#kiri

Your days always began with you stepping forward and rarely did it slow: walking, running, tracking, fetching, carrying. Your father wanted the reserve spears checked. Your mother requested another set of bowls she trusted only you to choose. The elders needed the births of the new calves recorded before the second eclipse. This, you told yourself, was the shape of your life. This was Eywa’s path.

It never truly bothered you. You found no resentment in your heart. If Eywa needed you to be a steady pair of hands, then you would be steady. You would not question it.

Until that is, your little sister appeared one morning with that smile she wore when she wanted something—and a boy trailed behind her. A darker-skinned, thin-limbed forest boy. The Sully’s third child.

The one whose people dragged death like nets behind them.

And yet Tsireya loved him, utterly and without hesitation.

“Sister,” she said, she would not stop tugging your wrist. “come with us, please? I want to gather some rocks, and Lo’ak has to practice his ikyanama with Ao’nung.”

“Join you? Why?” You had been hauling some baskets of fruit, weathered by the heat and soreness of yesterday's chores. “You are going with Lo’ak, yes?” Speaking of which…Your eyes moved towards the boy. 

“Because I like your company. And if anything were to happen—”

“Fine.” You sighed. You dropped the basket gently, placing it on some random mat.

“If mother or father ask,” Tsireya chirped, “I’ll tell them it was my idea.”.

Her idea. Right. As if they’d believe it. But you did not fault Tsireya for your parents' misunderstanding of her. Instead, you pat her back and gently lead her away, narrowing your eyes at Lo’ak.

Lo’ak was smart enough to look away, at least.

When you first spotted Ao’nung, Roxto, and the Sully children gathered in a loose circle—heads tipped in, shoulders brushing, laughter spilling between them—you weren’t surprised. Their closeness had become predictable, albeit a bit concerning in your eyes.

What was strange was Tsireya’s insistence on keeping you glued to her side when such skilled warriors surrounded her. And the looks—the way Tsireya watched you, the way Lo’ak pressed his lips tight, as if swallowing a laugh or a secret.

Strange, you thought.

You kept walking, nonexistent eyebrows lifting a fraction, spear shifting easily over your shoulder.

A flicker of movement—“Y/n!” Kiri called, one arm wrapped around little Tuk’s squirming body.

Their gazes tracked you, polite but persistent, yet none as unwavering as the golden stare of the eldest Sully. Neteyam sat straighter than the others, but his attention never fully left you—not even as he continued polishing gear with practiced motions.

“Hello, Kiri. Everyone.” Your gaze slid to the ocean. “Is something funny?”

“No, no, just—please, sit.” Kiri gestured toward the space beside Neteyam. He caught the cue, offered a small smile, then pat the stone beside him.

You hesitated, studying the spot, then studying him. Oldest child. Steady spine. Quiet strength. Too much like you in temperament, but marked by something different. It was stupid to pretend otherwise.

Dead once, killed by sky-people fire. Returned only because Eywa willed it.

And still, you stayed standing.

“I apologize. I’m only here to guard my sister.” You stilled your tail, which awkwardly curled at the ends. “Er…I should return to my duties.”

A tug yanked your tail.

“Agh—!”

Your sister’s pout nearly eclipsed the force of it. “They’re going swimming! And I need to collect shells. You promised. Stay.”

You swallowed a curse, eyes narrowing at her. “You…” You closed your eyes and calmly frowned. “You owe me.”

.

.

.

“Isn’t he a fast learner, Y/n?” Tsireya whispered, breaking you from your thoughts. 

You blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”

She only gave a look, returning to the thread stretched between her fingers, drawing it thinner, finer, until it resembled the edge of silk. “I said, Isn’t he a fast learner, Y/n?”

A sigh escaped you before you could stop it. “It is necessary if they wish to stand among our people. Mother has… little patience for slow progress.” Your lashes fluttered at the familiar sounds behind you. Something of water and laughter, an Ilu’s chip. It made the corner of your mouth lift.

Her fingers danced across the beads. “I know,” she murmured. “But still…” Her ears twitched when your weight shifted in the sand. “I only meant…It’s been hard for him. After everything.”

“The past is the past. We honor it, but we do not live inside it. Eywa offered us a future for a reason.”

