#na'vi!reader

Jake was thankful for her interjection since Norm had started on plant heredity 15 minutes ago and wasn't going to stop unless interrupted. He had been stuck in this conversation as soon as he emerged from his bed for a cup of coffee.

Jake turned his chair to face his 8 year old daughter as she skipped up to the two humans. “What’s up, Babygirl?” he exclaimed, switching to Na’vi. The young girl beamed down at her dad when he used the nickname he had come up with when she was born. Kiri held the mask you had handed her when you walked in, but didn't put it on yet. She was too focused on conveying the very important information she had learned.

“Put on your mask,” you reminded Kiri, breathing in the pandoran air from your own clear plastic mask. For Tuk, you had put on a smaller, human sized one that Norm had converted for the children. 

But Kiri didn’t listen, she was too busy crouching beside Jake’s wheelchair with twinkling, conspiring eyes. If she had been Jake’s biological child, she would have gotten that look directly from him.

“Mama says we have to ask you if we can go see the fwäkìwll that Neteyam found,” she begged and Jake looked at you confused. Fwäkìwll weren't rare or even that nice to look at in your opinion, but according to the boys, this one loomed large.

“Tarsem took the boys hunting early this morning and they found a very special fwäkìwll flower. Lo’ak wants to show it to you,” you quickly caught your mate up to speed and he nodded, his brows rising with understanding.

“Ah, okay then let’s go. Norm, can you connect me?” Jake asked, starting to roll over to his link unit.

The human man shook his head, “Uh, no, actually. The units are down to fix a glitch that keeps occuring, Gemma will be working on them all day. We told you that you couldn't go in today, remember?” he urged and Jake rolled his eyes.

He pursed his lips as he realized his mistake, “Yeah, I do now,” he turned back to his daughter, “I’m sorry, Babygirl, I guess I can't go.” He hated that he was stuck in his human body, but hated to disappoint his children even more.

When the smoke cleared and the sky people left Pandora, he had asked Mo’at to try to attempt to transfer his consciousness permanently to his avatar, but after the tragedy of Grace’s death, she had refused to even entertain the idea. She said there had already been enough death.

Kiri frowned, “What?” she cried, “Why not? Sa’nu can carry you!” she insisted and Jake scoffed.

“I don't think I have enough masculinity to compensate for that type of embarrassment,” he said teasingly as you pursed your lips at his stubbornness. 

Tuk cooed softly and your attention turned to her, taking her out of the sling to make sure her mask was on tight. You held her little finger and she smiled up at you. She was cuteness personified.

“Give her to me,” Jake requested, holding out his arms as you lowered to your knee beside his chair. Tuk reached for her father, recognizing him even in his human form. 

Jake took Tuk from you and sat his child on his lap. He wrapped his hands around her middle, blue skin meeting pink. Tuk made happy sounds as Jake immediately tickled her side and she squirmed in his lap.

The comical size comparison made you smile, she looked like the size of a 3 or 4 year old human in his arms, but she was just barely the length of your forearm. “She will be taller than you soon,” you joked and Jake leveled you with a glare, reaching out to softly pinch your side at the jab. You laughed as you scrambled away from his hands.

“Dad…” Kiri whined, reminding you of her priorities. “Come on! The flower!” 

Jake sighed, looking to you and you shrugged, “Come with us. I will carry you,” you promised, even while knowing he would hate it.

“But-” he started, but Kiri slumped her shoulders and threw her head back. 

“Dad! They’re waiting on us!” she cried and Jake gave in.

“Fine! Fine, let's go,” he gestured with a hand for the group to move before placing it back on Tuk’s soft tummy. Kiri beamed and ran around to the back of his chair to push him. Jake would not give up holding the baby if he didn't have to.

You waved a hand to Norm and then to Max who was just coming around the corner. “Bye, boys!” you called and they returned goodbyes. 

“Masks!” you reminded your family again, tossing a human mask to Jake and taking Tuk’s which he handed to you. You took Kiri’s as well and hung them both on the wall near the door.

“Is it on tight?” you asked your husband, hand pausing from where is laid on the door knob.

His chin dipped down as he smirked up at you, “Yeah, baby. It's on,” he assured you, knowing that you got anxious about his breathing ever since the incident during the battle with the RDA.

“Okay,” you nodded, opening up the airlock door and holding it for Kiri to push Jake through. 

You opened the door to the outside, and Kiri steered Jake and Tuk to the metal ramp that had been built for Jake years ago. It led to a cobbled series of smoothed dirt, woven, and wooden pathways that made it so Jake could get to the village on his own. The Omatikaya had banded together to make the paths for their Olo’eyktan so he could access the forest in both of his forms. 

“I got it, Kiri,” Jake said as he lined his wheelchair up with the ramp and Kiri let go. 

“Careful!” you called as he pushed his wheelchair down the ramp, keeping one hand on the wheel and on one on Tuk as he flew down the slope faster than was probably safe.

“Dad! Hurry up!” 7 year old Lo’ak yelled from where he stood next to Neteyam. Both boys jumped up and down, waving their parents and sisters over. 

“Where’s your avatar?” Neteyam asked bluntly as Jake stopped in front of his sons who were most definitely taller than him now. You inwardly winced at his words, knowing Jake wanted to be in his other body.

“The link unit is down today. Sorry, buddy,” Jake’s face fell at their confused expressions, but Neteyam shrugged. 

“This is cool too,” he nodded.

“Okay, can we go?!” Kiri exclaimed, pushing Jake’s chair forward again and the family followed. Tuk squealed in Jake's arms as Kiri picked up some speed. 

“Slow down!” you yelled again, but Jake was no help, he just laughed and set Tuk on his knee as Kiri made Pa’li sounds for the baby’s amusement. 

When you all reached the end of the path in the direction you needed to head in according to Lo’ak, there was a reshuffling. Tuk was handed to Neteyam who sat her on his hip. Meanwhile, Jake looked up at you with humorless eyes. 

“This does not leave this family, no one tells anyone about this, promise?” he demanded.

“Yes, Ma’Jake, our lips are sealed,” you promised with a smirk.

Jake directed a stern look to Lo’ak whose eyes widened. “What are you looking at me for?” he exclaimed and you laughed at his faux innocence.

“Because you are a troublemaker, son,” Jake sighed, before locking his wheels and giving you an exasperated look that told you he was ready. You kneeled in front of him and his arms reached out to grasp around your shoulders. Kiri helped him onto your back and you supported him under his thighs as you gave him a piggy back ride.

“The kids will never let me live this down,” he sighed. His rough jeans were harsh on your skin but you didn't complain. He was light to you, about the same weight as holding one of the kids.

“They will remember this for the rest of their lives, and probably into their next one, as well,” you smiled. This wasn’t the first time you had carried him somewhere, but it had been months, maybe years since the last instance. He usually was in his Avatar and would carry you instead if you wished. 

You trekked through the forest after your kids as they giggled to themselves each time they looked back to see their dad.

Eventually, Neteyam called out, “Look! There it is!” and the other two kids whooped.

You caught up with them and finally saw what they were seeing. It was a giant, pink flower with a green stem and smaller blue and pink tendrils that felt around the air like fingers. It was nearly to your height while most other versions of the plant came up around your knees, maybe your hip at most. 

“Look at it, mom! Isn't it pretty?” Lo’ak asked, gazing up at the flower as Neteyam stuck his fingers in the tendrils and giggled when they tickled him.

“It’s beautiful, Lo’ak,” you agreed, smiling down at your son.

“Well, look at that,” Jake muttered, “I guess it was worth being carried around for.”

“That is a very large flower,” you agreed, taking a few steps closer.

“I’m not talking about that. Look at the kids, see how happy they are?” he pointed out. 

He was right, each of your kids was beaming up at it. Even little Tuk gurgled and smiled when Neteyam held her hand out to touch the soft petals that draped down.

The moment of observation was broken as Kiri snickered. “Dad? Can you even see it from up there?” she jabbed from beside you, glancing up to her father on your back.

“Yeah, I can see it,” he huffed out a sardonic laugh and you felt him shake his head, “Our kids are jerks,” he muttered near your ear.

You laughed too, “And who taught them to be that way?” you asked 

He sighed, knowing the answer. “I trained ‘em well at least,” he pointed out.

“That is for certain.”

Join my taglist here.

Jake Sully Taglist: @chaotickittenanchor @sleepilysworld @irinazatyk @up-l4te-4t-n1ght @yogirlminnie @superlegend216 @mrscadethankya @kodzuvk @saltedcoffeescotch @x-isha9 @earth2t @saibaxoxo @cherrysfruity @iconotfound @sillyfreakfanparty

Your people had always been a clan of endurance; tall, long-limbed riders with midnight skin built for the sun, rosette-marked like the great plains cats . You had grown up in motion, in migrations that carried the clan across gold-streaked grasslands and cracked riverbeds following rainfall and grazing patterns. The Sätareym taught that falling from a Pa’li (direhorse) was a lesson in humility, yet nothing prepared you for falling out of your own life. Loss struck with the speed of a hunter-cat hidden in the reeds. One moment you had a mother who tied beadwork at your collar and laughed with her whole face, eyes shining like dawn over savanna dust. One moment you had a father who taught you to lean with the Pa’li’s stride, to trust the ground’s rhythm beneath hooves. The next, smoke choked the plains, metal birds shrieked through the clouds, and fire touched everything you loved.

The First War had taken your shared songs with the Olangi long ago, leaving your people standing alone beneath the horizon. The Second Pandoran War took far more. Step by step, season by season, your clan’s numbers withered like dry grass under relentless sun. For years you crossed the plains seeking water, fertile ground, respite, yet human machines hunted the land as if trying to erase the very memory of nomadic life. Sätareym kelku shelters collapsed again and again under sudden evacuations, dismantled in frantic breaths instead of practiced rhythm. Painted tassels once meant for ceremony were torn away to make bindings for wounded limbs. Direhorses trembled beneath their riders, ears pinned to the crack of distant gunfire. Each time you settled, destruction rose behind you. Each time your tsahìk prayed, the sky answered with silence.

Your disbelief did not come from anger. It grew quietly, settling into your bones. You carried it through migrations, through every desperate search for safe ground, through every burial sung beneath an open sky too wide to hold your grief. You listened to the elders say, “The grass bends where it must,” yet you wondered how many times grass could bend before it snapped. You watched Olo’eyktan Tsawra ride at the front of each flight, her presence solid, unbroken, the mantle of beadwork across her chest shining like a rising sun. Even she, the indomitable rider whose endurance shaped the clan, could not shield you from the shrinking world. Her jaw tightened more each season. Her voice held weight but no longer warmth. A leader cannot weep openly, yet you saw the tremor in her hands when she thought no one watched.

Sickness crept among those left. Thirst hollowed even the strongest riders. The youngest—those meant to attempt the sun-chase for the first time—never received the chance to prove themselves. The clan’s bones thinned. Your people, once proud and fierce in their solitude, found themselves held together by a thread stretched near breaking.

Seeking uturu had been unthinkable once. The Sätareym did not cling to land, but they clung fiercely to autonomy, to the belief that survival was found in the bond between clan and plains. Yet the plains themselves burned. The wind carried the reek of fuel and smoldering herds. The horizon no longer promised freedom. It promised death.

You remembered the moment your tsahìk, Makto, finally spoke the words your people feared.

“Oe'm ngaytxoa ma ’evi (I'm sorry, my children)… we must bend or be broken.”

His voice had not wavered. He turned his face toward the forest far beyond the savanna’s dying edge, toward the territory of the Omatikaya, the Na’vi who had absorbed the Olangi while leaving your people to face the plains alone. Old sorrow clung to that direction like dust.

Yet choices had narrowed until none remained.

Now you rode beside the last survivors of the Sätareym toward those towering trees, toward a people who moved through shadow and vine instead of horizon and wind. Your direhorse breathed beneath you, ribs rising against your calves. Its scent, warm and familiar, was a tether to a life crumbling behind you. Your skin, deep indigo and patterned in rosettes that once rippled like shadow through tall grass , felt foreign in the humid air creeping from the forest edge.

You did not whisper to Eywa as the forest canopy came into view. Your heart carried no prayers. You held only memory now. Bright ones that hurt to touch, dark ones that shaped the hollow inside you, and the steady ache that had lived in your chest since childhood. The ache that told you gods did not listen.

You rode in silence, eyes fixed on the unfamiliar shadowed world ahead. The Omatikaya would grant you refuge or they would not. Eywa would intervene or she would not. Belief had no part in survival.

Your clan survived because it ran. Your clan survived because it endured. Your clan survived because it bent where it must.

Yet a quiet part of you wondered. While the forest opened to receive the last of your people… what future remained for a heart that no longer trusted the sky?

The jungle swallowed the last breath of open sky before you were ready for it. Moist air clung to your skin where wind once lived, and the quiet murmur of insects replaced the long-distance hum of plains currents. Your pa’li shifted beneath you uneasily, its ears flicking forward and back, uncomfortable with the dense weight of life pressing from every direction. You understood its unrest. Your people were shaped by distance, by horizons that held no walls, not towering shapes blotting out the sun. 

Your clan moved in a careful line, mirroring the same traveling formation you had kept through countless migrations. The older riders flanked the young, while Tsawra rode at the front, her shoulders squared, her braids lifted slightly by the moist breath of the forest. Makto followed not far behind her, his kuru wrapped loosely in white-beaded strands that gleamed like stars against the shadowed green . Neither spoke, but both radiated a tension your people rarely showed. Plains clans feared little. Yet this place could swallow a rider whole without leaving even dust behind.

Your pa’li tossed its head, and your grip tightened on the reins just as a sharp hiss cut through the foliage.

“Ftang tsenga nga lu (Stop where you are)!”

The shout snapped across the path like a whip. In an instant, Omatikaya riders broke from the undergrowth, emerging with bows drawn, pa’li stamping the earth with fierce precision. Blue bodies—lighter than yours, sleeker with the strength of tree-leapers—circled your column like shadows peeled from the forest floor. Their arrows gleamed with wicked tips, pulled taut against strings that had taken lives before.

Your breath lodged painfully in your throat. You had seen warriors aim weapons before; the RDA made it impossible not to. Yet this was different. These Na’vi did not shout in hatred. They held their bows with the cold steadiness of those who had protected their home for generations. 

Tsawra lifted one hand high, palm outward, her voice cutting clean through the rising panic.

“Rutxe yemstokx't tìsraw seyki ayoe (Please don’t hurt us)! We come in peace.”

Makto’s deep voice followed, unshaken even as bows stayed locked on your riders. “Ma leNa'vi (My people), hold. Lower your reins. Do not provoke them.”

The Sätareym obeyed, though unease rippled down the line. Your clan rarely showed fear, but the forest pressed close, and arrows aimed at your chest forced honesty into your heartbeat. Your palms dampened against your pa’li’s hide. Its muscles trembled with the desire to flee, yet escape was already cut off. Riders perched in the branches above, silhouettes blending with leaves, arrows pointed downward like judgment.

