#spyderway

Two weeks later

O’txoa decided, without reservation, that she was sick of her twin.

Not merely mildly irritated, nor momentarily annoyed: truly sick of him.

Her anger with O’emey was usually a soft thing, slow to grow and quick to fade. A familiar swell that rises and ebbs like the tide, so easily worn down by his stubborn loyalty and the quiet, aching protectiveness that seemed neverending; always watching as though the word were waiting for a moment of inattention in which it’d sweep her away.

Usually she endured it well enough, but this time? She could not.

He had crossed some invisible line and she felt it keenly. Since he had begun spending every day with Aonung, O’emey had become quicker to anger, and since the new arrivals settled into the reef he’d become unbearable. He tracked her movements with maddening persistence, never quite in her space and yet never far away enough to forget. If she left the marui, he followed, and if she lingered near the waters he hovered close by. All because Aonung, and by extension him, had decided that Toruk Makto’s children were strange (which they were) and therefore dangerous (couldn’t be furthest from the truth). O’emey had taken this opinion and folded it neatly to accompany his own sense duty.

Sempu did not agree.

O’nun had softened after meeting Jake Sully, the silent suspicion he’d held eased into a more measured apprehension. From the little he had said of the man, he found him respectful and capable; and no Toruk Makto would need to prove strength to anyone. As the clan grew more accustomed to the family’s presence, and sempu was needed to frequently to speak with the warriors, the responsibility of “watching” O’txoa had shifted right over. Back to O’emey.

The realisation made her bristle.

She was no child; she was not delicate sea shell to be set aside for safekeeping. She was her own person and she refused to be managed like a task or an obligation by her overbearing, territorial skxawng of a twin-

…right up until she discovered that sticking close to him and his friends meant she had a much higher chance of spotting the Sully family.

Deeply irritating an understanding, but extremely useful.

Tsireya was still tasked with helping the newcomers adapt to Awa’atlu, which meant that if she endured her brother’s hovering presence, and the way his friends had began to linger far too close, she might catch glimpses of the newcomers as they moved through their day to day. She had absolutely no interest in the boys around her; none in the slightest. The fact that many of them were nearing iknimaya and had suddenly become acutely aware of their eligibility as potential mates left her unmoved. Their kindness felt rehearsed, self-conscious, and totally hollow.

She tolerated it all, even if only for information, mainly because every time she asked Tsireya a simple question about the Sullys, her friend dissolved into giddy nonsense. She’d gush about the younger brother; his lingering looks, his courage, how he smiled when he was embarrassed, and his determination to get better and stop having to go to the surface to soon.

O’txoa had stared at her, incredulous.

By Eywa.

She did not care about that.

She wanted to know about what the girl had heard about the jungle. She was desperate for stories of ikran roosts high in the mountains and pa’li hooves rolling across open plains. She wanted to hear about weaving techniques, beadwork, the cadence of their songs and how they differed from her own. She wanted stories, history, movement!

Not a detailed account of a skinny forest boy nearly drowning.

So she rode Antxu alongside her brother, dove beneath the water while he hunted and sang softly toherself as she gathered shells, stones, and unfamiliar bits of flora that looked promising for weaving. It was good practice in testing her memory for the clan’s songs. She might not have the long waytelem to drape over her lap as she sang, but she at least figured that she knew the first 10 beads by memory without aid. Honestly, she had much to learn still.

With all her undercover efforts, she’d managed to amass a small hoard in their marui; rare shells, polished coral, piles of cleaned, dried and treated fibres.

Sempu only ended up noticing when O’txoa nearly collided with him.

She caught herself at the last moment, tail flicking for balance as the precarious armful she carried shifted dangerously. Fibres spilled over her forearms in sun-dried loops, colours from deep greens to pale yellows and vibrant orange.

She froze, peeking around the bundle. O’nun blinked once, before laughing, causing her ears to heat up and pin back in mild frustration. The corners of his eyes crinkled as he took her in.

“That’s a lot,” he said, amused. “Are you moving out the marui, or… because I’ll have to stop you.”

O’txoa tightened her grip, small noise escaping as another bundle slipped. “I am okay,” she insisted, though her arms were trembling. “I just need to put them away.”

“Mmh.” He smiled openly now, impressed rather than doubtful. His gaze flicked over the materials, taking in the various types of weed. “You’ve been busy, then.”

She shifted her weight. “Just… gathering.”

“Clearly.” He chuckled again, softer this time. “I was worried that Ey had been crowding you too much. Making things difficult.” His eyes returned to her face, pleased. “But this is good. Good job. You’ve been doing very well for yourself.”

She had to bite down hard on the inside of her cheek. Because what? The reason she had all of this was-Never mind. Looking at the relief on her sempu’s face, she didn’t have the heart to break his happiness.

She managed a smile, small and bashful over the wobbling pile in her arms. “I try.”

O’nun’s leaned closer, reaching out without hesitation. His fingers gently tugged something free from her hair. He lifted the piece of coral between them, inspecting it briefly before snorting and throwing it to one side. Then, smoothly, he took the entire armful from her, settling easily against his chest as if they weighed nothing at all. He adjusted his grip and glanced down at her, still smiling.

“So,” he said lightly, “where do you want them?”

O’txoa exhaled, relief rushing through her limbs, and smiled back.

⸙༄

O’emey’s voice was grating as it rang in her ear.

He had insisted she come along, tugging her from the marui after his friends rose just after dawn to go hunt. A small one, nothing dangerous and nothing that could take a whole day, going just beyond the reef where the water deepened and the currents were a little stronger. Spears were checked, nets secured, and the boys’ voices murmured in low, focused tones. Just as soon as she was dragged from her comfortable marui, she was given instructions. They told her to stay there near the mouth of the reef and not follow, that they’d be quick.

“We will be back, Txoa,” O’emey breathed, pointing to the jagged rocks near a few flat slabs on the horizon, “It’s just hammerbrow. Olo’eyktan mentioned there’s a shortage, so Aonung was asked to get us together and gather a few. You will stay.”

“You are no warrior, Rolyutsyìp [little singer],” Ena'txu grinned as he tilted his head to meet her eye, tying his long hair into a bun.

He’s pushed out the way by a familiar face, who gestures for the group to get going; Ena’txu rolling his eyes and urging his ilu to move, swiftly followed by Rotxo and Rolo.

“You will not be risked” Aonung adds with a level look, tying a final net to his hip, “My father would skin me if we lost you.”

Usually, the explanation dropped like a heavy stone. She noddde, outwardly compliant even as she inwardly bristled. Her gentleness did not mean she was fragile. Ask Tsireya - she’s still got a bruise from O’txoa’s tail after she mentioned Lo’ak for the 10th time in one conversation. Plus, her acceptance of her situation certainly didn’t not mean she was incapable of dealing with it herself.

But today she accepted it with gratitude.

The moment their figures blurred into the deeper blue and their voices faded into distance, the tension in her shoulders lifted. She sighed.

O’txoa climbed onto a sun-warmed shelf of stone at the edge of the reef and let herself simply be. Antxu drifted close at once, sensing the shift in her mood, lifting his broad head until it rested comfortably against her thighs. She smiled, fingers moving automatically to trace the smooth lines of his skull.

She leaned back, supported by a hand, and closed her eyes.

