Mother. Her Great Balance protects only life itself. The grass beneath your feet, the swarm of lìnghaw flying overhead, and the nantang returning to their dens as daylight rises. Each life is precious, but energy is only borrowed. It is Eywa’s decision when it must be returned. Two thousand warriors gather beneath the shadows of Ayram Alusìng. 

Many of them will be singing their songs with the ancestors before sunset. It is a bleak truth that you must hold in your heart as a warrior of the Omatikaya. You’ve seen more than most of what humans are capable of. You think of Sylwanin and the hunters she rallied to protest the destruction of the forest, of watching your friend be killed for protecting her home. Death is necessary for life, and you would give yours willingly to protect the People. 

Tsu’tey was gone as soon as you woke, rising before the sun with the duties of olo’eyktan weighing heavily on his shoulders. He wears the burden well. You see him across the way, surrounded by his People. Warriors, leaders. Mo’at and Ikeyni stand with him, the latter already painted in the red and white of her clan. So many souls, you think mournfully. The might of the Sky People cannot be mistaken, and all of you must face it sooner than later. You find yourself twisting your own waytelem over anxious fingers. The sound of each bead is as familiar as your own heartbeat as you hum to yourself. It’s a dull comfort, a numbing salve for an aching wound. Soon you will have to face the pain, but for the moment you can be mollified in its absence. 

The air is alive with the sound of it, the verses of each person’s life filling the silence with hope. Every person is a song to be celebrated and honored. Not every cord would be cut. You look at your own songcord. The careful collection of beads and knots that spell the entirety of your life. Every triumph, failure; every precious memory. You know the words of your own life, but you also know Neytiri’s, Tsu’tey’s, Sylwanin’s. They have a place in your song just as you do in theirs. The final few beads were added with haste. So many things happening at once, all so important that you know you’ll carry the memories into your last days as vividly as if they had only happened moments ago. A shard of Hometree’s bark for the destruction of your home, a bead of orange agate with a banded design matching the wings of the great toruk. 

There should be two beads between those, threaded side by side. New memories you’ve yet to share with anyone. Even alone you fall quiet, singing the last notes only in your heart. It is tradition to mark your mating in the song of your life, strange to leave the moment for later. You’ve chosen the beads already, though you’ve kept them hidden away in what few belongings you have after the fall of Hometree. A deep purple crystal that sparkles in the sunlight for the color Neytiri wore that night, and a bone that might’ve been a piece of some small animal’s spine. You have no deep knowledge of bones as the Anurai clan does, but the shape of the little bone reminds you of an atokirina’. 

The seeds of the sacred tree float freely today, dancing through the air but never landing. It would be a blessing to be kissed by a woodsprite on this day, but it seems Eywa will keep her blessings. She’s already given so many. It is hard to see them as such when so many things have been lost and destroyed, but you hold tight to your faith because it’s all you have left. The rest of your life is ashes in the forest. All you have is your belief that all of this will be for some greater purpose. There’s no mistake that everything hangs in the balance on this day. For better or worse. Perhaps you’ll never add the beads to your waytelem. If you find your end in battle there will be no one to know that you’ve gone against tradition at every turn since Jake arrived. 

He was blessed by Eywa at the very start. Neytiri had told you the story of her finding him alone in the forest. She intended to kill him, only hesitating when an atokirina’ landed on the poison-tipped head of her arrow. It became her burden to train the dreamwalker foundling she brought home that night, but, like with all things, Neytiri was more than content to do it with you by her side. Somehow the duty of teaching had fallen into your hands as well, and here was the result of it. It is hard to reconcile the idea that the Jake standing firm beside your olo’eyktan is the same uniltìrantokx that came before the clan only months ago. 

In some ways he’s surpassed every true born Na’vi. Toruk chose him, the All Mother herself protects him. It is strange to see how the world seems to bend to fit him. Mo’at allowed him to be brought into the clan, you taught him the ways of a warrior so he might become one of the People. Now he is a legend among men. 

Perhaps he will die, you think. The shame washes over you swiftly. It’s a hateful thought. His death won’t undo what’s been done. Hometree will not rise from its ashes, nor will Eytukan and all the other lost souls return to life. What’s gone is gone. And you can’t deny that small fragment of you would feel his absence. How easily Jake had made himself feel like something permanent in your life. It shouldn’t have happened so quickly–shouldn’t have happened at all. But once an arrow is shot you can’t change its course, only follow where it leads. 

“You’re staring,” Neytiri says, setting a few bowls down beside you. Pigments stain the carved wood; war paint waiting to be applied. “He will come to us soon, yawne, do not worry.” 

The words sound strange to your ears, the feeling of them settling cold and heavy in your chest. Never have you been so distant from Neytiri. Before Sylwanin’s death, no one made any question of who the two of you would be mated to–the only choice was each other. It was duty that had led her to another. In the end, you turned your backs on tradition and responsibility, yet her soul still feels so far away. Her desires are no longer your own, her thoughts do not match yours. Once the two of you were like twin streams running beside each other, but it seems your paths diverged somewhere in the distance left behind. Her heart has not closed to you, it has only grown to fit Jake. It is perhaps your own fault that you cannot say the same. 

It sets an ache in your chest knowing your mate might never understand your heart as she once did. You move your kuru over your shoulder, pretending to fix the strings of beads and feathers adorning your hair. Truly, you are wondering if you will ever make tsaheylu again. It is a sacred bond that opens your mind to another, bares your soul in the truest way, but you can’t be certain you want to burden Neytiri–or Jake–with the dark truth of your heart. You might easily live another lifetime and never want to share such a bond with Jake again. 

That is the problem. It feels as though you’re on an island, alone in the ocean, while everyone else is safe ashore. No one resents Jake for what he did. Toruk has washed everything he’d done before. A dreamwalker, a warrior, and now a legend. But your eyes cannot see beyond the mistakes of the past to recognize the good in the present. 

The things he knew… The truth that you loathe to dwell on is that maybe there was nothing to be done even if he’d spoken up sooner. Jake was not a leader of the Sky People. He told you himself during your lessons how he was under Grace’s command more often than not. You knew Grace, trusted her despite the past. It all seemed for nothing now. If the clan knew, what would’ve happened except a war. Two paths leading to the same place. 

Still, the betrayal stings like the worst venom. Jake catches your eye from across the way, ears twitching with interest. You turn away quickly, busying yourself with the paints Neytiri has brought you. The first is a bright teal to match Seze’s patterning. She’s already painted thick streaks across her arms but her face remains blank. 

Neytiri sings as you paint her, nose wrinkling at the ticklish feeling of your fingers moving over her skin. Her voice is low, meant only for your ears as you draw shapes over her cheeks and forehead. There are brushes for the task but there’s a small sense of intimacy in being stained in the colors of your mate as you trace across the face that you love so dearly. She returns the favor, dipping into the deep purple that matches your own ikran, Txanrr. The paint is cold on your skin as she mirrors her patterns on your features. Your fingers are streaked in blue, yellow, and black by the time you’re done. You finally decided to use a paintbrush for her stomach and back where it takes bigger stripes than your fingers can make to fill the space. 

The light shifts as the sun climbs higher in the sky, each passing moment bringing the enemy ever closer. Your paint is dry by the time the war leaders disperse. Jake wastes not a moment making his way towards the two of you. It’s easy to feign interest in checking your arrows. Straightening a fletching that isn’t crooked, reapplying the toxins to each arrowhead until you can smell the bitter poison dripping from the sharpened stone. Anything to keep yourself busy and out of conversation with Jake. If he notices, he doesn’t mention it. Neytiri fills the space your voice occupied before his approach. You listen with half an ear as she asks about the plan of attack. 

“They’ll have to come to us,” he reassures her. “And they don’t know the mountains like we do.” It sounds like he’s said the words many times over. 

Strange to hear him speak of such things when only months ago he was just as awed by the Floating Mountains as any other alien new to the lands of Pandora. Something that was merely a truth of your life was something novel to Jake. But he had a child’s wonder about most foreign things. Where most Sky People lashed out in annoyance at what they did not know, Jake found joy in learning, even if you were overly harsh in your teachings. He seemed to like that too. You haven’t forgotten the way his ears perked and tail wagged when you’d smack him for nearly touching a poisonous plant or grabbing a dead branch while he was climbing. He’d take every reproach with a puerile grin. Maybe it’s why he isn’t so perturbed by you keeping your back to him. 

Jake is saying something about line of sight, navigation and missile tracking. The words are only vaguely familiar in the context of war. Lessons from Grace dimmed by years of having no need for such words. 

There’s something about the air around the Tree of Souls that acts as a dam to the demon ship’s weapons. A flux. You only recognize it as the waves of blue and purple light that dance like ribbons in the air where Eywa can be heard the loudest. It’s a small advantage. You’ve seen what bullets can do. How easily Hometree had fallen after standing for near countless generations. It sounds like an impossible task to fly against an enemy with such strength, but you had to try. Your clan has been entrusted with the caring and protection of the Tree of Souls for thousands of years and that stewardship will not end today. Even if it means your life. You’ve already made peace with that truth, that you might not live to see tomorrow. The Great Mother will take many into her arms on this day, but it will be a righteous death for all. 

For a moment, the dead embers of your heart warned once more to Jake’s presence. He is Eywa’s chosen. The All Mother will not abandon him, at least. Even if all else falls to ruin, you have no doubt in your heart that Jake will survive. The People need him. You see how the clans flock to him, searching for guidance in his strength. You could almost forgive him for everything that came before. Almost. There will be time enough for you to decide how you feel after you’ve survived this battle. 

“Here.” A sudden touch against the nape of your neck startles you into focus as Jake sweeps your hair over one shoulder. Something settles against your throat and you reach to touch it. The shape is vaguely familiar. It’s the kind of choker you’ve seen Sky People wearing. It’s for communication you’ve learned, a way for your voice to travel great distances. After he’s fastened it, you finally turn to look at Jake. He’s wearing his own necklace as is Neytiri. She touches the piece that sits against her ear, looking half fascinated by the idea. Shouting can only take your words so far, and it is no secret how loud a rain of bullets can be. Like a thousand rolls of thunder tearing through the air. 

The strange piece of metal makes your ear twitch but you don’t pull it away. It’s practical, you know, even as you stifle at the idea of using such a human invention. You refused the guns Jake tried to offer you. The thought of touching such a thing nearly made you nauseous. The idea of holding the very object that had taken your friend’s life was enough to make you feel faint. Though they seemed to fit so easily in Jake’s hand. He had a dozen metal weapons and he intended to use them all to protect the Tree of Souls. It seemed wrong to use the things the Great Mother scorns to protect her, but it would likely be the greatest strength to have against the Sky People. 

“Come,” Neytiri says after a moment of Jake lingering too long beside you. “I will paint you.” And she does. Black and orange to match toruk. The beast is perched on one of the stone arches high above the valley. His head shifts with the winds, turning one way then another as if already searching for the enemy. They will be here soon. These last few moments are all that is left of life as you once knew it. Already people are streaming into the forests to find their mounts. Pa’li and ikran all painted and saddled heavy weapons. Somewhere beyond the trees is one of the metal beasts the Sky Demons use to fly, painted in blue and white to mark it as one of your own. You can see Jake’s allies away by themselves. Both intend to fight. 

Norm, the nervous, chattering man you met when Grace was wounded, and Trudy, a warrior of the same training as Jake. A Marine. A defector, Jake called her. Same as he was. Betrayer. At least Jake is here to atone for his betrayals of your clan. But, in taking sides, Jake will always be a traitor to someone. It seems he’s chosen the entire race of his true people as his opposition. He chose this new life over his old one. His new people over the demons from the sky. This new body over the human man hidden somewhere in the forest. 

You’re staring again. You don’t need Neytiri to tell you that. Your eyes trace over the strange shape of the man you’re mated to. Uncanny. You’ve still not forgotten the strange emptiness that had taken over when he collapsed at Hometree. The black paint highlights his eyes, how small they are compared to a true Na’vi. His five fingers. Even the placement of his kuru is wrong though it’s hidden beneath a veil of braids decorated with strings of beads and feathers. At a glance one could think Jake no different from any Omatikaya man, but the truth was plain if you had eyes to see it. It pains you that you can still find beauty in his otherness. This strange face that has no place in your home, yet when he meets your eyes and smiles softly, it stabs through your chest clean as an arrow. 

“Finished,” Neytiri hums. Jake looks down at his chest, his arms. All painted in patterns befitting a warrior. 

Jake nods. “Almost.” 

He looks around for a moment before finding a bowl of white paint. The pure color is uncommon. Meant for leaders, or experienced warriors; to mark something as strong. It would be fitting for Jake, but when he dips his palm into the pale pigment he moves towards you instead. His hand slips under the beads of your top, palm pressed flat over your heart. 

When he pulls away there’s a perfect impression staining your skin. Thoughtlessly, you move to touch it, fingertips smearing the wet paint. Neytiri snatches your wrist before you can wipe away the shape of his fourth finger. Jake gives her a mark as well, white against blue like clouds against the sky. It seems to fit against her skin far better than it does yours. 

“For luck,” Jake says, giving each of you a kiss in turn. “I love you.” 

The last you’d heard Jake say such a thing Neytiri was sobbing, cursing his very existence for the lies he made her believe. But you’d felt it in tsaheylu. For everything he hadn’t told you, all the things he keeps hidden, Jake never lied about his feelings. It offers some small relief even if you don’t return the affection. You’re happy for Neytiri’s sake. 

As for luck, there’s no need for him. Not with the knowledge that the Great Mother herself will act as his shield in the battle to come. You have no such blessings. All you keep as protection is your faith in Eywa’s will. Nothing is done without reason. There is balance in all things. Even this. If you must die, then you will. 

The sound of horns suddenly splits through the air, echoing through the forest. It is time. You find your feet with a strange sort of numbness. It is your turn to be the unlearned novice. You’ve taught Jake so much, but this is a place he’s been before. He was a warrior before he came to the clan. This is something he knows without question where your life of peace has left you with only basic knowledge and instinct. This is not a strumbeast hunt for the new warriors completing their iknimaya. Nor a small skirmish with nomadic clans raiding the clan’s territory. There is no ceremony, no reconciling with words. The Sky People know only the language of blood. 

“Ma muntxate,” Neytiri takes your hands in hers, pressing sweet kisses to your fingers. “Be strong, yawne.” You press a hand against her chest, where Jake had laid his mark. Her heart is a steady drum beneath your palm. A beat that you would follow until your very last breath. She doesn’t flinch when you pull her closer, hands holding her face to pull her into a kiss. A few breaths are shared between you, barely parted, until the horn sounds again and another wasted moment could mean lives lost in battle. Neytiri keeps her hand in yours as you join the waves of Na’vi storming into battle. 

This flight feels different than any other. You’re half a beast as you make tsaheylu and feel your banshee, Txanrr, rise to meet you through the bond. She shares your trepidation, whining quietly as you fit your riding mask over your eyes. You pat her neck with gentle affection. You fear for her as much as yourself as you join the swarm of warriors taking to the skies to lie in wait for the Sky People armies. 

Jake leads, the great wings of toruk beating against the air. Tsu’tey is to his left and Neytiri his right. You ride just behind, closing the front ranks around him. You’ll be one of the first stones thrown against the demon ships. 

Each breath feels like a blessing as you ride farther from Vitraya Ramunong. Over your shoulder, the stone arches curve over the Mother Tree like protective fingers, but if you look for too long you’ll lose yourself. The enemy is not behind you. Every shift of the wind sounds like the metallic buzzing of their flying machines, every flash of sunlight off a cliffside waterfall is the bright glint of metal. But every mountainside is crowded with riders lying in wait. There’s a restlessness in the air. The feeling of burning anticipation as you wait for something terribly inevitable. 

Somewhere ahead there’s a warning call. You see them then, two dark shapes moving through the sky, surrounded by smaller vessels. You recognize one of the larger ones as the ship that shot down Kelutral and your hand tightens around your bow. You keep time by the beat of your heart. One moment, then another, before Jake shatters the quiet with a whooping battle cry. Tsu’tey and Neytiri echo him with their own calls and you find yourself adding to the noise. It’s its own sort of song as voices shriek through the air, shouting and trilling as warriors take flight once more. You string your first arrow, loosing it against the ship closest to you. It pierces the glass shell with ease, sending shards sparkling through the air as the ship careens towards a mountainside. Fire follows the crash, flames so close that the warmth kisses your cheeks before the ship goes spiraling towards the ground. 

All around you, demons and Na’vi both are falling from the air. Bullets come from all sides, the thunderous sound echoing through the mountains. It takes every shred of focus not to slip away into those bloody memories, to be dragged into the past and lose sight of the present. 

The point of your arrow finds somewhere vulnerable to land as the whirring of bladed wings fills your head with its incessant buzzing. Your heartbeat is doubled, the quick pace mirrored by your ikran as Txanrr carries you on the wind. It’s almost all you can hear. A thick wash of noise that flows like water in your ears. Your breath, your heart, the ceaseless firing of guns. Above that there’s the sound of voices. War cries to announce a kill and screams as someone plummets towards the ground. It’s all you can do to keep your own seat as the small ships break away from the larger ones, pursuing every mounted rider with focused intent. 