One Omatikaya warrior stepped forward, his posture rigid with authority. His braids were adorned with bright feathers and forest beads, his tail lashing. His eyes swept your people, lingering on the rosette patterns across your skin; a clear sign you were not forest-born. You watched Tsawra meet his stare head-on, her chin raised in the steady way plains leaders held themselves.

“Kaltxì, ma tsmukan (Hello, my brother),” she said evenly. “I am Tsawra, olo’eyktan of the Sätareym clan. We seek uturu.”

“You bring many,” he replied, voice clipped, wary. “We were not told to expect riders of the open grass here.”

Makto guided his pa’li forward with slow movements. His expression remained calm, though sorrow hung in the lines framing his mouth. “War follows us. The dry lands burn. We ask only to speak to your olo’eyktan.”

The warrior flicked his gaze over your people again. The sight of the exhausted riders, the gaunt children, the ash-darkened leather harnesses seemed to settle heavily over him. His bow eased a fraction. A breath later, he signaled with two sharp gestures. One by one, the Omatikaya lowered their weapons.

Relief shuddered quietly through the clan, though no one dared speak.

Your shoulders loosened, though not completely. You had grown too used to danger appearing the moment safety seemed near.

The warrior stepped closer to Tsawra, though he remained mounted. “Jakesully will decide. Follow our lead. Do not stray.”

The Omatikaya shifted around your clan with smooth discipline, forming a protective, yet clearly controlling formation. Their riders flanked your sides, some moving ahead to scout the path, others weaving through trees with agile grace. The forest seemed to open for them, branches bending under their familiarity, roots avoided with instinctive precision.

Your people rode in silence deeper into the jungle’s pulse.

You felt the air grow thicker, heavy with scents of damp soil, thick leaves, and unfamiliar blossoms. Your pa’li snorted irritably, clearly disliking the uneven terrain. You leaned forward, whispering reassurance, but your eyes remained fixed ahead, tracing the path these forest warriors carved for you.

Jake Sully. His name carved itself into your mind like a spear’s edge.

You had never seen him, yet you knew enough to feel your stomach twist with resentment. A dreamwalker. A human who walked in a stolen body, shaped by a people he was not born into. Eywa had answered him, the stories said. Eywa had chosen him. Eywa had saved him.

Your breath caught painfully.

Why not your clan? Why not your parents, whose laughter still lived in the cracks of your heart? Why not the countless riders who painted their skin in palulukan (thanator) rosettes during the first rains, who leapt beneath open stars during rituals meant to praise the Mother? Why had Eywa turned her gaze toward a human—an outsider—while your people burned? Why did the one touched by poisonous metals, who fought with weapons the land itself rejected, receive her blessing?

Stories spoke of Jake Sully living in comfort now, with a mate and children of his own. A full kelku, warm arms around him, laughter echoing in Hometree’s halls. He fought still, of course, but he fought with purpose, with a clan behind him, with Eywa’s hand once upon his shoulder.

You clenched your jaw until it ached.

He got to keep his family.

Your people lost theirs.

A single hot tear gathered at the corner of your eye before you could stop it. You blinked it away quickly, refusing to let it fall where the Omatikaya might see. The forest made no room for weakness. Neither did you.

The path ahead brightened, and towering shapes rose through filtered light; massive, ancient, the kind of trees you once heard described in stories sung by Sätareym elders who had never touched them. Hometree stood like a living mountain, its roots curling into the earth with quiet authority.

The escort slowed.

Your heart hammered with a violent, bitter rhythm. You lifted your chin as you approached the massive roots of Hometree, roots that rose from the earth like the coiled limbs of an ancient titan. The forest floor hummed faintly beneath your pa’li’s hooves, as if the great tree breathed through the soil itself. 

This place felt alive in ways the plains never were. You had spent your entire life beneath an unobstructed sky, the wind carving open paths before every migration. Now the canopy pressed low like a heavy hand, thick with humidity and the scent of sap. Your people rode silently, shoulders tightened, posture steady but wary. None of you belonged here, and everyone knew it.

An Omatikaya rider at the front raised his arm, halting the line. “Rutxe (Please)… dismount your pa’li here.” His voice held politeness, yet there was no softness in it. The request was an instruction wrapped in courtesy, leaving no room for refusal.

Tsawra’s head tilted in acknowledgment. “Tsal’s tam (it’s okay). Do as they ask,” she called back, offering a small gesture meant to soothe the unease rippling through the Sätareym. Her voice carried reassurance only a leader could offer, yet her jaw remained tight. She dismounted fluidly, landing with the grace of a plains rider whose body was made for ground and speed, not branches.

Your feet touched the earth a moment later, and your pa’li pressed its muzzle briefly to your shoulder before being guided away by Omatikaya handlers. Its warm breath ghosted over your skin in a silent plea not to leave its side, and your chest tightened at the separation. Direhorses were central to your clan’s heartwearing identity, and losing its presence, even briefly, felt like stepping into a place without your own shadow.

The forest shifted above you with sudden motion. Figures emerged from Hometree, descending ring-like platforms circling its colossal trunk. They moved with controlled ease, their bodies used to vertical terrain. Eyes widened as they spotted your people; spotted your height, your darker indigo skin, the rosette tanhi that marked your clan as unmistakably foreign to the forest. Murmurs spread like wind through tall grass, except the sound felt sharper, tinged with wariness and confusion rather than admiration.

Ikran swooped down from nearby perches, wings carving the air with startling power. Their screeches echoed through the clearing as they circled above, scanning your clan with predatory focus. You felt their attention like heat against your scalp, and your shoulders curled subtly inward. Being prey in another’s home lodged an unpleasant weight beneath your ribs.

Your gaze dropped to the ground, your steps falling into sync with your people as you followed Tsawra and Makto toward the heart of the clearing. The whispers followed like an invisible tide. You caught fragments—“plains riders”—“look at their skin”—“why do they come here”—spoken without malice but with unmistakable unease. Each word scraped at the raw edge of your exhaustion.

Tsawra moved at a steady pace, her expression composed despite the dozens of eyes tracking her every breath. Makto walked at her side, offering polite bows and gentle, respectful greetings.

“Oel ngati kameie (I see you),” Makto murmured to a group of elders, dipping his head with genuine grace despite receiving no reply in return.

“We see you, ma frapo (everyone),” Tsawra said softly to another cluster of Omatikaya, her voice carrying the warmth of tradition.

The silence that met her words pressed like a stone against your sternum. Your leaders kept offering peace even when none was returned, because that was the Sätareym way: strength was measured in endurance, no dominance. Yet the ache of being met with empty air dug into you.

You kept your eyes down until the ground leveled out into a vast open space beneath Hometree’s shadow. When you finally lifted your gaze, the sight struck like a blow.

A crowd had gathered—nearly the entire Omatikaya, by the look of it—standing in a semicircle with expressions ranging from fascination to distrust. The forest glow caught their beaded harnesses and paint markings, scattering reflected light across the clearing. You felt stripped bare under their scrutiny. A frown carved itself onto your face before you could stop it, the weight of being watched pressing harder than any arrow ever had.

The crowd shifted suddenly, creating a path through its center. Your breath stilled.

A man stepped forward.

His body was marked with beads and ceremonial animal skin, his hair braided with feathers that shimmered subtly as he moved. He carried the confidence of one accustomed to command, though his stance lacked the arrogance you expected. His eyes, a yellow human shade shaped into a Na’vi face, swept over your people with measured calm.

Tsawra and Makto bowed deeply, sinking into the Sätareym gesture of respect: palms placed over the heart, shoulders lowered in dignified acknowledgment.

“Oel ngati kameie, Great Toruk Makto,” they said in unison.

Your spine stiffened.

So this was him.

Jake Sully.

Closer inspection revealed the traits whispered about: the human eyebrows, the four-fingered hands, the subtle tension in his shoulders that hinted at a man who carried two worlds inside him. You felt heat ignite beneath your skin.

Jake lifted a hand gently. “Please… stand. There is no need to bow,” he said, voice softer than you anticipated. His words carried sincerity, though you felt no ease from them.

Tsawra straightened with the composed dignity of a leader who refused to shrink in another’s home. “We thank you for receiving us,” she said, her tone steady. “I am Tsawra, olo’eyktan of the Sätareym. This is our tsahìk, Makto te Tsamsiyu. We come seeking uturu. Our plains burn. Our people diminish. We ask for safety, for time to heal.”

As they spoke, movement stirred behind Jake. A Na’vi woman stepped into view, tall and fierce,but her eyes were wide. Her presence radiated strength so palpable it felt etched into the air around her. Beside her stood four children; two boys and two girls, each with expressions reflecting varying degrees of curiosity and caution.

Your gaze narrowed.

Two of the boys stared directly at you.

The older boy beside him bore far more resemblance to the Na’vi woman; dark braids framing a face expressive enough to betray every flicker of emotion. His eyes remained wide as if he were memorizing each shape of your face. His posture wavered between pride and curious shifting.

The younger one had the familiar eyebrows, the same human-like details as Jake, though softened by youth. His cheeks warmed visibly when your eyes met his, a flush blooming across his skin in a way both earnest and unguarded. He nudged the older boy subtly, whispering something under his breath, yet he couldn’t tear his gaze away.

The older one blinked several times, startled as though realizing he had been staring too openly. His expression tightened with embarrassed awareness. He raised his hand in a careful gesture, touching his forehead before extending his palm in the traditional sign of greeting.

Oel ngati kameie, he signaled, his face composed yet still touched by wonder.

The younger boy scrambled to mimic him, repeating the gesture.

Your brows pulled together, confusion knitting across your features. The unexpected kindness caught you off guard, leaving your mouth parting slightly before any words rose. A flush crept up your neck before you could stop it, and the sensation rattled you more than the stares of an entire forest clan. You turned away sharply, grounding your gaze on the woven roots beneath your feet. Distraction was a luxury neither exhaustion nor grief allowed. You would not let the wide-eyed wonder of two forest-born boys make you forget the purpose of your presence here.

Tsawra had already shifted her attention back to Jake Sully, her voice clear and firm as she continued the explanation of your clan’s dire circumstances. “Our previous olo’eyktan and tsahìk fell during the First Pandoran War,” she said, her tone unwavering despite the old weight behind those words. “They answered your call, Toruk Makto. They rode to join the many clans who fought beneath your command.”

A visible discomfort tightened Jake’s posture. His shoulders drew inward almost imperceptibly, and his gaze dropped briefly to the earth before rising again with a muted heaviness beneath his expression. “I remember them,” he said quietly. The words carried sincerity, yet they could not soften the truth that your people had paid dearly for that memory. You watched him closely, searching his face for any sign of regret deep enough to match the ache carved into the Sätareym over the years. You found only guilt and a strain of helplessness, neither of which satisfied the bitterness simmering inside you.

Makto stepped forward with the dignified calm that had sustained your clan through its harshest days. The wooden beads woven into his braids glimmered faintly in the filtered light, each one a symbol of sky-watching rituals carried out beneath open horizons . “Toruk Makto,” he began gently, “the Omatikaya absorbed the Olangi after the First War, when their plains were no longer safe. The Sätareym will be no different. We can learn the ways of the forest. Our people are strong. Our riders adapt quickly. We will fight with you against the tawtute (sky people), as we did before.”

The idea struck you like a dull blow. The notion of adapting to this place felt as implausible as converting wind into stone. Yet Makto’s voice carried conviction, and if he believed in your clan’s ability to survive here, many would follow without question. You only wished Eywa had shown your tsahìk such confidence years ago, before your clan faded to a fraction of itself.

Jake inhaled, preparing to respond, though the words seemed to catch in his throat. He lifted his hands uselessly for a moment, as if trying to gather language that would satisfy both duty and compassion. The hesitation irritated you more than anything else he had said. Leadership should not waver, especially not from the so-called Toruk Makto.

An approaching presence disrupted the moment.

A woman stepped from the crowd, her bearing commanding enough to shift the air itself. She moved with the authority of someone born to guide and to judge. Her eyes held the depth of a story longer than the forest roots spiraling beneath Hometree. Recognition whispered through the Omatikaya like wind. You realized at once that she must be the tsahìk of this clan.

Tsawra and Makto bowed deeply with reverence seldom seen outside sacred Sätareym rituals. “Oel ngati kameie, Tsahìk Mo’at,” they greeted, their voices imbued with genuine respect for her role. Even those among your clan unaccustomed to forest traditions straightened subtly, sensing the immense spiritual gravity of this woman.

Mo’at regarded your people with an expression impossible to decipher. Her gaze swept over the Sätareym. Her eyes lingered on the frail, the wounded, the children who clung to their parents’ hands with tightened fingers. The forest hummed around her, as if waiting for her verdict.

Her voice finally rose, steady and firm. “You have crossed many trials, ma Sätareym. You have lost much. Eywa sees your suffering.”

A quiet exhale rippled through your clan, though you remained still. You did not believe the words, no matter how softly they fell.

Mo’at continued, “You will be granted uturu among the Omatikaya. You may stay within our lands.”

Relief surged from your people like a single breath released after years held tight. Shoulders eased. Eyes brightened with hope fragile yet unmistakable. Even the air seemed to shift as your clan absorbed the meaning of her decree.

Your heart, however, clenched.

Uturu meant survival, yes. But it also meant dependency on a people you did not trust, under the authority of a leader you could not forgive.

Mo’at’s gaze crossed yours briefly, lingering with a depth that unsettled you. Her eyes held no judgment. She saw defiance in you, or sorrow, or the fracture left by disbelief. You looked away, refusing to let her see more.

The Omatikaya moved with a natural fluidity as they guided the Sätareym through the enormous opening carved into Hometree’s trunk. Warm light filtered down through woven branches overhead, creating drifting patterns that danced across the packed earth. Every step deeper inside revealed layers of artistry your clan had never known. Vast tapestries hung from the interior walls, some dyed in hues you had only seen on the backs of distant birds, others woven with intricate whorls depicting hunts, bonding rituals, and clan histories. The work was delicate yet powerful which was a stark contrast to the sturdy, travel-worn hide structures your people had used for generations across the plains. For a moment, you wondered how a life shaped by movement could coexist within a place built to stay.

Your people murmured in quiet fascination as they were shown their new kelku. Hammocks layered like constellations stretched across multiple levels, small ones cradling children who swayed gently as they laughed together. Brightly colored beads hung in clusters like hanging fruit, chiming softly whenever a breeze passed. A group of young Omatikaya carved toys from smooth wood, passing pieces to one another while telling stories that echoed faintly through the chambers. Their joy hummed through the air, unburdened and open. Some Sätareym children stared with bright-eyed wonder, their earlier fear loosening into fragile excitement.

Omatikaya adults approached your clan with warm smiles, touching hands to hearts in greeting. They offered woven bracelets, small trinkets, and even pieces of fruit from their harvest baskets. The wary atmosphere from earlier dissolved into genuine hospitality as if the tension had been merely a thin surface the clan had now stepped through. Voices rose in gentle welcome, and your people answered with tentative smiles. Relief softened the lines etched into Makto’s face, while Tsawra observed every detail with an evaluating gaze of a leader cataloguing a safer world for her riders.