She didn’t argue, instead she offered a smile, gentle and secret as she carved into a blush-colored shell. The bead slid through the rope, then another shell, then another bead. When she lifted the strand for inspection, you counted only five, though she meant to mark seven. One for each of the Sullies—but Tuk’s was missing. And Spider’s.

You did not understand this. It is a waste.

For some reason, she’d begun updating her songcord more often. In her heart, the Sully family had become a kind of anchor—something worth preserving in memory. You’d added only one stone: amber, for the battle of the three brothers. Newcomers arrived often; that was the way of things.

“Would you like me to gather more shells?” you asked.

“If you find a yellow one and a blue one, I would be grateful.”

So here you were, with soft sand crushing between your toes, steadily searching—combing the shoreline for color, for shape—anything. You even scanned the shoreline for shells. Not one. It was almost insulting. So when your search dragged you across the island, you let out a silent, aggravated groan.

By the time the Sully’s came into view, you were already regretting it. They were acquaintances in the loosest sense—warm enough in passing, but not people you sought out alone. You usually had siblings beside you, a buffer. Now it was just you.

You didn't look at them much. A spare of a glance, nothing more, just a passing confirmation they were still there. Afterall, you didn’t want to invite conversation.

You knelt, fingers brushing the spiraled rim of the shell. By the great mother never again. I need to tell Tsireya no more often, or else she’ll—

You turned.

Neteyam was looking at you.

Then, he sank beneath the water.

What was that?

You had no answer. And honestly, you weren’t the sort to dwell on boys you barely knew, and certainly not on ones who looked at you like that. So you kept walking, brushing stray grains from your palm, until you heard the familiar voices of women.

On the opposite bank, a group of women you recognized leaned together, voices rising in chipped, giggling words.

“If he decides to go in naked, should we steal his twang?”

“Do not.” You grumbled. They jumped at you, before giggling.

“Y/n!” They waved. “Don’t tell anyone! It’s just…” One of them trailed off, looking offside to where Neteyam had been. “Oh! Damn the spirits, where did he go!” You heard them whine and complain as you went past.

Ah… well everyone had their…. taste.

Neteyam was attractive. Hard not to notice. His differences only amplified it—those strange yellow eyes, his skin that caught the sea at an eclipse, frame lithe but carved through with strength. He was all lean and muscle, taller in height than most boys his age. A warrior where he came from. A capable weaver. A presence.

You could appreciate the shape of him, sure. Anyone with eyes would.

But attraction wasn't the same as calling. And yours belonged entirely, stubbornly, hopelessly to someone else.

Tey

That boy…

That stupid, stupid boy.

Just thinking of him made you sigh lovingly. It was absurd, really—how the disciplined daughter of the Olo’eyktan could be undone by someone so… other. Where he was the sun—brash, golden, impossible to ignore—you were the distant stars, distant and sharp-edged. And yet he had slipped past every wall, and laid his hand directly upon your heart.

And though you would never confess it aloud, not even to the Great Mother herself:

He was yours.

You only needed him to finish his Iknimaya so he could stand beside you, and when he did, you two could be mated.

A shadow broke the curve of the rock spire. 

Tey stepped out from behind it in that careless, buoyant way of his. Tall, bright-eyed, tail flicking with an easy confidence. His skin was a warm, creamy blue, his stripes soft as seafoam. Thick braids hung over his shoulders, threaded with polished shells that clacked gently when he moved. He was—if one were being painfully honest—beautiful. 

By the great mother you love him.

He carried a woven basket in both arms, heavy with fresh fish. The moment he saw your shocked face, he barked a laugh, setting the basket down with theatrical gentleness.

“You’re here!” he laughed, setting the basket down. “Tsireya said you might’ve slipped away, but—hah, didn’t think I’d scare you.” His ears dipped, his gaze falling guilty to the sand. “Eywa, look at me, coming all this way to say something important and instead frightening you.”

“Oh.” The word left small, your throat tight. You dragged your gaze aside, concentrating on willing your freckles to dim. Their glow betrayed too much! But it was hard when he was so near, folding his arms as if he was serious, as if he could ever be serious. “What happened? Are you hurt? Is something wrong?”

“No…” he said in a whisper. “Not really a big deal, it’s just hard to say aloud, Y/n.” He muttered. He peered back at you, bearing a sheepish smile. 