Txanrr screeches beneath you as you pull tight on her kuru harness, banking to dive behind a mountain as a ship veers towards you. The bright flash of their guns flicker like embers in your periphery, half lost in the wild thrashing at your braids. Your bow is still in hand but there isn’t enough distance to turn it against your pursuer without risking your own skin. Bullets whizz past you, getting closer with every passing moment. You take in a steadying breath, lungs feeling too large in your chest as Txanrr breathes with you, the feeling echoing through tsaheylu. You take a breath, then string another arrow. Txanrr recognizes your thoughts even as they’re half formed, accepting commands before they’re given. Up, we need to go up. 

She changes direction with a shift of her wings, curving until you’re above the ship chasing her tail. You lock your knees to keep yourself from falling. Years of flying have given you unrivaled trust in your ikran. The rest comes easily. Memories echo in every fiber of your muscles, like voices through the Utraya Morki. There’s hardly a thought behind the movement. It’s all instinct as you pull your bowstring. Only a moment between drawing and shooting. The look of astonishment is frozen on the human’s face as your arrow passes through the glass as easily as water, lodging in their stomach. The ship pitches forward, disappearing into the treetops as Txanrr turns herself upright. 

“Good girl, Txanrr,” you thank her, stroking a hand over her head. “Good girl.” It’s almost a miracle you didn’t slide off her back and follow the demon ship to the ground. But one ship downed still leaves many more to contend with. They’re all around like a swarm of stormgliders with so few warriors left to fight against them. The skies are nearly empty of banshees, only a few warriors still mounted. You count yourself as one of the last and try not to think of where Neytiri has gone. She’d been flying ahead of you to start, with Tsu’tey and Jake close by. Now you could only find Jake. He’s impossible to lose atop toruk, as bright as the rising sun against the brown and green mountains. 

Jake is so far that the wind would take his voice if not for the necklace he gave you. He’s the only voice you hear even as he calls to the others. You heard them faintly a few times before, but now the only answer is silence. When his calls to Tsu’tey go unanswered you find yourself searching for your olo’eyktan. He’s nowhere to be seen but you can’t spare more than half a thought to him when there’s still a battle happening all around you. Another demon ship is on your tail, a rain of bullets carve into a cliff just above your head. With a hiss, you lean forward, clinging close to Txanrr’s neck as rubble pelts your shoulders. They’re closer than the last ship, and faster. Or maybe it is you that has grown slower as your breath comes quicker in your lungs, heartbeat rising with every moment that you can’t shake them off your trail. 

Somewhere in the rush, you hear Neytiri’s voice in your ear. Loud and alive. Only fragments of her words reach your ears, your focus taken by the task of keeping yourself alive. 

Something bright and smoking shoots past you, bursting into a burning cloud of smoke just ahead. A moment later, the pain registers. Stinging like venom in your thigh where the burning thing–far bigger than a bullet–had grazed you. The smoke burns as you blink through the veil, though you recognize it as the small blessing it is even as pain blisters across your leg. If you can’t see, neither can they. It’s true, blind trust that lets you close your eyes as Txanrr charges forward. Her movement registers as a swooping in your stomach as she takes a sharp dive and a shadow passes over you. A moment later comes the sound of shattering, like a thousand blades clashing all at once as the metal and glass folds itself around the shape of the island just above your head. Txanrr doesn’t slow in her descent, diving through branches and vines until you’re low enough to see the ground. 

The forest is aflame. Trees and pa’li burning as Na’vi litter the ground, red wounds that you recognize in an instant torn through their bodies. The sound of gunshots echo through the treetops. You flinch, ears folding close to your head. But above that is the sound of stampeding footsteps. Not the heavy metal bodies of the human warriors but the true sound of a herd as a group of ’angtsìk break through the treeline. Loud and beautiful as they flare their fanned crests, bellowing at the sawtute warriors still fighting in the underbrush. Bullets glance uselessly off their armored skin as they knock the massive metal beasts off their feet, crushing them underfoot. The smaller Sky People are caught in the jaws of ferocious viperwolves. It’s its own kind of music as their growls and laughing yips fill the air. 

Eywa has come. With a hissing war cry you string another arrow, putting it through the back of a retreating soldier. The pain that had slowed you only a moment ago fades with the knowledge that the Great Mother is with you. You can only imagine it is because of Jake. He is her chosen one in this generation of songs, for better or worse. You’ll fight for her, for the Great Balance, even if it means fighting beside Jakesully. 

Two more humans fall to your arrows before someone looks up. The sun bounces off the curve of their mask like light off still water, turning their face pure white as they turn their gun against you. You meet the challenge with a drawn arrow. Blinding pain tears through your arm as your arrow finds its mark between the tawtute’s ribs. The next draw of your bowstring sends stars dancing behind your eyes, pain digging like fangs through your injured limb. Txanrr yowls as your agony seeps through the bond. You grit your teeth against the feeling. There will be time enough for tending to your wounds once the battle is won. It’s almost over. You feel it in your heart as you watch ikran swarming far above, overwhelming what few demon ships still remain. Below, predators have made short work of their human prey. None will live. 

Still, Txanrr grows anxious, tiring of flying in circles as you waste your arrows on a hunting ground that will soon be barren of enemy life. 

“Tam tam,” you pant, bloodied hand leaving red handprints on her skin as you try not to think about the hole in your arm. But it’s hard to focus on anything else as the pain turns everything shimmery and warped like heat off an open flame. Blinking only turns you sluggish as you shake a fallen leaf away from your face. You feel yourself slumping in your saddle as Txanrr takes you away from the fighting. It hurts to keep your hand on the wound still weeping blood down your forearm, covering the designs Neytiri had so carefully painted there. You wonder where she is, if she’s still okay. The focus would better be put to worrying about yourself as you sway heavily, sliding like a child that has only just learned to ride. 

With your good hand, you keep pressure on your wound, trying to keep hold of Txanrr’s harness with your bleeding arm. Rivulets of red swell between your fingers. If you pull your hand away you know you’ll no longer be looking at the present. The years will fall away and suddenly it’s Sylwanin’s blood staining your fingers. You squeeze hard at your wound until pain spreads through your body like poison. Focus. You have to focus. There’s nothing to tie yourself to your saddle and if your grip gets any weaker, you won’t be in the air for much longer. 

All it takes is the change of the wind, the slightest dip of Txanrr’s wings, and you go spilling to the ground, kuru slipping free of the bond. Large leaves cushion your fall until you’re tumbling over the grass. Your breathing is stuttered as you use the momentum of your fall to roll to your knees, shaking your braids from your hair as you find your bow that had fallen with you. One arrow left. 

Sunlight swells through the clearing ahead, bits of light bouncing in all directions as it catches off the edge of a human dwelling and another of those metal bodies. The strange approximation of a human shape that seems to move with the tawtute inside. The glass shell is shattered, exposing the soft flesh within. It’s all you can think about as the beast lifts a Na’vi in its giant hand, swinging him by his kuru. Phantom pains shoot down your spine at the sight, made worse by recognition. Jake. He’s holding Jake. Instinctively, you lift your bow. No thought in your mind other than to protect. Draw, shoot. Jake slips free, going disturbingly limp as he hits the ground. But the tawtute doesn’t fall. 

He grabs hold of the shaft of your arrow, the metal skeleton mimicking the movement. You wonder if he’ll pull it out, but there’s already poison beneath his skin. He’s already dead even as he glares at you, gasping inside his mask. Then Neytiri is there, tail lashing behind her as she sends another arrow into the demon’s chest. He falls then, face frozen in agony. The impact is enough to send you to your knees as the ground ripples under the weight of the metal behemoth. It takes you a few moments to find your feet, longer still to stagger towards where your mates are. You make it as far as Jake’s prone body, but Neytiri is already gone, pressed up against the side of the human kelku. She leaves a bloody handprint on the shattered glass before she goes vaulting inside. 

Vaguely, you recognize that Jake has stopped moving. There’s enough strength left in you to lift his head to check his tswin. The braid remains unbroken, still firmly attached to the base of his skull. Good. It is a horrible death to die from the pain of a severed kuru. A worse life to survive and live without it. To be cut off from Eywa so completely? You wouldn’t wish such a fate on anyone, even Jake in his false body. 

He doesn’t so much as flinch when you let his head drop to the ground, the feeling in the hand of your injured arm slowly fading. Your fingers still obey when you try to move them, but the feeling is stippled with stabbing pangs. The wound on your thigh still burns as you crouch over Jake, knife in hand because your bow is all but useless without arrows. You thread it over your shoulder until the string sits across your chest. The sun glints off the edge of your blade, tiny refractions of colorful light dancing over Jake’s chest as you hold yourself in a protective stance. Your legs tremble and arm throbs, but you hold your position, eyes searching for danger until you hear him take in a gasping breath beneath you. You think you hear your name, feel a hand on your thigh as Jake sits up. 

When you try to shake away the fuzziness floating like pollen in your eyes, it only makes it worse. Your head throbs and your muscles tremble, moments away from giving out. Jake catches you before you can fall, flipping you onto your back. His lips move, saying something. Your ears twitch against the hands holding your face but you can’t hear anything other than the blood rushing in your head. You try to speak, to tell him you’ll be fine, to sit up and brush him aside. All you manage is some garbled sound that you feel in your throat more than you hear. Jake frowns, turning away to speak. Neytiri appears above you a beat later. Her voice is silent, too. You blink up at them, trying to focus on the shape of their lips. 

“C’mon, baby, stay awake for me. I need you awake.” Jake says frantically. He sounds like he’s underwater as his thumbs trace shapes on your cheeks. 

I am awake, skxawng, you want to tell him. Can’t you see my eyes are open? Just barely as fatigue begins to catch up to you. Only a second, you think. I’ll close my eyes just for a moment. 

Vaguely you remember the sound of rumbling, the world shaking around you. You’ve been floating between sleep and wakefulness for hours, like being caught in a riptide trying to fight towards the surface. When your eyes finally open your body aching beyond any pain you’d ever known. It feels as though you’ve fallen from the tallest tree four times over. And you hit every branch and rock imaginable on the way down. Still, you try to stand. 

The light is dim. Not with the faint glow of night, but the false sun of human creation. The light is gray and dull, stinging at your eyes as you stare up at the white ceiling. Someone has laid a blanket over you that you toss away easily. It’s thick and prickly as if there were nettles stitched into it. The same can be said of the fabric sling keeping your arm close to your chest. Thin and scratchy. No true fibers of the forest that were usually woven for such a purpose. But there are straps and fastening that you don’t understand, and you can’t lift your arm high enough to slip it off without agony singing through your extremity.  And, beside that, there’s no viable substitute to be found in this strange white room you’ve woken in. The only healing touch that you recognize is the leaf wrapping and poultice around your thigh. 

It is odd to finally see things you’ve only learned of from Grace’s teachings. Bed. Ceiling. And machines you have no name for. Those books that seemed so foreign to you all those years ago cycle through your head. Words on paper. Things your people of oral histories had no need for. Still it had been a novel experience to share in the exchanging of cultures when you were young. A small fragment of true kindness that had survived the storm of horrors that the sawtute brought about with every moment they spent on Eywa’eveng. Their terrorizing of your planet was at an end now. 

There are no windows to the outside in this room. Only a glass wall that leads to another area, but you recognize the door for what it is. It takes more strength than you expected to open once you read the words written on the metal. It takes a moment to truly process the word and place it in your native tongue. Kä’ärìp. Push. You groan under the weight, tempted to use your injured arm to help you escape this place. The second door opens more easily, hissing as it spills you into the blue night. You take in a deep breath, head tilting towards the sky. 

When your eyes open you find a break in the web of the stars. A new dot of light among the familiar patterns. There was always a new star in the sky on nights that more Sky People came to Pandora. Tears well in your eyes as you stare at the faraway glow. This will be the last demon star you ever see. 

“You’re awake,” Jake’s voice comes from behind you, startling you out of a tearful daze. When you turn he’s not where you expect. Usually he stands above you, of a height with Tsu’tey and the other tall men of the clan. But Jake is not in the body you expect. In his place is a human man sitting in a wheeled chair. He tilts his head expectantly, a tentative smile playing on his lips. It’s a look that stabs at your heart. How easily you can recognize that expression that you’ve seen reflected in amber eyes and blue skin. 

“Jake?” He’s as small as any human. Dark eyes, dark hair, pale skin. A far cry from the dreamwalker you’ve come to know. But it’s him. His true body. The great distance between your hearts made flesh. A bridge that might never be crossed as long as you hold tight to the anger still burning in your heart. The humans may have left, but there would always be proof that they’d been here. Metal does not return to the earth as all other things do. This place will stand as a reminder of the pain your people have suffered for generations to come. Yet Jake looks ill at ease as he looks up at you, as if he isn’t a reminder of his people, too. 

“Hi, baby.” The night sky is reflected on his mask as you kneel in front of him, ignoring the twinge of pain in your thigh. 

“Hello, tawtute.” There’s an unshakable fascination building in your heart as you stare down at him. You can’t deny your own curiosity. There’s been no time in your life when you made yourself closely acquainted with humans that did not live in dreamwalker bodies. The last one you’d been close enough to touch was Grace as she lay dying. Jake is vibrantly alive, a far more viable source to sate your perverse curiosity of sawtute bodies. You feel half a child again, finding some new plant in the forest to ask your elders about.  

“You scared me, sweetheart.” Jake says, “Thought I lost you.” Sweetheart is new though you recognize it as something loving. It’s what Grace called Sylwanin. 

Despite his small stature, Jake is able to pull you into his space. Or perhaps it’s because he’s so small, because you know humans to be soft and pliable, easily injured. You don’t fight against his pull. Scared even the slightest resistance will pull him from his chair. His hand touches your cheek and that at least feels familiar enough to keep you from flinching away. These fingers are smooth compared to the callused palms of his avatar body. 

This ending feels like a beginning. Jake is suddenly a stranger once more. An alien. You look around you at the scars the humans have left on the forest. The strange black stone underfoot, the sprawling buildings that will suffer the fate of being useless. No matter what is to come, no one will be returning to this place. You loathe to have woken up here. The first thing you saw was not the sky or the trees. 

“Why are we here?” You ask. Jake makes a small noise as you pull away, his little hand still reaching out towards you. “I do not want to be in this place. I want to go home.” 

But you aren’t quite sure where home is anymore. Kelutral is gone and the clan cannot live near the Tree of Souls forever. Tsu’tey will know where to go, and Mo’at. You want to see your tsahìk, and your mate. 

“Where’s Neytiri?” There are a thousand questions on the tip of your tongue. “Is she alright? Are the People safe?” 

“Yeah, baby, they’re safe. Everyone’s waiting for us.”

“Us? Why?” 

“Tonight’s important.” Jake is grinning, his human teeth are blunt in comparison to the fangs of his usual smiles. You still recognize the expression. If he had his tail it would be wagging eagerly behind him. “We can’t be late for the party.” 

As if they’d been waiting for some secret sign, another tawtute appears. The hiss you let out is instinctual, reaching for your knife only to find it missing. Injured as you are, you aren’t certain you’re in any state for a weaponless fight. Jake doesn’t look so surprised. He brushes a hand over your arm in a soothing gesture. 

“Mawey, baby, it’s okay. You know Norm.” Jake says softly. 

“Kaltxì,” Norm inclines his head, offering you a silent oel ngati kameie. You frown down at this new pink-faced human until you find some vague recognition. This is the man that had helped carry Grace’s dreamwalker body to the dais beneath the Tree of Souls. You nod, but do not return his gesture of respect. Norm doesn’t seem to mind. He rocks on the heels of his feet before clapping his hands. 

“Good to see you up and around. If you guys are ready, we can head out.” Good. You aren’t certain of what tonight will bring, but you want to be away from this demon dwelling as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, that means riding in one of the metal ikran the humans use. A Samson, Jake called it when he showed you Trudy’s ship before the battle. There are at least no doors, nothing to keep you from the forest as you lean out of the ship. The smell of dirt and wet leaves fills your lungs after days of stale air trapped in one place. Jake keeps a hand on your thigh as you make the journey, thumb tracing shapes on the inside of your leg. 

“You did not say what this celebration was for.” It was not uncommon to celebrate victory, but you’d been asleep for days. The clan would not have waited for a single person to wake to commemorate the triumph over the Sky People. 

Jake grins. “It’s for me. It was Mo’at’s decision, but she said that I should complete the consciousness transfer.” He looks down at himself as if seeing this body for the first time. Quieter, almost to himself, he says, “This will be my last night in this body. Tomorrow I’ll wake up and I’ll be looking at the sky, not the inside of a lab.” 

Consciousness transfer. The words fall over you like crumbling stone, burying you beneath their weight. The idea was not something strange after seeing your tsahìk attempt such a feat to save Grace, but that had been a moment of dire need. Grace was dying. Jake looks perfectly healthy despite the pronounced thinness of his legs. There’s no sickly paleness to his skin, no shallowness to his breaths. A small cut, already half healed, sits high on the curve of his cheek. The only injury you can find that isn’t some scar from a lifetime that he lived across the stars. He was a Marine after all, a warrior. He’d proven that no matter his body, he was born to be a fighter. Now he was something of legend. 