The Omatikaya escorts reassembled and gestured for your clan to follow once more. Music drifted faintly in the distance, a slow, rhythmic vibration that tugged at the ribs. The Keeper of Songs awaited at the Tree of Souls, ready to weave the Sätareym into the narrative of the forest people. You understood the gesture was sacred; you also understood it was final. Once sung into a clan’s memory, your identity would be tied to theirs.

Your people seemed lighter than they had in years. Some walked with lifted chins, some whispered excitedly about the glowing flora, and a few even touched the hanging vines with reverent fingers. You wished their joy could seep into you. It only deepened the ache in your chest, because you could not feel what they felt. Beauty was a distant thing, like starlight seen through smoke.

Footsteps fell into rhythm beside yours, light and confident. A presence hovered close enough to brush your awareness, though not close enough to intrude. You turned, expecting some curious child or another well-meaning Omatikaya.

Your breath stalled when you saw him.

The older boy from earlier—taller than you remembered, shoulders strong, features shaped in the likeness of his mother more than his father—walked easily beside you. His braids shifted with every step, brushing the curve of his chest. He offered you a smile warm enough to soften stone.

“I am Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk’itan,” he said, voice steady and sincere. The way he carried himself confirmed what the name already meant: the son of Jake Sully, future leader by bloodline, one of the forest’s own. His presence was composed yet attentive, as though your reaction mattered more than it should.

You stared at him. Initially out of surprise, eventually out of irritation that he expected anything from you.

He seemed unbothered by your silence. If anything, amusement flickered in the corner of his eyes. “Are you doing well, ma tstkxe (stone faced)?” he asked lightly, the nickname slipping out before you could process it. A playful challenge glimmered beneath his tone.

Heat rushed to your cheeks. The forest’s humidity had nothing to do with it.

His smile widened at the sight of your fluster, and that only stoked the spark of annoyance lighting your chest. “Why do you ask?” you snapped, sharper than intended. “What do you want?”

Neteyam lifted his hands in a small gesture of surrender, though the teasing curve of his mouth betrayed how entertained he was. “I wanted to make sure the jungle has not swallowed you whole yet,” he said with a laugh threaded beneath his words. “Your face looked lost in thought. Or lost in fear. I was not sure which.”

Your lips parted in a quiet scoff, torn between offense and another unwanted flush warming your skin. The boy who carried the blood of Toruk Makto stood beside you with only curiosity bright enough to disarm. His stride matched yours effortlessly, as if he had walked beside you all his life instead of merely minutes. The ease in his presence unsettled you more than open stares or whispered judgments ever could.

Neteyam did not shrink beneath your guarded silence. His head tipped slightly toward you, braids grazing his shoulder as he studied your face with an earnest interest that made your pulse stutter. “May I know your name, ma tstkxe?” he asked. His tone was gentle, but a spark of playfulness danced beneath it.

A sharp breath filled your lungs before you turned your gaze on him. “Why are you speaking to me?” The question escaped more bluntly than you intended, driven by the tension coiled in your ribs. “You have no reason. I did not ask for your company.”

A laugh escaped him, disbelief at your directness. “Forest manners must be strange to you,” he teased lightly, touching a hand to his chest as though struck by your tone. “But even you cannot expect me to walk beside you in silence when you glare at every glowing syulang (flower) as if it wishes to bite.”

Heat flared through your face again, unwelcome and uncontrollable. “Leave me alone,” you muttered, your voice clipped at the edges. “I do not need the attention of the olo’eyktan’s son.”

Neteyam’s smile steadied rather than faltered. “That will be difficult,” he replied with a shrug of his shoulder. “I have been told to help guide the younger warriors of your clan. I cannot leave you alone even if you wish it.”

Your steps halted so suddenly that the leaves beneath your feet rustled in protest. The escorting line of Omatikaya drifted ahead without noticing, the glow of bioluminescent vines lighting their path. You stood unmoving, staring at him with disbelief carved across your features.

“I am the only young warrior of the Sätareym,” you said quietly. The words tasted strange spoken aloud.

Pity dawned across Neteyam’s face, and you didn’t like it one bit.

Your eyes narrowed. “How do you know I am a warrior at all? You have never seen the plains. You know nothing of my people.”

Neteyam lifted a hand and pointed to the tassels around your ankle; sun-dyed strips that snapped subtly when you walked, woven with the precise pattern your warriors used to signal readiness for mounted combat . “Only your warriors wear those,” he said simply. “The sound alone tells your story. I heard it when you entered the clearing.”

Your stomach tightened. The tassels had always been part of you, a mark of skill and survival earned through the Sun Chase. To have them recognized so quickly, so effortlessly, by someone who lived in an entirely different world unsettled you in a way nothing else had.

“I do not need your help,” you snapped softly, stepping forward and brushing past him. The swirl of your stride caught the faint glow of nearby plants, scattering light across the forest path. Your breath felt tight, sharp, unwilling to soften no matter how unfamiliar kindness reached toward you.

Footsteps followed behind you without hesitation.

Neteyam’s presence settled at your shoulder again, this time quieter, with a small frown that pulled gently at the corners of his mouth. His earlier teasing had dimmed, replaced by concern flickering like a small flame trying to stay alive against wind. His gaze stayed lowered for a few steps, as though searching for the right words, though the noise of both clans rising into excited chatter seemed to lift him gradually back into warmth. The distant glow ahead cast shimmers across his face as the path widened.

The Omatikaya grew livelier with each step toward the sacred place. Their voices carried above the forest floor, joined by the deeper, rolling tones of your own people. Even the quietest Sätareym child seemed to brighten beneath the soft light. 

Neteyam’s smile returned fully at the sight. “You will like this ritual,” he said, leaning close enough that you caught the warmth of his breath. “We bring out the Blue Flute for this. And Ninat sings tonight. She is our Keeper of Songs. Her voice carries through the forest like an Ikran soaring through the skies.”

You responded with a soft hum that held no commitment, a sound more out of politeness than interest. He did not seem bothered by your lack of enthusiasm. His stride remained relaxed, his eyes taking in every detail of your reaction with a curiosity that had not dimmed since the moment he greeted you.

The crowd formed a wide crescent before the radiant heart of the Tree of Souls. Bioluminescent tendrils swayed gently, lighting the scene in waves of violet and silver. As the Sätareym filtered in, the Omatikaya shifted to make room without hesitation, extending hands in greeting, touching shoulders, offering smiles warm enough to thaw frost. The joy in the clearing felt almost tangible, wrapping around both clans like a woven mantle of welcome.

You stayed near the edge of the gathering, Neteyam’s presence anchoring itself beside you without asking permission. The ritual began slowly, with Mo’at stepping forward, her expression serene and powerful under the shimmering branches. She lifted her arms, and the entire forest seemed to pause along with the clans.

“Eywa receives all who walk in hardship,” Mo’at proclaimed. “Tonight, we weave the Sätareym into the memory of the forest. May our branches meet. May balance return.”

Her voice carried across the clearing like a stone dropped into still water.

Once she stepped back, instruments rose around her: seed rattles, stringed harps, carved horns, and at last the rare Blue Flute, gleaming with etched patterns that caught the light. The first notes lifted softly, weaving through the branches in tranquil spirals.

Ninat stepped forward. When she opened her mouth, her voice poured into the air with a clarity that startled even you. It resonated like wind across a grass sea, pure and unwavering. She sang of Eywa’s breath moving through every living thing, of loss, of rebirth, of clans merging not in desperation but in strength.

The beauty of it seeped unexpectedly beneath your ribs.

You were surprised to find Neteyam still beside you when you turned your head slightly. He had not drifted toward his siblings, nor toward the other warriors. He stood as if tethered to your side, shoulders squared with a protective ease that unsettled you.

His eyes met yours immediately, warmed by the song’s glow. A smile softened his features, lifting his lips gently.

Ninat’s voice soared higher, singing Eywa’s name with absolute devotion.

Neteyam leaned closer, his voice low so only you could hear. “I am grateful Eywa brought your clan to us,” he whispered. “It feels right that you are here.”

Your heart lurched violently.

Grateful. Eywa brought you here.Eywa guided your steps.Eywa, who had never answered your people.Eywa, who had saved Jake Sully.Eywa, who had watched your clan burn and remained silent.

A sickening heat rose up your throat, twisting the melody around you into something suffocating. Ninat’s beautiful voice became distant, buried beneath the pounding in your ears.

Without a word, without a single backward glance, you stepped away from the crowd. Your departure was swift, practiced in the way of someone used to escaping emotion before it could betray their strength. The tendrils of the Tree of Souls brushed lightly against your shoulders as you passed, glowing petals bending as though calling you back.

You ignored them.

Behind you, confused footsteps halted. A soft breath of  confusion escaped someone’s lips—a sound that belonged only to Neteyam.

You hated to admit it, but training with Neteyam was not the worst fate that could have been hurled into your path. The first few days had been stiff, filled with tension so heavy it clung to your movements. You carried resentment in your shoulders like a second quiver, and every time he corrected your stance or touched your elbow to adjust your center of gravity, your muscles coiled as if preparing for battle. Yet Neteyam never met your rigidity with irritation. His patience startled you. His teaching reminded you of Makto guiding young Sätareym riders; gentle enough not to break a spirit, firm enough not to let one get lazy. Neteyam’s hands always steadied rather than forced, and his voice held calm confidence that seemed to seep into your bones despite your best efforts to resist it.

It became clear quickly that he was good with the little ones. You had seen him in passing with Omatikaya children. Teaching them how to climb, showing them how to tie knots with nimble hands, steadying them when they stumbled during games of balance across low branches. You recognized the practiced cadence of a teacher in the way he spoke to you. He must have trained the younger warriors too, perhaps even his siblings, if their movements were any indication. The realization softened the edges of your annoyance, though you refused to let that show. It was easier to pretend he grated on your nerves than admit you admired the patience behind his instruction.

His gentleness toward you surprised you more than anything. He never mocked your missteps on the unfamiliar forest ground. He never scoffed when your foot caught a root or when your forest jumps lacked lift. Yet he was not lenient. He pushed you but it wasn’t cruel. He pushed you with a steady insistence that forced you to feel the power in your legs, to sense the bend of each branch you stepped on. He seemed able to tell exactly when you were holding back. His eyes saw every hesitation, every moment you failed to give your full strength. You expected disappointment, or frustration, or even cold dismissal.

You never found it.

Whenever he caught your restraint, his gaze only deepened with a kind of understanding. A warmth lived behind that understanding, as though your resistance drew him closer instead of driving him away. You could not understand why your closed-off nature did not repel him. Your people were known for reserve, for caution around outsiders, for slow trust that grew only in the solitude of plains winds. Yet he did not seem deterred by any of it. The more you tried to push him away, the more present he became, steady as a guiding star when the horizon faded.

Your days slowly shaped themselves around him. You woke with the sun and found Neteyam already waiting, arms crossed loosely as he leaned against a low-hanging branch. He offered greetings in that soft, warm tone that made your chest tighten with a feeling you refused to name. Training lasted long past midday on most days, leaving your limbs sore and your breath heavy. His laughter began to blend with birdsong, a sound you caught yourself anticipating even when irritated by it. You would walk away after lessons, pretending you needed space, but your mind often replayed the way he corrected your footing or how his gaze lingered when you finally executed a movement correctly.

You were certain he would tire of you quickly. You had been abrasive, distant, evasive, unwilling to fully participate in his world. You had made him chase you through the forest like a hunter tracking elusive prey. You had met every kindness with suspicion. Yet he continued to show up for you, every single day. His presence carried no weariness, no shadow of regret, no sign that he was tired of your company. His persistence confused you more than anything else in the forest.

Assimilating into Omatikaya life still felt foreign, but you no longer stumbled through it. Your steps felt less heavy, your understanding of the terrain no longer held solely by fear. You learned which branches were strongest for climbing, which flowers were harmless to touch and which could sting, which vines were safe to swing from. You learned the pathways through Hometree, the communal rhythms of morning meals, the way songs rose at dusk like soft embers drifting upward.

Yet no part of you wanted to abandon the Sätareym in your blood. Your clothing remained unchanged—leather wraps fitted for riding, beadwork patterned in the sun, tassels that snapped lightly when you walked, marking you unmistakably as a plains warrior . Forest textiles were offered to you many times, dyed in blues and greens, beautifully woven, comfortable against the skin. You turned them down each time. The leather at your hips held memories of long rides across shimmering grass. The beads across your chest carried lineage. The tassels marked years of endurance your clan had fought to keep. You refused to shed them simply because the world had changed.

Your weapons stayed close. The Sätareym spear was balanced for mounted throws, far too heavy for most Omatikaya who trained in the trees, but it had saved your life more times than you could count. You carried it during every lesson, even when Neteyam insisted you leave it behind for climbing practice. He eventually stopped arguing. He must have understood the weight of memory carved into its haft.

Your rituals remained yours alone. Each dawn you slipped away to practice them in private, kneeling beneath the open sky where it broke through the canopy, small patches of horizon that let you breathe like a child of the plains. You ran fingers over the earth in circles meant to honor the herds and traced faint rosettes over your heart in silent remembrance. You whispered the names of those who walked the wind before you. You bowed your head not to Eywa, but to the memory of your people’s long endurance.

Neteyam never intruded on those moments. You wondered if he sensed them or simply respected the aura around you when you returned. Either way, he never asked questions. He only met you with a steady gaze that held no judgment, as if waiting for the day you trusted him enough to let him see beyond the walls you kept wrapped around your heart.

That frightened you most of all.

Now Neteyam stood beside you, guiding your hands as you held a bow for the first time, a weapon that felt foreign and unbalanced in your grip. Your discomfort showed in the tension of your fingers, the stiffness in your shoulders, the slight downturn of your mouth as you tried to imitate the forest-born posture. 

Neteyam noticed every detail. “Loosen your grip,” he murmured, his voice steady. “The bow is not a rival. If you fight it, it will fight you back.”

You huffed softly, pressing your lips into a thin line. “Your weapons require too much waiting.”

“That is why you find them difficult,” he teased, leaning in just enough to tilt your elbow upward with two fingers. “Patience is a strength, not a punishment.”

Neteyam’s patience, however, was being tested in more ways than your training. The two of you were not alone today. His siblings had insisted loudly that they wished to visit a place they called the “Old Battlefield.” Kiri had spoken with a quiet aweness, Lo’ak with reckless excitement, and Tuk with the unshakeable certainty that wherever her siblings went, she must go too. Neteyam had agreed with a resigned sigh, clearly accustomed to their demands, and you had found yourself trailing after him simply because he moved and you refused to let him think you were avoiding him again.

The path had led you to a clearing where rusted metal skeletons rose from moss and vines. The old link shack crouched at the center like a wounded creature swallowed by the forest, its shattered windows reflecting sun in faint, broken shards. Kiri explored the area with gentle steps, touching vines growing over old machinery. Lo’ak poked around the ruined frames with more enthusiasm than sense, announcing discoveries that were mostly old pipes and abandoned crates. Tuk bounced from object to object, her laughter weaving through the clearing.

Meanwhile, Neteyam attempted to teach you how to shoot.

