The Eldest- Alt Ending
Sully family x eldest daughter reader
Thanator attack Part 9 alt ending
A/n: Never underestimate my power, dedicated to anyone who thought my writing is ai
The stench of the creature’s breath filled (y/n)’s lungs, thick and rotten. The ground spun beneath her, sky and leaves and flashes of her friends’ faces blurring together as the thanator hauled her upward, readjusting its grip like she weighed nothing.
For one terrible heartbeat, she felt the scrape of fangs near her throat.
No.
No no no—
Help me please—mom—dad
Please dad
I want to go home
Help me
Her hands came alive with wild, animal panic.
She shoved at its muzzle with her free arm, pushing, striking, anything to make space where there was none, anything to try and free herself. Her heels kicked uselessly, body twisting, instinct screaming at her to get free or she would die. Her screams sounded as if her very soul was being torn apart, pleas of help lost in her strangled cries.
“(Y/N)!”
Tarsem.
She heard him the way you hear something underwater—distorted. She couldn’t hear what he was saying but she could hear his voice, desperate, breaking apart. Tarsem please, help me. Get my dad. Please—anything. Please get my dad, I want my dad.
“Let her go!” he yelled again, as if saying it might make it true.
Rocks flew.
One grazed the beast’s flank. Another vanished bounced right off it, with no effect.
Ralu was screaming. Sa’ley too. Kxani had both hands on her knife, shouting words that weren’t words anymore, just raw sound torn out of her throat.
Tarsem tried to get closer.
He slipped caught himself, ran again, tears already blinding him as he tried striking the thanator with his knife only to be batted away by its claws.
“LET HER GO!” he roared, voice cracking.
He was so small.
They all were.
The thanator barely registered them.
(y/n) tried to breathe. Tried to speak. Tried to beg for help.
But all that came out was a wet, broken gasp as the jaws around her tightened.
Dad isn’t coming
She felt something inside her give as her heart sunk. Where’s my dad? I want my dad.
Tarsem saw it in her eyes. Saw the moment true terror flooded her eyes meeting his with a begging look, I don’t want to die.
“I’m coming!” he choked, even though he wasn’t, even though he couldn’t, because there was a wall of muscle and death between them and he had nothing that would matter against it.
He threw a rock. It bounced off uselessly.
He cast away his knife since it wasn’t doing anything, he’d try hitting it only for it to toss him away.
Ralu grabbed his arm, shouting, “Tarsem, stop—!”
“I can’t just—” Tarsem’s voice shattered. “I can’t just watch!”
But he was.
There was a sound that make them freeze.
It wasn’t the sound of help arriving.
Nor the sound of the Thanator letting go.
Just—
final.
A sickening, crunch that seemed to travel through the ground and into their bones, they stopped all attempts of rescue.
(y/n)’s body jerked.
Then stilled, her last gasp slipping from her.
Her hands slipped from the creature’s face.
Her head fell back.
And she went limp.
Tarsem stopped breathing.
Sa’ley’s screamed hands covering her face as she dropped to her knees.
Kxani made a small, wounded noise, like something had crawled inside her chest and torn straight through.
Ralu whispered, “No,” over and over, like repetition could rewind time.
The thanator gave them one last warning snarl.
Then it turned away from them acknowledging them as if they were bugs.
Dragging her with it.
Her heels dragged lifelessly.
Her arm bounced once against a root.
Then the shadows swallowed them both.
Just like that. Gone.
The forest closed in, leaves settling, birds erupting into flight somewhere far too late to matter.
Silence crashed down.
Tarsem dropped to his knees.
He stared at the place she had been, mind refusing it, rejecting it, searching for movement that wasn’t there.
No one said a word .
Because that sound.
They would hear it for the rest of their lives.
Sa’ley began to cry, loud, heaving sobs she couldn’t contain.
Kxani backed away, shaking her head, hands over her ears as if she could block it out. Screaming to try and drown out the echo of that sickening crunch that ended everything.
Ralu stood frozen, eyes locked on the broken, red trail through the undergrowth, unable to blink, unable to move.
Tarsem’s face crumpled.
“This is all my fault ,” he whispered.
He had asked her to come with them.
He had wanted her there.
He had promised nothing bad would happen.
And now the forest had taken her in front of him, and he had been powerless.
None of them moved to follow.
None of them were brave enough.
They were children.