It made sense that Mo’at would offer Jake such a thing as thanks for his hand in defeating the Sky People. Toruk Makto is revered among the People. This, at least, was deserved. More than love or forgiveness. 

His words made sense now. His last night in his human body. Once the transfer was done, he’d have no need of his human skin. His body would die, be returned to Eywa. You wonder what the Great Mother will do with such strange energy. Death is part of the Great Balance; the other half of life. A circle that must remain unbroken. You can’t help the feeling of mourning that sweeps over you. Even in knowing that Jake won’t be gone, only reborn. This demon body that you should loathe is touching you so gently, smiling at you. There are pieces of him that you never knew and all too soon they’ll be gone. Forever. Jake doesn’t seem to share your same apprehension. 

He’s never spoken much about his human life. The man that was far off in some distant corner of the forest didn’t exist while Jake was with you learning the ways of the People. You didn’t know his eyes were so dark, his hair so short. You didn’t know that his legs were as skinny as liana vines. 

He purposefully kept you and Neytiri away from his human life. It was for the better, you knew. Any reminder that was too stark, too different, would draw a scowl to your lips when you were teaching him. To be reminded that Jake was only being taught because there was something to learn, something to unlearn. The greed and insanity that poisons human hearts, flows with the blood in their veins. Every moment Jake reminded you that his heart moved to a different beat, felt like chipping away at the affection you’d slowly built for him. 

Still not enough to call it true love–despite tsaheylu tying your souls to one another–but enough to be friends. As much as you truly hate the Sky People, you might’ve learned to tolerate the man leaning against your shoulder given enough time. Though time seems of little consequence to Jake. It’s only been months but he has lived every year that any other true born Na’vi of his age would’ve until now. He’s learned and grown, done what might’ve taken others fourteen years. He has claimed an ikran, conquered his dreamhunt, and made his bow from the wood of Hometree. He has mated before Eywa. He’s Toruk Makto. All this in such little time. 

It feels like rushing to be so eager to be rid of his human self, but Jake has never been one to do things slowly. Neytiri only seemed to encourage him. Her way was to learn fast or die, and death was not an option. Until now, perhaps. This human body will die. The blue light of the forest dances over him as the Samson descends, startling the stingbats from their roosts. They go shrieking into the night as you leap from the ship before it’s landed. The shock of impact shoots through your leg, worsening your limp. The poultice will have to be changed soon if you are not more careful, but you’re more than eager to be free of human invention. To be surrounded by trees and the glow of syuratan. 

The ship lands close by the Tree of Souls and you can hear the voices of the clan rising through the night. Outriders come quickly, yipping as they appear from the dimness on pa’li still saddled for war. Neytiri is among them, her hair once again hanging loose around her shoulders. Her joy is hard to deny as her direhorse toes at the ground, churning up flecks of glowing dirt as it bounces with restless excitement. Neytiri leaps from her mount with a call of your name that sounds more beautiful than any song. She has her arms around you before you can take another step. She frowns as she pulls away, eyeing the alien contraption supporting your arm. 

“We will change this,” she insists, “I am happy to see you, yawne. I prayed day and night for the Great Mother to watch over you in that place. I did not want to leave you alone but…” You understand. She is still the daughter of tsahìk, still needed by her clan. Her father had asked one thing of her as he lay dying, “Protect the People.” Even her mates must come second to that calling. But you’re together now. 

Despite the small audience, Neytiri takes to scenting you. Rubbing her face against yours, a soft purr building in her chest. You must smell strongly of that place though your nose has gone blind to the scent. Even if you smelled like nothing at all, you would let your mate scent you to her heart’s content. When she is satisfied she simply presses her forehead against yours. The world falls away for a moment until it’s only the two of you, the sound of her breathing, the smell of her skin, her hair between your fingers. She tastes sweet, like yovo fruit, when she kisses you. 

A hand on your tail distracts you, small as a child’s. It isn’t so strange. When Hometree still stood, there was no lack of children in the clan. Playful little younglings that were still learning their reflexes, trying to catch their elders’s tails as coordination practice. It takes a moment to remember that there are no children here. The scouts that had accompanied Neytiri to the clearing have disappeared into the brush, and even the humans that came along in the ship are gone, leaving you alone with your mates. Jake is hardly paying attention to you despite playing with your tail. He moves his arm in a circle, watching the blue appendage curl to keep hold of him, like a healer checking for broken bones. There are none and you lash at him until he lets go of you. He laughs as you hiss, tilting his head in that playful way he always does. 

“Na txim a txìmmì,” you grumble at him. He only smiles wider. He’d taught you the English phrase for that once. Pain in the ass. 

“Ma Jake, do not upset our muntxate,” Neytiri chides jokingly, “She cannot hit you when you’re like this.” 

Neytiri was used to shoving and pulling Jake as a way to correct him when she was teaching. Pushing him aside when he was in the way and smacking an arm or leg when his stance was wrong. It had little strength behind it when he was in his dreamwalker body, but you’re sure it would leave a mark if you so much as jabbed him too hard with your finger while he’s like this. 

“After tonight, she can hit me all she wants. Right, baby?” Jake smiles, so eager to be rid of the body he’d been born into. Neytiri shakes her head, laughing with him as she lifts him from his wheeled chair. It would not fare well against the uneven terrain, and such things are against Eywa’s Laws to begin with. She leaves the chair with the ship, carrying Jake like a baby towards her pa’li. The direhorse is strong enough to carry four men. Two women and a tawtute fit easily on her back. Neytiri keeps careful hold of Jake, setting a slower pace as she turns towards the Tree of Souls. 

It feels like reliving a memory as you undress Jake so that he can enter the sacred place without his human vestiges. There’s no blood as you remove his chest covering, no dire need to put his spirit in a new place. This is a perfectly viable body being tossed aside and it feels as though you’re the only one questioning why. But if your tsahìk has given him the choice then there is no place to question her judgment. It would be questioning Eywa’s will. 

The Great Mother welcomes her chosen one as Neytiri wraps him in the same vines that had covered Grace, atokirina’ gathering around Jake’s body. He opens his hand to one and it lands daintily in his palm. Perhaps the last thing he’ll touch with these hands. It seems fitting. 

The clans that had come to the call of Toruk Makto have gone in the time you were asleep. Only the few hundred surviving Omatikaya remain. The clan parts to allow you through, Neytiri ahead of you carrying Jake’s tawtute body and Takuk behind you with his uniltìrantokx form. Both are laid at the foot of the Mother Tree where Mo’at is already waiting. The thin roots reach greedily to cover Jake, glowing green over his pale skin. You watch the tendrils swallow him up, covering the details that you’ll never get to memorize. It feels wrong to be mated to a man when you only knew half of him. Less than half when you think of all the things Jake kept from you. He’d known from the start that the yellow machines that eat away at your forest were coming. He knew that the Sky People would come to destroy your home. 

It feels wrong to care so much about such trivial things. In a few moments it won’t matter that Jake’s eyes were brown; that he had a scar on the smallest finger of his left hand; that beneath the tattoos that you’ve only known those of the reef clans to have, are hundreds of freckles so different from the ones that glow on the skin of his dreamwalker body. It won’t matter. Just like with the claiming of toruk, this will be another mark wiped clean. Still, you pray with the rest of the clan because it is what is expected of you. Neytiri sits above you on the edge of the stone terrace, closely watching Jake’s face through his mask. Atokirina’ dance around the two of them, landing on both halves of Jakesully. After a while Neytiri calls softly to her mother and Mo’at raises her hands to command silence. You rise then, moving towards the tawtute you’ll never know. 

His eyes are closed, chest still. Neytiri removes his mask. She leans forward to press a kiss against one eye then the other before moving towards the body that’s become so familiar. Jake is still for a beat, long enough for you to wonder if he returned. Neytiri touches his cheek, brushing her thumb over the scattering of his tanhì. Both of you bow close around him, heads nearly touching as you watch his face for any sign of life. You count Neytiri’s bated breaths. One, two–the third stutters as Jake opens his eyes. 

for what felt like hours she carried on this way, dabbling in a mix of learning the dances and joining the elders drumming. somewhere in the in-between she lost sight of ao'nung, but didn't let it infringe on the way she was enjoying herself. it was only after eclipse when all the stars lit up the sky that the celebration started to slow down, people now softly chatting in circles of friends and family or playing minimal-movement games, the drummers switching to slow beats and light taps purely for their own amusement. when her body slowed down from her adrenaline high, (y/n) found herself sitting in the sand next to neteyam. they had chosen a spot somewhat separate from everyone else, far away enough to be able to whisper to one another and be able to hear. her skin was flushed with a thin film of sweat, and her cheeks were blushing deeply for various reasons.

"having fun?" neteyam handed her a wooden dish filled with water, taking in all the details of her appearance. she accepted it with a 'thank you' and said "yeah" as she drank, water missing her mouth and running down her chin. "so much fun." even through the tiredness she felt like she had been struck by lightning in the best way possible. she was buzzing with energy, alive and awake in a way she hadn't been since before all the battling started. neteyam simply grinned at her and patted her back. "good. i am glad to see you happy, sis." she smiled at him, setting the dish down just as she noticed the glint in his eyes. "and i think someone else feels the same way." he said, slightly jerking his head towards whoever he was talking about. she followed his intended point of direction and saw ao'nung, who was approaching them. he walked confidently but carefully, reminding her of the way she and neteyam would sneak up on prey back home.

"neteyam." ao'nung said, doing the motion for 'i see you'. he then looked down at (y/n), who he decided looked very cute from this angle. "ao'nung." neteyam mirrored the sentiment, looking at him in a mix of curiosity, defensiveness and knowing amusement. ao'nung ignored the look and instead focused on the girl sitting below him. "my father has asked that i show you to the hut where the food for celebrations is prepared. it's the only place on the island you haven't seen yet." (y/n) looked over at neteyam, matching his expression of suspicion. her brother raised an eyebrow.

she placed a gentle hand on his arm and gave him a look that said 'it's okay' before facing ao'nung once more, raising to stand at her full height. her brother did the same, doing that macho thing guys do where they puff their chests out and stand as straight as possible to assert dominance or something. ao'nung did the same, and she happened to catch the flicker of nervousness that crossed his face. it made her want to laugh, but she refrained. she chose to stand there for a moment, just looking between them and feeling the silent communication the two boys had going on. when neither of them said anything she rolled her eyes and gently pressed neteyam away, giving ao'nung a pointed look.

"lead the way, then." she said. ao'nung shot one last look to neteyam before he turned and began walking a few steps ahead of the girl, if only to make it look like he wasn't trying to be romantic or something. (y/n) looked over her shoulder to neteyam who nodded at her once before she fell into step behind the boy, nodding back at him in the same way to communicate understanding. once they got far enough from the celebration square he fell into step with her silently, walking by her side.

"i know you lied." she said, voice smooth as her eyes looked only at the path ahead of them. "there is no feast-hut. where are we going?" there was a tangible beat of silence before ao'nung rolled his neck and clicked his tongue, visibly a little embarrassed at being caught. he put his smug demeanor back on quickly though, rolling his eyes as he swept a large leaf out of their way. "just be quiet and trust me." he said, continuing to lead them deeper into the trees of the island. she began to feel like they were getting really far from the residential part of the village and became a bit nervous, voicing that to him. "ao'nung, seriously. did you get us lost or something? where are we going?" she asked, trailing behind him as he leads her into a denser part of the forest.

"will you just trust me?" he said, pushing another large leaf out of the way for her. "i'm trying, but-" she was cut off by the sight in front of her. he had led her to a hidden lagoon, which was sparkling with bioluminescent sand and shimmering water. it was hidden right beneath a clearing in the trees that gave an open view of the stars above, and they reflected perfectly on the surface of the water. her mouth fell open in awe before she could will herself to stop, stepping forward slowly as she took in the sight.

"wow.. this is beautiful," she breathed, turning to face the boy who was standing behind her now, a smug but soft smile on his face. "this has been here the whole time?" "yes. not many come here anymore because there are no more fish to hunt in it." he explained as she stepped closer to the water, feeling the soft sand beneath her feet. she looked at her own reflection in the surface, crouching down to be closer. she was silenced with the awe she felt, having seen so many wonders of eywa's beautiful world but for some reason this one was truly enchanting. maybe it was how quiet it was out here, or the way the water rippled slowly like it had nowhere to be, or maybe it was the reflection that joined hers.

she looked over at ao'nung's face hovering close to her own on the surface of the water, giggling a bit. he just gazed at her in response, a lazy smile on his lips. it was then that she noticed their real proximity. if she moved in the slightest bit they'd be arm to arm. the realization made the tips of her ears burn with embarrassment as she hopped away, putting a bit of space between them. her reflection disappeared from the surface as she sat up, crouched on the tips of her feet and fingers. "uh," she cleared her throat. "why are you showing me this?"

he looked at her silently, his eyes roaming her appearance. the gaze wasn't of a perverse nature, but instead interest and curiosity. "your spots.. they match the sand." his voice was quiet, almost tender when he finally spoke. he scooped a handful of the bioluminescent sand and brought it to their shared eyelevel, showing her what he meant. and he was right. "yes," she reached one finger towards the sand in his palm, gently moving it around. "it is so we can conceal ourselves. in my home, everything glows this way at night." she explained. he nodded, absorbing every word. "so that is why you do not glow in the day?" he asked, making eye contact with her. "yes."

she realized that she was still tracing circles in his palm, but for some reason she didn't feel inclined to stop. and clearly, he wasn't bothered by it either. for a moment they only looked at each other, feeling the soft breeze on their skin, listening to the sound of the trees around them and the distant hum of the ocean. his eyes flicked to her lips, if only for a moment, but the fact he did it at all made him want to slap himself. abruptly he cleared his throat and stood, moving so his front was turned away from her. she was confused and a little hurt at the action but chose not to say anything of it, rising to her full height as well. "well," came her voice, soft and quiet. "thank you for showing this to me."

she heard him when he scoffed, watched as he stepped into the water. "please. i didn't do this for you." his voice was condescending as he waded deeper into the water, his back still turned to her. meanwhile, on the inside, he was panicking a little. he knew one hundred percent he brought her here to impress her, but of course he didn't want to accept that, and he certainly didn't want her to know that. "oh, is that right?" her voice came from behind him as she followed him into the lagoon, the water surprisingly warm and welcoming as she stalked towards him. he had been so sweet in hours past, why was he back to being agitating now? "why did you bring me all the way out here then?" she asked, her voice getting closer much to his dismay. his tongue rolled behind his teeth as he turned to face her, his head tilted toward her in a way that said 'you are so frustrating.'

"what if i did?" he asked, looking directly into her eyes. something within him loved the way she was visibly shocked by his words, the way her eyes widened and her lips parted. "what if i did do this just for you? what would you say then, hm?" he was walking towards her now, and suddenly she was wondering if this is how the prey she hunted felt. she walked backwards until only her ankles remained in the water and she decided she didn't want to be a coward. she wasn't going to let him intimidate her this way, so she stood firm. he was soon so close she could feel his breath on her face, and she was suddenly acutely aware of how much broader he was than her. nonetheless she lifted her nose to him and held his gaze sharply, her heart hammering hard against her ribcage.

but, it wasn't out of fear. no, it was something much worse than that. along with the realization that he was physically much bigger, came another stronger, sharper sense. he was so, so handsome. she had never let herself see it before due to the fact she was usually too busy wanting to throw rocks at his head, but now that they were alone in this beautiful spot he revealed specifically to her, standing so very close, and being so very alone...

"screw you, skxawng." she muttered, breaking eye contact. her cheeks and ears were burning with embarrassment as he laughed at her, the sound full and genuine. "awe, what is the matter forest girl?" he asked, stepping so close she was forced to take a step back. "shut up." "or what?" he was thoroughly enjoying the way the tables had turned. just moments before he was the one trying to conceal his embarrassment, but now it was her turn. he opened his mouth to make another remark when suddenly he found himself in the water. he blinked, surprised, looking up to see (y/n) standing over him with a big smile on her face. "i told you to shut up."

she had pushed him flat onto his butt. ao'nung stared up at her shocked, unmoving, before a smile broke out on his face. she was full of surprises, huh? "very funny. help me up." she scoffed, but reached her hand out to him nonetheless. "the future olo'eyktan can't stand up on his own? embarras-" with one firm tug to her wrist ao'nung had her tripping over her feet and falling face-first into the water beside him. his laugh was broad and loud when she sputtered, long limbs flailing as she sat up and began wiping sand from her face. "oh," she grinned devilishly at him while he continued to laugh at her dismay, locking her sight directly onto him. "you're done for, fish face."

before he could blink she was on him, wrestling him into the shallow pool and fighting with all her might as he tried to flip her off. they writhed and flailed and struggled to maintain dominance over one another, sand and water flying everywhere at the force of their limbs. "ow! that's my tail!" ao'nung exclaimed in the midst of their struggle, one of his wide hands finding purchase on the nape of her neck. he grabbed and squeezed in a successful attempt to subdue her, tossing her aside as she yelped at the feeling. she was working herself onto her feet and hands by the time he had moved to tackle her into the sand, having somehow moved their struggle completely onto the shore. his thighs pinned hers in place as he straddled her legs, keeping her mostly immobilized.

her chest heaved with the greedy breaths she took, the air she exhaled mingling with his. there was a wild, amused glint in her eyes and a wide smile on her face as they stared at each other, all movements halting momentarily. "you only pinned me cause i let you." she said, which made him laugh through his own heavy breaths. "if that's what is going to help you sleep tonight.." she pressed both of her hands firmly to his chest and pushed him off of her, which he allowed to happen. they now sat maybe two feet apart, softly laughing at each other.