The contrast felt absurd.

He positioned himself behind you, close enough that the warmth of his chest grazed your shoulder. You stiffened slightly, but his hands were respectful, adjusting your grip without forcing control. His braids brushed your cheek as he leaned over your arm to align your aim toward a moss-covered log.

“Pull smoothly,” he instructed, guiding your fingers slowly across the string. “Do not jerk it. The bow responds to calm.”

“I am calm,” you lied, your voice strained.

His tail flicked once in amused disbelief. “You are about as calm as Lo’ak is obedient.”

You shot him a glare over your shoulder, though you felt heat rising beneath your cheeks. “Do you ever grow tired of hearing your own voice?”

He smiled with unshakable ease. “Not when I know you are listening.”

A flustered noise escaped the back of your throat before you could swallow it. You jerked your gaze away, focusing solely on the target ahead. The bowstring trembled beneath your fingers, betraying the tight coil in your muscles.

Kiri glanced over from the link shack, studying the two of you with amusement. Lo’ak spotted her look and snickered openly, earning a sharp shh! from Tuk, who seemed to believe she was the group’s unofficial keeper of secrets. Their whispers only made your grip tighten, though Neteyam pretended not to notice the chorus of siblings watching.

“You hold strength in your arms,” he murmured, his voice softening just enough to slip past your defenses. “You could bend the bow without trying. But strength is not the lesson today. Balance is.”

You released the arrow too quickly—it thudded into the dirt several paces short of the target.

Your face tightened with embarrassment. “This is foolish,” you muttered. “My clan does not fight this way.”

Neteyam circled to face you fully, the laughter fading from his expression as he met your eyes. “No, your clan fights with the wind at their backs and the ground racing beneath them. You chase the sun across the plains. You strike with distance and momentum.” His gaze softened with something like admiration. “But you are here now, ma Sätareym. You walk where branches hold the sky instead of open air. Different ground demands different skill.”

His sincerity struck deeper than his teasing ever could.

You looked away, blinking twice to push down the sting in your throat.

Neteyam stepped closer again, lowering his voice. “We learn each other’s ways if we wish to live as one clan. My people learn your riders’ strength. You learn our balance. That is all.”

Your fingers loosened around the bow without meaning to. His siblings continued their exploration behind you, oblivious to the quiet shift occurring between you and their eldest brother. The forest seemed to hold its breath, the glow of the fungi brightening faintly as though the trees themselves were listening. You lowered your gaze to the ground, watching how your shadow curved against the moss, the shape of your stance imperfect and hesitant.

A quiet breath left you before you could swallow it. “Neteyam…” you murmured, eyes unfocused. “I do not want you to stop teaching me.” For a heartbeat you paused, unsure if the words would betray too much. “I do not mind learning your ways.”

The confession slipped from you like a fragile offering, light as dust carried on wind. It was the closest you had come to trusting him.

Neteyam’s reaction was immediate and radiant. His smile bloomed across his face, warm enough to soften even your guarded expression. His ears lifted in delight, tail swaying once behind him, unable to hide how deeply your words struck. His joy felt honest, untouched by mischief, bright in a way that nudged at the edges of your ribs.

You tilted your head slightly, studying the play of emotion across his features. He looked younger when he smiled like that.

Neteyam stepped closer again and gently wrapped his hand around yours where it rested on the bow. “One last time,” he said softly. “Let me help you.”

You nodded, this time without reluctance, and shifted into the stance he had been trying to teach you for days. Your shoulders squared, your feet rooted deeply in the forest floor, your breath steadied. Neteyam moved behind you with care, brushing no part of you by accident.

He set his hands on your ribcage first, his thumbs pressing gently just beneath your sternum. “Lift here,” he murmured. “Your breath must stay low and quiet. If your chest rises too high, the shot will falter.”

His touch was steady, warm, grounding in a way you were not prepared to acknowledge. Your breath hitched despite your efforts at control.

Neteyam guided your ribs into alignment, his hands lingering only long enough to ensure your posture held. He moved with a patience that spoke of countless hours spent teaching younger siblings how to balance on branches or string a bow.

When he stepped closer, you felt the heat of his body nearly aligning with yours. His chest brushed lightly against your back as he reached forward, placing his hands over yours on the bowstring. His fingers slid along yours, firm and steady, molding your grip into precision.

You turned your head, startled by how close he was. His face was right there, barely a breath away. The forestlight traced the curve of his cheekbone, the edge of his jaw, the soft fullness of his mouth. His eyes were already on you, half-lidded, deep and intense, the kind of gaze that made the world feel suddenly small and unbearably intimate.

He glanced at your lips for the briefest moment.

Your stomach twisted with startling force.

“You may shoot whenever you wish,” he whispered, breath brushing the shell of your ear.

You swallowed hard, forcing your focus toward the target. The bowstring was taut beneath your fingers, the tension humming like a living thing. You inhaled slowly, aligning your shot—

A burst of laughter shattered the fragile stillness.

“Bro!” Lo’ak shouted across the clearing, voice full of teasing glee. “Look at you two! Should we leave you alone to mate or—”

You jolted violently. The arrow snapped free of the bow with a harsh twang and shot uselessly into the canopy above. Your heart lurched into your throat, heat flooding your face with a force that made your ears burn.

Neteyam’s hands flew off you immediately as he spun around, tail lashing with outrage. “Lo’ak, you skxawng (idiot)!” he barked. “Do you wish to lose your tongue today?”

Lo’ak cackled from atop the metal beams of the ruined shack, clearly pleased with himself. Tuk hid behind her hands, giggling uncontrollably, while Kiri gave Lo’ak a glare sharp enough to make vines recoil.

You were laughing too.

It slipped out of you before you could catch it; soft at first, then fuller, richer, bright in a way that startled even you. Your laughter filled the clearing, mingling with Tuk’s and Kiri’s, swirling upward like warm wind lifting dry grass.

Neteyam froze.

He turned back toward you slowly, anger dissolving from his features, replaced with astonishment. His eyes softened as if he were witnessing sunrise crest over the Hallelujah mountains. His lips parted as the sound of your laughter washed over him.

He could not be angry anymore.

It was the first time he had ever heard your laughter.

“Tsatseng tsal lu (there it is),” he murmured softly under his breath, eyes fixed on you as though afraid to blink. “That is the sound I have been waiting for.”

Even though you were not anywhere near ready to attempt the Omatikaya Iknimaya (rite of passage), Neteyam had decided you should at least meet an ikran. Your protests were immediate and varied. You claimed you were tired, that you needed to train with your bow, that Makto requested your help, that the forest air bothered your lungs, that Lo’ak had insulted you so deeply you required solitude to heal. None of the excuses held when Neteyam tilted his head with that maddening mix of patience and amusement. You refused to admit the truth: flying terrified you. The sky had always belonged to great predators, not riders. Your clan was born to the earth, to the power of hooves and horizons, not the emptiness between clouds.

Neteyam listened to all your excuses as if they were drifting leaves, light and inconsequential. Eventually your resistance cracked, not because you were ready, but because his determination pressed against your guard like a fly too constant to ignore.

Now you stood atop Hometree with him, the vast forest stretching below in shimmering bands of green and deep violet. Height never bothered him; he moved across open branches with the natural ease of a forest cat, tail steady behind him for balance. You, on the other hand, remained partially hidden behind his shoulder. The wind tugged your braids back, but your feet refused to come any closer to the edge.

Neteyam wore his flying gear—flying visor, leg guards etched with his family’s stories, and a cumberband that wrapped across his waist in elegant, interwoven loops. He looked every bit the warrior his people claimed he was. The way the sunlight cut across his cheekbones, the confidence in the slope of his shoulders, the steadiness in his movements, all of it made him look like he belonged to the sky itself. You pressed your lips together, refusing to voice the thought that his beauty unsettled you more than the height.

Neteyam lifted his head and released a series of calls. His tone shifted between chirps, trills, and drawn-out notes that vibrated across the open air. The sound stirred the wind, awakening a distant answer. You braced instinctively, feeling the tremor of approaching wings before you heard them.

The beat of powerful wings echoed across the breadth of the forest canopy. A shadow passed over you, sweeping large and decisive. Neteyam stepped forward with practiced readiness, and his ikran descended in a tight spiral before landing directly in front of him. The creature’s wings folded with precision, talons gripping the branch with controlled strength. Iridescent scales shifted across its body, catching light in hues of blues and yellows.

Neteyam’s face softened instantly. “Ma yawne tsaheyl si (my bonded beloved),” he murmured to his ikran, his voice lowering to an affectionate hush. He pressed his forehead briefly to the creature’s, his queue brushing the rough texture of the ikran’s neck. His hand traveled along the creature’s jawline with gentle familiarity. The ikran leaned into the touch, wings relaxing slightly, its chest expanding with a pleased rumble.

You watched in awe, pulled into the moment despite yourself. Your breath slowed, your earlier fear loosening, replaced by a warm, unfamiliar pull in your chest. The bond between them felt profound, like watching two spirits greet after a long journey apart. You had seen direhorse riders connect deeply, but this was different. 

Neteyam’s eyes flicked toward you. He noticed the awe on your face immediately, and a teasing smile curled onto his lips. “Do not hide,” he said in a tone that carried quiet mischief. “I see how you look at her.”

You pressed your jaw shut, feeling heat creep up your neck. Words refused to form in your throat. The ikran turned its head toward you, one bright  eye studying you with predatory intelligence. Your pulse stumbled.

Neteyam’s smile widened slightly at your speechlessness. He reached back without hesitation, taking your hand in his. He guided your hand toward the ikran’s snout, slow enough not to startle you or the creature.

“Seze,” Neteyam murmured softly, “this is… my student. She trains with me.”

You nearly protested at the possessive phrasing, but your breath hitched as your fingertips brushed smooth scales warmed by sunlight. The ikran lowered its head slightly, allowing you better access. The creature’s warmth seeped into your hand, and you felt a gentle exhale brush your palm.

Neteyam’s hand remained over yours, guiding the slow motion of your touch. His proximity, his warmth, it all pressed against your chest with a steady force. You stole a glance at him, only to find his gaze already locked on you.

Your breath wavered, but you did not pull away. The warmth of Seze’s scales lingered on your fingertips, anchoring you in a moment you never imagined experiencing. 

“Ma Neteyam… what is her name?”

His smile brightened instantly, pride softening his features. “She is Seze,” he replied, stroking the ikran’s jaw with reverent fingers. “Named after my mother’s first ikran.”

Your eyes widened before you could stop them. The honor of carrying such a name struck you deeply. Naming an ikran after one so legendary, after a bond forged through war and triumph was no casual choice. The significance left you momentarily stunned, mouth parting with a quiet breath you could not shape into words.

Neteyam noticed the shock painted across your face and a laugh slipped from him, warm and delighted. You snapped out of your daze long enough to glare at him, though the light heat coloring your cheeks made the expression softer than you intended.

Seze tilted her head, observing your reaction with a low rumbling click as if she too found your surprise amusing.

“Seze is… she is powerful,” you admitted at last, your voice carrying reluctant admiration. “But I am ready to go down now.”

Neteyam’s grin returned at full strength. “Kehe. Not happening.” His tone brimmed with mischief. “You are flying with me.”

Your shoulders tensed instantly. “What? No. Absolutely not.”

“You have no choice, ma tstkxe,” he said, leaning one elbow on Seze’s saddle as though settling into a casual conversation. “You are too frightened to climb down Hometree by yourself. You shook all the way up here.”

“I did not shake,” you protested, even though you both knew you had clung to every secure surface on the way up.

Neteyam raised a non-existent brow and the expression told you he saw through your lie effortlessly.

“You are the biggest skxawng I have ever met,” you muttered, crossing your arms tight across your chest.

He hummed in acknowledgment, not even attempting to argue. With a smooth motion he swung himself onto Seze’s saddle, hands moving instinctively to secure his gear. The harness creaked softly as he adjusted the straps. His posture relaxed into a confident lean, but his gaze stayed fixed on you with unspoken expectation.

You glared back at him. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” he asked, knowing full well what you meant.

“Like you already won.”

His smile turned unbearably smug. “I did.”

A frustrated breath hissed through your teeth, but you moved toward him anyway. Your hands gripped the saddle with trembling reluctance, and you climbed behind him, settling into place with stiff, cautious motions. The saddle felt too narrow, too precarious, too close to open sky. The height pressed against your nerves from every direction.

Neteyam reached to double-check every strap and tether, fingers moving with practiced efficiency. You watched nervously, your heart thudding against your ribs. Each tightening of a strap sent your mind spiraling with new questions.

“Is this secure? What if it breaks? What if Seze does not like me on her back? What if she flips in the air? What if—Neteyam, answer me—Neteyam?”

He stayed entirely silent.

Your anxiety spiked. “Why are you not answering? I asked you a question—Netey—”

Seze launched into the air with a powerful beat of her wings.

Your scream tore from your throat before you could stop it.

Neteyam burst into laughter, loud and bright, even as he leaned back to steady you with an arm braced across your legs. The wind rushed past, pulling your braids behind you in wild streams. The forest fell away beneath your feet, the canopy dissolving into a wash of color.

Your nails dug into his shoulders. “NETEYAM! YOU DID THIS ON PURPOSE!”

His laughter only grew fuller, shaking his shoulders beneath your grip. “I told you, ma Sätareym,” he shouted over the wind, joy radiating from him like sunlight. “Flying is easier when you do not think too hard!”

“You could have warned me!”

“You asked too many questions!”

“I HATE YOU!”

“Your arms say differently!”

Your scream rose another octave, ripped from somewhere deep in your lungs. Your hands flew from his shoulders to wrap around his waist, holding him with a desperation that surprised even you. Your forehead pressed into the space between his shoulder blades, your breath shaking against his back. His heartbeat, steady beneath your cheek, felt too calm for what he had just unleashed.

Neteyam whooped in exhilaration above the wind. “Hold tight!” he called, already shifting his weight.

You barely had time to register the warning before Seze rolled through a spiraling arc, wings slicing through the sky.

“I swear by the plains,” you shouted into his shoulder, voice cracking, “I will impale you with my spear when we land!”

Neteyam didn’t answer. His laughter drowned beneath the roar of the wind as he guided Seze through another sweeping turn, savoring every second of your outrage and terror. He looked like he had been carved from the sky itself, untamed and alive.

Time blurred into wind and motion until he finally allowed Seze to slow. Her wings extended into a long, steady glide, each beat softer than before. The frantic rush eased into a gentle cradle of air. You remained pressed against him, your breath still uneven, your arms refusing to loosen their hold.

Neteyam glanced down at your head tucked firmly into his shoulder. For a moment his expression shifted into something warm enough to rival the sun—a tenderness you had no chance of seeing. He reached one arm behind him without turning, fingers searching until they found your thigh. His palm settled there gently, squeezing once in reassurance, thumb tracing a slow, grounding arc into your skin.

“Ma tstkxe,” he murmured over his shoulder, voice softer now, “look up. You will like this.”

You shook your head violently, refusing to pry your face from the safety of his back. “No. I am not looking. Ever.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Please. Truly, you must see.”