The breeze skimmed over her skin, tugging at damp hair and drying salt along her skin. The ocean hushed around her; gentle waves, distant calls, the low rhythm of life continuing without urgency. He breathing slowed and she let her thoughts quieten.

For a perfect moment in time, she was entirely at peace.

“O’TXOA!”

Her eyes flew open.

She turned toward the sound, squinting as the light shifted. There, waist-deep in the shallows, was Tsireya. Her arms were raised high, waving with unmistakable excitement, her grin so wide it looked as though it might split her face in two.

O’txoa laughed softly and lifted a hand in reply.

Then she saw them.

Three ilus glided in beside Tsireya, their sleek forms cutting through the water. They hovered close, alert but calm, their riders’ silhouettes unmistakable even at a distance.

Her smile stayed in place, but her breath slowed.

Tsireya beckoned eagerly, bouncing in place, and Antxu trilled beneath her hands. O’txoa rose smoothly to her feet, schooling her expression carefully. She refused, absolutely refused, to let her delight show too obviously. She would not betray just how elated she is at this opportunity.

Sliding back into the water felt like slipping back into herself. Antxu dipped beneath the surface at her unspoken cue, and she followed hands-first, silent and fluid. She mounted him underwater, legs folding against his sides, and guided him forward, eyes tracking shadows rather than faces until they drew close.

Only when she was close did she surface.

Water streamed down her hair and lashes as she blinked, lifting one hand to sweep the damp weight over her shoulder. With the other, she touched her forehead in greeting, posture respectful and composed.

“Oel ngati kameie.”

They mirrored the gesture without hesitation.

“This is my friend,” Tsireya announced proudly, gesturing between them. “She is to be the next Olo'rolyu.”

Her eyes sparkled with teasing delight, face open with a conspiring smile as she looked between her friend and the group.

O’txoa hummed, heat flushing her cheeks as she shot Tsireya a look that was half warning and half fond resignation. Then she turned back, placing a hand to her chest.

“O’txoa te Ao’wahi Malu’ite,” she said softly. “And you?”

Introductions flowed easily.

“Lo’ak te Suli Tsyeyk’itan.”

She nodded politely, gaze flicking onward and catching on the next boy. He stood slightly apart, a battle band crossing his chest, posture easy but watchful. He carried much of his mother in his features, and his father in his stance. When his eyes met hers, he smiled.

It was the same smile as before and, again, she couldn’t help but answer it.

“Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk’itan,” he said.

She nodded, forcing herself to look away before the moment lingered too long. Despite this, the girl beside him smirked faintly, clearly having noticed.

“Kiri te Suli Kìreysì’ite,” she added, arms crossed and hip cocked. “And before you ask about my name- I’m adopted.”

O’txoa blinked, surprised into stillness, before she chuckled. She hadn’t been about to ask, and she inclined her head.

“I am too,” she said honestly. “In a way. My brother raised me. It is not against our nature to be raised by someone who isn’t a parent.”

Kiri’s expression softened, and she reached up to play with a few beads in her short hair. O’txoa realised that she was considerably more strange in appearance than the others.. but there was an air-like beauty to her. She decided she liked Kiri very much.

Tsireya launched into explanation, words tumbling over one another as she described her efforts to teach them to dive properly; how they struggled with breath control, how some picked it up quickly and others… not so much. She admitted, sheepish but hopeful, that she’d thought to ask the clan’s best swimmer (well done Tsireya, you’ve learnt how to appeal to ego) for help.

“Have you tried the breathing method?” she asked, placing a hand at her stomach.

“Kiri’s good, a natural even,” Tsireya nodded, glancing at her, before gesturing to the other two, “But they keep panicking when at a certain depth.”

O’txoa worried her lower lip for a moment and glanced toward the horizon, where those rocks jutted from the waters. O’emey would return soon… but he didn’t need to know.

She turned back to them, and this time her smile was bright and unguarded.

“Come,” she said gently. “I know a good place to practice.”

They guided their mounts into a narrow cut in the reef. Coral walls curved inward like cupped hands, sheltering a basin of water so clear it looked almost unreal; glass-smooth at the surface, shimmering with pale light beneath. Beyond the inlet’s mouth, waves rolled and broke with their usual insistence, but here the sound dulled to a low murmur. Thin threads of steam curled lazily from fractures in the stone, warmth seeping up from deep below. The air smelled different here, much heavier with salt.

Tsireya’s face transformed the moment she saw it.

“Oh,” she breathed, delighted. “This is perfect.”

O’txoa felt a quiet swell of pride as she treaded water, Antxu circling her once after she broke tsaheylu before settling just beyond the inlet. “It’s meant for rest,” she explained. “The rocks below are warm, and the salt is thicker here.” She gestured slightly with one hand, indicating the basin. “If someone panics, the water helps. It lifts.”

The Sully children were visibly intrigued. Lo’ak looked like he was barely containing himself, whereas Kiri had gone quiet, smiling as she peered through the surface. Neteyam, meanwhile, had already disconnected his tsaheylu. He slipped from his ilu, entering the water and treading easily as the creature veered away.

O’txoa turned to him. “Will your little sister join us?”

“Not today,” Tsireya said lightly, answering for him as she urged Lo’ak’s ilu to leave the area. “She’s busy.”

“She’s helping our sa’nok gather,” Neteyam added.

O’txoa nodded once. Then her gaze flicked back to Tsireya, something playful sparking there as they met one another’s eye. Before anyone could comment, she dove.

The water swallowed her in an instant; cold first, before warmth bloomed beneath it, salt-heavy and buoyant. There was more resistance to swimming here, but the water hugged her with kinder touch. It supported her weight, cradling her movement despite it’s urges for her to rise. She cut through it cleanly, hair streaming behind her, a silent laugh shaking her shoulders as she heard Tsireya plunge in after her without hesitation.

Above, muffled yelps and splashes echoed down.

O’txoa leveled out beneath them, hovering just below the surface as she looked up through the wavering light. The Sully kids had held their breath and sunk slightly, eyes wide as they watched. She wove a slow circle around them, graceful and unhurried, then turned and pointed down.

Kiri responded instantly, grin flashing before she dove. Her own body was quick, slicing through the water with surprising grace. Lo’ak followed a heartbeat later, far faster than O’txoa had expected; confident, a little reckless, with movement driven by momentum rather than the proper technique.

Neteyam came last.

Much more slowly.

Her head tilted, lips pursing slightly in thought. He should have had the advantage; his build, his training, and the confidence implied by his battle band. But the movement didn’t flow with him the way it did the others. His arms moved correctly, his legs kicked well enough, but there was no flow. His hips weren’t turning with the current and his tail moved against it instead of with it.

The water did not welcome him because he didn’t give himself to it.

He looked at her.

She smiled, encouraging.

He tried to return it too quickly.

His mouth opened, a little too wide and with one choke his breath broke and he coughed hard.

Oh no.

O’txoa reacted without thinking, body turning as she surged toward him. She slipped beneath his arms, bracing her forearms under his shoulders as he went stiff. She wasn’t strong enough to lift him outright, but the buoyant water helped. She kicked hard, angling them both upward.

Light rushed closer.

They broke the surface together and Neteyam came up coughing, water spilling from his mouth as his chest hitched with the effort of pulling air back into his lungs. He sputtered once, twice, and then again, until the panic began to ebb.