"you're infuriating." she said, though the look on her face didn't match her words whatsoever. "the feeling is mutual." for a moment it was quiet, and just when (y/n) opened her mouth to say something, the sound of leaves rustling nearby pulled them out of the bubble in which only the two of them existed. both of their heads turned towards the sound, alert and in defense mode. "it's late," (y/n) said, her eyes fixed on the spot she heard the noise from as she slowly stood. "yes." ao'nung agreed while he did the same, taking a step closer to her. they both watched the woodline for a moment more before deciding it was nothing of real danger before they looked to each other, standing closer than they had realized.

"i should get home." "i will walk with you." ao'nung said, more like a statement than an offer. (y/n) only nodded in response, falling into step beside him as he led them back out of the woods. she spared the lagoon one last look of admiration and a bit of longing over her shoulder, noting where the sand was mused due to their scrimmage. she smiled softly to herself but said nothing, choosing to remain silent the rest of the way back to the village. still, she was aware of his presence beside her, of the warmth radiating off of him, of the significant difference of height he had on her. the numerous thoughts running through her head made her blush, a war forming inside of her. 'i do not have a crush on this boy. that's ridiculous.' she said to herself, but her brain recalled all the things he did for her today that should make her think otherwise.

with much effort she pushed all of those thoughts away and forced herself to focus on the ground beneath her feet, realizing she was starting to recognize where they were. the residential part of the village was in view now, most of the marui's dark and quiet due to it being well past the time everyone was meant to be in bed. "ao'nung.. you will not get into trouble, right? for being out so late?" he huffed some sort of noise between a scoff and a chuckle, his arrogant aura puffed to full size now that they could potentially be spotted by someone else. "no. you probably will, though." (y/n) punched his arm, which made him laugh, even though she was entirely serious and frowning now.

"that's not funny." she mumbled, lowering her voice now that they were walking on the nets that connected all their marui's. they were nearing dangerously close to hers, and she turned to place a hand on his chest, halting him. "it's best if you leave me here," her voice was barely above a whisper. "my dad won't be happy if he sees you with me. he went on a rant today about how i don't need to be 'messing around with boys'." she explained. ao'nung grinned but nodded nonetheless, amused and serious at the same time. "lucky for him," he took her hand from his chest gently, holding it between them. "you're not my type." he winked, and earned himself another punch to the arm. he laughed quietly as he turned to leave, pretending to be injured and cradling his arm all dramatically. the show made her giggle as well, waving her arm at him like she would to a bug. "go!" she whisper-shouted at him, giggling as he retreated with one final look at her over his shoulder.

he winked once more before hurrying off to his own home, leaving her standing there in the midst of what was. for a moment that's all she did, just stood and smiled dorkishly, biting her fingernail between her teeth. unfortunately for her, she couldn't live in that moment forever. "(y/n)." jake's voice, although quiet, was sharp and stern as it called to her. the sound made her flinch and turn quickly, meeting the eyes of her very unhappy father. "do you know what time it is?" she hurried towards him with her head down, embarrassed and nervous at being caught out so late. "sorry, sir." she mumbled, meeting him at the opening of their marui. he stepped aside to let her in but his eyes still followed her, assessing her. her entire family was asleep peacefully in their respective spots, which made her even more nervous.

"where were you?" they stood in the doorway together, jake looking down at her with his arms crossed. he was never too hard on his daughters but upset was definitely an understatement. with everything he had going on in his life at the moment, the last thing he needed was to be kept up all night wondering if his eldest daughter was hurt, or causing trouble, or messing around with the chiefs son. she stuttered quietly, fiddling with her fingers. even though he was very unhappy, jake decided now wasn't the time to belabor it. he could clearly see that she was nervous and sorry, and if she was safe there was no need to make a fuss at this time of night. "are you hurt?" his tone was softer now, shifting to a tired kind of concern. "no, sir." "did anything bad happen?" she shook her head. "no, sir."

jake sighed, running a hand down his face in exhaustion. he was quiet for a moment, just watching her. "alright. just... take your ass to bed, (y/n). i'll deal with you in the morning." "yes, sir." quickly she headed off to her cot and lied down, being as quiet as possible. she lied with her back turned towards where her father, mother, and youngest sister slept, her front facing the wall of their marui. her body was buzzing with nervous adrenaline at being caught and a giddy kind of adrenaline at the memories she replayed of the night, picturing ao'nung's smug smirk and interested eyes he had directed at her and her only. she smiled to herself as she tried to get comfortable, sand sticking to her torso and legs from their wrestling match earlier, the physical memorabilia making her smile wider.

Yepa appeared at her elbow—materialized, really, because she hadn't heard him approach. That can’t be...She always heard footsteps.

Yepa was still bloody from the battle, huffing out air. Gashes mapped his ribs, one eye had swollen shut. He lowered himself immediately, gaze hazed and unfocused. "The—" he swallowed, tongue thick in his mouth. "She's helping the wounded."

She stumbled, pushing past him.

Her senses felt shredded, smeared across the ground in some frothy mix of blood and adrenaline. Left had become right. Up felt like down. But she placed one foot in front of the other.

"Tsahik," Yepa murmured behind her.

His voice seemed impossibly far away.

The world tilted sideways, then over-corrected. She caught herself against a support beam, bark rough beneath her palm, and forced another step.

Focus. Y/n. Need to find…

She looked around the settlement. Smoke floated through the air. Fires still guttered in oil drums. Bodies—both Na'vi and human—lay in careful rows, awaiting the clan or the RDA corpse-ships.

There.

You were tucked behind the barest hint of shoulder poking out from a yurt, gun in hand for defense.

"Y/n!" she called.

You turned, and your eyes went wide. Relief flooded your face before you bolted across the clearing. "Varang!" Tears were already streaming as you crashed into her, laughing breathlessly, tucking your head beneath her chin and clawing at her back like you could pull her closer. "You're okay!"

Varang closed her eyes, and pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. "I am now."

"Where is Qua—"

ZAP.

Varang suddenly went still, her entire body becoming rigid. "NghAAhh!" A painful screech tore from her throat, her eyes went wide, hands suddenly clawing at the sky as though she could tear away whatever invisible thing had seized her. Every muscle locked. She couldn't move—couldn't stop moving—caught between convulsion and paralysis.

"Varang?!"

You cupped her cheeks and looked at her, now trying to find any obvious wounds, anything you could fix. Her screams would not stop, and it was as if she was unable to do anything but suffer.

What is happening…?

You lifted her top with shaking hands. No bullets, no arrows. You examined every part of her—ribs, stomach, shoulders—searching for the wound that had to be there. Blood smeared under your fingertips, but none of it was hers. And then—

You caught the flickering bioluminescence of her queue.

"...Varang…?"

Purple and wrong, swelling as if it were cooking.

You hooked your own queue to hers.

The moment the connection snapped into place, you felt it. It was a violent, repeating pulse of sensation gone haywire. It was the repeated flicker of senses simply going—neurons misfiring, signals scrambling, the very structure of thought collapsing and rebuilding and collapsing again.

Your entire nervous system lit up like it was being electrocuted from the inside. You stiffened. A scream ripped from your throat before you could stop it.

You felt your heart stutter in your chest—skip a beat, then two, then slam back into rhythm so hard it hurt.

Disconnectdisconnectdisconnect—

Your legs gave out.

You hit the ground hard, palms scraping against dirt, and Varang collapsed with you. Her weight crushed into your lap, head lolling against your thigh, and you couldn't—you couldn't breathe—

"Varang! Y/n!"

Yepa lunged forward, yanking the queues apart with both hands.

Yepa knelt beside you, both hands still gripping the separated queues, his eyes wide and panicked. "What—what was—"

You couldn't answer.

Your own tendrils felt sore now, and you felt the flicker throb only to disappear, the simplist echo of agony that left your skull ringing

Varang stared at nothing.

"What is happening...?" Yepa's voice cracked.

Behind him, more Mangkwan landed with ikran screeching and warriors bleeding from arrows lodged in arms. The settlement was quickly becoming a makeshift field hospital.

"I don't know." You barely heard yourself.

You looked down at Varang—at the way her pupils had blown wide, at the way her fingers twitched against her thigh like they were trying to grip then release.

"Go help the others, Yepa."

He hesitated. “Y/n—”

"Go."

You didn't want anyone to see her like this, and you knew—you knew—she'd curse you later if you let them.

Yepa rose slowly, backing away, before finally turning and jogging toward the cluster of wounded warriors. You watched him go, then looked down.

You hoisted her onto your shoulder, steadying her weight against you. 

Over the chaos, you caught it: Quaritch's body being hauled onto a stretcher, with burns tracing down his sides and falling into bloody drips. Your breath snagged. Two recoms grunted under the bulk of him.

What happened to him? Weren’t they winning? Thats what you overheard from a pinkskin.

Your attention quickly fled from Miles to Varang, and your breath steadied. "Come on," you whispered, fingers digging into her hip. "Please, Varang. Come on."

Varang stumbled, dragging a path of resistance that followed into streaks of ash against the hot metal floor.

You led ger to the nearest yurt—now abandoned or forgotten, you didn't care—and lowered her into the hammock with soft hands. The hammock swayed until you fisted the rope, keeping her steady. 

She didn't even resist. Didn't speak. Her head lolled back, exposing the long line of her throat. No injuries, not even there.

ou grabbed a rag, dunking it in the water bowl, and began wiping the paint from her face. Red smeared to pink. White turned blotted, only to come into nothing. You pulled the stool closer.

"Y/n…" The word was barely a murmur. Her head dipped, eyes glazing as they tracked your movements. Then, impossibly, she smiled.

"Shh." You took her hand and threaded your fingers through hers, squeezed gently. You felt the bone underneath the skin, and even that felt hot. "You're okay." You will be okay. You thought. You just aren’t now.

You began undressing her. The beads and bones and leather ties, the feathered collar you helped her make. When you reached her mother's bag, the one she never let anyone touch, you placed it right beside her head.

"I need to see the queue, Varang."

“The queue is the na’vi.” You remembered her telling you, far too long ago. “It is the great pretenders curse to all beings. To rely on the connection of all things, a reminder that we are only her children, and will forever be hers. An extension”

She’d been sitting, pelting the metal into a ring. Sweat dripped trails down her face, but she did not move to wipe the droplets. “The pinkskins do not have this tether, Y/n.” She looked at you now. Stopped. “This forever umbilical cord. That is why they can kill the Na’vi, and why Eywa cannot stop it.”

You remembered just watching her, then drifting to her belt of queues, to your own she adorned as love. “You believe Quaritch can kill the great mother—” Mistake. “---The great pretender, I mean.” You grumbled.

Her face relaxed. “Yes.”

You rolled her onto her side. The queue spilled over her shoulder, and your stomach dropped.

The bioluminescence that marked every Na'vi's neural whip had dimmed to almost nothing. The tendrils that should have been gentle and searching coiled inward as if experiencing a great dying. You didn't touch it. 

Your throat tightened. "What happened?"

Varang's jaw clenched. She turned her face into the hammock, shoulders rigid. "Eywa's bitch," she seethed. "That's what."

You didn't press. Instead, you reached for a length of soft cloth and began wrapping the queue with the kind of care you’d give to a dying thing. She’s not dying. You reprimanded yourself. Hurt. That is all. All things that can be hurt, can bleed.

Even that—the barest brush of fabric—made her twitch. A sharp intake of breath. A bitten-off sound that could've been a cry.

"I know, I know." You kissed her neck between each gentle wrap, lips pressed to sweat-slick skin. "Almost done, yawntu."

At the final tie, she went slack.

You stayed and stroked her hair until sleep took her somewhere nice and sweet. You gave one final kiss, smelled the smoke, and slipped outside.

Yepa was waiting. Of course he was.

He straightened when he saw you, concern careful into every line of his young face. "Y/n." His head dipped. "How is the Tsahìk?"

A glance back at the yurt entrance. "She will be fine." A second lie, easier than the first. You took his arm and pulled him closer. "But… in case the others ask, say she is resting after battle. Tell them not to worry."

Yepa's nod came without hesitation. "Of course, Y/n."

The camp was chaos.

Pinkskins ran in every direction, hauling buckets of water toward buildings still licked by flame. Your people carried the injured—warriors, hunters—into yurts or toward the tsahik-like healers Quaritch called doctors. Among the orange sky, voices rose in languages meshed with your peoples, and theirs.

Quaritch.

Where is Quaritch.

He’d left your mind completely, shamefully. Too preoccupied with the pressing matter of Varang becoming much less than a na’vi but still a little more than a human.

You ducked low, catching a passing pinkskin by the arm. He stumbled, eyes wide beneath the strange helmet.

"Quaritch," you said. "Where is he?"

"Shit—shit, uh… the infirmary? I think. If it's not overloaded, you might find him in the cafeteria." They tore away before you could ask further.

Your tail lashed once against the ground. You straightened, scanning the smoke-stained horizon.

Cafeteria or infirmary.

.

.

.

You had tasted the copper and antiseptic.  An-tuh-sep-tik. Human word, four syllables. You said it hidden in your tongue. Good practice when Quaritch was gone and you needed training.

"Get me a scalpel, Christ, someone—"

"Anyone have saline water?"

Overcrowded didn't begin to cover it. Tsahìk-like humans in pale coverings ran past, smeared wrist to elbow in red. Wailing rose from cots arranged in crooked rows, or other bodies resting on any surface available. Failure, it seemed, was something the RDA did not account for.

The ego of these people. Your ears flickered.

You hunched smaller, shoulders curling inward. This was no place for you. That much was clear. You pressed against the wall, trying to become nothing.

"The hell—move!"

One of them shoved your leg aside without looking, carrying something slick and dark between bloodied hands. You caught enough of a glimpse. Some organ you’d seen on a poster once. In-tes-tine. Three syllables.

You flinched. "Apologies. Where may I find Quaritch?"

The healer stopped. Sniffed. Shook their head like you were the stupidest thing they'd seen all day."Jesus—the southside industrial zone, sweetheart. We're fucking swamped here, can't you see that?"

You frowned but nodded. I do see that. But I cannot do anything about it.

More walking.

Your feet ached by the time you found him. You'd asked—what, five people? Six? Their faces blurred together—flat features, dark eyes, impatient— All too busy dying or saving the dying to care about one Na'vi looking for one man. Until finally, someone jerked their chin toward a narrow corridor. "Down there. Can't miss the big blue bastard."

And there he was.

"Quaritch." You sighed his name.

Wires snaked across his chest, disappearing beneath strange white wrappings that covered most of his torso. An IV drip hung beside him, clear liquid trickling down into the crook of his elbow. The healers had already moved on, focusing on those with worse bodies and greivious wounds. He’d been triaged.

His ear twitched first. Then a groan, low and pained. "Buttercup, that you?" He forced his eyes open. His arm jerked—tried to—but he couldn't. Nothing moved right.  “Got me hooked on a fuck-ton of morphine. Can you believe that?”

“Morphine…? Mor-fine. Two syllables." You said it aloud this time, you knew he liked it when you practiced his language.

"Yeah, sugar." A ghost of his usual grin. "That's right. Morphine. Makes my head feel like I got hit by a goddamn freight train."

"What is... freight train?"

He laughed. Winced immediately after, hand twitching toward his ribs. "Ah, fuck—don't make me laugh, doll. Hurts like a bitch."

You smiled despite yourself, sinking down beside the cot. "Okay." Your hand found the edge of the metal frame. "I was looking everywhere for you." It came out more petulant than you meant. Annoyed, like he'd hidden on purpose.

He sucked air through his teeth. "That's sweet of you, real sweet." His head lolled toward you, gaze still hazy.  "Varang send you?"

"No." You paused. “She’s—”

“Course she didn’t,” He grunted. "Our little lady tossed me aside in the dirt, goddamn hurt."

He tried to sit up.

Your palm found his chest, pressing him back with gentle insistence. "No, Quaritch. Please." A whisper. "You are injured."

His jaw worked. "Yeah, well—"

"The both of you."

That made him still. "What?"

You frowned, fingers twisting together in your lap. "Varang. Her queue." The words tasted wrong. "Did someone... slice it? I could not unbraid her hair to look. But..." You shrugged, helpless. "I have never seen anything like it." Your gaze drifted away, fixing on nothing. "What happened, Quaritch?"

His jaw clenched so hard you heard the grind of teeth. Behind him, his tail tried to lash—stopped short by his weight pinning it to the cot. "Jake Sully." The name came out like rot. "Him and his batshit wife and their shitty half-breeds."