He lifted his gaze.

And when he looked at you like that—soft stolen glances, Eywa help you.

Before you could think, you said it. “Why are you here then?”

Stay calm. Keep your face still. Eywa, why can’t you ever—

He simply lowered his gaze. “Shoot, I-”

A sudden poke to your back made you jolt.

Before you turned, before you could hear him, you felt him. Wet hair dripping in slow, rhythmic taps across your spine. A broad hand settling on your shoulder. Warm breath sliding along the shell of your ear. When you turned, his amber eyes were already fixed on you, pupils soft, almost molten. His chest rose too fast. His smile curved too gently.

Still, he leaned in.

“Y/n,” Neteaym murmured, “Could you help me carry these?”

He lifted some Makks, a hard shelled creature that floated in salt water, beyond the reefs. They were notoriously difficult to harvest. Only the best swimmers dared.

Did he swim all the way to the outer reef for these?

Then his gaze shifted—past you, toward Tey. The smile stayed on his lips, but something in it tightened. “I apologize if I interrupted something, is it fine if I take her for a bit?” 

Tey only chuckled. “Of course not. Go. I’ll speak with you later, Y/n.”

You frowned lightly. “Okay, Tey… stay safe. And— here.” You pressed the shells into his palms, the ones Tsireya had asked for. “Give these to her, all right?” He nodded with that earnest bob of his head, and finally drifted off. Your gaze slid to Neteyam.

Neteyam moved immediately. Of course he did. To your side. Slightly bowed. Attentive in that quiet way of his. His stride shortened to match yours, slowing himself for you alone. Basket raised to settle against his shoulder. Every few steps, his golden eyes flicked back to you, the corners of his mouth softening into a smile.

Little steps, so wonderfully articulated. Golden eyes not watching, seeing you.

By the great mother, he creeped you out sometimes.

The walk stretched on, quiet and strange. He led when the path narrowed—turning through a cave, skirting the swell of rocks slick with moss. His tail would lift, pause, settle, as he checked you were still behind him. You caught yourself watching the motion: the rise of his shoulders with each breath, the small clack of the beads braided into his hair, rattling like a slow heart.

And then, shamefully, you stared at a leaf instead, anything to pry yourself out of the silence.

Coward.

Because this quiet was not the usual quiet. You felt inclined to talk, strange in itself, but what words could you form? Nothing, nothing at all. And with that, you didn’t. Instead, you counted the Makks. Until finally, he stopped, turning slowly. 

“There are whispers about you,” he muttered, almost steady. Almost.

You laced your fingers together, a practiced gesture of politeness, even as a flicker of suspicion narrowed your eyes.

“They say you will participate in this year’s Fertility Festival.”

A swallow.

Another.

His gaze dropped to the sand.

“That you are… waiting for someone.”

You paused, not expecting that to come out of his mouth. “Where did you hear this?” You angled your head to watch him.

He looked up too quickly, at least you thought so. His breath hitched before he met your eyes again. “Some elders.” he said. “I don’t know which.” His fingers tightened around the basket, holding it like a pitiful shield before the sweet color of violet rushed across his cheeks.

In the clearing behind him, mates strolled arm in arm—hands linked, heads bent together, sharing secrets that came from boredom and too many idle days. Stories tended to multiply that way: one whispered into a lover’s ear, passed to another, then another—until rumor became something with teeth.

You slowed your steps until you stood beside him, shoulder brushing his.

“They speak too much,” you murmured. “Huntlessness makes them restless. Weaving won’t tame their tongues.” You slowed your steps. “But… I have thought about it.”

Your gaze drifted skyward. “It is likely I will not attend. Not unless Tey himself decides otherwise.”

His tail froze mid-sway.

You studied him for a heartbeat longer. “You will do the Iknimaya this year, no?”

The village outposts came into focus as you walked. The guardians wore their status proudly: inked bands curling over flesh. Neteyam had none yet. Young still. Though in a year, maybe two, you imagined those patterns would decorate him too.

He dipped his head at your side, fingers tightening around the woven basket. “That is true, yes.”