“No.”

“Pretty please?”

“Still no.”

A beat of silence passed, filled only by the sound of wind gliding over stretched wings.

“If you look up,” Neteyam said, sly amusement slipping back into his tone, “I will cancel training tomorrow.”

Your head snapped up instantly.

The sight stole the breath straight from your lungs.

Below you, the forest stretched in endless waves of green, each tree shimmering with veins of soft blue light. Tendrils of bioluminescence curled between branches like floating starlight. Vines coursed down the sides of enormous trunks, glowing faintly in the dimming afternoon. The Hometree stood in the distance, grand even from this height, its roots towering like ancient guardians.

Your mouth parted in awe. Words refused to form.

The fear gripping your stomach melted as the sheer beauty of the world beneath you settled into your bones. The height no longer felt like danger, it felt more like freedom now. The plains you had grown up in were far away, but here, above the canopy, the sky belonged to no rider. It belonged only to the wind.

Neteyam watched you with a smile gentle enough to quiet storms. “Not so terrible, right?”

You nodded slowly, breath still caught somewhere in your throat, gaze fixed on the breathtaking sprawl of Pandora beneath you. Your lips remained parted, the expression on your face unguarded, struck open by the vastness of the world around you.

Neteyam laughed softly in amazement.. He turned forward again, adjusting Seze’s glide to keep the moment unbroken. The sky held the both of you in a quiet expanse that felt larger than anything you had ever known.

The further you flew, the more the scenery shifted. The thick, towering forest peeled away, its luminous vines and layered branches giving way to open light. Golden grasses stretched outward across the plains, bending in long, rippling waves beneath the breath of the wind. The boundary between forest and savanna cut across the land like a painted line; one side wild with twisting roots and light-filled leaves, the other wide and endless, open enough for a rider to disappear into a horizon that never arrived. It looked like the meeting place of two hearts, two histories pressed side by side: yours shaped by sun and distance, and his shaped by shadow and branches.

You knew you and Neteyam could not land. The plains near the border still hid dangers. Stray metal remnants, wandering sky machines, and powerful fauna. Yet seeing your home from above, even from afar, cracked something inside you. The rosette markings on your skin seemed to warm, remembering what it felt like to race across tall grass, to breathe without roots tangling your path, to feel the sun blaze against your shoulders without a canopy breaking its strength. The savanna shimmered beneath Seze’s flight, an illusion of movement even from this height, as if the land itself reached upward to greet you.

Your throat tightened without warning. Tears gathered, blurring the edges of the horizon. You blinked fast, refusing to let them fall, but the ache inside your chest swelled as memories collided with the present. You had lost so much here—family, safety, every piece of a life you once knew. Yet the plains still looked beautiful. They still looked like home.

Neteyam had not turned his head, his gaze fixed forward as he guided Seze in a steady, respectful circle over the border. Even without looking at you, he sensed the shift in your breathing. The tension in your arms softening. The wind carried the faint sound of a breath caught in sorrow rather than fear. Neteyam’s shoulders lowered slightly, as though the emotion in your silence pressed gently against him.

“Ma—” he began quietly, voice tempered with caution, unsure how to soothe you without intruding on a wound too personal to touch.

You cut him off without words. Your forehead pressed against the side of his neck, your braids brushing his shoulder as you leaned into him. The contact was small, barely more than a breath against his skin, but it held everything you could not say. Your voice came out as a murmur, soft and trembling, carried by the rush of air around you.

“Irayo… ma Neteyam.”

Neteyam inhaled sharply, a quiet breath drawn through parted lips. His eyes softened with an expression you did not see, warm and protective and aching. His hand slipped back along Seze’s saddle until his fingers brushed your thigh again.

“Srane,” he answered softly, voice thick with emotion he attempted to hide. “Of course.”

Seze banked smoothly, wings carving a wide arc as Neteyam guided her back toward the forest. The plains faded slowly behind you, becoming a soft glow of gold at the edge of your vision. The forest welcomed you again with its layered greens and pulses of blue, its canopy folding around you like a sheltering hand.

Neither of you spoke during the return flight. Words would have felt too small for the moment, too clumsy beside the quiet rhythm of wingbeats and the lingering warmth of your forehead resting against his skin. Neteyam’s posture stayed steady, but the occasional flick of his tail betrayed the quiet storm of emotion swirling in him.

You did not move away until Hometree rose beneath you once more, its mighty structure waiting like a beacon carved from living memory. The sky draped itself in soft amber as the sun dipped lower, and the final traces of the savanna’s scent clung to the wind, reminding you of the place your heart once lived. Seze’s wings beat in a steady rhythm as she descended, her shadow stretching across the upper branches like a silent guardian returning home. When she landed atop the great tree, her talons sunk into the bark with a resonant thud that vibrated through your feet.

Neteyam slid down first, one hand stroking Seze’s neck in a gesture filled with affection and familiarity. His touch followed the grooves of her scales as though he knew every ridge by memory. “Good girl,” he murmured, voice dropping into a soft rumble. “Irayo nìtxan (thank you very much) for carrying us.”

He turned toward you and lifted a hand, offering help without a trace of hesitation. You placed your hand in his, allowing him to guide you down from the saddle. His grasp was firm, steadying you even before your feet touched the bark. Your body remained tense from the flight, and he seemed to sense every tremor that still lingered in your limbs.

You turned to Seze once your footing steadied. “Irayo, ma Seze,” you said quietly, resting a hand against her warm snout. “You fly with a brave heart.” The ikran released a low, pleased rumble and nudged your palm gently before stepping back. With one powerful thrust of her wings, she lifted herself into the air, spiraling upward until she disappeared beyond the glowing canopy.

When you faced Neteyam again, he was already watching you. His expression lacked its usual teasing curve; instead, it held a careful warmth, like he was studying the way the wind shaped your hair, or the way the lingering sunset painted your skin in muted gold. He stepped toward you slowly, allowing you to feel each narrowing inch of space between you.

“Tell me truthfully,” he said, voice low enough that it barely carried over the sighing leaves. “Did you enjoy it?”

You rolled your eyes with exaggerated effort, though your heartbeat had not yet calmed from the flight. “Kehe,” you said in your most dismissive tone. “I did not.”

Neteyam clicked his tongue, tilting his head as if wounded. His lower lip curled into a theatrical pout so dramatic you almost laughed outright. “I see. Since you had no fun, we should return to bow drills. All day tomorrow. Maybe the next day also. Your posture still bends like a reed in rain.”

A horrified gasp tore out of you before you could restrain it. Your reaction sent him into a grin so radiant it nearly broke your attempt at composure. You shoved his shoulder with both hands—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make your point. A giggle escaped you, light and quick, startling in its honesty.

Neteyam caught your wrist before you could fully pull away. His fingers wrapped around you gently, holding just enough pressure to stop your retreat. The smile remained on his face, but it softened as he looked at you. Your breath caught the instant you realized how close the two of you stood.

You eased your smile, the sound of your earlier laughter fading into the quiet. The pads of his fingers rested against the sensitive skin inside your wrist carefully, as though he feared breaking the moment by holding too tightly.

Your voice lowered without meaning to. “Neteyam… is there… something troubling you?”

His breath hitched, almost imperceptibly, before he shook his head with slow deliberation. “Kehe,” he whispered. “Nothing is wrong.”

His denial did not match the intensity in his eyes. He lifted his hand, releasing your wrist only to bring his palm to your face. His touch cupped your cheek, the roughness of his callouses grounding you in a way that made your knees weaken. The gesture was gentle enough to unravel a part of you you’d kept sealed since the plains burned. His thumb traced the line of your cheekbone, brushing softly across your skin as though memorizing you through touch alone.

Your eyelids lowered on instinct. Your cheek pressed into his palm, a small, instinctive nuzzle you couldn’t stop. Warmth bloomed across your chest—unexpected, frightening, and strangely peaceful. The world around you dulled until only his breathing filled your ears.

Neteyam leaned forward.

His lips brushed yours with the caution of someone touching fire for the first time. The kiss began as a hesitant meeting of breath and warmth, a question rather than a claim. His hand cradled your cheek more fully, fingers curling into your hair as if anchoring himself to the moment.

You answered him slowly, unsure yet drawn in by the tenderness he poured into the space between you. Your lips pressed back with slight hesitation, the motion guided by instinct rather than confidence. The kiss deepened only by a thread, enough for you to feel his breath tremble against your mouth. His other hand rose to your waist, settling with cautious reverence, as though asking permission simply through the steadiness of his hold.

The forest hushed around you. Even the wind paused, letting the warmth between you settle uninterrupted.

Neteyam exhaled into the kiss like someone receiving a long-awaited truth. His lips moved against yours with a softness that unraveled every line of resistance you had built since coming to the forest. He kissed as if afraid to break you, as if aware of the fragile, glowing bond forming between you that neither of you dared put into words.

When he finally pulled away—only the smallest distance—you felt the absence of his mouth like a sudden cold. His forehead rested against yours, your breaths mingling, your heartbeats struggling to find rhythm again.

It had been a few days since the kiss, and you had done everything in your power to bury it deep enough that even Eywa couldn’t dig it back up. You repeated to yourself over and over that it had been a mistake, a moment stolen by adrenaline and gratitude and the afterglow of flying. You insisted that Neteyam could not truly see you in any way beyond duty or curiosity. You reminded yourself that your clans were shaped by different winds, raised under different skies, carved by different trials. He belonged to roots and canopy. You belonged to horizon and open air. It was easier to cling to that truth than to risk believing the emotion in his eyes had been real.

It helped your denial that Neteyam had been busy. The clan had been preparing for the Hunt Festival, a celebration grand enough to consume several days. Tasks had been scattered across every family; setting up drums, painting bodies, crafting elaborate masks and headdresses. Neteyam had been swallowed into the commotion, helping the hunters prepare offerings, guiding young dancers through their steps, and occasionally dragging Lo’ak away before he somehow got in trouble. Training between you had been canceled without a word, giving you the time you thought you needed to steady your breathing and convince your heart that nothing had happened between you.

The Hunt Festival roared through Hometree now, voices rising in waves of laughter and song. The Sätareym had embraced the festivities with surprising enthusiasm. You watched from your hiding place near one of the upper walkways, pressing your back against the woven bark wall as your people ran past, dressed in animal costumes—painted snouts, woven tails, feathered headdresses—chasing Omatikaya children with spears tipped in bright dye. Someone beat a drum that echoed like galloping hooves. Another blew a carved horn that mimicked the cry of a plains cat. Sätareym elder women laughed until they cried as they taught Omatikaya dancers the long, bounding steps of the sun-chase ritual. Even the babies, painted with tiny paw prints across their bellies, were cooing in delight.

A bitter sweetness crept into your chest as you watched. The Hunt Festival reminded you painfully of the First Rain ceremonies back home, where your clan painted rosettes over their bodies and leapt skyward in grueling endurance dances. You could almost smell the wet clay, feel the cool rain streaking your cheeks, hear the distant thunder rolling across the savanna. For a moment, you let yourself imagine that you were back among the plains, the world stretching outward in every direction, your people whole and unbroken.

The ache in your throat grew too heavy. Happiness around you felt like salt pressed into a wound. You turned your eyes away, determined not to let tears rise.

A sudden rustle of movement drew your attention.

Neteyam appeared in front of you with no warning at all.

He wore a banshee costume, complete with painted wings and a crest of feathered spikes bound into his braids. He looked entirely too pleased with himself. The moment you registered his presence, a strangled noise escaped your throat—half gasp, half pathetic squeak.

His laughter erupted instantly, rich and loud. “You should have seen your face. You nearly leapt from the walkway.”

“You skxawng!” you shouted, shoving at his chest. “You frightened me! Why are you here dressed like that?”

Neteyam’s grin only widened. “I have been looking everywhere for you,” he said, stepping close enough that you could see the glittering flecks of violet paint along his nose. “I knew you would skip the festival. I told Lo’ak, ‘She will run like a startled pa’li into the shadows,’ and look—here you are, hiding as always.”

You kept your gaze fixed on the space behind him, refusing to meet his eyes. Your heart was beating far too hard again, and you cursed how easily he could draw emotion from you simply by existing. He noticed your avoidance immediately. His expression softened as he shifted closer, lowering his voice so the noise of the festival dimmed behind it.

“Ma Sätareym,” he murmured, “walk with me.”

You shook your head. “Kehe. I do not want to be part of this chaos.”

“We will not join the chaos,” he assured, reaching for your hand with gentle certainty.

You hesitated for a moment. Yet Neteyam’s mood was bright, his smile unguarded, his spirit raised by the celebrations around him. It was rare to see him so light-hearted; you did not have the heart to refuse him when he looked at you that way. You sighed and nodded once, offering a small, reluctant gesture of agreement.

His smile turned incandescent, the kind that cracked your ribs open in ways you could not describe.

He led you away from the noise of Hometree, guiding you down the spiraling walkways and into the cool hush of the forest floor. The moonlight filtered through the canopy in soft streaks, illuminating patches of glowing moss and drifting pollen. Neteyam’s banshee costume rustled with each step, wings fluttering lightly behind him.

“The festival was becoming dull anyway,” he said, glancing at you with mischief dancing in his eyes. “I swear, if Tuk danced any harder, she would have set her mask on fire.” He shook his head dramatically. “And my parents are unbearable. Dancing together like two mated yerik who forget the entire clan can see them. So embarrassing.”

A small laugh escaped you before you could stop it. The sound made him glance back at you with delight blooming across his features.

The forest embraced you both, each step taking you farther from the crowd, farther from the noise, closer to a stillness that made your heart erratic. The memory of your kiss hovered between your bodies. It remained unspoken, yet it lived in every glance, in every shared breath, in every time your hands brushed as you walked. The silence pushed against your ribs until you forced yourself to break it.

“Where are you taking me?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady. You focused on your tone, making it flat, not inviting, not soft enough to invite questions. You did not want him drifting toward that night atop Hometree. You were still not ready for that.

Neteyam’s mouth curved into a mischievous grin before he even answered. “It is a surprise.”

A groan tore from your chest. “I despise your surprises.”

His grin only widened. “Would you rather be back at the festival?”

Your mouth snapped shut so fast it was almost comical.

Neteyam snickered, the sound rolling through the forest like warm wind. The tension dissolved, the awkwardness falling away the moment he heard your stubborn silence. His steps became lighter, more playful, his tail flicking behind him in amused rhythm.

Conversation resumed easily, though he steered it toward dangerous territory without realizing it.

“I have been thinking about your training,” he said, voice thoughtful as he stepped over a glowing root. “It is time I take you on a hunt for your first clean kill. You will need it for your Iknimaya soon. When that day comes, you will walk among us fully as one of the Omatikaya.”

You hummed softly, the sound more evasive than affirming. You did not want to ruin his bright mood, but words like one of us pressed too close to wounds you were not ready to touch. Whether you wanted to be Omatikaya was a question that clawed at your thoughts every night. You were Sätareym to your bones—your dark skin marked with rosettes, your breath shaped by open plains, your rituals woven through your spirit. Becoming Omatikaya felt like turning away from the people you lost.