You gave a slow nod. "The man you are hunting, yes? The one like you?"

"Not like me." The snarl was immediate. "Not a damn traitor."

But Quaritch wore your colors and dressed like your people. He put the same ash you did over his own body. He was far more Na’vi than he was human, at any point. Dumb, not weak. Just dumb.

You frowned, then sighed, then rubbed your face with both palms because that was the only thing you could possibly do at this moment. "Did you recover Spider?" The question came quiet.

But you already knew the answer.

He scoffed. Turned his head away, staring at the ceiling. Mumbled something low enough that even your ears couldn't catch it.

"Quaritch—"

"Who do you think gave me this, sweetheart?"

He lifted his arm—the bandaged one, red blooming through white gauze like a flower you'd never want to pick. The movement made him wince and suck air through his teeth. "Kid wants nothing to do with me, hell he shot me himself. My own goddamn son put an arrow—" His voice cracked. Just enough that you heard it. He was forcing anger when you could see his sadness, forcing rage to cover the wound underneath.

"That is not true." You whispered, thumb stroking across his knuckles. "You are his father despite everything. Blood does not change.”

"He shot me—"

"And you probably gave him no choice." You huffed, meeting his gaze. "Quaritch. We both know how you are. You are relentless and I love you for it but—" You paused. "But sometimes... sometimes you push too hard. Sometimes you do not know when to stop."

He was grinning now. 

Actually grinning, the bastard. That crooked, shit-eating smile pulling at his mouth despite everything—the pain, the morphine, the failure. "Love me for it?"

You wanted to hit him. "Do not—"

"Nah, nah." His grin widened, even through the pain. "You said it, buttercup. Can't take it back now."

Instead you sighed. "Skxawng." Idiot. "Dumb man."

He chuckled.. "Yeah, but I'm your dumb man."

You hid your tired smile, and he laughed again. His hand found yours, threading your fingers together despite the IV line. "You're good for me, you know that?" His thumb traced lazy circles against your palm. "Don't let me get too dark."

For a moment you just sat there, hand on his knee, listening to the machines beep their steady rhythm. Alive. Alive. Alive.

“Well I should—”

His hand shot out—faster than you'd thought possible for someone leaking blood and swimming in drugs—and his fingers closed around your wrist. The grip was pathetic, but you didn’t mind it.

"Buttercup."

Something in his face had cracked open, softening at the seams where the morphine pooled, made him honest in ways sobriety never allowed. "Varang" He swallowed. "She... she's alright though, right?"

"It’s… too soon but she is angry," you said carefully. "At herself, I think. Or at you. Or—" The words dissolved. You lifted one shoulder in a helpless shrug. "Everything."

He nodded in understanding. "Yeah. That sounds like her. Sully's got nine lives or some shit. Slippery bastard."

You watched his face, saw the way his eyes glazed in thought. Or morphine, the two syllable word  that felt more like an excuse. "You will try again." You looked away from him, defeated once more.

"Damn right I will." His grip on your wrist loosened, fingers going slack. "Soon as I can walk without feeling like my guts are gonna spill out onto the floor... soon as they clear me for duty..." His head lolled back against the pillow. "Gonna get my boy back. Gonna make Sully pay for every goddamn—"

"Quaritch."

"Mm?"

"Rest."

He cracked a smile, looking at you. "You're bossy when you're worried."

"I am not worried."

"Then leave."

You didn't move.

His mouth quirked. "Or stay." Softer now. He patted the space beside him, shuffling over despite the wince it earned. "Come on. Really gonna leave me alone? After my battle wounds, bleedin' out here?"

He doesn't want to be alone.

The thought sat strange in your chest.

You frowned, glancing toward the door, the hallway beyond. "Is that... you know..." Your voice dropped to a whisper. "Fine?"

"Regs say patients need rest and comfort. I want the company. Doctor's orders." He tapped his temple, sluggish. "I'm self-prescribing."

Your tail curled before you could stop it. You climbed onto the bed with careful hands, pressing your cheek to his chest where the bandages weren't, where you could feel his heartbeat against your ear.

"You hate me, huh?"

“What…?”

"Nothing." He exhaled slow, and you felt it ruffle your braids. "Just thinkin' out loud. Morphine makes me philosophical." A pause. Then, quieter: "Move closer."

"I am close."

"Closer." His hand found the back of your head, fingers threading through your braids. That stupid grin was back. You could hear it in his voice. "I don't care for the pain. Means I'm livin' ain't it?"

Your brows twisted. "But I don't want to—"

He lifted you.

Just—lifted you, hands finding your hips and dragging you up to straddle him despite the way his face went white, despite the fresh blood seeping dark through gauze. He swallowed the pain, jaw locked, and resettled you like it was nothing.

"Miles!" Your hands flew to his shoulders.

"See?" His thumbs pressed into your hipbones. Rubbed small circles there. "Not so bad."

Your tail wagged. Traitor. It thumped against his knee, betraying the warmth flooding your chest at the display. Strength. Devotion. Something else you didn't have words for.

You didn't pull away from the warmth or the wet copper smell blooming beneath the bandages. Instead you curled around him—over him, into him—face buried against the crook of his neck and shoulder where his pulse beat steady. The bloody scent should have repelled you.

It didn't.

"You are an idiot," you whispered.

"Been called worse." He squeezed your ass. "Usually by you, actually."

"Teylupil," you muttered.

"Yeah, that one." He laughed—a soft, huffing thing that made him wince. "Still don't know what it means but I'm guessin' it ain't a compliment."

His hand found your back. Spread wide. Holding you there.

I love him.

.

.

.

You visited Quaritch as often as the guards allowed. When they barred his door, you went to Varang instead. And where Quaritch grew stronger, Varang did not.

Her queue.

As the Tsahik-like pinkskins had said, her queue had been scrambled. Utterly, completely, frayed. They didn’t mince the words. “It’s connected to her nervous system.” They’d grumble. “And that nervous system is basically washed.” They described it like a current rushing through and overloading the system. “She basically experienced lighting, and her queue was the singular rod. It just burned the receptors until nothing existed.”

She would never bond again.

She would never see you again.

The absolute devastation.

"There must be something," you pressed, following the medic as he moved between shelves of supplies. Your voice came out thin, desperate. You hated the sound of it. "Sky-people technology—surely you have something… Maybe…?"

The man shook his head. He didn't even look up from his clipboard. He scribbled another line, reached for a vial, set it back down.

"Nothing we have is made for Na'vi. Not designed for your physiology." A pause. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "We might be able to grow a queue in a lab. Theoretically. But attaching it without killing her?" He exhaled through his teeth. "The complexity alone—"

"But it's hurting her. Please—"

"Look." His tone sharpened, then softened into something worse: pity. "The RDA will never fund a project like that for a simple sav—"

Your teeth snapped together. A hiss escaped before you could choke it back.

He froze mid-breath, then tried again, gentler this time though the tone had taken something patronizing, curling beneath softer words. "What I'm trying to say is, if it's not an avatar, there's no budget. No authorization. That's just how it is."

You felt lost, and the RDA scrubbed their hands clean of any responsibility.

You turned away, pressing your palms to your face, pacing the narrow length of the tent. The fabric walls shuddered with each gust of wind outside.

Varang would be like this. Forever. Locked in constant, gnawing pain. Unable to bond with any living thing, unable to command or comfort or feel the world the way she once had. Varang would never be the Varang you knew.

Please, great mother… please.

For the first time in years, you found yourself praying.

You'd slipped away from the compound under cover of dusk, moving deep into the forest where no one would think to follow.

This was yours. A secret.

The tendrils hung from the branches, gentle and swaying against the wind. They were purple and pink and white, all the colors you had forgotten existed in the world, a beautiful brilliance that no fire could truly emulate.

"Please, Great Mother," You sank against the base of the tree, knees drawn to your chest, and let your queue unfurl. "Forgive her." The braid trembled as you lifted it toward the hanging vines, hesitating only once before the connection took hold. The world opened.

Warmth flooded your senses. Not heat—something gentler. The pulse of thousands of lives breathing in unison.

"Forgive her. Forgive the violence she's carried, the pain she's caused." You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the words to reach into the heart of the ancestors and be carried into the soul of the Great Mother. "Please heal her."

Silence.

Of course.

Your throat tightened. Tears pricked hot behind your eyes, and you hated them, hated the weakness, hated that you were here at all. "Please… Please…"

Eywa did not listen to prayers. Eywa followed the balance of life, protected it. And Varang had tried to destroy it. Had brought metal and death to the People. Why would Eywa listen now? Her back would be turned to you all, surely.

Eywa holds all her children in her heart.

You swallowed hard.

If Varang was condemned to live in misery, then let Eywa grant her peace in death. Let her spirit return to the earth, forgiven at last, held gently in the embrace you could no longer give her.

Let her return to the roots, the soil, the endless green. Let her be held, even if she'd never allowed herself to be held in life.

Let her come home.

Your hand found your songcord, fingers tracing the beads there. The amber one with the red skittle inside. The small carved bone from Varang's first scalping. The woven fiber Quaritch had tied there one night when you weren't looking, smelling faintly of gunpowder and something sweet.

You watched the tendril glow as you let go. A calm filled you—unexpected yet not entirely forgotten. It had been so long since you'd felt anything close to peace.

Your smile came small and bitter. "I am so sorry, Mother," you whispered. The words tasted like confession. "But I love her. And I believe my love is shrouded in selfishness."

Your head bowed. Atokirina descended, one pale seed against the dark, and settled on your shoulder. You cupped it in your palms, careful. It was so weightless, so beautiful. It only hovered, the judgement of something so pure against the filth that was your sin. 

Crack.

You whirled. Gun raised, safety off, barrel trained on the shadow bleeding out from between the trees. Your breath came in sharp bursts. Tears still wet on your cheeks, salt stinging the corners of your mouth.

You grimaced. “Who are you?”

A woman stepped into the clearing, hands raised in a gesture both placating and unafraid. She wore the sacred red of the Tsahik draped over her shoulders. Curiosity softened her features, not fear. You glared back, teeth bared, dragging your forearm across wet eyes. “Answer me."

The Atokirina drifted away. The woman's frown was gentle. "I am Saye." Her gaze traced your rifle, then traveled your ash-marked skin. "You are of the Mangkwan, the ash clan." Confusion creased her brow, not judgment—although you had expected it. "What are you doing here?"

You clicked the safety. The sound meant nothing to her, and yet she flinched. "None of your business," you hissed, rising slowly. 

She carried no weapons save the ceremonial dagger all Tsahik bore at their waist. Nothing against a gun.

She studied the rifle again, frown deepening. "You bring metal to a sacred place?" A smile ghosted across her mouth. "You expect the Great Mother to hear you with such a thing clouding your heart? Poisoning it?"

You raised the gun higher. Her smile died.

"I am sorry." Her voice dropped. "My mother tells me I am too blunt." She inclined her head. A pause. Her gaze lifted, meeting yours with unnerving steadiness "...But you never answered. Why are you here? Will you burn this place too?"

Your chest heaved, and you found breath came hard. Lying to a Tsahik felt sacrilegious, somehow.

When did it start mattering?

The rifle lowered, heavy now in your grip. "No." The word barely carried. "I did not come here to burn." You turned toward the tree, fingers finding a tendril. "I have come here to—"

"To pray?"

Your gaze snapped back to her, suspicious. Searching for mockery—but found only patience. You nodded, the admission scraping out of you. "To pray."

The rifle returned to your back. Saye's smile returned, warmer now, and she stepped closer. When you retreated a pace, she stopped.

"Please. Let us pray together then." She extended a hand. Your eyes flicked to her dagger. She reached down slowly, lifted it from its sheath, and placed it on a nearby stone. "In peace."

You studied her. "Why are you being kind?"

"There is no reason." She shrugged, lowering herself onto one of the great roots. She knelt and brought her queue forward, joining it to the tree. "I just want to visit my mother.” Her eyes found yours again. “And you will not move."

You paused.

"Oh."

"You assumed she was alive."

"You spoke to her as if she was." The words came quieter now. You knelt beside her—still tense, still ready to bolt—but the woman was at ease, hands lifting to cradle the tendril with a gentleness you'd forgotten existed.

I've forgotten how to be soft, you realized.

You watched her, studied the bits of her in her face. Every small shift—the flutter of her eyelids, the way her jaw softened—all of it. Her hair had been shaved close along both sides, leaving only the center: thick dreads pulled back into a high tail that swayed when she moved.

"You are staring," she murmured without opening her eyes.

Heat crawled up your neck. You turned your head. "I'm sorry."

One eye cracked open, amber catching the filtered light. Her mouth curved. "Don't be." Then she closed it again, still smiling. Communing, you realized. Speaking to the Great Mother in ways you'd long abandoned.

Your chest tightened. You thought of your own mother—her kind eyes, her hands that never raised in anger. The headdress she'd woven from forest flowers and vines, burned to ash in the fire that took everything. How could you face her now, even in memory? How could she look at you and not see what you'd become: the weight behind your gaze, the red and black paint marking your skin, the ash that left trails of hometree against greener lands.

So instead, you reached back and attached your queue to the tree's sacred tendril. And you prayed.

Great Mother, if you can hear me, grant me strength. Just that. Nothing more. Strength to carry this body forward. Strength to stop running.

Saye's communion lasted only minutes. When she released her queue, she offered a soft thanks to the darkness above before turning to face you fully. Her scrutiny was unhurried—tracing the paint dried in the hollows of your cheeks, the bumpy scars across your abdomen. Self-inflicted, those. Marks of devotion carved in the Mangkwan way.

"I thought the mangkwan abandoned Eywa," she said at last, curiosity softening the accusation. 

She shifted to sit cross-legged, weight braced on her left hand, head tilted like a child puzzling over a broken toy. "Unless I'm mistaken. Which I must be."

“Pain is a reminder of what we will never forget!” Varang’s speech had been absolute: Starving men and women, children too weak to lift their heads, looked high at Varang as she slashed her own forehead, a deep cut that resulted in the scar.

Pain was everything, and it was a rite of passage all members underwent.

The more scars, the more respect you garnered.

You nodded once. "You're not. We don't believe anymore."

"And yet." Her gesture encompassed you, the tree, the connection still tingling at the base of your skull. "Here you are."

"Here I am."

Silence stretched. She dipped her head, catching your eyes before you could look away. "Why are you really here, lost one?"

"I told you—"

"To pray. I know." Impatience cmae through her tone now. "But for what? You turn your back on the People, on Eywa. You go to the demons. What does someone like that beg forgiveness for?"

Your jaw clenched. "Careful, Saye. I've killed Na'vi for less."

She didn't flinch. If anything, one brow arched higher, waiting.

You pulled back, pressing your spine against rough bark. The truth clawed its way up your throat before you could stop it, until it found the tremble of your lips.  "My love. My mate." So quietly. 

 "Her queue's been damaged and I don't know how to heal her. I'm desperate—she's in pain. So I come here." You lifted your gaze to the tree above. Atokirina drifted through the branches like tiny stars. Saye watched you watch them.

"I'm the Tsahik of my village," she said quietly, rising to her feet. "The Yangor clan. Perhaps I can help." She extended one hand, palm up.

Slowly—so slowly—you stood, but didn't take it. "How?"

Her hand dropped to her side without offense. She laced her fingers together instead. "Remedies. Rituals. There must be something." Her voice took on the cadence of a healer cataloging symptoms. "What afflicts her? Is there rot? Did she fall and damage the base? Is it—" She listed other possibilities—illnesses, severed tendrils, cuts, deformities.

"No." The word came too sharp. You shook your head, tried again softer. "No. It's... limp. The bioluminescence is gone. Sometimes it flickers, and when it does—" Your voice cracked. "—she's in agony. She can't bond with anything. Not ikran, no kind of tsaheylu, not..."

Not me, you didn't say. But Saye heard it anyway.

She reached for you then, and this time you let her. Her hand was warm. You squeezed back, drowning.

"I don't know what caused it," you managed. "She won't talk about it."

"How strange." Saye's thumb traced gentle circles against your knuckles. "I'll speak with the others, there is—" You tensed violently. "Peace,” She smiled. “I won't mention you."

Your grip loosened a bit. "Thank you."

She released your hand, glancing back toward where she'd come from. "I should leave before my people come looking." She raised her hand in the gesture of the People—fingers spread, palm out. "I see you, Y/n. Travel well. May Eywa remain in your heart."

For one breath you hesitated. Then you brought your hand to your forehead, fingers clumsy and uncertain as they extended outward. The gesture felt foreign after so many years. Blasphemous, even.

"I see you, Saye."

She smiled—sad and knowing—then retrieved her blade from where it rested against the roots. You turned toward your ikran. Anything. You'd do anything to help Varang.

.

.

.

"There you are."

Varang's silhouette filled the scene, her ceremonial paint catching firelight in fractured flickers of flame that came behind her. The usual bonfire.

She wore her armor. Feathers and metal piercings traced what was her authority—olo'eykte and tsahik in every choice of acessory—but you had learned to read the micro-tensions beneath. The way her jaw set a fraction too tight. The deliberate slowness of her breathing.