And the thing that had taken their friend was a beast of teeth and shadow.
And all they could do was scream her name.
Neytiri heard it.
That scream that seemed to split the forest in two.
There were a thousand voices she knew, a thousand calls she could place without thought — hunters, children, warning cries, laughter.
But this one—
This one was carved into her bones.
Her daughter.
Neytiri was already moving before the echo faded.
She ran.
Branches tore at her arms, leaves whipped her face, the ground a blur beneath her feet. Air burned in her lungs but she did not feel it, did not slow, because somewhere ahead her child was in danger and there was no world in which Neytiri would not reach her.
Please, she begged as she ran.
Please let me be in time.
The clearing burst open.
Children.
Crying. Frozen. Broken.
Tarsem fell toward her, words drowning in his tears, arm lifting with a shaking finger to point into the trees.
Neytiri did not stop barely glanced at them, she needed to find he daughter.
She froze.
She saw it.
Huge.
Moving with dreadful grace, as if the forest itself parted for it.
The thanator walked without hurry, power in every step, its prize hanging from its jaws.
(y/n).
Her body limp.
Arms swaying with the creature’s gait.
Neytiri’s heart stopped.
For a moment she could not hear anything at all — not birds, not wind, not even her own breath.
The world narrowed to that sight.
The thanator turned.
It looked at her.
Her scream tore free of her like something alive, something ancient and feral and grieving beyond language. Her bow was in her hands, arrows already flying, one after another after another, loosed so fast her vision blurred.
She did not remember drawing.
Only the need to kill.
This thing had taken her baby.
They struck.
The beast roared, staggering, fury igniting.
Neytiri ran toward it anyway.
Closer.
Closer.
Too close for a bow.
She threw it aside and lunged.
The thanator dropped its burden to meet the new threat.
(y/n) hit the ground.
Neytiri did not look.
She leapt for the creature, knife flashing, driving it down again and again and again, every blow fueled by terror, by rage, by a mother’s impossible refusal to let her child go.
“You will not have her!” she screamed. “You will not!”
The thanator fought.
It thrashed.
But Neytiri did not stop.
She stabbed until her arms shook.
Until its roars faltered.
Until it fell.
Only then did she remember to breathe.
Only then did she turn.
(y/n) lay where she had fallen from the thanators jaws.
Too still.
Wrong in a way Neytiri’s heart could not survive.
The knife slipped from her fingers.
She was at her daughter’s side in an instant, dropping to her knees, gathering her up, lifting her into her lap as if she were small again, as if this were only another tumble, another scrape.
“Oh no,” she whispered.
Her voice broke.
“Oh no, my heart. My baby. My baby.”
She pressed her face into her daughter’s hair, rocking her, hands frantic, searching for warmth, for breath, for anything.
Nothing answered.
A hollow opened inside her.
Bottomless.
It devoured everything.
“No, no, no,” Neytiri choked, pulling her closer, as if she could force life back into her by refusing to let go. “Stay. Stay with me. Please.”
Her mind betrayed her.
It showed her things she would now never have again. (y/n)’s laugh, bright and teasing.
The way she leaned into her mother’s touch when she was tired.
The fierce, endless love.
Gone.
The future unraveled in front of her — hunts they would never share, lessons never taught, grandchildren never born, embraces that would never come again.
She would never see her eldest become what she was meant to be.
Never watch her walk proudly among the People.
Never hear her call her Mama with that mix of love and softness that made Neytiri’s chest bloom.
It was being ripped away.
All of it.
Neytiri wailed.
The sound rose from somewhere deeper than her lungs, deeper than thought, a raw, animal grief that shook the trees, that sent creatures fleeing, that told the entire forest that a mother’s heart had been broken open.
She bent over her daughter, trembling, cradling her, trying to shield her from a world that had already taken too much.
“I am here,” she sobbed. “Mama is here. I am here.”
But her voice shook with the horror of a truth she could not bear.
She had been too late.
Neytiri gathered her daughter to her chest and held on as if the strength in her arms could defy the will of the world.
Blood soaked into her skin, streaking across her throat and shoulders. She did not feel it. She did not feel anything except the unbearable weight of what lay in her lap and the greater weight of what was already slipping beyond her reach.
She rocked.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
A mother soothing a child who could no longer be soothed.