Her hands pressed flat to his chest without hesitation, feeling the wild, uneven thrum beneath his ribs. Satisfied he was breathing, she shifted closer and moved her hands to pat his cheeks lightly in small slaps; quick, practiced touches meant to chase the cold and shock away.

“Neteyam,” she said, voice taut with concern, looking over his face. “Are you all right? You breathed water, didn’t you?”

He blinked at her, disoriented for a heartbeat, then drew in a deeper breath. The strain eased from his shoulders as an embarrassed, breathless smile tugged at his mouth. Colour deepened along his cheeks in embarrassment and exhaustion.

“I’m- I am okay,” he cleared his throat, forcing a steadier inhale. “I’m sorry.”

She hissed softly, half a scold. “Do not apologize. It happens. A rookie mistake.”

His ears flicked back, sheepish.

Her expression softened immediately after, mouth curving into a small, reassuring smile.

That was when she noticed her hands. Pale teal fingers, still bracketed his dark blue cheeks, a thumb resting far too close to the corner of his mouth. Heat surged up her neck in an instant. She pulled back too sudden, clearing her throat and humming under her breath as if that might smooth over the sudden awareness burning through her.

“Did you inhale much?” she asked, eyes returning to his face, deliberately focused.

He shook his head, gaze dropping. “Only the first breath. Then I held it.” A pause. “Thank you. For helping me.”

“There’s nothing to thank me for,” she replied, waving it away with a small flick of her wrist. “You’re here to learn.”

She studied him for a moment longer, thoughtful, then added carefully, “But… you might need a bit more guidance on breathing, and letting the water carry you. I do not think you trust it, or your body, enough yet.”

His shoulders dipped, the hint of shame flashing across his expression.

She didn’t like it.

O’txoa leaned closer again, nudging his shoulder as his eyes lifted back to hers. “You weren’t doing badly, Neteyam,” she said, warm and sure. “Eywa didn’t shape you for the sea. I wouldn’t expect even the strongest Metkayina to move like Kiri does. And Lo’ak has a very… enthusiastic teacher helping him.”

Neteyam huffed a laugh, glancing downward to the sea, then back to the maruis, before looking at her again.

“You noticed too?”

O’txoa snorted, rolling her eyes. “I have been asking Tsireya about your forests since the day she began teaching you. All I ever hear is Lo’ak this, Lo’ak that. How brave he is. How fast he learns. How cute he looks when he nearly drowns.”

Neteyam’s focus didn’t drift, an indulgent smile on his face as he listened intently. Her skin prickled pleasantly under his attention. Swallowing, she mustered up the courage remaining. She just saved his life, she supposed, she should be able to ask a question.

“Could you tell me about them?” she asked, eyes darting away in hesitance. “The animals. Your clan.”

When she looked back, his grin widened, and he gave her a once over. “You want to hear about the forest?”

Her certainty wavered just a touch, feeling suddenly very hot. “Well… your ikran is beautiful. And the weaving the Wind Traders bring is always stunning. I hear pieces of stories… but never from someone who’s lived there.”

Neteyam opened his mouth to answer-

“O’TXOA!”

The shout cracked across the inlet and she froze. Her head snapped toward the sound, heart dropping straight into her stomach.

“What in Eywa’s name are you doing? I told you to stay put!”

O’emey’s voice was sharp with fury, carrying easily over the water. O’txoa’s ears pinned back instinctively as she saw him veer away from his hunting group, riding Noxu hard toward them. The mood of the inlet shifted immediately, bodies tensing.

Neteyam frowned, reading her posture in an instant. Despite the lingering tightness in his breathing, he shifted, deliberately placing himself half a breath in front of her.

Noxu skidded to a stop several lengths away, water churning violently around his fins. O’emey sat tall on his ilu, jaw clenched, eyes blazing as they locked onto Neteyam. Antxu, blissfully oblivious, chirped cheerfully from the reef edge and swam over, bumping noses with Noxu before circling back to O’txoa. The contrast was absurd.

Neteyam glanced over his shoulder at her as he nodded his head in O’emey’s direction, irritation threading his voice. “You know this skxawng?”

O’emey’s stare was angered; shoulders squared and tail lashing in short, sharp arcs.

The stretch of water between the two boys suddenly felt far too small.

A/n: Kaltxi! As promised, here is the rest of what my end of week writing spritz produced - a little early! I am pretty overwhelmed by some of the love I've been receiving across platforms, and am incredibly greateful for any any all interactions! Poor Neteyam embarrassing himself in his first proper interaction with O'txoa. I fully expect you guys to have pictured her patting Neteyam's cheeks like seals do with their flippers, by the way. And that pile of fibres in the marui quite genuinely takes up an entire storage nook (and some). It's above her head in height. (O'emey means well, I swear, but how do you think this is going to turn out?)

Please inform me if you'd like to be added to the tagslist! Any feedback about the writing, story or characters is much appreciated! <3

2160

By the time the twins reached their fourth year, O’nun had turned eighteen. The boy who once sat on the shoreline threading beads with salt-stung fingers had developed into a weightier presence.

He had grown tall, his frame broad and solid and the build of a seasoned Metkayina hunter despite not having completed his iknimaya. Strength had come to him through labour and responsibility; hauling fishing nets until his shoulders burned, wrestling struggling prey from the water, lifting and carrying two children who seemed to grow heavier by the season. His skin remained unmarked by tattoo or rite, but scars traced his sides and legs, all evidence of hunts joined with pure intent to feed his little family.

His features had widened with age, too. A broad nose, high cheekbones, and a heavy brow gave him a watchful, guarded expression. His eyes, once brighter, had deepened into a pale teal-green that echoed his mother’s gaze; sharp and observant. His dark curls fell freely around his face, unbraided in the way his father’s had once been, save for the single braid at his kuru. That was threaded with a handful of worn beads he had never quite found the will to remove.

The clan noticed him.

They did not often speak their regard aloud directly to him, but it was present all the same. The elders asked for his aid in debates, the hunters sought his judgment, and Tonowari’s gaze when O’nun passed had become more than familiar. Well, that and the rumour mill that the Metkayina were so famed for. But, he was reliable and he was capable.

And everyone understood why his iknimaya had been delayed. everyone knew about the children.

O’emey grew to be a child of relentless energy. He was strong for his age, constantly in motion, driven by a temper and determination that outpaced his small body in drives. He rarely went anywhere without his sister, holding tightly to her wrist as though she might disappear if he released her. His large see-grass green eyes, likely inherited from Malu’s family, were often narrowed in a scowl, and his frustration surfaced quickly.

O’nun had learned that words alone were useless with O’emey. On more than one occasion, he was forced to lift the boy up by the shoulders and hold him there until the fire drained from his limbs, his anger replaced by mortified silence as he was brandished in his shame to passers by. It was undignified, effective, and the only correction that seemed to reach his thick skull.

O’txoa could not have been more different.

She was quiet, observant, and deliberate in her movements. Her eyes were a deep, familiar blue, the same shade O’nun had once known in her father, and when her tubby cheeks bunched up as she smiled, his check ached impossibly. She bore O’weanu’s likeness clearly; the shape of her jaw, the line of her lashes, the calm handsomeness that had once drawn his father much admiration from the clan.

When it was just the three of them, she came alive. She hummed softly while playing with shells, followed O’nun with the upmost devotion as he worked, and insisted on helping even when she misunderstood what was needed. She offered fishhooks when he asked for cloth, or shells when he needed water, always with solemn nod, as though yes, of course she was helping.