He continued without noticing your turmoil. “I must also teach you weaving. It is essential. Every warrior should know how to shape their own gear, how to repair their own harness. Your hands are strong enough for bowwork, but weaving demands patience. I suspect you will struggle.”

Your eyes wandered toward a patch of glowing flowers rising along the path. Their soft blue pulses drew your attention in a way his weaving lecture did not. You hummed again, hoping he would keep walking and focus on his own rambling.

Neteyam stopped.

You nearly collided with his back, catching yourself with one hand against his shoulder. “Ma Neteyam, what—?”

Your words died in your throat as your gaze lifted past him.

The Tree of Souls stood before you.

Its tendrils draped like waterfalls of shimmering threads, each one pulsing with violet light. The air around it hummed with quiet energy—gentle, expansive, as though the ground itself breathed beneath your feet. Luminescent spores drifted like tiny spirits, carried on a breeze you could not feel. The forest’s colors deepened around the sacred place, every shadow tinged with purple glow.

Your chest tightened, breath stumbling. 

Neteyam turned slightly, watching your reaction as if it were the very thing he had come to witness. “I wanted to show you this place properly,” he said, voice subdued beneath the tree’s glow. “Without the noise of the clans. Without ceremony.”

Your throat felt tight, words stuck. The sacred energy of the place pressed against you and you felt so suffocated. The Sätareym worshiped beneath open sky, beneath stars with no branches to break them. Their rituals honored wind and horizon, not glowing roots whispering ancient memories. You had grown up hearing that Eywa moved in distance, in what could not be held. Yet here, Eywa felt near—too near—like a presence brushing against your skin.

Neteyam took a slow step forward, his expression open and vulnerable in a way you had not seen since the flight above the plains.

“Walk with me,” he said, this time softer, almost hesitant.

Your eyes drifted to his outstretched hand. His skin glowed faintly in the violet light, a lighter shade of blue than yours, three fingers reaching toward you in invitation. The familiarity of that shape—so like your own hands, so unlike his four-fingered siblings—made a strange ache pulse through your temples. A tightness gathered behind your eyes, as if your skull could no longer hold the conflict swirling inside you.

Your heart stumbled. You felt lost in a way that mirrored the night your clan first fled the plains; directionless, surrounded by shadows, unsure of which path led to safety. Words tangled in your throat like vines wrapped too tightly around a branch. You feared opening your mouth and sounding like a fool, or worse, revealing the depth of the hurt you carried. But you knew one truth clearly: you could not walk toward the Tree of Souls.

You lifted your gaze timidly, the motion small, like prey assessing danger. “Ma Neteyam…” you whispered. Your head shook once, barely more than a tremble. “I cannot.”

Neteyam tilted his head, ears angling toward you, curiosity and concern threading together across his features. “Why not?” he asked quietly, no judgment in the question. Only genuine confusion, and beneath that, worry.

Your chest tightened painfully. The hum of the sacred place pressed against you like a memory trying to force itself forward. You did not want to explain that coming near the Omatikaya’s most revered place made grief coil in your stomach like serpents. You did not want to admit that the sight of glowing tendrils and living roots reminded you of every unanswered prayer, every night your tsahìk whispered for protection that never came, every body buried beneath the plains when Eywa stayed silent.

You swallowed hard. Your voice barely rose above a breath. “I… just cannot.” You shook your head again, more frantically this time, the motion sharp with rising panic. Ngaytxoa, ke tsun oe (Sorry, I cannot…)... I am sorry. I am so sorry.”

Neteyam lifted both hands immediately, palms open in a gesture meant to soothe. “Kehe, ma  tstkxe. Do not apologize,” he said softly. “We do not have to go closer. This place should bring comfort, not pain. Sit with me instead, yes?”

He moved away from the glowing roots deliberately, giving your body—and your spirit—space to breathe again. He settled onto a fallen log softened by layers of moss, his posture relaxed and inviting. He patted the spot beside him, offering a small, reassuring smile that brimmed with gentleness rather than insistence.

You walked toward him slowly, the distance between you and the Tree of Souls widening with every step until your lungs loosened enough to draw a deeper breath. You sat beside him but kept a careful gap between your bodies, the space shaped by caution and instinctive self-protection.

Neteyam either did not notice or chose not to comment. His attention shifted as he dug into the small woven pouch tied to his belt. His brow furrowed with growing frustration as he searched, muttering under his breath about misplacing things. After a moment, his expression brightened, and he let out a victorious hum as he retrieved something from the pouch.

You turned your head slightly, curious despite yourself.

He lifted the item between his fingers with pride. A beaded choker, woven in Omatikaya style. The cords were dyed deep forest brown, threaded with small beads shaped like droplets of polished amber and slender pieces of carved wood that glowed faintly under the tree’s violet light. The pattern mirrored the one he always wore, though the colors were altered subtly to complement your darker skin tone.

Neteyam’s face lit with excitement, though a shy undercurrent softened his usual confidence. “I made this,” he explained quickly, words tumbling out faster than he intended. “My mother says a warrior should learn to weave meaning into every bead. So I did. This pattern is for strength. This one—for the path of riders. These beads here are for the plains and the forest meeting.” His voice dropped slightly. “For where your steps and mine cross.”

Your breath hitched as he spoke. The meaning behind each bead wound tightly around your heart, pulling with a tenderness you were not prepared for.

His gaze flickered to your face, suddenly uncertain. “Ma… ma Sätareym,” he said more quietly now, shoulders tensing with nerves, “may I… put it on you?”

You stared at him, completely speechless, but not with joy. A heavy, complicated weight settled in your chest. You did not understand why he offered you something so intimate. You did not understand why he looked at you with such hope. You did not understand why receiving the choker, so thoughtfully made and so symbolic felt both beautiful and terrifying.

Your throat tightened. Words failed you.

All you could manage was a slow nod.

You turned around, giving him your back so he could tie the choker. Your braids shifted as you lifted your hair, exposing the line of your neck to the cool night air. Neteyam’s fingers brushed your skin as he fastened the cord. Each touch sent a quiet tremor down your spine.

He tied the final knot with precision learned from a lifetime of weaving and training. His breath warmed the top of your shoulder for half a second longer than necessary, as if he could not bring himself to step away.

When he finally released the ends of the choker, the weight of it settled against your throat

Neteyam’s breath caught. His expression froze in stunned silence, amber eyes widening as though the sight of you had momentarily stolen the world from under his feet.

He blinked once, regaining control of his voice. Lor (beautiful)… it is beautiful on you,” he murmured. His voice dropped lower, tender in a way that made your ribs tighten. “You are beautiful.”

Your lashes fluttered, surprise flooding you so fast your body forgot how to move. “Kehe,” you muttered, your voice small. “Do not jest with me, ma Neteyam.”

“I am not jesting,” he replied immediately, leaning forward with earnest intensity. “I swear it. You are the most beautiful being I have ever seen.”

Your throat constricted painfully. You opened your mouth only to close it again. No words felt safe. No reaction felt right. His next words pushed your heart into your stomach.

“The moment I first saw you,” he continued, voice filled with emotion he had carried for months, “when the Sätareym walked into Hometree asking for uturu… I had never seen a beauty like yours. Not only in your face, but in the way you held your clan together. In the way you looked at my people with defiance. In the way you refused to bow even though you were afraid.”

The air lodged inside your lungs refused to move. Memories of that day—your clan exhausted, scorched by grief, seeking shelter with strangers—flooded back with stunning force. Your heart lurched violently. Heat crept up your cheeks, turning them near-burning. You managed a quiet, shaky, “Irayo.” The word came out small, barely formed, trembling beneath the pressure of everything inside you.

He mistook your overwhelm for shyness. His smile softened even further as he reached out and took both of your hands, lifting them between you. His fingers enveloped yours completely. His amber eyes searched your face with unwavering affection.

“Ma tìyawn (My love),” he said, voice rich with meaning, “I must speak this truth to you. Eywa guides our paths in ways we do not always see. Every day I trained you, every moment you laughed, every breath we shared… my feelings grew. I feel a pull toward you as strong as tsaheylu. I believe Eywa has placed you here—to teach me, to strengthen me, to—”

Your lungs squeezed painfully. His words rushed over you like water crashing through a broken dam, each one striking deeper than the last. The kiss you had been trying so hard to forget now rose up like a specter between you, blazing into a moment you could no longer hide from.

Neteyam kept going, unaware of the way your fingers trembled in his grip. “I cannot ignore this. I feel—strongly. Deeply. I know you do not see it yet, but this forest is your home now. Eywa willed it. Eywa brought you—”

Your head snapped up so fast your braids whipped across your shoulders.

You stood abruptly, almost staggering. Your breath shuddered in your chest, panic rising like a tightening coil inside your ribs. Neteyam’s face crumpled in confusion.

“Ma Sätareym?” he asked, rising halfway. “What is wrong? Did I—?”

Your head shook violently as you tried to form words, any words, but your mind swirled with jagged memories; the plains burning, your parents falling, your tsahìk’s prayers swallowed by gunfire, the knowledge that Eywa had never answered. All your clan had ever received was silence. A silence you carried like a scar through every day you tried to survive.

Neteyam stepped closer, reaching for you. “Ma tìyawn, please—talk to me. Tell me what hurts.”

You flinched away. He reached again, this time resting a gentle hand on your shoulder and the contact shocked you into panic. You shoved him backward with more force than intended. His feet stumbled on the moss, his expression flashing with hurt before concern quickly replaced it.

“Ngaru lu fpom srak (Are you okay)? What is happening?” he asked, voice quiet, laced with fear he could not contain.

He tried again to understand, but his next sentence, obviously meant to soothe, splintered you completely.

“This is your home now. Eywa—”

The sob tore from you before he could finish.

“Ma Neteyam,” you choked, voice breaking apart, “I just want to go home. I need to go home.”

His face collapsed into raw pain. He stepped forward without hesitation, his arms circling your shoulders and pulling you into his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat pressed against your cheek as you sobbed uncontrollably, each cry hitting with the weight of all the grief you had refused to feel since leaving the plains.

“I do not belong here,” you wept into his skin. “I want to go home. I want to go back. I want—” Your words dissolved into shattered breaths. “Why did Eywa bring us here? Why?”

Neteyam’s arms tightened, his voice trembling. Fra'u-ru fpom lu (It’s okay). I know, ma yawntu. I know you ache for your home. But this—this place—you are safe here. You are loved here. This is your home now.”

You stiffened instantly.

Your palms pressed against his chest, shoving him away hard enough that he stumbled. Air refused to enter your lungs. Your chest spasmed with rapid, uncontrolled breaths—too shallow, too sharp. You felt trapped inside your own body, drowning in panic that clawed up your throat.

He reached toward you again, terrified. “Ma Sätareym! Wait—please, I did not mean—”

Your feet turned before he could finish. You bolted.

Branches whipped past your face as you sprinted through the glowing underbrush, tears blurring the world into fragments of blue and violet light. Your lungs burned, your legs trembled, but you could not stop. You fled from him, from his words, from the choker on your throat, from the memory of his kiss, from the suffocating walls of a forest that would never be yours.

Behind you, Neteyam’s voice cracked through the night. “MA—!” Your name—torn from him, desperate, breaking—echoed after you as he gave chase, his footsteps shaking the soft earth.

You did not look back. You could not.

The forest around you pulsed, alive with the presence you had never believed in. Vines glowed like reaching hands. Spores drifted as if watching. The air hummed with a spirit you did not trust.

Eywa had never answered your people. Eywa had never saved your parents. Eywa had never stopped the fire that swallowed your plains. Eywa had chosen Jake Sully, not you. Not your clan.

No forest ritual, no glowing tree, no choker woven with love could change the truth etched into your very DNA.

Eywa was not real.

And because of that truth—

you and Neteyam could never be real either.

The People clamored about, crowding the return party. They chattered loudly, celebrating the return of the hunters, or sharing words of worry when the news of trouble had been announced.

When you heard Jake had returned, you initially felt relief — that was before Kxa’ti told you the hunting party returned bloody and with less game than anticipated. She’d barely finished speaking before you had abandoned the project you’d been working on and rushed past her, your heart sinking down to your tail in fear.

Was he injured? How badly? What if he had—

You quickly shook that thought aside, focusing on pushing and slipping your way through the mass of na’vi that’d gathered to receive their fellows.

Then, you spotted him. Alive, but noticeably wounded. Cuts littered his body, and he had binding wrapped tightly around his bicep, the wound there bleeding through to leave a deep red stain. Any reassurance you felt was swept away in a tide of panic, distress, and anger. Damn him for getting hurt when he promised he’d be careful. He promised!

Oh, you were livid.

The People made way for you as you stomped towards your mate, knowing well to give you a wide berth if you had ever gotten into a mood if they wanted to avoid being on the receiving end of your wrath. Unfortunately for JakeSuli, he had no chance to escape it, given he was the reason for your sour emotions.

His golden eyes lit up when he spotted you, only to quickly widen with fear as he noticed your narrowed gaze and the violent flicking of your tail. His ears lowered, pinning to the sides of his head, knowing he’d been caught.

“Babygirl—“ he attempted to calm the fire in your chest before it burned too hot to put out, but it was already too late.

The man yelped when you grabbed his ear and began dragging him away from the party, pinching the cartilage tight. He hissed in pain and whimpered, his steps hurried in an attempt to ease the grip you had on him.

“Baby, listen to me, please,” he pleaded. It was no use, you were beyond civil conversation.

You hauled him into your shared kelku, letting go with an annoyed growl. His hand covered his ear, and he turned to face you, ready to present his case. He stopped promptly at the way your nose wrinkled and your teeth bared themselves, daring him to try. His lips pressed together in understanding, head lowering with shame.

“Sit,” you demanded. He didn’t move, and you snarled at him. “I said sit!”

He promptly dropped to the woven floor. “Yes, ma’am.”

The tension in the kelku could have been cut with a knife. He watched as you stomped around the space, muttering to yourself while you gathered wooden bowls and herbs. From a basket, you retrieved a large leaf, each item clutched in your arms tight enough for your knuckles to thin.

You paused briefly to drop everything in front of him, only showing a pitcher of water a little more gentleness so that it wouldn’t spill.

“Grind this,” you commanded him as you let the herbs drop into his lap. He didn’t hesitate, getting to work breaking down and working the herbs in the bowl with a wooden pestle. “Cannot believe you.”

Wisely, he kept his mouth shut. Sometimes the skxawng could be smart. Sometimes.

It was now that your rage was beginning to slip through. “I tell you to be safe. You promise to me you will. Promise. Of course, I worry, my husband is a skxawng! But, I think, ‘oh, he is with the hunting party, he will be okay’, only to learn that he went and got himself hurt! After he promised!”

You paced the space, frustration evident in each of your steps and the punctuation of your words. You weren’t ready to learn what happened, your emotions wound too high for anything to get through to you. Luckily, he knew not to try, aware it’d only make things worse while you were in this state.

When the herbs had been ground into a thick paste, one you taught him to make many moons ago, you sat in front of him and yanked the bowl from his hands.