“Please,” she begged, voice shredded raw. “Please, Great Mother—no—no, you cannot take her, you cannot—”
Her words dissolved into sobs. She pressed her face against her daughter’s temple, desperate, as if closeness might bring her daughter back.
“Come back,” she cried. “Come back, ma’yawntu. Mama is here. Mama is here.”
Her grief moved through the trees like a storm wind, the sound echoing off everything.
She felt the limp weight in her arms and her mind betrayed her again, cruel in its mercy. Arms thrown around Neytiri’s neck. That fierce little grin. The way she would lean into her mother without even thinking, trusting that she would always be caught.
That bloom in Neytiri’s chest every time.
That overwhelming, radiant love that was reserved just for her.
Gone.
Never again.
The thought punched a hole straight through her.
The hollow broadened
Neytiri keened, a broken sound dragged from the deepest place in her spirit.
She tightened her grip, bone-crushing, unwilling to yield even an inch. “I have you,” she whispered frantically. “Mama has you. You are not alone.”
And then another horror struck her.
Had she been alone?
Had her baby called for her?
Had she cried out, terrified, searching the trees for the one person who was always supposed to come?
Neytiri’s breath hitched into a scream.
“I am here now,” she sobbed. “I am here, my heart. Did you call me? Mama is here. I am here now.”
She rocked harder, pressing kisses into blood-streaked skin, desperate to pour love into ears that might still somehow hear.
“Do not be afraid,” she begged. “Please do not be afraid anymore.”
Her voice broke apart.
“Mama loves you. Mama loves you. Mama loves you.”
The words became a chant, frantic, useless, everything she had left.
Because love was the only thing she had ever promised her children she would never run out of.
But what was love, if she could not use it to keep her daughter?
“I cannot let you go,” Neytiri wept. “I cannot.”
Her fingers curled in her child’s hair, memorizing the texture, the shape of her, the weight, because some part of her already knew this would be the last time she would ever hold her like this.
No more embraces.
No more laughter against her throat.
No more smiles across the fire.
No more hearing her daughter Mama.
The future collapsed into ash.
She threw her head back and wailed, agony ripping out of her in waves so violent they left her shaking.
“Eywa!” she cried. “Great Mother, if you must take her—”
Her voice failed, but she forced it back.
“—then hold her. Hold my daughter. Wrap her in your arms, keep her from fear, from pain. Tell her—tell her—”
She bent over her child again, tears pouring unchecked.
“Tell her her mama loves her,” she sobbed. “Tell her I am sorry. I am sorry I did not reach her. I am sorry.”
The apology tore through her, endless and futile.
“Please,” Neytiri whispered, voice fading into wreckage. “Take care of my little girl.”
And still she did not loosen her hold.
Because letting go would make it real.
And Neytiri did not know how to survive a world where her daughter did not.
Jake heard it on the wind.
At first he told himself it was nothing.
The forest carried strange echoes—animal cries bent out of shape, children shouting at play, the crack of branches mistaken for something worse. He had lived here long enough to know sounds could be invented.
But this one—
It threaded through him.
High. Broken.
Familiar.
Neytiri.
Jake went still in the middle of the council circle.
Someone was still talking. He didn’t hear them anymore.
Because under the rush of blood in his ears, beneath the hum of the world, he knew that voice.
He prayed he was wrong.
Eywa, please let me be wrong.
“I need a minute,” he muttered, already moving.
Then he was running.
He found the children first.
Tarsem. Ralu. Sa’ley. Kxani.
They looked like ghosts wearing the shapes of kids—faces grey, eyes huge, bodies moving slow like the air had thickened around them.
One thing was missing.
Jake didn’t see her.
Ice filled his veins.
“What happened?” he demanded.
Tarsem tried to speak.
Nothing came out but a sob.
He dragged air into his lungs and forced the words through it.
“(Y/n),” he choked. “Thanator.”
He pointed.
Jake didn’t remember starting to run again.
He only knew the ground flew beneath him and his heart was already breaking ahead of his body, because some part of him understood.
He was too late.
His little girl—
Who believed her dad would come.
Who had never been afraid of anything because he would fix it.
Because he was bigger. Stronger. Invincible.
Her hero.
And he wasn’t going to make it.
Then he heard Neytiri clearer.
Her wail.
It stopped him colder than any blade.
Jake stumbled, breath punching out of him, bones trembling with the knowledge carried in that sound.
No.
No.
Please.
He pushed forward anyway.
And the clearing opened.