In the presence of others was when she withdrew.

She pressed herself against O’nun’s side, little fingers locked around his leg or hand, hiding her face against him even as her brother whined for her to join his games with his friends. She had spoken earlier than O’emey, but she seemed determined to use it sparingly. Instead, she communicated through closeness and exhasperated looks, scaling him to climb up into his arms without request.

Her first stumbled word had been ilu, stumbled out of her mouth not minutes before her brother's screech of the word 'no' when he'd been splashed with water.

Her second had been sempu.

The sound of it had settled deep in O’nun’s heart and brought out feelings he had no name for and no way to set aside. Love came first, sharp and instinctive, but guilt followed, just as swiftly. That word did not belong to him. It should have belonged to another; to the man whose absence still shaped their lives and the very features of them, who they should have known. To his sempul. Every time O’txoa said it, O’nun felt as though he were reaching for something sacred that was not meant to be taken, as though he were standing in a place his father should have stood and unnaturally forcing the world to accept the lacking substitution.

And yet; he had wanted it.

Not the title itself, but what it meant to be called it. The acknowledgment, to him, that what he was doing was not just an obligation. He wasn't an older brother tasked with watching children while their parents hunted and lived their lives. The People praised him often for his devotion, for his care and long nights awake, for his patience, for being such a good older brother. Of course, help had been offered. He had never truly been totally abandoned to the task, Tonowari himself had made sure of that; even when his own mate, the Tsahìk Ronal, had only recently given birth. Still, admitting that he needed that help, that he could not do this alone, felt uncomfortably close to admitting weakness.

Because he was not only watching them. He was providing and protecting, choosing their needs over his own, every day, without ceremony or personal recognition. He was the one who stayed when they cried, who measured the world for them, who made the start of their songcords, crying in the marui as they slept. Brother, guardian, provider; all roles that blurred together until the difference no longer mattered.

So when O’txoa said sempu, it tasted both bitter and sweet. It filled him with dread and with something dangerously close to pride. He did not correct her, he never had and he never would. The word frightened him, but it also named a truth he could no longer deny; he was their parent and every day he held that position of father just as much as any other man in Awa'atlu.

O’emey, eventually, grew to call him tsmukan. He was unsure as to why, though he suspected it was due to him running off with his friends all the time, who all referred to O'nun as O'emey's older brother. The boy probably caught on from there.

O’txoa, though, still called him father.

O’nun, whether he had chosen it or not, had more than grown in to the role. His own friends would poke fun, with their tattooed arms and their mates, that he acted almost as worn down as their own sempuls. He would bat their hands away, grumbling and telling them their acting like skxawngs and to stop bothering the 'old man', and it became a begrudging nickname.

The past year had changed him more than any before it. The more of his friends who crossed into official adulthood and entertained mates, the less he spoke, the less he involved himself, and the more he merely observed.

At night, O’emey's little body slept closest, clinging to him with the desperation the little akula tried to hide during the day. When O’nun left, even briefly, it was O’emey who waited at the edge of the marui, watching until he returned, his mouth set tight with the effort not to cry as his sister continued, unbothered, playing with her shells.

So O’nun stayed.

The Olo'eyktan had urged him to take his iknimaya, promising support, promising that others would watch the children while he completed the proper rites over the course of a few months. O’nun had listened respectfully, and he had thanked the Olo’eyktan... and then he had postponed it once more.

With the rites would come greater expectation. There would be longer hunts in deeper waters. More absence that O’txoa and O’emey were not ready for, and he honestly might not be either (an admittance that humbled him to no end).

It did hurt.

O’nun was aware of what he had set aside. The men his age already bore their marks, already stood as full hunters, already spoke of mates, had mates, and clear futures. So, sometimes, in the quiet hours of night with a tiny body sleeping on either side of him, he felt a subdued mourning for the life he might have known.

But when O’txoa’s fingers curled into his hair as she drifted to sleep, and when O’emey’s breathing steadied against his chest, all of that eased away into sleep.

⸙༄

2163

As the twins turned seven, O’nun finally allowed himself to pass the rites of his iknimaya.

By then, the children no longer moved through Awa’atlu as though the paths might collapse beneath their feet. They ran the woven surfaces with confidence, bare skin catching faint traces of light as dusk settled, laughter ringing freely between the roots of the marui. When they fell, and they did, they rose again without his aid and without tears, brushing themselves off with only a huff of indignation or a small grumble, before continuing onwards.

They tied their own waytelems now. O’emey fought his cord at every turn, muttering loudly about stubborn knots and beads that refused to behave, and 'how in Eywa's name was he meant to attach that?'. On the flipside, O’txoa worked in calm amusement, a smile on her face as she hummed and poked fun at her twin's struggles. When they were finished adding whatever item they deemed necessary, they presented their cords to O’nun with unmistakable pride, shoulders squared and eyes bright.

He had smiled until his cheeks ached, a large hand stroking their hair and asking with intrigue what each thing was meant to be.

With that threshold crossed, the tense apprehension that had been so present inside him had loosened. For the first time in years, his attention could turn fully inward; to the rites he had postponed and the path he had held at arm’s length for so long.

Most of the trials were already behind him. He had completed many alongside his spirit brother during the last calf communion, and Eywa had tested him deeply in those moments; through endurance and through humility, discerning the strength of his bond. Only one piece remained unfinished.

His tattoos.

For those, he would have to wait.

The tulkun had not yet returned for the current season’s communion, and without them the ceremony could not be completed. O’nun felt their absence keenly, not merely for the sake of the rite, but for the ache of separation itself. His spirit brother lingered vividly in memory; vast and impossibly gentle. The thought of hearing his voice again, of feeling that presence alongside his own was impossibly comforting.

Tìlìk, too, was nearing her end.

His ilu had slowed with age, her movements no longer sharp, her once-sleek form softened by time. It wasn't rare for a rider's first ilu to pass around their twenties, but it was still a sad thought. She still greeted him with familiar chirps, still followed him faithfully through the shallows, but O’nun knew it was soon. This time, he did not turn from the knowledge and he was not afraid of it. He had, slightly guiltily, already chosen her successor; a burnt-orange winged tsurak that was yet unbonded.

He would wait, though, even if only out of his love for her.

The children, meanwhile, had claimed their own ilus.

O’emey bonded with a black-backed calf streaked with green bleeding into white along his belly. He named him Noxu, and from the moment the bond was sealed, O’emey seemed incapable of staying on land. He tore across the water with reckless joy, laughter carrying across the reef, daring the sea to challenge him.

O’txoa’s bond came soon after. For a brief while, the attention made her glow. Then it receded, and she with it, slipping gently to the edges of the group, choosing tidepools over races and elders’ weaving circles over children’s games. She was not friendless; Tsireya stayed close when she could, kind and bright and steady in her presence. Still, O’nun could never quite tell whether the bond was born of choice or simply expectation from her parents. Plus, the other children did like O’txoa, but she never quite belonged among them.

In the water, though, she was something else entirely. There, she moved with certainty; clean, instinctive lines, her smile unguarded and brilliant as she cut through open blue. Watching her swim sometimes caught O’nun unprepared, pride tangling with a quiet unease. That which was developed over the years as she had grown and he had noticed small differences: a tail narrower than expected, strakes less pronounced, a frame more compact.