His braids tumbled forward, shadowing most of his face, but not the shy downturn of his mouth. “I will become part of your clan officially…”

Your mother had pressed him relentlessly these past days, whispering how his age expectancy neared its limit, how the rites needed completing soon. All this so soon after his waking—after the long, punishing coma that had hollowed him, slowed his muscles, stolen his ease. You had been annoyed when told. The boy needed rest, not ritual.

Boy. He was already an adult—just in another clan.

There was a pause, where the waves sounded near. You weren’t particularly close to him. More than strangers yet less than friends. But despite it, you patted his back nonetheless. “I know you will.” You gave a soft smile in return. 

His eyes lifted to you. Soft. Wide. The pupils stretched, drinking you in. His ears tipped forward. His tail nudged subtly toward your leg.

You drew your hand back at once. And pretended not to notice.

“We should hurry. The eclipse will come soon,” you whispered.

He didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned a breath nearer.

“You know…” He rolled his shoulder, offering his hand, fingers curled in expectation. “Let me carry those for you. I’m close anyway. And you—” He dipped his head. “You have much to do. I shouldn’t have taken your time, Y/n.”

You nodded quickly. “Of course, Neteyam. But it’s fine. Truly. I like helping. So if you need something, ask, alright?”

You lifted the basket from your knee to pass it to him. He took it easily.

Too easily.

Hadn’t he struggled before? You blinked. Maybe he’d just been tired. Maybe he wasn’t now. It didn’t matter.

He drew in a quiet breath. “Of course.”

“Rest easy, Neteyam.”

.

.

.

You were really starting to regret joining Tsireya. Tired eyes slumped evenly to the ground. 

It was with each step, another to the front, another to the back. They dragged behind you as if they were a second body barely attached to yourself. 

You could see your home just a crook away. A top the hill with blazing grass, decorated with your mothers hefty hands of shells and flower. 

Just there, barely there. 

Yet finally, as your feet dragged to the top of the hill, you brushed away the cloth separating you and the outside world. 

The light in your family’s marui was warm—golden, flickering, softened by bursts of laughter that rolled from wall to wall. The air smelled thickly of fish and brine; clay bowls of stew sat steaming on woven mats as bodies leaned close in a circle of familiar ease.

None of them noticed you at first.

But Tey did.

Your would-be mate was crouched just behind the others, entertaining your baby sister with little chirring sounds. When he looked up, he rose from the ground, and it was then your family took notice. They gave soft smiles with even softer embraces.

Immediately, you placed the leather armor down, weapons included. 

“Hello mother, father. How are you?” 

Your mother ignored your words, instead brushing a single hair off your cheek. 

Your father’s hand found your back—rough, calloused and beloved. “Sit, sit,” he murmured. He guided you toward Tey, who caught your hand in his warm grip and seated you beside him with a soft kiss to your temple.” 

Your mother was serious as awlays, stroking your head a bit. “If you wish to sleep, I can save your food? Or maybe dry it for tomorrow's duties?” 

“No mother, I wish to eat with all of you.” 

She didn’t fret, understanding as she sat alongside your father and took your sister from your potential mate. The mat made of sewa, bent to the extra weight, but did not complain. 

Ao’nung, chewing loudly, leaned in with a smirk. “Y/n, aren’t you a little late? Oh wait—never mind. I saw baby-tail practically wagging at the sight of you. So scandalous. He even took you for a wa—Ow!”

You pinched his cheek mercilessly.

“Some of us work,” you hissed, tail flicking in annoyance.

Your mother shot him a warning glance that silenced two conversations at once.

Oh?” your father asked, sipping from his bowl. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly. “He found a school of Makk—heavy ones. He needed help carrying the baskets.”

Your fathers brows rose. “By himself? Surely another hunter—”

“Nope,” Ao’nung cut in, far too pleased. “We were swimming. He vanished. Came back an hour later hauling two baskets like some heroic fisherman—then practically sprinted the moment he saw Y/n. I think he was trying to impre—OW!”

You lunged again, fingers itching for war. “It was nothing like that.”

You glanced at Tey, expecting embarrassment, defensiveness, anything. 

Instead he looked distant. His fingers hovered above his bowl like he’d forgotten how to eat.

You touched his thigh gently. “He needed help,” you continued, eyeing Ao’nung now. “Since you are too weak and his brother too foolish, naturally he asked me.”

Ao’nung rolled his eyes but let it die, not without sharing a look with Tsireya.