“Nga lu skxawng,” you hissed at him, your gaze avoiding his. Instead, you focused on the mess of injuries that littered his sculpted body.

Jake himself had no similar qualms, though. You could feel his stare boring into your face, but you ignored it. You had a stupid, stupid, stupid man to take care of.

“All the other men are idiots, too,” you complained. “A hunting party is meant to hunt, not be the hunted! At least a pack of nantang is smart enough to retreat from a palulukan.”

Despite how furious you were, your hands were gentle, careful, as you went about tending to his injuries. You smeared the blue-ish paste onto the various cuts and scratches with your fingertips, making sure to cover each one thoroughly before you moved to the next. A minty scent filled the air between you, the antibiotic and antiseptic properties of the herbs taking action. Bravely, he did not react to the sting he undeniably felt from the medicine, bearing the bite. It was for his own good.

Slowly, as each wound was covered in paste, your anger began to die down. By the time you got to the wrapping on his arm, it’d been replaced with stress and worry. Tenderly, you unwound the layers of pale plant that’d been used to cover the injury, and frowned deeply when a hole was revealed.

That was not caused by either na’vi or any animal of Eywa’eveng.

To know the extent of the damage done to him, you raised his arm and turned it this way and that. There was no exit wound, surprisingly. Maybe his tensed muscle was enough to prevent the cause from going straight through the limb.

“I already got the bullet out,” he told you, trying to soothe your concern.

Your eyes briefly met his, then went back to his arm. You picked up the large leaf you’d gathered earlier and began meticulously stripping layers off it from the side. Inside the leaf was a type of fiber that closely resembled the cotton-like material from Earth Jake had spoken about before. You spun it around two of your fingers until it turned into a small ball, then began to pack it into the open hole.

From the corner of your eye, you saw his jaw tense, the muscle beneath fluttering, but he otherwise gave no indication he felt what you were up to.

After you felt you’d sufficiently packed the wound, you smeared a layer of paste over it, too, then layered the remaining leaf over it.

“Wiya,” you sighed heavily, finally addressing him. “What happened, ma’Jake?”

“RDA,” he answered stiffly. “We were ambushed.”

Your entire body went stiff for a moment upon learning the cause behind him returning to you in worse shape than he left. You forced it to relax, and went to begin cleaning up, only for him to grasp your hands in both of his.

Your eyes properly met, yours filled with a visible distress that made his entire face fall. He moved aside the things between you and pulled you into his arms, ensuring he didn’t aggravate anything, nor undo any of your work. Your head came to rest on his shoulder, and his hand tangled into your head, lightly scratching at your scalp. You felt his chest rise and fall, listened to the steady beat of his heart. He was alive. Safe.

“I thought all the vrrtep left,” you murmured.

He hesitated before responding. “Only the ones at Hell’s Gate,” he admitted. “The ones we could control. We didn’t know there were other camps of RDA until now.”

“Are they gone?” You asked, referring to the group that attacked the hunting party.

“Yeah, baby. We got them all,” he consoled you. At knowing that, at the very least, that threat was gone, you allowed yourself to relax into him, your arms tentatively coming to wrap around his torso. “I’m okay, sweetheart.”

You grumbled into the skin of his shoulder, still a bit annoyed. “You worry me, JakeSuli.”

His chest rumbled with a quiet laugh. “’M sorry, yawntutsyìp. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

It was then that you allowed a hand to rest on your stomach, on the slight curve that’d just begun to show. “I… I thought I lost you. We lost you.”

Jake’s hold on you constricted just a bit more. “Never,” he whispered. “I’ll never leave you. Neither of you. You have my word.”

“How can I trust you, hm?” You teased, though your tone held a bit of truth. “You cannot even come home to me unharmed.”

His lips pressed into your temple. “I’d never put myself in a position where you might lose me. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

You clutched him as much as you could while avoiding worsening his condition. “Ma’yawntu.”

“I’m here, babygirl. Forever and always, I promise.”

“Nga yawne lu oer,” you mumbled into his warm skin, breathing in his scent and letting it sink in that he was truly alright now.

The hand on your head brought you ever closer to him. “I know. I love you, too, sweetheart.”

divider by firefly-graphics!

'There.'

Miles's eyes followed the direction in which your finger was pointed before quietly humming in agreement and then nudging through the connection to his Ikran for it to slowly descend to the deserted beach below.

Miles knew that he should be on his way back to basecamp, back to his lieutenant to rally up a new idea on how to finally get rid of Jake.

But he couldn't even try and force himself away - he had absolute no desire to.

He felt his fangs poke at his bottom lip as he grinned to himself - your grip tightening in anxiety of dropping closer to the ground on the forearm he had pressed to your stomach, securing your tightly to his chest.

He almost choked when he felt your tail brush his thigh in warning, the strength and control you had there always throwing him off slightly.

'I don't have to see to know your laughing at me Miles.' Your voice had a playful edge to it as you looked over your shoulder at him before jutting your chin away.

Brat.

'So what you tryna achieve with this thing?' He mused, accent thick as he reached with his free hand to grip your tail in a tight grip, thumb moving like muscle memory to gently brush against it.

He outright laughed at your silence and refusal to look at him , your ears twitching constantly before lowering in embarrassment.

He didn't let go, continuing his touch against the sensitive limb until the giant claws of his Ikran landed in the loose sand - its wings flapping powerfully and disturbing the surrounding area.

He got off first - large body moving with balance has he jumped down before he turned to you, fully prepared to cup your thighs and drag you to him.

However he was unpleasantly surprised to see you moving on your own, already landing in front of him - tail swaying gracefully behind you and your eyes looking up at him.

He raised his brow when you said nothing, smirking down at your sudden teasing and defiant attitude.

'Princess-'

He was cut off when you suddenly grasped his hand in both of yours, tugging him gently to follow you.

'Come.' You beamed, ears erect and accentuating your face.

He didn't respond, only watching you silently and taking in your beautiful face and mood before picking up his feet behind you - his spirit unable to do anything but lift with yours.

You could feel Miles's intense stare, your knees feeling weak in nervousness as he drank you in.

Shaking your head, you concentrated on following the deserted path - your memory sparking from when you was younger, before your clan had moved to join another and left this place to be tended to by Eywa.

It felt special to have Miles be here, despite his eyes being more on you than the scenery.

'We are here.' You spoke softly, glancing back at his large yellow eyes before moving to stand beside him instead of in front.

'Hm..and what is 'here'?' He asked, hand gesturing out at the various sized pools scattered pool - before you suddenly felt his large and cup your waist and pull you towards him.

'This- this is where my people, especially mated couples would come to relax.' You felt your face burn slightly, eyes averted as you explained quietly.

'So ..it's a fuck spot?'

'Miles!' You hissed, lifting a hand to cover your face as your ears and cheeks warmed in embarrassment - his laugh making you wanted to punch him.

'Come on Princess, if you wanted us to 'relax' together, you could've just asked.' You felt him lean down towards your neck, nudging your jaw up and nipping at you neck.

'I'm not talking to you.' You tried to deadpan, pretending as if his touch didn't make you want to explode with want.

Taking a breathe, you gently pulled away - the sway of your hips graceful as you approached one of the shallower pools.

Miles couldn't let up on his stare as he watched your nimble fingers reach up behind your neck - undoing your decorative top and then reaching lower, past the curves of your waist and stopping at you hips.

He kept his footsteps as silent as he walked up behind you, committing what he could see of your bare body to mind.

Before he was able to even lift a hand to touch you, you slipped away - stepping down and into the cool water of the pool below.

Standing, the water level came to your hips - your body shivering as the ripples lapped at your skin softly.

Turning around, you exposed yourself to Miles - eyes innocent as they looked up at him, wanting and so desparate.

No words were exchanged or needed as Miles followed you, oversized hands coming reaching up to slowly rid his uniform, his azure skin reflecting in the pool.

You felt your cheeks warm as you watched him undress, his body still new and yet to be explored.

Stepping back, you opted to lean against the opposite side of the pool - allowing him room to step down to join you in the water - your eyes still connected.

'Come're baby.' He called you gently.

Closing the distance, you pressed your chest up against his - his bulging arms caging around you as he leaned down and caught your lips.

Your eyes fluttered shut at his touch, noses brushes as he hungrily drank you in.

You then felt his hands slowly explore your dips and curves, closing in around your rib cage before moving suddenly moving up and cupping your breast in a possessive grip.

You gasped slightly at the shameless grope, lips separating from his and eyes shooting open to catch his.

You scanned his cheeky expression, his ears pointed up before he dipped his face to your neck.

'You like when I touch you here Princess?' He teased, your erect and sensitive nipple suddenly being pinched playfully.

You whined when his fangs grazed your collarbone at the same time, hand coming up to press against the back of his head as you squeezed your eyes shut.

'Please-' You begged.

'What's got you all sensitive hm?' He nudged, the hand that was holding your waist moving down to cup your ass - hand so big that you felt the tips of his finger brush against you cunt from behind.

You whimpered at the sudden stimulation everywhere: his mouth sucking bites across you neck, his fingers effortlessly tugging your nipple until it was almost painful how hard it felt and his hand that was using the grip on your ass to rock your hips into his.

'You dragged me here just so I could finally play with your pretty pussy again, huh Princess?' He chuckled, moving his head up to catch the love of your ear between his blunt front teeth - careful of his pointed ones.

You flushed at the accusation, lips pressing in at being called out.

You felt his breath as he laughed at you, his cheek pressing against yours as he breathed in your scent.

'I came here to- please, talk to you.' You finally managed as he used your body, his strength rocking the water as he moved you against him.

'About what?' He turned his head so your flat noses brushed, both twitching at the touch.

'I cant..do this - with you yet.' You looked away as the words left your lips, his eyes staring into yours and serious expression too much.

'My kind, we can't just mate with whoever - it, it has to be with a chosen mate.' You trailed off, hoping he understood what you were trying to say.

What you were admitting to.

After a beat and at the lack of response, you directed your eyes back onto his - that were still staring and if anything.. his gaze seemed more intense than before.

'Turn around.'

You tilted your head at his request but obeyed nevertheless, preparing yourself for some sort of rejection - heart growing more heavy in your chest by the second.

Your confusion grew when you felt both his hands grip your hips before you were suddenly spun around, hands reaching out to catch yourself.

You were now facing out, the edge of the pool pressing just above your mound as Miles moulded himself to your back.

'Bend over Princess.'

You eyes widened as you attempted to look back at him, tail moving in the water so it brushed his thigh but you weren't able to see his face since he had it up against the back of your neck, nosing at your skin.

'Bend. Over..and I'll fuck you so hard you won't even have to think about choosing me.'

You swallowed at his words, resting your hands on the smooth rocks surrounding the pool for support as you bent yourself over - back naturally arching as your tail swayed.

'You're body's already decided for you pretty girl, you're mine.' You shivered when he pressed down on your arched back, lifting your hips even higher as he leaned over you.

'Miles.. please touch me.' You begged when you felt his planting kissing down your spine, slow and fierce until he got to the base of your tail.

You tucked your bottom lip in to suppress a whine when he placed a kiss there before his hand came up to move it out the way, revealing your most intimate parts.

'Look at you, fucking shaking for me already.' He groaned as he brought his other hand up to firmly grope your thigh under the water, using his strength to separate your legs more.

From your position, only your legs were in the water - the rest completely on show and his for the taking.

You whined when you felt his breath graze over your pussy from behind, hips bucking back and your arch deepening.

'I can see you clenching baby, you need me that bad huh? Need to get you nice and ready for me.' You nodded rapidly, attempting to look over your shoulder as his bend form.

'Please, please Miles-

You cut yourself off when his tongue finally licked at you, the warm and textured muscle separating your lips and cleaning up the leaking slick.

He groaned against you and repeated it over and over and over again, growing more hungry by the second before he finally released your tail and used his free fingers to hold you open.

'Miles!' You whimpered when he focused on your now exposed clit, the nerve pulsing with need as he covered it in his saliva.

'Your little clit too sensitive baby?' He teased, his mouth never far before he was back - gathering the slick collecting at your core on his tongue and then dragging it back to swirl over your clit with it.

You flinched when his lips wrapped around it, softly suckling until your cried out - rocking your hips back into his face.

He allowed you to, moving his head in time with your grinding so he was always latched on - forcing you closer and closer to your high.

When you felt your stomach drop, body shuddering with your oncoming orgasm - you didn't even notice your tail moving, pressing against his cheek until he was forced away.

'Princess..' The warning in his voice was clear, your pussy now covered.

You lowered your ears and sheepishly looked back at him, his large yellow eyes sat on yours in dominate.

'I'm giving you one chance..' He ran his nose over your asscheek, eyes unmoving.

'Move your tail - or I will.' He then nipped at you, your body jumping when you obeyed, tail moving to the side to grant him access once again.

'Such a good girl, acting up when I haven't even made you come yet.'

As soon as the words left him, he was back on you - this time even more aggressive and unforgiving than before - his blunt teeth tracing over your clit and his hand back to spreading you open.

You rested your head against your forearm, moaning out when he leaned up and traced your hole with his tongue before plunging deep - collecting your arousal like water and swallowing it down.

'So wet, just keep giving and giving huh Princess?' You whimpered back at him, his name leaving your lips in broken cries as your high suddenly hit.

You hips continuously rocked back and twitched, legs feeling weak as Miles continued to lick at you, both his hands moving to the back of your thighs before he spread them as far as possible - finger tips digging in to keep you in place.

'Keep going, come on - come for me.' You cried out, nails almost breaking as you clawed at the rocks in front of you - giving him what he wanted before you collapsed boneless.

You flinched and whined when he continued you lap over you, collecting what was left of your come that had dripped down to your clit - the bud pulsing and too sensitive.

He didn't seem to care though as he cleaned up after himself, breathes fanning over you as he eagerly inhaled your scent before groaning.

'Always smell so fucking good.'

Miles nosed his way around the plumpness of your cheek, staring down at your body from your bend position - cock twitching with the need to just plow into you and fully claim you as his.

Not that you didn't know already.

'You ready for me to stretch you Princess? You’re too tight for me to fuck you.' Miles smirked when you didn't object- allowing your body to show him by spreading your legs wider, tail moving even further to the side.

'Words baby.'

'Please Miles, need your fingers.' You voice was hoarse from moaning and crying out - ears erect as you looked back at him.

Miles didn’t hesitate to run his thumb over your slit, separating you open before applying pressure at your core and then back up.

He continued to tease you until he replaced his thumb with his middle finger, coating the appendage before he finally eased it inside you.

‘Ohe kawkrr ngenga.’ You whined, moving your tail to wrap it around Miles’s forearm as you familiarised yourself with having him inside you again.

I need you.

'I can hear you pretty girl, I know - open up for me.' Miles hummed lowly, leaning over you to nip as your shoulder as he gently moved his finger inside, then back out - repeating as he felt your body give way for him.

'Doing so good hm?' He eased his bites to gently sucks, marking your body and drowning you in his scent.

You cried when you felt a second finger wedge its way alongside the one already inside you, the girth pushing you closer and closer until the pit in your stomach seemed to turn into a sinkhole, body quaking.