She was faster, sure, but it was a much slower growth than her brother, who was more than stocky in his group of children.

He told himself it was nothing more than the variation between twins, that her strength simply expressed itself differently. It was easier than lingering on the chill of worry that crept in when he watched her too closely; that maybe being born smaller had meant that she didn't receive the right amount of health from their mother. Or maybe he had fed her the wrong things.

However, O’txoa would have to navigate it herself.

And she had Antxu. Her ilu calf was dark gray, nearly black in places, patterned with pale yellow tracing his fins and spine lined in little marks. He was steady, attentive, and wholly devoted to her. Watching the two together made O'nun worry a little less, and O'emey less grumpy when she ignored him to go off by herself.

As for O’nun himself?

He had hit a complication.

Now that the completion of his iknimaya was clearly within reach, attention followed him everywhere; smiles lingered, conversations stretched longer than necessary. Two of the most beautiful women in the clan had openly wagered over how long it would take before one of them claimed him.

He attempted to laugh it off.

He flirted carefully and lightly when attention was given, because outright refusal felt unkind, but each retreat left him flustered, heart racing and breath unsteady. One wide, hopeful look was enough to send panic fluttering through his chest and down his legs.

He could face down deep-water predators without hesitation, but he could not endure being wanted.

Despite this, his clear fluster only encouraged them more. A passing smile became an invitation, and a kind word became rumour. He once overheard Saeya, the best weaver in the clan Saeya, boasting that he had gone out of his way to help her that morning.

He remembered it ever so slightly differently.

She had nearly dropped four rolls of woven cloth into the water. He had asked, politely, from where he sat sharpening spears beside O’emey, whether she needed help.

She had said no and continued on with what had appeared like a slight offence (which he had even cursed at himself for in case she felt slighted). Still, the story had grown.

If he withdrew, he became a prize and if he was kind he became something to be pursued.

The other warriors teased him, clapped his shoulders, urged him to choose the most beautiful, Pri’ani, surely, and be done with it.

O’nun would simply smile and change the subject. Because, on this topic, he knew he (and he alone) was not ready.

He passed his iknimaya in the end.

There had never truly been any doubt about that part. O’nun met his last trial the way he had met everything else life had placed before him; steadily and without spectacle. When he emerged from the final test, lungs burning and skin crusted with salt from the deeper waters, the elders’ judgment was already settled. Their approval was unquestioned and they had smiled as they brought him in for embrace.

Still, it was really the tattoos that made it undeniable.

Three marks darkened his skin now, the ink fresh and tender, pulling faintly when he moved. Most men bore a single marking upon completion of their rites, simply a clean declaration of adulthood, but O'nun had lived longer than them and his body had more to tell for itself.

The first tattoo traced the completion of his iknimaya itself; a bold line beginning beneath the right side of his jaw, climbing along his cheek to his forehead before cutting cleanly down the bridge of his nose, ending in a sharp point. The second lay across his right shoulder, sweeping over the trapezius in a heavy, deliberate pattern. It was meant to represent the weight he had shoulders in his years spent providing in the place of his parents. The last was that of a warrior; a traditional sleeve spanning his upper arm, fanning across the shoulder and cutting over the top of his chest. It balanced the others, binding them together into a single narrative.

When he finally saw himself reflected back, he felt a final recognition.

For the Calf Communion, he allowed O’txoa to braid his hair, sitting patiently as she worked with firm care. Her fingers moved confidently, smoothing each section with painstaking efficiency, but she talked and talked the entire time she did so. More than she ever had in one go; all for pure excitement that he was to be going out for the night.

"I heard there was steamed leaf," she had whispered, after he voiced doubts about going, "Sa'ti told me her sa'nok was helping make the batch and Tsireya said it was spicy. Sempu you like spice."

And, well, he couldn't argue there.

O’emey himself was unbearable with pride for his older brother, dragging friends over by the arm to point out O’nun’s tattoos, boasting loudly as though he himself had earned them. When he finally grew bored and ran off to play, he pulled O’txoa along with him by the wrist. She went without resistance, glancing back only once, smiling softly before disappearing into the crowd of children. O’nun watched them go, warmth settling deep in his chest.

That evening, he ate with the warriors.

Tonowari was present at the gathering, but only briefly. Ronal caught his eye, crooked a finger with unmistakable intent, and the Olo’eyktan rose without protest, laughter and whistles following him as he was led away. O’nun laughed with the others, leaning back and letting the night settle over him. Above, stars scattered across the sky, mirrored faintly in the dark water below. He let the hair that was loose fall down his back and breathed deeply, air heavy with the spices of good food and the clean wind from the sea.

Ta’tuno nudged him with an elbow. “Stop brooding,” the younger man teased, grinning. “Your kids are fine. Enjoy the night.”

Ta’tuno was two years younger, already mated to a fisher woman called Kemani, his braids bound with dried leaves she had woven herself. Small beads clicked softly in his hair when he moved. O’nun hissed playfully and swatted him away before straightening.

“Careful,” he hummed, reaching for more food. “You’ll suffocate under all that.”

His eyes darted down to the thick layers the Na'vi man was wearing, multiple shades of blue that looked stylish, but were more suited to a Wind Trader than any Reef Na'vi.

Ta’tuno flushed a deeper tone. “Kemani worries,” he said defensively. “I caught that nose sickness this time last communion. She won’t let me out uncovered.”

Then, he nudged O’nun’s thigh with his knee, grinning openly. “I was starting to think you’d hide until the stars burned out,” he said. “You know you are a man now, whether you turn up to your own celebration or not.”

O’nun snorted, tearing into a strip of fish with his teeth.

Before O’nun could respond, three more joined them, lowering themselves onto the marui beside them. The first was Ralu, broad even by Metkayina standards, his shoulders scarred and his laugh louder than drums. He was older, in his fourties, and his mate Tsaral moved with far less proudness but just as much excitement, eyes shining and observant beneath a fall of messily gathered curls. Both carried cups already half empty, with the tells that they'd had multiple servings. Their son, Koa, sat a few feet away. He'd just completed his iknimaya as well, and the tattoo sweeping over his eye was dark and thick, if appearing a little sorer than most.

“Well,” Ralu said cheerfully, clapping O’nun on the back hard enough to jolt him forward twice. “There he is. Been waiting to have you out here with us."

O'nun sent him an exhasperated look, “I may tip over.”

"Oh, nonsense," Ralu laughed, giving O'nun another cup of drink and beginning to eat, "You're a strong man."

Koa's gaze flicked over the fresh tattoos with open interest, lingering just long enough to be respectful. “They suit you,” he said simply. “About time.”

O'nun peered at the younger man with amusement at the cheek of the comment. He didn't know the kid. "Watch it, I'm not much older than you."

"Of that I'm aware."

The words were spoken with a little more than suggestion, and O'nun blinked in surprise, eyes darting to Tsaral who just laughed behind her cup and continued her conversation with her mate (who was entirely oblivious).

Ta'tuno let out a yelp as he keeled over when reaching for another plate of food, and the moment dissolved as they scrambled to help the man up. Afterwards, though, O’nun inclined his head in thanks, feeling a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the drink.

Food and laughter passed between the group, stories overlapping, hunts exaggerated beyond reason, and near-misses retold for the hundredth time.

Then someone new sat down.