Finally, when everyone had eaten, Ronal lifted her chin and eyed Tey. “Now. You had something to say.”

Tey snapped back to the present and swallowed hastily, eyes wide. “Ah—yes. I—” He glanced at you, then at your family, then inhaled nervously. “I just… I wanted to say…” He frowned.”I’ll mate with Y/n by this year.” He grumbled. “No hesitation,” he continued, voice firmer. “No trouble. No waiting. I will give everything. And I will mate with your daughter.”

Ao’nung’s mouth opened. “I mean you’ve failed the last three—OW! Tsireya stop that—”

Your cheeks were a sweet purple, eyeing him.

Your mother broke into a radiant smile. “About time. I was wondering if you had turned into a cold fish. I was prepared to banish you myself if you said nothing this year.”

She meant it.

Tey flushed, his large hand warm and grounding on your thigh. Laughter erupted. Hands clapped his back. Tsireya made obnoxious kissing noises.

You couldn’t help your smile then. It pulled at your cheeks, unwilling to be suppressed.

“So when will we have nieces?” your little sister giggled.

Tey was unbothered. “We can begin right after I complete my second birth.”

.

.

.

On another Mauri, Neytiri was deep in thought as she carved a new toy for Tuk. Neytiri worked the small blade with slow, thoughtful precision, shavings of pale wood curling into her palm as she shaped the new toy for Tuk. The marui was quiet in that late, second eclipse.

Her eldest had eaten earlier and left his bowls scattered beside the fire. A year ago, she would have scolded him, but now, she looked at it. 

She smiled. 

Neteyam.

Whenever someone spoke his name, she had once bloomed, shoulders lifting, pride brightening her eyes. She would answer with all the warmth a mother could hold: That he was noble. That he was gentle. That he led so naturally. He had her face and her fire, they said—but his father’s steady heart beat in his chest.

And every time she said these things, her eyes lowered.

Because she had once believed she would have to speak of him only in memory.

She had begged Eywa with a broken voice. She had offered her own breath in exchange for his. She had wept until the world blurred and swelled and emptied of color. Night after night after night.

Yet his body had not rotted.

She remembered the moment he twitched—a movement so sma;; she thought it memory playing tricks. But Jake fell to his knees, pressing the heel of his palm to their son's chest, and Neytiri held him close, whispering thanks to the Great Mother through breaking sobs.

Norman’s machines came after. Max’s tubes. Foreign breath and foreign feeding forced into Na’vi flesh. For once, only once—she let the sky-people touch her son without protest.

They said the word coma. Neytiri only heard miracle.

They could not explain it. No one could.

But no one questioned Eywa’s hand.

Then the courters came.

They came with herbs and whispers and trembling hands, asking to sit at his side. They brushed fingers through his hair. Murmured their hearts into his unhearing ears. Asked for blessings. Asked for his future. Asked for his hand while it lay limp in hers.

Neytiri watched them with bared teeth, and she sent most away. Only the clan leaders and their children could visit.

Especially you.

You were strange in your stillness. You did not whisper. You did not cry. You changed bandages with steady hands and eyes half-bored, half-distant. And yet, every time you entered, Neteyam stirred. His breath eased.

More then her, more then Kiri’s, more then Ronals or Tsireya’s. You.

So she wondered. She wondered often.

Would you two fit? Could you?

You did not love him. You did not claim him, either. Once, you even sighed—as if burdened by the task. And his ears had twitched at that, too.

She would sit beside him and murmur your name, tell him of your visits, nudge fate the way a mother nudges a child toward their first steps. She had done it before—when he was young and painfully oblivious to affection.

Because Neteyam, Eywa love him, was terrible at love.

When he was young, Neytiri had known he would be fought over one day. She had watched the glances follow him long before he climbed his first ikran. She had been certain that by Iknimaya he would choose a mate.

He did not.

She had pushed gently at first. Too gently, maybe.

She had arranged hunts between him and sweet-eyed girls, weaving projects between him and hopeful boys. The young always returned as friends, laughing, glowing with new companionship… but nothing more.

Every time, Neteyam wore that same proud little smile, thinking friendship was the outcome she had wanted all along.

So she wondered, quietly, carefully, if perhaps his path turned elsewhere. The boys came next. Weaving. Sparring. Laughter. Still nothing.