"Varang." Your tongue pressed the name carefully against your teeth.

The gathered clan watched from the edges of the clearing, faces turned with studied casualness that fooled no one. 

You swallowed the reprimand that wanted to surface—You should not be up, what happened to your queue, why is the wrapping different—and instead closed the distance between you. 

Your arms found her waist. She smelled of medicinal salve and something scorched. The black fabric wound around her queue caught your peripheral vision. Beneath it, you knew: white gauze, and beneath that, the thing neither of you had named aloud.

Quaritch came beside her. Weeks had filed down his worst injuries to manageable pain. The third-degree burns still wore their dressings, angry marks across his shoulders and neck, but the first-degree damage had faded to gentle pink that faded purple along the edges.

"There's my little lady."

Sweet words

He stepped into your space with the presumption of earned intimacy, arms circling your shoulders in an embrace. "You didn't tell anyone where you ran off to. Got me and Varang all worried."

His fingers dug into your arms hard enough to bruise, and it translated what his mouth wouldn't say: furious.

And if Quaritch was furious, Varang was enraged.

"Sorry." Your ear twitched. "I went to the forest."

Neither of them acknowledged the explanation. They just tugged—Varang on one side, Quaritch on the other—until you stumbled between them.

A concession you'd learned to appreciate. 

Small mercies. You thought. Anger her, not him. He was the nicer of the two.

"Yeah?" He hauled you forward with just enough force to make the point. "That so."

"Yes."

They pushed you into their yurt. Their yurt. Quaritch's things were spread throughout the home that used to be just yours and Varang's—his boots by the entrance, his rifle propped against the carved wood post.

Quaritch's additions had come through the space with those small things. But it was enough. Your home. His home. Her home. You’d gotten used to it, his scent that mingled over Varang’s herbs and your gunpowder. The hammock itself had been re-strung wider, reinforced to bear his mass alongside yours and hers.

You'd adjusted. You had to.

But still—

"You bring metal to this sacred place?"

Your gaze dropped to the rifle in your hands. When did you pick it up? You couldn't remember. 

You shook your head. One moment with Saye and she’s infected my beliefs. 

You lifted the rifle from your shoulder and set it against the woven wall. Each gesture performed under Varang’s stare. She’ll see my tail and see the flick of it. Then she’ll know. Because Varang always—

"Where were you."

You hid the frown but your ears betrayed you, flicking back flat against your skull. She knew everything except how to fix the rot that spread through her queue, and the madness what will follow if it wasn’t stopped.

"I told you. The forest." The snap in it surprised even you. Your ears flattened in immediate regret as you turned, already backpedaling. "I'm—"

Varang's hand closed around the base of your queue.

Your head wrenched back, spine arching until you were bent nearly double, staring up at her from an impossible angle, until the world inverted. The yurt spun in your vision, tears pricking hot at the corners of your eyes. "Ngh—"

You saw her face hanging above yours, upside-down, expression carved into apathy and false innocence.

"Do you think yourself capable?" She hummed the question like a lullaby. 

Her nails found itself past the threads of your hair, into the sensitive base of your queue, digging just deep enough to make everything crystallize into sharp, undeniable focus.

"Quaritch gives you the gift of metal, and now you believe you can slip away unaccounted for?"

"I'm sorry, Varang..." The words came pitched high with distress. You didn't push against her grip. Didn't try to twist free or pry her fingers loose. You had learned that lesson already.

"Honey, sweetbuns."

Quaritch's hand closed around your wrist while his gaze slid sideways toward Varang. 

"Come on, sugar." He clicked his tongue, a careful sound that eased Varang's fingers from where they'd tangled in your queue. "She's apologizing. It was just a slip, that's all."

You didn’t fight when he guided you toward the hammock. You never did. He settled himself first, then pulled you into his lap with his usual ease, the one that made your breath catch, but not from comfort.

“She should watch her tone.” Varang huffed. You pressed yourself deeper against Quaritch’s chest, who seemed to like that action. He thinks himself a savior.

"Yeah, yeah. But look at her.” He gave a pointed look, before circling his attention back to you. “Look, little lady. We have a tracker on you." His tone shifted. “You know that. Saw you close to the Yangor clan. Got worried. Almost sent out a damn patrol."

His palm slid lower, settling over your stomach. He'd been doing that more often lately. You knew why. At your lack of response he frowned, you felt it—or rather heard it. The lips pulling back, gums hitting something wet. Let the great mother hope it was a frown.

"Got some new shipment of Skittles. You like those, don't you? Might make you feel better."

Your ears perked, you wrestled them flat. No. You were upset. Angry. "I don't want any." Soft and learned. A good answer from a mouth that learned earlier about raising your voice. At least for now, while it was recent and until tomorrow came and you’ll yell again and—

“Mm.” He sounded unconvinced, tapping your thighs rhythmically. "What were you doing out there anyway? You never go out by yourself."

Your lips pressed into a thin line. You glanced at Varang and caught the way she'd gone still, predator-like. The lie died on your tongue.

"...Medicine." Your head dipped, gaze fixed on the woven floor. "For… for Varang. I thought that maybe…"

Varang stopped moving. Quaritch, by contrast, exhaled a chuckle and leaned forward to raise your chin.

"Ain't you so sweet." He looked past you to Varang, and you felt her presence shift just beyond your sight. "Told you, sugar. She's innocent." 

He pressed a wet kiss to your cheek then lifted you from his lap with easy strength, his hand delivering two light pats to your backside that made heat crawl up your neck. His hands found his pockets, head cocking to the side in that easy, expectant way of his.

"Find anything, darling?"

You shook your head. Not yet. The words caught behind your teeth. But I will.

Varang's scoffed, a sound that carried the weight of too many conversations they'd had about you, without you.

She wouldn't apologize. She never did. Instead she moved into your space and kissed you. Her mouth was claiming as usual, and buried underneath it was the sweetness of love she’d never say outloud.

"Dumb of you." The words ghosted against your lips. "This is Eywa's curse, and my blessing, Y/n." Her grip tightened fractionally. "Remember that."

You kissed her back, because that is what was expected. Let her tongue slide against yours, let her hands find your waist and squeeze. But the heat that lived and made you stupid for her—

It wasn’t there.

So instead you made the right sounds, shaped your body into the right softness.

"I know," you whispered against her teeth. "I won't."

But you would. You had to.

Because Varang had gotten worse.

Not the injury—that would heal, or it wouldn't. Pain had a way of leveling out, of becoming background noise until the body learned to carry it like any other weight.

No. It was everything else.

She had no patience left. Not for you or the clan. Not even for Quaritch, and that—that was new, which meant it was something dangerous.

And Quaritch?

Days later, he cracked.

"What's got her so pissy," 

He paced. Back and forth, back and forth, boots scuffing against stone. His hands worked over the gun with violent efficiency, scrubbing at the barrel. Red and black paint—her paint—flaked off in angry little curls. She'd packed powder into the mechanism on purpose, made it jam.

It was off-putting in the way Varang loved metal. She fetishized it, found it sacred. And she decided to desecrate it, to make it useless.

You watched him from your spot on the mat, tail swaying in slow, disinterested arcs. All you wanted was to finish your new top. The beadwork kept slipping through your fingers. 

"Everything, Quaritch." The words came out flat, tired. "She's been like this since the battle." You glanced up, frown deepening. "Which neither of you want to tell me about."

He paused mid-scrub and sighed through his nose. "Not you too. Don't be mad." His jaw worked. "It's complicated, is all."

“Hm. Complicated.”

"Shit—look at this." He held up the gun, tilting it so you could see the clogged mechanism. "All because I told her to calm her fuckin' tits down." He shook his head, bitter. "It's like she's on her period or somethin'."

Your mouth twitched. "Period?"

"Something women of my species go through. Makes them lose their minds for a week, they go all batshit and emotional." He scrubbed harder now, the rag catching on the notches she'd carved into the barrel. Then he slammed it down.

The gun shattered.

Pieces scattered across the floor—springs, pins, the firing mechanism spinning in a lazy circle before settling near your knee. You picked it up carefully, turning the small metal piece between your fingers.

Quaritch hit the pillar, knuckles splitting against the wood. “God-fucking-dammit!”

Then he slumped against the hammock, breath coming hard and fast. His shoulders curved inward, all that furious energy draining out of him as if it never existed.

You watched him for a long moment. 

"What is the matter?" you asked softly.

You rose, padding over, and settled beside him until your thigh pressed against his. 

He wouldn't look at you.

"I had it," he muttered.

"The gun?"

He shook his head. Slow. His gaze fixed on something you couldn't see—just inside his own skull.

"Spider. I had him." His voice cracked on the last word. "And he shot me. I gave him a damn burger—you saw, remember?"

"I do." You had. Just briefly. A boy with blonde hair and his father's mouth, dressed like the forest clans, moving like he'd been born among them instead of the sky-people.

"And my dog tag." Quaritch's hand went to his chest, fingers closing around empty air where the metal should've hung. "I thought we were bonding. And he chose that traitor."

"JakeSulli," you murmured. "The traitor."

You felt like a bigger one.

"He called me dad."

Your ears snapped up.

You turned to look at him fully now. His eyes were wet. Not crying—Quaritch would never—but wet.

"I want my son back," he said. "And he shot me."

You almost told him—almost pointed out that he'd kidnapped the boy. That Eywa—the Great Mother—had given Spider breath, had woven him into the forest's roots just as surely as any born Na'vi. Why would he ever turn his back on Her?

But you didn't.

You glanced down at your hands, at the three fingers and scarifiation along the wrist. 

The great mother gave him breath, and choked our own lungs full of fire and ash.

But that didn't feel proper. It wasn't your thought.

The voice sounded suspiciously like Varang.

"Do you want another?"

The words left you before you could stop them. As if you were offering. As if you could. Quaritch knew by now—Varang would never allow it. She'd allow him to touch you, to see you, to fuck you breathless against the woven mats until your voice gave out.

But you two could never bond. And you would never carry his children.

"Here." She'd always say it. Just like that.

An herbal tea that made Quaritch's jaw lock tight, teeth grinding audible even across the yurt. No amount of complaining would ever make her stop. She'd even made a special brew—kept it right beside the hammock in a clay cup for you to drink from. Right after. While you were still slick and sticky with him—and Quaritch would watch with something dark and helpless behind his eyes.

Once, he'd tried to knock the cup from your hands.

Varang had slammed her knife near his cock.

He never tried again.

Varang forbade it.

And if she forbade it, then it was law.

Quaritch looked at you for a long time. His eye twitched. Then his gaze dragged lower, slower, until it stopped at the base of your stomach. It lingered there.

"To start over?"

You shrugged. "If there was an opportunity."

You watched him shift.

Then he scoffed, that grin splitting his face wide. "Little lady, if you're offering—"

"You know I can't."

He shrugged right back. "Not yet. But you'll see." His hand found your knee, thumb tracing idle circles. "Babies are cute. Despite what Varang says, she likes cute things." A pause. His smile gentled. "You're proof of that, honey."

You weren't so convinced.

Your gaze drifted back to the entrance of the yurt. The beads swayed, disturbed by nothing. Beyond them, voices rose and fell. Varang was doing her daily drugging—the ritual that turned her clan pliable, devoted. 

In the beginning of your partnership, she'd had you dependent on them. On her. For the longest time. You could barely see the tattoo of her eye without flinching now—that third one, inked above across her palm.

"You won't join them?"

"Nah." His fingers tapped a rhythm against your thigh. "Not into that drug shit. Once is enough. Never really took substances, even back then. Saw what it did to good soldiers. Watched 'em turn soft, useless." His lip curled. "I don't do soft."

But you are with me. Sometimes.

He watched you for a long time. You felt it in your peripheral. "What are you thinking about?"

About Varang. The Great Mother. My relationship with both. How to fix both.

"My people." You said it simply. Glanced back at him, and felt his suspicion rise.

His eyes narrowed. "Your people."

"Mhm."

"The ones Varang's got eating outta her palm?" He leaned back, arms crossing over his chest. The muscles in his forearms shifted. "Or the ones buried under volcanic ash?"

You flinched. That was cruel. “Quaritch…” You whispered.

His tail flickered. "That's what I thought." But his voice went sweet and he pulled you in, kissed the top of your head. "Are you planning something, doll?"

"No."

"You're a terrible liar."

"I'm not—"

"Yeah, you are." He caught your chin between his thumb and forefinger now, forcing your gaze to his. "I've interrogated better liars than you. Scarier ones, too. You got a tell." His thumb brushed your lower lip. "Right here. Twitches when you're lying through your teeth."

Your tail lashed.

He grinned. "See? There it is."

Varang thought him dumb. You had too, at first. And maybe he was—dumb with matters that meant nothing. Dumb with his own emotions.

But Miles Quaritch was smarter than he appeared.

And you knew exactly how to stop it.

You smiled now. The one you gave Varang to calm her down, and crawled onto his lap, knees bracketing his hips. You knew the rhythms of both—adapted to either's anger and impatience, to either's weaknesses.

Your hands found his shoulders. Your mouth found his jaw.

"I love you, Miles."

He smiled then. Dopey. And there it was—stupid.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm." You nuzzled against him, the picture of devotion, arms winding around his neck. Let your breath ghost over the shell of his ear. "I love you, sir."

You'd found out he liked that a bit ago. A cheat word that always got him going.

"Look at you—" He manhandled you down, flipping you with an ease that drew a practiced giggle from your throat. His grin was all teeth. "Dirty minx. Tryna distract me?"

"Is it working?"

"Hell yes, it is." His mouth found your throat, teeth grazing. "But we're comin' back to this conversation later, cupcake. Don't think I'm gonna forget."

You would make him forget.

Sex.

You two had sex.

His hands were rough, familiar, mapping the planes of your body like territory he'd claimed a hundred times before. Your loincloth hit the floor. His followed. He hiked your leg over his hip, breath hot against your collarbone as he lined himself up.

"Gonna make you sing for me," he muttered, and pushed inside.

You gasped. Clutched at his shoulders, let your head fall back in a display of surrender that wasn't entirely false. He felt good—too good. Big enough to make you ache, to make your body remember him long after he'd gone.

"That's it. That's my girl." He set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping against yours, the obscene slap of skin on skin filling the yurt. "So fuckin' perfect. Made for this, weren't you?"

"Yes—" You choked on the word. "Yes, sir."

And the whole time, you stared at the beads hanging in the doorway, counting each one, waiting for them to part. Waiting to drink the tea in three swallows, feeling the familiar numbness spread through your belly, your womb, killing everything before it could take root.

The beads didn't move.

.

.

.

"Ngh—"

The hiss tore through your teeth before you could swallow it. Your fingers wound the bandage over your nape where the flesh screamed red. You'd carved into yourself with one of Quaritch's knives, the one with the green pattern he called camouflage, like the word meant anything to you beyond three syllables and a way to count through pain.

Cam—one. You made a deeper cut.

Ou—two. You grit your teeth, sucking air for the pain.

Flage—three. You dug your fingers inside the wound

Cam-ou-flage..

The tracker sat in your palm now.

Small thing. Barely the size of your smallest nail. It pulsed with the faintest blue glow, slick with your blood, and you stared at it like it might just alert everyone what you’d done.

You wouldn't destroy it. You knew better. Knew what that would do—send a signal straight to him, and then he'd know. He'd come looking. And he wouldn't be sweet this time. Wouldn't call you cupcake or press candy into your hands with that rough, embarrassed laugh.

Nah. You could already see it.

The shift in his shoulders. That mean scowl he wore when you pushed too far. "You trying to sneak off?" His voice would drop, go cold, and you'd be looking up at fifty-years of meanness stuffed into twenty years of youth.

You wondered if he'd lock you up. Put you in one of those metal RDA boxes with the flickering lights and the stale air. wondered if he'd embed three more trackers just to make you suffer thrice over when you tried to dig them out.

This one had taken hours. 

Careful slicing. A mirror angled behind you, your arm twisted at an angle that made your shoulder ache. Blood slicking your fingers. And even now, you'd barely managed it.

For Varang. The thought was bitter. They're so stubborn. Both of them. Always thinking they owned you just because you weren’t as aggressive as them.

You turned the tracker between your fingers, then rose. You crossed to Yepa's bag where it hung by the entrance, then slipped the little glowing thing inside, buried it beneath his tools and rations. He'd carry it around without ever knowing. Good.

Outside, you paused.

You tied the bandage tighter around your throat, then felt the sting and welcomed it—proof you could still do things they didn't know about. You'd tell them you fell. Clumsy little thing, tumbled right out of the hammock, landed on a corner. They'd believe it. They always did. You were just so helpless to them.

You walked.

You didn't meet anyone's eyes—not the pinkskins, not your own people. It didn't matter. They didn't look at you anyway. Another one of Varang's laws. Do not meet her gaze. She is mine to see.

The roost was ahead.

Upue stood distracted by a pinkskin—some grunt who probably couldn't tell one Na'vi from another. Great Mother, one of them had thought you were Varang until you laughed in his face. Idiots. All of them.