She did not interrupt, lowering herself into the open space across from O’nun, folding her legs neatly as her hands rested loosely on her knees. She wore pale shell beads braided into her hair, catching the firelight, and her skin was a darker shade of teal than most, her markings pronounced.

“Sorry,” she said awkwardly when the group looked to her, eyes flicking between them. “Everywhere else is full.”

Ralu waved a hand immediately. “Plenty of room here.”

Ta’tuno straightened a little, curiosity brightening his expression, while Koa offered a polite nod. O’nun, caught off guard, managed only a pleasant, “Of course.”

She eventually introduced herself as Ma’reni, voice slightly husky from the night air. She took a cup offered by Tsaral and listened more than she spoke at first, smiling at the right moments, laughing softly when Ta’tuno reenacted a particularly dramatic fall from his ilu from when he was a child.

O’nun was acutely aware of her presence in a way he hadn’t expected. Not overwhelming, but she was attentive. She asked questions that showed she was truly listening and she looked at him directly when he spoke, not lingering or leering but interested in the words he had to say. Ta’tuno noticed, of course, grinning into his cup like a traitor.

As the night stretched on, the conversation loosened and drink more than warmed their limbs. Laughter came easier. O’nun found himself speaking more than he usually did, listening even more.

Ralu leaned back eventually, patting his stomach. “I am full and far too old to keep pretending I’m not,” he announced. His mate rose with him, nodding her farewells before Koa was dragged off by a friend to sit with them.

Soon enough, after another hour of conversation with the two remaining, he decided that it was his time to leave.

When O’nun finally drew away from the fading circle of firelight and laughter, the night felt cooler for the absence of voices. The pathways of Awa’atlu were hushed now, the woven bridges bouncing gently beneath his feet and fish casting slow pulses of blue and yellow within the water below. The celebration still hummed somewhere behind him, but its warmth no longer clung to his skin. Each step toward the Ao’wahi marui drew him further into quiet.

He expected sound before he reached it; O’emey’s restless shifting, a muttered complaint from O'txoa, the unmistakable thump of something knocked over in sleep. O’emey had never known how to rest gently. Even at his calmest, he slept like a tide caught between pull and surge. And O'txoa could sleep on one side of the marui, and end up on the other when she woke.

So when O’nun pushed aside the entry weave and was met with quiet, he paused.

The marui was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the sea filtering through the walls. His eyes adjusted slowly, and then he saw them.

They were asleep.

O’txoa was folded into her brother, her body tucked neatly against him. Her face was half-hidden beneath O’emey’s chin, lashes dark against her cheeks, lips parted slightly as she breathed. One hand rested fisted in the blanket only partly over them, as O'emey's tail was draped instinctively around O’txoa’s, her tail curving easily into his, slimmer and lighter to fit like puzzle pieces.

His shoulders lowered as he chuckled, the breath leaving him slowly, carefully, as though he might disturb them otherwise.

This was what he had been afraid to leave?

He crossed the marui quietly, movements measured, each step placed with care. Kneeling beside them, he reached out and brushed a loose curl away from O’txoa’s face, his touch feather-light. She stirred, no more than a soft breath hitching in her chest, then settled again.

O’nun lowered himself behind O’emey, easing down onto the mat with practiced slowness. The day’s weariness settled into his bones at once, heavier now without the noise of celebration to hold it at bay. He draped an arm over both children, feeling their warmth beneath his forearm, and curled his tail around both their bodies.

They shifted immediately.

O’emey made a small, unconscious sound and pressed back into him, spine fitting against O’nun’s chest. O’txoa adjusted as well, her hand loosening from her brother’s shoulder only to find O’nun’s hand instead, fingers curling there around a thumb.

O’nun rested his forehead lightly against O’emey’s braids and allowed himself to be still. The reef whispered beyond the marui walls, water moving in endless patience, but within this small space there was only warmth and the display of love.

Sleep seeped in slowly, then all at once.

A/n: Kaltxi! So... this came earlier than even I expected. I had already written about 3/4 of this when posting the first half of the prologue, but I am not one for restraint and seeing even just one person who enjoyed the first part drove me to finish it sooner.

I've already planned the rest of this fic, and from now on any instalments will certainly only be once a week due to my studies. I also am thinking of releasing one-shots whenever I have extra time, but this series will come first overall! :D

But, PROLOGUE OVER! From now on, this fic will move to the events of Way of the Water, following O'txoa and as the real story begins. That said, which love interest do you prefer for O'nun? I haven't quite decided myself just yet.

Please inform me if you'd like any na'vi translations added in this afterword, and if you'd like to be added to the tagslist! Any feedback about the writing, story or characters is much appreciated! <3

2169

O’txoa sat on a low mat near the open side of her family marui, knees drawn loosely to her chest as her tail curled comfortably beside her. Most of her hair fell free down her back in dark, springy curls, still damp from the dip she’d taken a half hour earlier. She worked methodically through a few thin braids herself, fingers quick and practiced, separating sections with habitual ease.

Behind her, O’nun sat close. A small reed band rested between his teeth, holding tension in place as his fingers moved through the braids along her hairline. They had grown out enough to need tightening, and he worked carefully from her temples toward the crown of her head, thumbs gentle despite the heavy press to her scalp, just to make sure they laid precise. He had done this often enough over the years that O’txoa barely felt the tug.

She leaned back into the warmth.

Across from them, O’emey sat cross-legged on the mat, already halfway through a bowl of soup O’nun had made the night before. His hair was loose, wilder than her own, with two braided pieces keeping the rest from falling into his meal. Steam curled faintly from the surface as he shovelled mouthfuls in with barely contained enthusiasm, speaking around the mouthfuls with little concern for clarity.

“I’m telling you,” he insisted, gesturing with his spoon and sloshing broth dangerously close to the rim, “it’s not even far, just past the outer ridge. Aonung spotted it first, but Koro swam around the back and there’s this narrow sand shelf that curves like- like this.” He traced an uneven arc in the air. “Ena’txu says the current there is like a pocket and when we looked, there were those shells, the bumpy purple ones, everywhere.”

O’nun huffed softly through the reed band, fingers never pausing as he tightened another braid. “You’ll choke if you keep talking with your mouth full.”

O’emey simply looked to the band in his older brother’s mouth and then smirked.

“Uhuh.”

“You do realise you weren’t supposed to be out there,” O’nun added with a tired hum.

The younger shrugged, undeterred. “The patrols were already out. It’s safer when the hunters are gone- you said that yourself last week when I watched your meeting with the Ta’unui.”

O’nun shifted the reed band before taking it from his mouth and handing it to O’txoa who tied off a thin braid.

“Ey, safer for the warriors does not mean safe for you.”

His hands moved to the next section of O’txoa’s hair, thumbs smoothing before tightening. She closed her eyes briefly as it smarted, before sending her twin an annoyed look when he muttered under his breath.

“The hunt today should not be dangerous,” O’nun continued, “We’re tracking a small group of akula. They’ve been pressing closer to the reef and hunting ilu calves. We need to know why they’ve moved closer, because we can’t have them settling.”

O’emey’s grin sharpened, interest immediately caught. “We’re not fighting them, then?”

“No way,” O’nun replied. “There’s at least five in the pod, not even all of our warriors could deal with that. Let along one spunky teen who seems to throw himself into danger every five seconds.”

O’emey splutters, and O’txoa giggles, poking her brother’s leg with her foot. He can’t help but smile when she does, reaching out to grab her ankle, but missing when she pulls back swiftly. His tail flicking playfully, he huffs and turns back to his food.