Once, she had caught his shoulder and pressed a water skin into his hands with feigned innocence. “Neteyam,” she had said lightly, one brow raised. “You two grow close. Will you bring him again?”

He had only smiled. “He and I like different things, mother.”

At one point, she stopped trying. Some spirits simply did not open early. Perhaps he would bloom late, as her own sister once had.

But today… Today her son stepped into the marui with a tired shuffle and sleep-heavy lids, and Neytiri felt the old fear crawl up her ribs. And yet, the freckles along his cheeks blinked faintly—those traitorous lights that only flared with fear, surprise, or—

Attraction.

Neytiri’s heart tightened.

“My son,” she murmured, crossing the space between them too quickly, dropping the knife without care as her arms closed around him. She pressed her ear to his chest as if the rhythm might vanish again if she did not listen hard enough.

He kissed her cheek with tired affection and eased himself onto his mat beside Lo’ak and Tuk, who played at his knees. “I am fine, mother,” he said softly. “Only tired.”

He turned the fish-bone bead on his songcord between his fingers, and the soft glow along his skin dimmed with his breath.

Neytiri was not a fool.

Neytiri had raised four children; she knew when one of them carried a secret, and Neteyam had always been an open book.

Lo’ak had mentioned a girl once, in that offhand way brothers do when they’re trying not to be helpful. He keeps looking at a girl. But Lo’ak never said which girl.

But every time Neytiri pressed, Neteyam’s ears flattened, his gaze slid away, and the wall came up.

I like no one.

You are being overprotective.

So Neytiri swallowed her questions and turned her attention to her younger children instead.

Which, at the moment, proved no refuge at all.

Lo’ak sat cross-legged behind Tuk, fingers clumsy as they worked through her dark tangles. A wicked grin split his face as he twisted another braid. “Hmm… you sure everything was fine? I mean, you kept—”

“Lo’ak!” Tuk shrieked. “You’re pulling too hard!” She squirmed violently, tail lashing. “This is why I like Kiri better!”

Lo’ak hissed at her in playful outrage, then—because he was Lo’ak—tugged her hair even harder. “Yeah? Well Kiri doesn’t do your hair anymore because you’re too fussy—”

Tuk bit him.

Hard.

“AAGH—! MOM—SHE BIT ME—OW, OW!” Lo’ak wailed, clutching his wrist as he stumbled backward. Tears sprang instantly to his eyes. “Look! Look, she really—AGH!”

Tuk launched herself at him again, teeth flashing, fury unrestrained.

Neytiri surged forward and hauled them apart by ear and collar. “Lo’ak. Tuk. Enough! I will tell your father—”

Neteyam, stretched out nearby like a viperwolf before lifting an arm over his ears with a tired smile. “Tuk, the mighty warrior,” he murmured.

He thought no one heard him.

Kiri, arriving with her catch bag slung at her hip, absolutely did. “Hello—oh spirits, she bit you too?” She laughed at the chaos as Neytiri hauled the culprits away, both children offering loud, tear-bright blame.

Kiri had already turned away, her attention settling on Neteyam.

And what she saw made her smile fade.

He looked peaceful at a glance, eyes closed, limbs loose. But she saw past that. The tension in his jaw. The furrow in his brow. The quiet heaviness that had followed him for months now.

She set her bag aside, slipped the fishnet-styled garment from her shoulder, and hung it on a wooden stake. Then she lowered herself beside him, knees drawn up.

“So,” she said gently, patting the ground near his hip. “What’s bothering you?”

“Nothing,” he whispered.

Kiri shifted and laid her head lightly on his stomach. “You can tell me anything. You know that.”

Neteyam opened his eyes at that. “It really isn’t anything,” he said. “Why does everyone keep asking me this?”

She glanced down at her hands, brushing grit from her fingers. “Is it so strange that we worry about you?”

He studied her for a long moment. Then his gaze drifted upward again. “You’re all treating me like I’ll break.”

“Because you were broken,” she said carefully. “And you healed. But this—whatever this is—isn’t that. Something else is weighing on you, ‘Teyam. I can feel it.”

His chest rose and fell in a slow breath.

Finally, he exhaled. “Fine.”