"Shhh, come here girl." You formed the bond with your ikran, feeling her heartbeat slam against yours before softening. Matching. Slow. We must not make any movement. She understood. Then shifted several inches, wings tucked tight, then launched skyward with barely any sound.

The wind swept at your braids as you took to the sky.

You swept low over Yangor's forest, weaving between branches until the Tree of Souls rose before you, bioluminescent tendrils swaying with each flutter of your ikran. You dropped—

"I was beginning to think I imagined you."

You jumped.

Saye sat in the branches above, smiling and chewing something with that infuriating casualness. "I've come every night," she added.

Your tail lashed. "It is hard to sneak past," you muttered.

Her gaze dropped to the bandage at your neck. She hummed, thoughtful, before dropping down beside you. "Do they not allow you a simple journey?"

Another bite. Loud. 

"All Na'vi are enemies to the pinkskins." The words came flat.

"What a terrible way to look at the world. To only see enemies."

You didn't answer. Didn't have one. Instead you shrugged the bag from your shoulder, crouched and began unpacking. "These come from my home. Rare—they do not grow in many places where ash does not touch the ground. If you need—"

Her hand rose. "There is no need for it," she whispered.

Your chest tightened. "...No?"

She smiled. Small thing, but it reached her eyes. "I have asked all around. And I think I know the solution." She gestured forward in a coaxing manner.

You hesitated.

“Don’t be a fool, Y/n. Kindness is another word for leverage.” You heard Varang then. You could already see her, watching you in the corner, head tilted in disapproval. “It’s a trap. Do not trust any na’vi not ours. They will not protect you.” 

And you stepped forward.

Nothing they can do could possibly be worse then what Varang does.

Saye's fingers closed around your wrists. She tugged, and you hissed through your teeth, but she only laughed. Such a bright sound, nothing like the chitters you were used to. "I want to show you my clan. You must talk to Tui!"

You dug your heels in. "You told me that—"

"I know." The smile she threw over her shoulder was easy. She tugged again. "But I told them you aren't a threat."

Not a threat.

Your ears flattened. Heat crawled up your neck, settling hot and bitter behind your teeth. Somehow that felt worse than suspicion. You were Varang's chosen, marked by death itself, and this girl reduced you to—what? Harmless? Not that she’d know, but if she did, would her assessment change then? Would it?

You sighed. Relented.

Somehow that stung worse than an insult, but you yanked your wrist free and followed anyway. Stupid. The thought gnawed at you with every step. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Your tag was gone. If they decided to kill you now, neither Quartitch nor Varang would lift a finger to avenge you. You'd just be another name scratched off a ledger somewhere, filed under poor judgment.

Saye led you deeper, until the trees opened to reveal a cave mouth draped in hanging vines. She held them aside for you—polite, careful—then let them fall and shoved you forward with both hands.

You stumbled into firelight.

The village sprawled above you—woven platforms strung between massive trunks, suspended high where the canopy thinned and let the sky bleed through. Not ground-level like yours had been before the volcano swallowed it.

Here, the trees still stood.

People moved between the structures—resting, talking, laughing in clusters. The moment you stepped through, every eye turned.

You looked wrong here.

They wore colors. Ochre and green, blue and cream, beads threaded through braids and woven into cloth. You wore black and white paint. Red streaked across your cheekbones. Scarification that told stories they didn't want to hear. Ash clung to you, followed you, and you wondered if they could smell it. Death, maybe. 

You forced your head up.

Show no fear. Like Varang would.

They looked wary—reasonable. Their eyes flicked to Saye, pointedly as if this wasn’t the first time she picked up a stray.

"This is the one," she said simply.

You walked beside her across the canopy, following her up trunks and branches until you reached the upper platforms. There, they eyed your scarification. A few reached out, fingers ghosting over the metal piercing you'd stuck through the end of your tail. 

You hissed, and they scattered like startled prey.

"Do not be so rude," Saye chided, amused. "They are just curious."

"I do not like touches," you grumbled. You kept your eyes forward.

But it wasn't just that.

You looked at them—really looked—and something bitter coiled in your chest. Look at them. With their homes intact. The green of the forest wrapping around them like a mother's arms. Look at them, untouched by fire, by ash, by the great mothers silence.

You swallowed it down.

For Varang. Remember.

Saye led you to a specific platform,  slightly larger than the others, though not by much. It was decorated—shells and carved bone hung from the support beams, and soft hides were draped across the floor. She knocked. "Tui?"

A woman sat cross-legged on woven cloth, running a sharpening stone along the edge of a spear. She turned her head, measured you with a single sweep of her gaze. Older than Saye, frailer too—but you knew immediately. She was the Olo’eykete

Instead of a grimace or even distrust, she smiled.

"This is the one?"

Saye nodded, almost giddy. "Yes."

Tui rose slowly, and that's when you saw it. She was small. Smaller than you, the crown of her head barely reaching your collarbone. But it didn't make her less. If anything, she wore her size well. Power lived in her movements, in the quiet authority that filled the space around her.

Varang would disagree. She believed one must stand as tall as the mountains, as unmovable as—

You frowned.

"You are sweeter-looking than I'd think," Tui’s voice was so warm.

You held your tongue and chose politeness over instinct. "Thank you," you mumbled.

Saye settled beside you, expectant. Her tail swayed. She looked between you and Tui.

Tui clicked her tongue. "Right."

The sound was decisive. She reached into her bag dyed the deep red of clay—and withdrew something that made the air between you still.

An atokirina.

Saye took it from her, swaddling the seed between her palms. "Forgive me," she whispered, lips brushing the glowing wisp. "For trapping you, pure spirit."

You stared.

"I do not understand." You said bluntly. Your gaze flicked between them, then back to the seed pulsing soft white in Saye's palm. "Seeds of the sacred tree?"

Both women nodded. Saye especially—her ears dipped forward, something eager flickering behind her eyes.

"There was a rumor," she said, voice hushed like prayer. "After the great battle of the reefs. It traveled from the Omatikaya—carried by a distant Sarentu traveler."

Saye pressed the atokirina into your hand.

It hovered there, its wisps gentle and tickling against the faint glow of your skin. You frowned. "What rumor?"

"Kiri." Tui leaned forward. "The adoptive daughter of Jake Sully. You know this name?"

Your gaze snapped up.

Toruk Makto.

Of course you knew that name. Varang spat it sometimes, usually followed by Eywa's bitch or forest rat or—on particularly venomous days—the demon who thinks herself People. You'd heard she fought in the battle at the reefs. Heard she'd turned the tide, called the creatures of the deep like they were hers to command.

Snippets. Fragments. The kind of half-truths your people traded in the dark when Varang wasn't listening.

"Kiri," you repeated. "I have... heard things. But forgive me—I do not understand what this girl has to do with—"

Tui whistled a laugh and patted your knee with such easy familiarity that you flinched before forcing yourself to relax. "The Great Mother loves that one." Tui's voice carried something like awe. Something almost jealous. "Truly loves her. Speaks through her, some say. And there is a human boy—"

"—who breathes." The realization hit you slow, then all at once. "Spider. Quaritch's son."

Both their ears flicked backward. Saye nodded. "Correct."

You looked down at the seed. Your thumb brushed one of its wispy tendrils and it curled toward the touch like it recognized you.

"This… Kiri." You swallowed. "She did this? Made him breathe?"

Another nod.

You stared down at the atokirina, harder now. "But what is the seed for?"

Saye's hand found yours. Then Tui's. Four-fingered and warm, bracketing you on either side.

"To swallow it," Saye said simply. "Your beloved must swallow the seed." Her thumb traced the ridge of your knuckles. "And you bring her here. The clan will begin the ritual, and—" She paused, choosing her words with care. "—hopefully, we fix her queue."

Your throat closed. Bring her here.

"I can't—" The words choked out. "She wouldn't. Eywa has no place in our hearts."

They smiled and looked at one another as if they already knew.

"Eywa will always be in your heart." Saye pressed her hand to your chest, feeling the frantic beat beneath. "The great mother loves all her children. Even the ones who do not wish her to."

You looked at her, and your eyes burned hot and wet. You managed a nod, no matter how jerky. "I'll see what I can do." 

You lifted as if to rise, but Tui hummed low in her throat. "Stay—

“for a bit." Saye said now, patting the ground beside her. "We are having drink and food. The People are curious of you. They've never seen a Mangkwan before."A pause. "Not one who still has kindness left, anyway."

That hit harder than it should have.

Her smile widened. "Tell us of your people's ways."

You glanced between them, weighing. "My people's ways aren't something to celebrate over."

"We know," Saye said.

Just that.

"And still," Tui added, "we are curious."

Something in you softened. A smile slipped free before you could stop it.

"Just before eclipse is over," you murmured, and sat back down.

.

.

.

You stayed longer than you'd meant to.

The horror came first—it always did. When you spoke of your people's ways, some wept. Others turned their faces, unable to meet your eyes. But none looked at you like you were monstrous. Only lost.

That word sat strange in your mouth. Lost.

You'd been drinking in a circle beneath the purple-white glow of bioluminescent vines, the sweet tang of yovo fruit coating your tongue. Hunters boasted. Warriors laughed. Someone passed a rumor about a sky-person settlement to the north, another about a thanator sighting near the river.

And then one of them, far too into their cups, mentioned the Mangkwan.

"Varang clouds your judgment."

Your hand twitched toward your gun before you remembered you'd left it with your ikran. Muscle memory of a cold sheen pressing against your back. But you stopped. They didn't know. How could they? They knew you had a lover, a wounded lover who you loved oh so much—surely it could not be Varang herself. So you locked your jaw and smiled with all your teeth.

"Whatever do you mean?"

The hunter shrugged, swirling his cup in lazy circles. He hiccupped. "It is the truth. She has taken the role of the great mother and corrupted it." Another sip. "She is a coward."

Coward.

Your fingers tightened around the cup—knuckles white, lips pulling back from your teeth. What would they know? Varang had survived more than any of them could fathom. She'd crawled through fire and loss and grief that would have killed softer people. She was courageous. She was wonderful.

These people who still had their forests, their mothers, their green.

"She ran from the Omatikaya," someone else added. "Left her warriors behind."

"That's not—" You stopped. "She would not."

Laughter rippled through the circle.

Saye's hand found your shoulder, a gentle weight. Calm, it said.

"She is the strongest person I know." you said, and the words came out harder than you meant them to. 

More laughter. Like they knew something you didn't.

"If she's your strongest," one of them snickered, "then I'm appalled at your clan's ability to fight anything."

Another hunter smiled—polite, apologetic—and his tail whipped out to smack the first. Too much, the gesture said. You are making her uncomfortable.

The laughter died. Guilt flickered across the drunk one's face.

"I heard from the Sarentu," someone else offered, quieter now, "that she ran from battle. Toruk Makto's daughter overpowered her with her queue. The woman fled with her tail tucked."

Your rage turned to confusion.

"...What?"

Nods all around. "Don't you know? They say Kiri's queue was floating like—" She made a vague gesture with her hands, something that looked like tendrils rising. "Well… I am not sure how much I believe that part, but the Sarentu heard it from Neytiri's mouth. And Neytiri is not one to exaggerate feats."

Liar. They were lying. Varang would not run. She would fight. She would win.

Varang's queue is limp, Y/n.

No.

Saye squeezed your shoulder again, firmer now. "You should get going." Her voice was soft, almost pitying. She knew. Somehow, she knew. "Take the atokirina. Convince her." She smiled then, pulling you into an embrace. "Be safe, lost one."

You did not hug back.

You thanked them for the drink, for the circle, for their time. They stared at you like you'd grown a second head before bursting into confused laughter. "Why are you thanking us for this? Poor Mangkwan—do they not even share cups?"

They did not, you told them.

The laughter died.

Saye walked you to where your ikran waited, pressing a woven bag into your hands. Inside, the atokirina pulsed with faint light. "Be careful with this," she murmured. "I blessed the spirit and apologized for its capture. Still..." She trailed off, watching your face.

You took the bag. Your hands were steadier than you expected.

Varang. Weak. Quaritch weaker for not protecting her.

"Thank you," you finally said.

"It is my pleasure." Saye stepped back, her silhouette framed by the glow of the village behind her. "Visit more. The People enjoyed you."

You did not consider her words. You left.

.

.

.

Your ikran shrieked when you landed too hard, claws scraping stone. You didn't apologize. Didn't soothe. Just disconnected your queue and slid off, legs shaking.

When you returned, the secret sat heavy in your chest. The biggest secret.

Varang is strength.

You repeated it while walking through camp, past warriors sharpening blades and children chasing each other in circles. Past Yepa who glanced up from whatever he was cleaning and opened his mouth—

Varang is strength.

You repeated it while brushing aside the cloth of the hut, beads clicking soft and accusatory against each other. While your eyes adjusted to the dim firelight inside.

You repeated it while looking at her.

"Varang." You clutched the bag tighter.

Varang glanced back. She was naked—well, both she and Quaritch were—The two looked as if they just returned from the rivers, water still gleaming across their bare skin. 

Neither looked pleased.

"There she is." Quaritch's mouth pulled into something not quite a smile. "Again, darling?"

You bowed your head. "I am sorry."

"And here I was about to check the tracker." His drawl stretched lazy across the words. "Where you been, hon? Didn't catch you all day."

Your weight shifted foot to foot. You looked between them—him, her. "Somewhere." You whispered.

"Vague." Varang tilted her head. Her hand reached, fingers finding the tight band across your breasts. She leaned in and inhaled. "You smell of fruit." Another sniff. "And something floral."

You met her eyes, then didn't. Her touch felt different now. Poisonous, maybe. Not like Saye's calm hands or Tui's gentle prodding. Even the Yangor clan's curious jabs felt lighter than Varang's undressing.

Your hands twisted together. "One of the pinkskins were showing me…" You feigned confusion. A careful pause, eyes lifting to Quaritch now. "Er… per… perf…."

"Perfume." He chuckled, rising without a care for his own nakedness. You'd seen him enough by now. "That's how you say it, hon."

When Varang finished unwinding the cloth, she tossed it aside and cupped both breasts, bouncing them against her palms with usual disinterest. "Will you bathe tonight?"

You smiled, blushing a bit, but it felt forced. “No.”

A huff escaped her. "I prefer my scent on you." She kissed your cheek, nuzzling everywhere—your jaw, your throat, your shoulder. Almost purring. "You should bathe. Let me wash away this musk of flowers and fruits."

A soft laugh escaped you. Your heart wasn't in it.

She noticed.

"What is wrong?" The question came softer now. Her teeth found your nipple, tugging the piercing. You winced—still sore from Miles earlier—and the thought of more tonight made your stomach clench.

"Varang…" You pressed gentle hands against her shoulders, creating distance. Strike one. You knew that. But she needed to understand. You lifted your gaze to meet hers.

Now or never, you thought. My courage won't survive later.

She went still. Those large eyes locked on yours. Her smile faltered into something scarily blank.

Quaritch, oblivious as ever, groaned from the hammock. "You movin' already? Come back here. I'm cold." That usual grin. "Want to feel those itty-bitty-cupcake-titties." He winked.

You just rolled your eyes. So crude. 

You turned your back to him. The bag trembled in your hands as you lifted it. "Please… I need to…"

For one brief, cowardly moment your thumb pressed against the middle—where the Atokirina waited inside. Press into it. Forget about it. You'll find another way without the great mother's help, without the Yangor.

But you couldn't.

The Great Mother loves all her children. Even the ones who do not wish her to.

You loosened the drawstring. The seed floated free, wisping away from the fire's heat, luminous and impossible.

"You—" Varang saw it and scrambled backward, hissing. As if Eywa herself had materialized between you. "What are you doing!"

"If you allow—"

Varang lunged for the atokirina. You shoved her back.

Strike two.

"Stop." A sneer pulled at your lips.

Varang froze mid-reach. She stared at you like you'd become someone else entirely. Someone she didn't recognize. Slowly, she straightened. "...You ungrateful—"

Quaritch moved between you both, hands raised. "Let's stop having a catfight, alright ladies? Let's just—"

"No." Your gaze locked on Varang's. "It needs to be said."

You stepped beside Quaritch—not behind him. Beside. Your expression softened despite everything burning in your chest. "I would not bring a seed of the sacred tree if not for you."

"For me, she says—"

"Varang, please." Desperation bled through now. "You are not the same as before. You are…" You bit your lower lip. "Angrier. And I love your fury, you know this—but it's different. You are in constant pain. But the Yangor—"

"The Yangor?" She hissed the word like venom. "You went to the Yangor? When—" A pause. Her pupils narrowed. "You went right now. Didn't you."

A slow nod. "I did. Saye, the Tsahik of their village, told me that—"

She scoffed, pacing like a caged animal, shaking her head in furious disbelief. "Another woman. You went to another woman, a tsahik of another clan who worships the false mother—"

"You aren't listening—"

"Why should I?" A yell. A screech, really. "You've been… distant. Quaritch sees it too. And that man sees nothing!"

"Hey!" Quaritch frowned, hands finding his hips. He looked between you both. "Look, I don't know what's going on with the two of you, but you're acting like a bunch of toddlers. We got a problem, we talk about it. Alright?"