O’nun shifted, adjusting his stance, then went on, “Ta’tuno will stay close to you while we’re out.

He couldn’t help but laugh when he saw the horror on the boy’s face.

“He’s been helping Aonung, he knows what he’s doing.”

“He’s a fool,” O’txoa quipped, smiling cheekily as she leant back.

“A fool who knows what he’s doing,” O’nun said firmer as he nudged her back to her position, before continuing, “I’ll be up front with Tonowari and Awntan.”

O’emey paused mid-spoonful, looking confused. “What about Pay’am?”

“He’s not hunting today, Rotxo caught a bug and his mate is too busy with the calfs to nurse him.”

The conversation faded at the edges, their voices blending into the gentle morning sounds of the village. The quiet closeness of mornings was something O’txoa had learned not to take for granted, but she was very much looking forward for the day ahead.

She had her own plans.

As a training rolyu, her days were often filled with vocal lessons, tasks, prayer, and repetition. But calfing season had shifted the elders’ attention elsewhere, and it meant she had the rare opportunity for a few weeks of free time. Far more of it than she was used to - especially with her twin beginning to join the hunts. The world was widening for him; pulling him outward, into deeper water and sharper responsibility. For O’txoa, it meant space opening quietly at her back.

Eventually, O’txoa had watched them leave from the marui, absently neatening her tswin braid where it lay over her shoulder. O’emey had been eager, nearly jogging on the spot, especially after O’nun had admitted that there were sights of Otterfin near the reefbreak. Her brother was obsessed with the small, squeaking animals and she could swear he’d nearly doubled over when he’d heard the words leave sempu’s mouth.

The ocean lay quiet beneath the sun, its surface stretched smooth and unbroken. O’txoa let her fingers trail through the water as Antxu skimmed forward, the pads of her hand parting the surface in slow, deliberate arcs. Each touch sent faint ripples outward, quickly swallowed by the calm.

She climbed astride her ilu with effortless balance, legs folded naturally along his sides. Antxu’s dark gray hide caught the light as he moved, his markings flashing in muted patterns whenever he rolled slightly beneath her. He chirruped, content, and O’txoa leaned forward to rest her palm against his neck, grounding the sound with quiet affection.

She guided Antxu toward a stretch of shallower reef where the water shifted from layered blue to clear turquoise, the seabed visible in gentle gradients. Tall reeds grew there, flexible and pale, their lengths bending easily with the current. At her unspoken cue, Antxu slowed, perfectly attuned to her.

She slipped from his back, disengaged her tsaheylu, and she dove.

Water closed over her head, and the world narrowed to blue and motion. Sound dulled instantly, replaced by the hush of the deep. Her body moved with grace, arms and tail working in long, small ribbon movements that wasted no amount of energy.

Below her, Antxu circled, his attention already drawn to a small school of hammerbrow fish flickering nervously near some coral. He angled himself pausing and floating in one position, waiting for the right moment.

Sunlight filtered down in broken shafts, bending and scattering as it passed through rippling currents. It illuminated coral and stone in shifting shades and casted slow-moving patterns across the sandy floor. O’txoa slowed as she reached it, hovering for a breath.

There.

The reeds she sought grew in a sheltered pocket between two outcroppings, short and resilient, their pale green and orange leaves swaying gently.

Her hand found her knife. She worked carefully, cutting only what she needed, leaving enough behind for the plants to regrow. Each length was gathered and tucked into the drawstring bag at her hip. Tsireya had asked her a favour to gather them, busy with her own duties and not able to collect these for her mother Ronal. O’txoa had gladly taken the task. When she finished, she paused, surveying the space to ensure she had disturbed nothing more than necessary.

A sudden flicker of motion caught her eye.

Antxu swept past her, triumphant, a hammerbrow clamped neatly in his jaws. O’txoa laughed soundlessly, bubbles spilling from her nose as she pushed off the reef and angled upward.

She broke the surface with a deep inhale, clear air filling her lungs. Antxu surfaced beside her at once, chirping brightly as he swallowed down his catch. She reached out to rub the smooth skin between his eyes.

“Good hunter,” she praised.

She gathered her braid, reconnected their tsaheylu, and she climbed onto his back, together turning toward Awa’atlu. When they reached the shallows, O’txoa slid from Antxu’s back and pressed a quick kiss to his neck before patting him firmly. Antxu flicked his tail and vanished into the blue.

Inside the Ao’wahi marui, she laid out her gathered goods; reeds meant for the Tsahìk, smooth stones and pieces of driftwood collected earlier for crafting. She had only just begun to sort them when the sound cut through the air.

The horns of Awa’atlu boomed from their high places, invading all areas of the reef.

Her body went still.

O’txoa straightened sharply, ears pinning back as the call echoed. Her tail swayed once behind her, and she abandoned the goods where they lay, moving quickly to the entrance.

Outside, figures were already emerging.

Then she saw them.

Shapes against the sky; five ikran.

Her breath hitched, awe and disbelief colliding so sharply that it left her momentarily unbalanced. She did not pause to think, neglecting to weigh caution to her wild curiosity, and surged forward.

Across the woven paths she flew, feet light and quick, sea-glass top chiming softly with each step. She leapt down onto the open beach. Sand shifted beneath her feet as she landed, one hand instinctively tightening the right side of her tewng as her waytelem swayed in the rising breeze.

The air was alive with motion.

Metkayina warriors were already forming a barrier along the shoreline, bodies locking into place. Wings beat overhead, powerful enough to stir the sand and send ripples racing across the shallows, as the ikran began to land.

O’txoa slowed, suddenly aware of her own smallness.

Her fingers rose without conscious thought to touch the shells decorating the braids sempu had tightened, pressing there to steady herself and anchor her breathing. She tried to slip between the warriors, darting for any gap she could find, but each attempt was gently and firmly blocked. She was too short to see past the line of shoulders and raised weapons, the world reduced to flashes of movement and sound beyond them.

Frustration tightened her chest. She turned toward one of the side beaches-

And then she saw him.

Her sempu.

O’nun stood among the warriors, tall and immovable, his spear planted firmly at his side. The dark lines of his tattoos cut starkly against his skin and, beside him, O’emey stood coiled and alert, every inch the protector, as his tail stilled and his face stuck rigid. They were both part of the ring encircling the ikran and their riders.

Relief flooded her, and O’txoa darted toward them, slipping in front of her taller twin and clutching lightly at O’nun’s arm as she leaned forward, stretching to see. O’emey grumbled, pressing closer as O’nun didn’t flinch even as her weight tugged his arm down an inch.

The forest Na’vi barely registered at first.

They were strange, deep blue skin, lean builds, thinner tails tipped with tufts of fur, but they blurred at the edges of her vision. Her attention was claimed entirely by the ikran.

They were enormous.

Larger than she had ever imagined, their wings folding and flexing with contained power, muscles shifting beneath patterned hides. Low hisses and guttural clicks vibrated through the air as Tonowari and Ronal questioned the newcomers. The sound carried through her chest, resonant and unsettling.

One of them drew her eye immediately.

Its hide was a rich blend of dark teal and turquoise, layered with deep blue and emerald green marbling that reminded her of water flowing over stone. Darker accents traced its joints and wing edges, while a bruised purple crest lined its lower jaw. When it turned its head, its predatory green eyes locked onto her with sudden focus.