He nudged her gently aside and sat up. “Mom—Kiri and I are going to the reefs.”

Neytiri nodded once from across the space.

“Oh! I want to go too!” Tuk cried, bouncing on her feet.

“No, my sweet girl,” Neytiri said, smiling as she cupped Tuk’s cheeks. “You must rest. So you may grow big and strong enough to surpass Lo’ak.”

Lo’ak stared at her in wounded betrayal. “Mom!”

Neteyam almost laughed, but it quickly stifled it when they lifted the cloth separating their shared home and the outside world. The beautiful eclipse showed the golden array of sun marking their bodies with its light. Yet the ground itself was layered with the bluish night tint. Towards the mountains, they could see the glow of colors that reminded them of their home. 

But as they walked, Kiri couldn’t help herself from worrily gazing at her brother. An immediate reaction of questions would not be wise in this situation. Kiri knew that her brother preferred the slow approach, so she refrained from asking her curiosities for a bit. 

Walking on the sands, treading through waves. It was nice and peaceful. Enough to satiate Kiri.

It wasn’t until Neteyam lowered himself to pick up a few marbled pebbles, did Kiri finally reveal her question. 

Folding her arms close, she swayed her body in a slight impatient hurry. “Ok, tell me what happened.” 

Neteyam looked at her, eyes droopy. He straightened himself, clutching the rocks together in a clink. He hesitated, looking straight ahead in equal impatience. 

In a pause, he said nothing. Then, he skipped the rocks on the pond, gaining two before it plopped. 

“I am in love with Y/n.” The words seemed to tear from his throat, eyes watery as he blinked the tears away, rolling up his lips with his teeth. 

For a moment, Kiri thought she misheard. Maybe he said it weirdly. When Neteyam sensed her confusion, he restated it again. His back pointed at Kiri, yet eyes looking away with a softening look. 

“I love Y/n. I want her, I want to be with her.”

Kiri’s mouth went agape, her hands immediately touching her chin in surprise. “You…what- but she…isn’t she-” 

“The clans first daughter?” He said this bitterly, clenching his hands into tight fists. “In love with another? Barely knows I exist?” His voice rang higher and more desperate with each tell. His eyes were wetter than ever before, and his teeth were bare, moving into a snarl. 

He was unraveling. Kiri could see it in the way his shoulders drew tight, in the way he couldn’t remain still—eyes wet, teeth baring, anger trying and failing to hide his breaking heart.

“When…did you start loving her?” She muttered, looking around. 

He calmed down a bit, glancing back at her only to soften his gaze when he realized his outburst of anger. He then closed his eyes, thinking deeply. “From the moment I met her. I knew.”

Kiri led him down, both of them sitting on the sand as she furrowed her brows.

Neteyam hid his face within his body, hands clapped around his braids. “When I…” There was pain in his voice. “After I awoke, she was the first thing I saw. She was changing my wounds at the time, pressing cold water on my forehead. She was singing and…” 

Neteyam then gently caught his songcord from his waist, moving his fingers at the beads. He was so enamored that he carved some fish bone on that event alone. When people asked him about it, he refused to answer any further than a ‘special event’.

Kiri took a deep breath and looked up to the stars. Soulmates were real, yes. Rare. Sacred. But they were mutual. They were felt on both sides. And Y/n, from what she’d seen… did not look at Neteyam with the same brightness that lit him from the inside out.

Unless she did, and no one saw.

Unless she hid it just as well as he had.

But soul-bonds were mirrors…. Weren’t they?

“I’ve never loved someone as much as I do for her…Eywa- why did she bring me back. I can't be with her, can’t protect her either…” He was sobbing so loud, it hurt. 

Neteyam was clutching his chest, letting go of the position he was in to lean back on the sand, faltering.

Kiri didn’t know what to do, and didn't want him to feel so terrible. She wouldn’t allow it, she would do anything to make him feel better. 

Eywa you-

Eywa. 

Eywa.

Neteyam then felt a hand on his cheeks, pulling him to look at her. He wished he hadn’t opened his eyes.

There she was, freckles brighter than the stars. Her eyes seemed to be glowing. They were wide, pulling him in and spitting him out. 

“I have a plan.” She said, and she rubbed away those tears

Oh Eywa, she did promise she was going to make him happy, after all.