You both hissed at him.

“Shit, fine!” He raised his hands in defeat and slouched back against the hammock, sighing, watching with lazy eyes and attentive ears.

Varang's eyes tracked the Atokirina.

You moved without thinking—body curling around it, sheltering. The seed spirit seemed to know. It drifted higher, pressed itself against the woven ceiling as far from her as the small space allowed, and its tendrils curled inward like a hand making a fist. It too understood the danger in the room.

"Varang." Your voice came slower now, careful.  "All I ask is that you swallow the seed. Let me take you to the Yangor." Your voice dropped to something softer, pleading. "They've agreed. Their clan will perform the ritual. Your queue—it can be fixed."

You reached for her hand. Yours was shaking.

"It's not weakness to accept help." The words felt thin, stretched too tight. "We can bond again. I miss you. I miss seeing you."

Varang's gaze held yours. Her eyes tracked over your face, your trembling mouth, the tears already gathering at your lashes. Her lips pressed inward, rolled between her teeth. Beneath your palm, her pulse galloped. Then something in her shoulders unknotted. She looked past you to the Atokirina.

"Eat it?"

"No. Swallow it." You barely whispered now. "That's what she said."

Varang went quiet. Her eyes grew glossy—wet where iris met the rim. She glanced back at the limp queue draped over her shoulder, then at the spirit hovering behind you, then—strangely—at Quaritch, as if he might weigh in. As if his answer mattered.

He shrugged, all lazy indifference. "Not my problem." A grumble. "Don't appreciate her goin' behind our backs, but..." His jaw worked. "It was for you, Varang. Can't expect me to get mad at that."

You smiled at him despite yourself. Quaritch was the nicer one.

Slowly—so slowly—Varang reached for the Atokirina. Her fingers grazed the wisps just as yours had. Her tail swayed, uncertain. Her throat worked around something she couldn't name.

Then she crushed it beneath her palm.

"NO!"

Your eyes went wide. Her fist shook from how tightly she gripped, knuckles bleached pale under blue skin. You watched the light die between her fingers, heard the faint, sickening crunch. Her eyes had gone hard, flat—as if the softness before had been nothing but performance.

It was performance. You realized it too late, but you understood that now, standing in the wreckage of your own hope. You'd fallen for it. Again.

When she opened her hand, the Atokirina fell in pieces—tendrils falling to the ground. Their bioluminescence was all gone.

"Why would you—" The sob choked off the rest. You couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. You were crying now. 

Varang ground her heel into the remains. She glanced back at you with a tight frown that might have been pity. "Do you believe I need the bond? That I need to see you in order to love you?"

Her lips quirked up—an expression that looked almost fond. "I am farther from Eywa than I have ever been. The queue was my last tie to Her, and it's gone. In its place is pain." She paused, tilted her head. She watched your tears with something like fascination. "And I am happy for it."

You just stared.

Shoulders shaking. Sobbing. You couldn't look at her past the blur. Couldn't see her face without wanting to claw it apart or kiss it or scream until your throat bled. Couldn't reconcile this woman with the one you'd loved.

"You…"

Quaritch frowned, genuine discomfort creeping into his features. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Oh baby, don't cry. Just a damn seed." He shifted his weight, clearly out of his depth. "Now let's move on and sleep? I'm goddamn tired..."

"Shut it, Quaritch." Varang didn't look at him. She opened her arms instead, smile soft and coaxing. "Come here..."

And you pushed her away—hard—so hard she actually stumbled backward, caught off-balance, and hit the floor.

Strike three.

"Get away from me."

Quaritch's eyes widened. He was on his feet immediately, shoulders squared. "You stepped over the line, missy." His voice dropped into something dangerous, protective. A scowl carved deep lines around his mouth.

"I hate you." The words came out whispered, vicious. "Both of you. I hate you."

Quaritch's ears flicked back. His face crumpled—genuine hurt—before he locked it down. "You take that back." A grumble. "You take that back right now."

Varang watched from the ground, chest heaving, eyes wide with what might have been disbelief. Then her expression curdled. She hauled herself up and hissed—all that bared teeth and coiled fury. "You're emotional over a silly seed? You've always been weak, Y/n, but—"

"No." You glared. "No, you're the weak one."

She froze.

"You ran from Kiri. Ran from the battle." Your hands clenched into fists at your sides. "Yepa is just a boy and he had more wounds than you did! You are the weakest woman I know, Varang!"

"Butterc—"

You rounded on him, jabbed a finger into his chest. Teeth bared. "You couldn't kill a man you've hunted for sixteen years. You lost your son and then lost the winning battle!" Your breath came ragged now, furious. "You both think violence is strength. But violence isn't strength!"

They both went still.

Perfectly, terribly still.

You were huffing now, breath coming in ragged gasps. Their faces had gone placid—expressionless in a way that made your stomach drop, made ice crawl up your spine.

You'd messed up.

And yet, somehow, you did not care.

You were done with the lies.

"I hate you both."

The words came out wet, choked. Your face was a ruin of tears and snot and something uglier—something that had been rotting inside you for months. "I wish I never met you. I wish I went with your sister to a faraway clan."

Varang lifted herself up. Her head tilted, and you watched her think—watched the gears turn behind those golden eyes. She looked girlish now, in the way you just wanted to hug and hold her and tell her you are sorry.

Don’t you remember, Y/n? Finding me amongst the white hazy ash, barely a child, watching with wide eyes as soot overtook us both, screams of—

You shook your head.

"This is how you feel?"

The crack in her voice was barely there. A hairline fracture in stone. But years tangled with Varang had taught you—however much you hated it—to read her better than anyone.

You nodded and wiped at your tears with the back of your hand.

Quaritch's tail lashed once—sharp, deliberate. His stare locked onto Varang, then swung back to you and didn't leave. His fists opened and closed, opened and closed, as though she vanished entirely and it was just you two. And Varang? Varang—

Varang giggled.

It was light and sweet. Quaritch never blinked. His gaze pinned you in place while she circled closer, close enough to boop your nose like you were a child playing make-believe. She kissed you—deep, then pulled back with that same terrible lightness.

"My little flame," she murmured against your lips. "Burning so hot." 

She pulled back, still smiling. 

“Eat it.”

You paused. “...What?”

Her hand found your queue before you could pull away and her smile stayed eager, like she'd just asked you to look at a funny insect or pretty rock. "I said. Eat. It." She shoved you down, palm flat between your shoulder blades, pressing your face toward the atokirina's delicate threads. "You love the Great Mother, don't you? Love her enough to believe she can heal all wounds. So eat it. Do as you told your woman."

"I don't want to… I…"

You looked up at Quaritch through the blur of tears, eyes round and desperate, searching for—what? Mercy? He just watched. Then he grinned.

"Aww, look at her," he drawled, squatting down until his face was level with yours. His voice dripped with mock sympathy. "Beggin' now. What happened, sugar?" He tilted his head, bottom lip jutting out in a cruel pout. "Not so nice now, is it?"

He settled lower, knees spreading, forearms resting on his thighs. Eye level. "Just a bite, little lady."

You couldn't see anymore. Couldn't breathe. Your chest heaved in sharp, uneven gasps, ribs aching with the effort. You squirmed but Varang's hand was iron—pressing your face into the delicate threads until they crushed against your lips.

"Eat."

You opened your mouth and shut your eyes. A whine crawled up your throat. Your teeth closed around the delicate threads, and you chewed.

Forgive me, Great Mother. Forgive me for eating this pure spirit. Let it, if anything, bear the curse of my sins and—

Varang cooed, soft and sickly sweet. She eased the pressure on your skull and stepped back, watching you with the same fond attention one might give a pet learning a new trick. "There. Now you are one with the Great Mother, yes? Do you feel pure now? Hm?"

She waited. You chewed. The taste was nothing—but the texture was everything. Light, wispy, crunchy.

Her voice sharpened, just a fraction. "Little one. I am speaking to you."

You nodded. "Yes, Varang." The world felt distant. Muffled. Your body wasn't yours anymore—it was something you watched from far away, a puppet going through motions you controlled, but didn’t acknowledge. 

She stepped past you, naked and laughing. “Good.” She left the yut. You heard her voice drift back, sing-song. "She's finally blossoming."

Quaritch didn't follow. He stepped forward instead, closing the space until you had nowhere to go but backward. Your ears flattened, and you acknowledged the shame you felt with your tail tucked in tight. His grin curled sardonic at the edges when he caught your chin between thumb and forefinger, tilting your face up. He pressed a light kiss over the crown of your head.

"There's that fire," he grumbled. "Proud of you."

And you realized.

They didn't think you were being serious.

They thought this was a tantrum.

"Quaritch—"

He hummed, a dismissive sound, and slapped your ass in passing. The crack echoed. "That was some mean stuff." He grabbed his loincloth from where it had been discarded. Unlike Varang, he still had some modesty left in him. "Almost believed you, hot stuff. But Varang knows how to reel in brats. Better than me, truthfully."

He tied the cloth at his hip, movements easy, unbothered. "Gonna give you the benefit of the doubt that you didn't mean it. 'Cause I know you wouldn't hurt my heart like that."

He glanced back over his shoulder, all teeth. "Dealt with Spider long enough—kid does the same shit. Spouts off about how much he hates me, then turns around and calls me dad."

He finished the knot, then straightened. Watched you for a beat too long.

Then, finally, he stepped closer.

And closer.

He leaned down. You could smell the sweat on his skin, the faint tang of gunpowder that never quite left him. His breath ghosted over your ear.

"But if you say that shit again, Y/n..."

He never called you by your name.

"Well."

He patted your ass again and turned toward the door. "See you at dinner."

Like it was nothing. 

You stood frozen in the empty hut, staring. Your eyes burned.

Hate.

A/N- Please remember to reblog or like! Much appreciated!!!

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Call of Duty

Baker!reader short fic (Price x Reader) - the silliest little fic, just got the idea from a TikTok, Bon Appetite x

Part 1 Part 2

The Patron Saint of One Way Trips - this is a poly!141 Slowest of slow burn. It'll eventually feature most characters and situations. Eventual fluff/romance/smut/death etc etc. Oh - and it's an a/b/o AU too but will follow roughly along with the COD timeline.

Ch1 - link Ch2 - link Ch3 - link

Ch4 - link Ch5 - link Ch6 - link

Ch7 - link Ch8 - link Ch9 - link

Ch10 - link Ch11 - link Ch12 - link

Ch13 - link Ch14 - link Ch15 - link

Ch16 - link Ch17 - link Ch18 - link

Ch18 - link Ch19 - link Ch20 - link

Ch21 - link Ch22 - link Ch23 - link

Ch24 - link Ch25 - link Ch26 - link

It starts off slowly at first. Lunch together, you bring him things that you make to share. He's particularly fond of your cooking but is head over heels for the sugary treats you give him. You don't notice how there are two other alphas and a beta watching you two, as you whisper and laugh about things only omegas would get. Next comes deliberate plans to hang out away from base. You invite him to your flat, it's cozy, and you show him the rows of shelves and baskets and trunks full of nesting things. Blankets, pillows, stuffed animals, and fabric softeners and scent sprays. You explain that you change your nest and the theme of the nest monthly, just one life's little pleasures.

Johnny likes that your place is cute and kitschy and that you don't use the big lights in any room and opt for various soft fairy lights. Back on base in his pack's home, the guys notice that Johnny is redoing his own nest. He's added led strip lights, fairy lights, and softer more delicate blankets and pillows. He comes back home one day and gives each of his pack mates a squishmallow to cuddle and sleep with, really drench it in their scents before it goes into his nest. Price and Simon don't think much of the change, and they only notice when Kyle says, "Johnny doesn't normally feed into these types of behaviors."

This causes the three of them to watch their omega a bit closer. The only thing they notice is that Johnny has made a new omega friend, and any unease they had is quelled.

The fourth month comes of you and Johnny knowing each other, and now you're both very close. He has a key to your place and swings by often. So much so that your home carries his scent and the trace scent of the alphas and beta from his pack. You and him do everything that pack omegas would do, together! Things such as shopping for nesting materials, visiting omega only cafés (and you're shocked truly that he hasn't done something like that), he's even gone shopping with you for heat toys to prepare for your upcoming heat (the look he gives you during that trip was one you couldn't really decipher. But his cheeks were pink often).

So much time being spent together means that things...tend to sync up.

Johnny is the first to notice it when his heat is a week late. He confirms that he's not been accidentally pupped by his pack (they are all very careful with not getting him pregnant). The doctor laughs at him and says with a smile on his face, "Your body is probably trying to sync up with a new pack mate."

Johnny is shocked with news, and it's even more true when you start complaining about your own heat not showing up.

"Johnny, I went and saw my primary. She said my hormones are okay, but my body is preparing for a heat soon... Do you think we synced up?" You whisper on the phone with him. It's a bit later in the evening and you've been worried all day since your own appointment. Your heat was due two weeks ago. "I won't be able to make it back to my family in time to be looked after."

"Well, bonnie Bunny." He says quietly, he's laying in his own nest. Simon's shirt fits loosely on him, and the sweats he stole from Gaz fit for the most part. He's got his face in the stuffed animal that smells like cigar smoke and teakwood and notes of the expensive cologne that Price likes to sometimes wear. "My own doctor thinks we're synced up, haven't told my pack yet, but the doctor is suggesting that my team and I be benched until the new break through heat comes."

"Oh Johnny, I'm so sorry." You whimper. "I didn't think this would happen -"

"Nothing to say sorry for bonnie." His voice is low, "I think it's a good thing. I've finally got the push to ask you if you want to, uh...formally meet my pack. They know your scent, and they like it." He chuckles at the memory of Simon inhaling the lingering scent of you from a pillow case he took for his own nest. Another thing that close omegas did was share nesting items and comfort each other.

You're silent for a moment, and it worries him. There's a sigh, it's dreamy in a way, "I'll admit, seeing you with those three on base was nice. I may be respectful, but I'm not blind."

He's grinning like the Cheshire cat. Johnny has always wanted another omega in the pack, but most omegas were either afraid of Simon or put off by Price (he's a bit of a control freak). They also didn't want to be brought into a military ran pack with the chance of one of them randomly getting killed in action. It's fate really that both of your bodies decided to sync up like airpods.

The next morning at the breakfast table, before they all get pulled in different directions for the day, Johnny sets down his lab reports in front of Price. He's not daft. He knows that they know his heat is late. Kyle had made a mention of it in passing that he had stocked up on everyone's favorite snacks and whatnot and that they have not used them yet. At the time Johnny just shrugged, feeling sluggish but nowhere near ready or wanting to be knotted and fucked stupid.

Price raises an eyebrow as he sips his coffee, "You had an appointment and didn't tell us?" He seems a bit hurt. Like if something was wrong with any of his boys, his loves, he would have noticed it. Sure, Johnny's heat was late, but that's happened before when he was stressed over a mission or the outcome of a mission. He chalked it up to the last op they were on, nasty work, but they all made it back in one piece.

"Yeah." Johnny makes himself a plate of food and grabs the orange juice from the fridge. "Been feeling off lately, and it's a new break through heat cycle forming."

This time, it's Simon who snorts. He's not one for random changes. He remembers when his father would have random changes to his rut, and it always meant that he had been cheating on his mom. He really doesn't want to assume the worst right away. "What are you trying to say, Johnny?"

"I want you guys to meet my friend." He says with a small smile, "The friend that smells like toasted marshmallows and sugar cane."

The guys all perk up about that bit of information. The air in the room seemed to be charged with anticipation. Common knowledge that omegas tended to keep their omega friends separate from their packs to avoid issues. Their darling Johnny had found a friend, a new pack mate, and was trying to gauge if they would all accept her. Kyle is the first to break the silence.

"Well." The chair creaks as he leans back in it. In thought, "Is she the reason your cycle has been thrown off, and is that stack of papers from your doctor about to bench us until your break through heat is over?"

He feels a bit sheepish at being called out. "I really like her, and I've been to her house and seen her nest and I'd like to show her mine" he rattles off hastily, "nothing has happened besides us hanging out, and you guys like her scent and well..." Johnny thinks over his next words carefully. He doesn't want to offend his mates, and he doesn't want to put them on the spot. The deep sigh he lets out is long and he listens as John shifts through the doctor orders and suggestions about being benched while waiting for a new heat cycle to happen.

"Tell us Johnny." Kyle reaches over and grabs his hand lovingly. "We won't be mad."

"I get lonely sometimes and normally I can keep a good balance but sometimes you just need that extra bit to make it whole and I think she's that extra bit that could make, me- us whole." He quickly corrects, but everyone already heard.

The reality that Johnny wanted another omega in the pack settled on everyone. It was sudden but understandable. Two alphas and a beta (who leaned more towards being an alpha sometimes) could be a bit much on one omega. They didn't need to think it over, just feeling the dull scent of honey apples coming from him says it all.

John looks up from the papers and smiles gently, "Sure, we'll meet her and go from there." Getting up, he downs the rest of his coffee and moves to put his dishes away. "I'll get the paperwork put in for stand-by medical leave for us. Pick someplace comfortable for you and her, you little muppet."

Johnny can only grin about this change of events.