Neytiri was on the ground.
Cradling something.
Rocking.
Jake knew that posture.
He knew it from scraped knees, from fevers, from childhood tears.
But this—
This was different.
This was grief, holding their daughter for the last time.
He crashed to his knees.
The scream rose up his throat, massive and animal and impossible to contain.
He swallowed it.
Swallowed it so hard it hurt.
Because Neytiri was already breaking apart and someone had to stay standing.
Someone had to.
His vision tunneled.
For a second, the world slid sideways and he wasn’t in the clearing anymore.
He saw a tiny hand wrapping around his finger.
He saw her first steps.
The way she used to run to him with absolute certainty that he would catch her.
The way she looked at him like he hung the moon.
His baby girl.
His first.
The one who had made him a father.
Joy, pure and blinding, every time she smiled at him.
And he hadn’t gotten there.
She would have been wondering where her dad was.
Even at the end, she would have believed he was coming.
Jake’s chest caved in.
He couldn’t breathe.
He forced himself forward anyway.
He knelt beside Neytiri.
She looked shattered.
There was no other word for it.
She clutched their daughter like the world might steal her again, rocking, whispering, begging things Jake couldn’t bear to hear.
And seeing her—
Seeing Neytiri like that—
made the truth land.
Hard.
Final.
His little girl was dead.
Jake reached out.
His hand shook so badly he almost couldn’t make it obey him.
He cupped her cheek.
Still warm.
Tears slid down his face and he didn’t remember starting to cry.
Words should have come.
Something.
An apology. A prayer. A father’s promise.
But there was nothing.
Because he had failed.
He was supposed to protect her.
That was the deal.
That was the job.
And he had not been there.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, though it felt useless, pathetic, too small for the size of what he had lost.
His thumb brushed her skin like she might wake.
Like she might blink up at him and grin and say it was okay, Dad, you made it.
But she didn’t.
Jake bowed his head.
The weight of it crushed him.
His baby girl—
gone.
And it was his fault.
He had let her down.
And now she would never come home again.
Jake did not remember the sun going down.
He only knew that at some point the light had faded and the marui had filled with shadows, and still he was awake, lying on his back, staring at the place where she should have been.
His arms ached.
Not from battle, not from work, but from the absence of weight. They remembered her even if the world did not. They remembered how she would curl into him, how naturally she fit there, how many nights he had fallen asleep with one hand in her hair because she liked knowing he was close.
He flexed his fingers.
They closed on nothing.
If he reached far enough, maybe—
But there was only air.
That warmth that used to bloom against his ribs, the steady rise and fall of her breathing, the quiet reassurance of life right there in his grasp—
Gone.
An echo.
Jake swallowed hard, throat raw from all the words he hadn’t said.
Across the marui, Kiri sobbed in her sleep.
Small, broken sounds she couldn’t stop.
Neytiri was with her instantly, whispering, stroking her, murmuring comforts she must have once used on (y/n) too. Jake heard them like distant thunder.
“It is all right. Mama is here.”
Jake turned his head toward the wall.
It wasn’t all right.
Nothing would ever be all right again.
He looked down at his hands.
They rested on his chest, useless things, palms that had held weapons and children and promises.
He turned them over slowly, staring at the lines, trying to remember.
How small she had been.
How her hand used to hold his, barely big enough to grip the edge of his chest piece. How she would hook her fingers there when she was nervous or sleepy.
And he would cover her hand with his.
He could see it.
Clear as day.
Feel the softness of her skin, the warmth, the life humming beneath it.
But when he tried to summon the memory of the rhythm of her breathing—really tried—
it slipped.
He had listened to it a thousand times.
But now it was like trying to remember a song he had never learned properly.
The failure of it made his chest seize.
Jake pressed his fists against his mouth.
He was cold.
Not the kind of cold a blanket fixed.
The kind that started in the center of you and spread outward, freezing everything it touched.
Because she had taken the warmth with her.
He should have been able to protect her.
He should have been faster.
Stronger.
Better.
Jake lay there and listened to his family fracture in the dark.
Neytiri whispering.
Kiri crying.
The empty place beside him where his daughter should have breathed.
He stared at his hands until the shapes blurred.
If he closed his eyes, he might see her.
If he slept, he might dream of her.
But Jake was afraid.
Afraid of waking up again and losing her all over.
So he stayed awake.
And felt the cold.
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