'Almost there princess, so fucking tight - so perfect.' Reaching a hand over your shoulder, your fingers came in contact with his crisp cut jaw - pawing softly at him to help ground you as your high grew more a more overwhelming.

You choked you were spread open even more, another finger being added to the mess between your thighs - the embarrassing slick slick noise sounding louder.

'Good girl, come on - come all over my fingers.'

'Squeezing so tight, you gonna do that on my cock princess?'

'Thats it, fuck yourself on them.'

You whimpered at the non stop thrusting and attention - stuttering when the hand that had been keeping you spread for him looped around your waist and trailed down your stomach from behind - hand smoothing over your mound until your clit was taken in between two fingers.

'Still think your clits too sensitive?' His teasing, as gentle as it was, was what threw you over - your high raining down on you as your clit was pitched and the fingers inside pressed down, curving to hit that one spot.

'Miles! Please, pleas- its-' Your begging was non stop as you convulsed, hips grinding - trying to escape from the stimulation but if you moved back his fingers only slid deeper and then when you moved forward the pressure on your clit increased.

You where trapped, forced to ride your high out until you went limp against the rocks again - breathes panting out irregularly.

You loved it.

'So good for me, such a good girl.' You felt your mind ease even further at the rain of praise, hissing when he retracted out of you and slipped his hand off your clit to rest his palm against your mound.

'You okay?' He asked, nosing near you ear before pressing a kiss to it.

In your state, the question went completely over your head - mind still in the clouds. ]

And clearly you took way too long to register that the words had even left his lips before two hands where gripping your waist and gently lifting you from your bend position, flipping you over and lifting you back onto the edge of the pool.

You were startled by the sudden appearance of Miles in all his glory, wide shoulders leaning down as he cupped your face, tilting your chin up as he looked over you.

'Still here princess, still with me?' He repeated, lifting his thumb to your lips and running the pad of it over as if to coax you into responding back.

You gazed over his features warming before you smiled back and nodded, movement slow and unrushed.

He mimicked your smile with his own as a gentle 'yes' left your lips.

Using his hold on your face, he tipped your chin down to press a kiss to your forehead, repeating the gesture over and over again - migrating slowly down your face until he got to your lips.

You purred at his attentiveness, nuzzling closer to your mate until his lips descended onto yours.

You allowed yourself to get lost in his caring touch, hands coming up to rest against his chest as he continued to kiss you, the soft rumble of his own purr matching yours.

You were pulled out your trance when his stiff cock grazed your inner thigh, your cunt clenching in response quicker than you had even registered the touch,

Pulling back, your kept your hands at his chest to keep him back - looking up through your lashes.

You didn't say anything and neither did he as you slowly trailed your hand down, finger tips featherlight against his skin until you reached your goal.

You confidence dipped slightly when you took him in your hand, attempting to swallow down your nerves as you familiarised yourself with his size again.

From the growing smirk on his face, you could tell Miles could smell your nervousness a mile away - ears twitching before he dipped down to your neck.

'Still want me princess?' He spoke against your skin.

Your throat bobbed as your pressed your cheek against his head.

'Want you Miles, need you to..' You didn't finish, cheeks burning as your lightly tightened your grip around him.

His shudder shook you to your core, thighs twitching with the need to wrap around him.

'I know, can smell you from here.' You were grateful his teasing had passed, taking your hand off him and instead laying it against his side - pulling him closer between your legs.

You felt electric as he hands came up to your thighs, bringing each to either side of his slim waist and angling your hips up.

You gasped as his tip caught against your clit, stomach rippling as your core clenched down again.

'Relax.' Was all he said as he suddenly bit down on your neck, anchoring you to your place as he reached down and took himself in his hand - running the tip through your folds to open you back up.

You whined when he finally drew lower, hips cantering as he sunk into you - nails digging into his side when he didn't stop, stretching you open a lot more than you anticipated.

'M..Miles!' You bellowed, the mix of pleasure and pain perfect.

He groaned into you neck, teeth still lodged into you as he held you still - pushing himself further and further inside you until his hips were flush to yours.

'I can't, its too-'

'You can take it princess, settle down.' You didn't even feel him remove his fangs, face suddenly in front of yours as he swooped down and covered your mouth with his.

You whimpered when he drew back, hand on his chest coming up to claw as his neck.

Despite your sounds, he didn't stop - pace slow as your body finally accepted the intrusion, the feeling simmering down until you were knocked breathless.

'So fucking tight, sucking me in.' He released your lips, forehead pressed to yours as your noses brushed.

You thighs rippled from his thrusts, body moving back and forth as he sped up. ]

Throwing your head back, you moaned out - your clit sending shocks through you as his pelvis brushed against it again and again.

'Look at you taking me like such a good girl huh? You feel so good.' Miles looked down at where the two of you were connected, thighs bracketing his waist softening the blow of his hips against yours.

Once he felt you open up further for him, pussy finally allowing him some edge way - he sped up his pace, the loud slick sound of where you continuously met emitting in the air.

'Doing so well for me princess.' Unable to take your eyes not being on him, he removed the hand that was on your thigh - moving it behind your head to grip your kuru.

Your gasp made his ears perk up as he turned your attention back to him, your eyes completely fucked out as they landed back on him.

'Your mine - you watch me fuck this pussy until she finally gets it, understand?' He voice was scolding but his eyes were soft, the grip on your kuru tight but not painful.

Dominating in the exact way you needed it.

'Yes, yes..' You moaned back, hand moving to hold into his forearm - not clawing at him to let go but just a subtle way of telling him that you liked it.

Reading your body language, Miles smirked at you - other hand going to your waist to make you meet his thrusts, keeping your hips up so he was able to freely rock into you.

You furrowed your brows when you felt his hips changing angles, thrusting into you harder and harder until you felt it.

His tip suddenly brushed against that one part, the same area he had teased with his fingers earlier - except this time it was more powerful, more hungry.

You choked, eyes widening at the sudden pressure inside you - stomach twisting as if he was too deep inside you.

'Miles, Miles wait-'

'Fuck, found it.' He spoke to himself, fangs flashing as he grinned at you.

You weren't able to question him before he fucked into you harder, hand releasing your hair in favour of wrapping around your waist, dragging you closer to the edge and to him.

You suddenly found yourself laid once against across the rocks, belly up and your hips in the hands of Miles.

You could see and sense the shift in him, body moving faster between your legs as he fucked waves and wave of pleasure into you.

'Miles, please! I feel- it's too much please!' You words were muddled with a mix of English and Navi.

'Come on, come for me pretty girl - can feel you clenching down on me.' Miles' voice was firm and left no room for arguing, hips pistoling in and out to cement his words.

You could hear the water of the pool sloshing around, disturbed from Miles' nonstop humping as he threw you head first into your orgasm.

You cried out as you came, hips stuttering against his when he refused to stop - fucking you through your orgasm until your thighs were twitching in his hold.

And even then, he didn't stop - calling down to you to 'Keep going' and 'Look at you princess, so beautiful when you come.'

Your head felt heavy as you whimpered, overstimulation sending waves of exhaustion through your body as Miles continued to grind into you, hips slowing until finally he paused.

Miles watched as you lifted your arm and the rested it against you eyes - panting out like a cat in heat.

He suppressed a groan when he felt you continuously clench down on him, wall hugging tight as you came down from your high.

Moving so he was hovering over you, he kissed from your shuddering stomach to your sternum - feeling his tail sway in the water behind him in pride at having you so fucked out this early.

He rained praise down on your skin, watching as your chest began to slow down - breathes leaving your lips less irregularly and harsh.

His ears perked up when his eyes zeroed in on your exposed breasts, mouth grinding with the want to mark and bite into the soft flesh, knowing his claim would flash anyone if you so much as moved too much.

He didn't even notice the slight grind of his hips until you flung your arm away and gaped down at him, ears alert while his rested against his head.

You felt as if your whole body was on fire, lit from the inside as Miles stared down at you - his stare similar to a predator stalking its prey.

'Your doing so good, behaving so fucking well.' His soft words didn't match his hungry gaze, his hands moving to tighten their grip on your thighs.

'But we're not finished here princess.' You swallowed at the dip in his tone, staring into his eyes before you dipped your head and nodded, giving him the green light that he was free to use your body.

He was your mate, you wanted him to know that he owned every bit of you.

You saw the pride cloud over in his yellow eyes, face moving down to rain a few last kisses - stare still trained on you as he took the skin between his teeth.

You hissed as he sucked his mark on you, hands reaching to clutch at him.

You didn't notice the hand migrating from your thigh until it slipped under the arch in your back, palm flat to you as it pulled you towards him once more.

He didn't stop until you were sitting up again, flush to his chest as the hand on your back moved down to your thigh, grip so tight the pudge of your thigh spilled through his spread fingers.

You prepared yourself for his thrust, cunt spamming around him in want but you were surprised when it never came.

Instead you felt yourself being lifted higher, off the edge of the pool until you were being entirely supported by the hands on your thighs, gasping when you felt Miles shift around inside you, slipping even deeper.

You looked down at your stomach, mouth agape and half expecting there to be a bump from his intrusion.

'Too deep for you baby?'

You snapped your gazed back to Miles at his teasing tone, your hands holding tightly onto his broad shoulders before you dropped your head to his collar bone - panting out at the feeling of being over whelmed again so soon.

'Please move.' You spoke against his skin, your curiosity of how it would feel to have him buck into you at this position clouding your brain.

The words barely had a chance to leave your lips and sit in the air before he was moving again, the hands supporting you lifting you up and then dropping you back down.

'Mi-.. Miles!' You cried his name over and over again as he bounced you on his cock, your weight nothing in his hands as he used you.

You clawed at his back and the nape of his neck, nuzzling under his jaw as he fucked up, his chest rumbling below you with groans of his own.

'Pussy's so fucking good, should've fucked you back on that ship - let you moan your little heart out until everyone knew you fucking were mine.'

You whined at the imagery, nodded into his throat.

'Your never getting my scent off you princess, fucking drowning it in.' As if to support his words, you felt him lean down to nip at your neck - flat nose twitching against the raw and sensitive skin.

Triggered by his own words, he bounced you on him harder - his hips moving up at a faster pace - crude and obnoxiously loud slapping filling the air.

'Miles please, I need-' You tried, digging your claws harder into his skin until your felt it give way, body not even register that you had pierced skin.

Miles, from the sounds of it, didn't seem to mind - his groans only sounding louder as he rocked you up and down.

'You need to come agin baby? Gonna cover me again?' He bit down, repaying the favour sinking into your skin once the words left his lips.

'Yes, just- please!' You cried.

'Touch your little clit for me baby, come on-' He commanded once he had released your poor skin.

Obeying silently, your hand shook as you pulled it from around his back and down your brushing stomachs - crying out when your finger came in contact with the bud.

You pressed yourself harder into Miles' neck when you high rapidly built once again, fingers stuttering once again once it grew too much.

'Don't you dare fucking stop, keeping going.'

Using his forceful encouragement, you couldn't stop yourself from sinking your teeth into his neck as your high hit - hand automatically pulling away as soon as the sensitivity took over the pleasure.

However you weren't expecting Miles to suddenly move one arm under your ass, continuing to bounce your clenching cunt on him while his now free hand slid between you both and took over your abandoned job.

You practically screamed when he circled your overly sensitive clit, thumb forceful and not as forgiving as your hand.

'Miles! Mil- fuck! Please, its- pleaseplease' The unfamiliar word dropped from your mouth like nothing, brain not even picking up what you had said as you fell face first into another orgasm.

'Keeping coming for me princess, such a good fucking girl!' He panted into your neck - his hips stuttering against yours for the first time.

'Come on, come for me and I'll fill that pretty pussy.' He ordered, the arm supporting you slowing your bouncing until you were gently grinding against each other - hips jutting as your high too over.

Your retracted your fangs from Miles’ neck at the feeling of him coming inside you, pressure building in your stomach as he pumped load after load into you, the warmth seeping out around where he was still inside you and dripping into the pool.

The hand on your clit stopped, opting to instead just rest against it as it thrummed against the pads of his fingers.

He didn’t stop moving you until you both shuddered with overstimulation, his cock twitching inside you as it spluttered what last of what he had to give.

Dropping against him, your heart hammered against your chest - nipples hard as they brushed against his chest.

‘Breathe baby, thats it princess.' You felt him planting kisses along your neck and the side of your face, panting against you as he himself came down from his high.

'It's okay, your safe.' He repeated, kissing over you ear .

You whined when you felt him remove his hand from your delicate clit, moving back to your thigh as he cupped both again like before - pressing you further into him and hugging you close.

Once you had caught your breath, you repeated his treatment - nosing over his skin and layering kisses over the bruised areas.

You purred when you smelled that his scent was muddled with yours, the mix delicious as you breathed it in .

'Smell yourself?' You felt Miles chuckle against you, jolting against him slightly when you suddenly felt his tail creep up and around your thigh.

You shivered as it coiled around you, the tuff of hair at the end wet from the pool you were still in as it raised goosebumps along your skin.

'Smells like us.' You murmured, breathing out as you felt your eyelids droop - waves of exhaustion finally catching up to you.

Miles felt you slowly going limp again, smile of pride etching onto his face as he carefully lifted you, hisses leaving both of you as he slipped out of you.

He hushed you quietly when your stirred, thighs twitching around him.

He turned with you in his arms and walked back to the entrance of the pool, the water rippling as he stepped out.

The soft gusts of wind helped to cool his risen body temperature as the droplets along his skin cooled and dripped off.

He held you tight, placing occasionally kisses whenever he felt like his lips had spend too long away from your skin.

He carried you until he got to the open beach, eyes scanning the open plain to deem the area safe enough for you both to rest before keeling on the sand.

There was still water coming in from the ocean, leaving about two inches of water over the almost white sand but Miles sat anyways, dragging your body with him until you were in his lap.

You had moaned the whole time he had shifted you, but didn't fight or complain.

Miles felt his ego flare at the fact that he really was able to do anything he wanted to you, your pliant body his for the taking - that you trusted him enough.

He was your mate.

The thought lingered as he huddled you closer, pulling until you were kneeled over him - thighs on either side of his hips, chest glued to his and your face under his jaw.

He had never felt so light, his mind coming up short when he searched for a moment in his past life where the feeling in his chest was the same.

It was peaceful.

You were his peace.

'Miles?'

He didn't hesitate to look down at you, brows already furrowing at the meekness in your voice.

'What's wrong?' His eyes darted along your face before moving to your neck, searching for anything that could've been causing you pain.

You shook your head before you looked up at him, eyes connecting as you watched him.

'What do we do now?' You tone was unsure, lips pouted in worry.

Miles couldn't stop himself from leaning down and capturing your plump lips in his, kissing away the growing anxiety as he cupped your jaw - tilting you head up for better access.

'You’re okay princess, I'll sort everything out.' His voice was low to not startle you once he pulled away, pecking your twitching nose as you continued to stare at him.

You didn't respond for a beat, searching his eyes before nodding silently - ears bowing in submission to your mate.

'I trust you.'