Her breath caught.

She took one small step forward without realizing she had moved at all and O’emey’s hand snapped around her arm, yanking her back against him.

“I’m just looking,” O’txoa hissed sharply and twisted free.

Looking back to the ikran, its gaze was still on her. It tilted its head, clicking low in its throat. She tilted her head in return, offering a small smile. It was stunning, nothing like she’d imagine from the Wind Trader’s stories.

A booming voice cut through the moment.

“We are reef people. Your skills mean nothing here,” Olo’eyktan spoke as his wife walked in circles around and through the group of newcomers.

O’txoa’s gaze snapped upward, but instead of watching the scene, she caught on another pair of eyes.

A boy.

He stood near the back of the group, older considering the battle band crossing his torso, and he was watching her openly, amusement flickering across his features. His ears twitched, then angled away as if he had suddenly realized he was staring too.

Heat bloomed faintly.

She stepped back at once, gaze dropping, embarrassed by her own attention. When she dared glance up again, he smiled, brief and easy, before turning his focus elsewhere.

Foolish, she scolded herself. Don’t be a weirdo.

But… he was handsome in a way that was rare in these parts; lean, built for climbing rather than swimming. Her eyes flicked, unbidden, to the largest of the group, noting the difference. There was width in him, the heavy muscle more familiar to her.

Then she noticed the hands of three.

Five fingers.

Her breath left her in a sharp inhale.

Demon blood.

As if Eywa will it to fate, that was the moment the Tsahìk hissed sharp. One of the boys’ ears flatten as the woman snarls, brandishing the teen girl’s hand into the air in derision.

“These children are not even true Na’vi. They have demon blood!”

Hisses from the Metkayina spread, and O’txoa’s ears flattened instinctively. It felt wrong, to condemn a child for their parents’ actions. A pit grew in her stomach. Before she could voice the thought to her sempu, O’emey stepped fully in front of her, a low snarl vibrating in his chest as he shielded with his body.

She hissed again, annoyance flashing. She looked up at her sempu for support... but O’nun had gone rigid. His gaze was locked on the newcomers, brow furrowed, expression closed as something unmovable worked behind his eyes.

Then, without a word, he stepped forward with the other warriors, placing himself closer to Tonowari. O’txoa’s feet itched to follow, but she stayed where she was, beside O’emey, knowing the boundary she could not cross. If he wanted, her twin could go with him, but he chose to stay. Because she was an observer, singer and witness. She was no warrior.

This Jake Sully, Toruk Makto, pleaded his family’s case. He lifted his youngest child into his arms, holding her small head against his shoulder.

The tension stretched long and unyielding.

Somehow, through presence alone, Tonowari convinced Ronal to allow the newcomers a chance. With a nod, the Olo’eyktan turned to the crowd of his people;

“Toruk Makto and his family will stay with us,” unease and relief ripped through the crowd, both, “Teach them our ways so they do not suffer the shame of being useless.”

In quick decision, Tsireya was summoned by her parents.

O’txoa bit back a smile as she watched her friend light up, eagerness written across her face as she was tasked with escorting the outsiders to an empty marui. She knew that Tsireya had been yearning for something new, something beyond the familiar day to day of the reef. This was everything to her.

Before O’txoa could protest, or even think to follow, O’emey caught her arm and began steering her firmly back toward their marui, grumbling about danger, outsiders, and her complete lack of caution.

“We’re done here,” he said firmly. “Come on.”

She glanced back once more, but the boy didn't look back. Watching the group gather into the village, in her head a verse began to build, awfully curious and completely new.

A/n: Kaltxi! This is a shorter chapter, as I realised I'd written too much and have had to half it so that they stay semi equal in length. Honestly, I adore this little family and am thrilled to finally move onto the main plot of Way of the Water and get to know Neteyam and the Sully children. God knows how I'm managing to get any of this written enough to be legible, as most of it is being written at night while I'm fuelled by tea alone. The amount of editing I had to do to get even this out was abysmal. Early days, but because I've already got the next part written it will come sooner!

Oh, and in this AU Rotxo and Rolo are brothers, and Ronal's sister's children. I thought it'd be neat to make them cousins, as it would make sense as to why Rotxo was standing with Aonung and his family in a few background shots of WOTW.

Please inform me if you'd like to be added to the tagslist! Any feedback about the writing, story or characters is much appreciated! <3

2156

The tide breathed in and out beneath Awa’atlu.

O’nun sat cross-legged on a smooth mangrove root at the edge of his family’s marui, the warm grain of living wood pressed into his calves. Beyond him, the lagoon shimmered as dusk settled, bioluminescence blooming like fallen stars beneath the surface. His skin answered the fading light instinctively with its fine constellations of teal and sea-green freckles glowing along his arms, chest, and cheeks. His hair, curly and loose, fell infront of his face every few moments, but looking down meant it didn't obstruct his view.

Between his long fingers, he worked carefully at his waytelem.

The songcord lay coiled in his lap, heavy with memory despite its youth. Each bead carried a story; his first breath, first communion with Eywa, his ilu Tìlìk and the bonding with his tulkun spirit brother Nariren, hunting with his mother and dancing with his father. All these memories, captured in song to be spoken in reverence and Eywa's intimacy. He smiled faintly at them as he twisted the leather cord and eased the newest bead into place. The stone was polished smooth by tide and time, red veined with green like reef coral threaded through moss. He had found it three days ago, half-buried in wet sand after the hunt, when the water was still restless from blood and his first victory.

The Srakat had been enormous.

Three meters of muscle and fury, larger than all the young warriors hunting that day, its beak snapping with a sound like cracking bone and skin flashing from storm-dark gray to burning orange as it tried to vanish against the reef. They were rare in these waters, likely having been run out of the rivers and into the sea by some unrest. And, above all, they were thicker skinned and armoured, with a nasty temper to boot. O’nun could still feel the weight of the spear in his hands, the calm that had settled into his chest as the sea rushed by his ears. He remembered the moment he threw, and how the world narrowed to a single line between his eyes and the back of the creature's skull, where the armoured skin rose to allow movement.

The spear had hit true; a clean kill.

When he returned to Awa’atlu, salt-soaked and shaking with delayed fear, the clan had met the warriors with cheers and drumming hands. Food had been shared, songs raised, and Tonowari himself had clasped O’nun’s shoulder, pride heavy in the young Olo’eyktan’s gaze.

"You will be a fine warrior," Tonowari had said, his voice echoing in the young boy's ears for days (years) to come.

The Srakat teeth he had been given as spoils lay now in a small woven pouch beside O’nun’s hip, sharp and pale as anything. He still hadn’t decided how to tie them on his waytelem, and he was determined to figure it out without his father's help - who's own cord had at least three teeth attached despite not being a hunter himself. O'nun teased him frequently that his father catching anything was so rare, that of course it was a momentous occasion. He usually ended up in a wrestling match for his cheek.

He tugged the cord twice, tight, then tighter, and hummed softly, testing the new verse of the bead on his tongue. It fit nicely following of the last chorus, and, satisfied, he retied the waytelem to his tewng and leaned back on his hands, letting the night settle around him.

A few meters away, Tìlìk floated lazily at the water’s edge, her body half-submerged. One pale blue fin draped over a stone cresting the surface, her narrow head resting against it like a pillow as she watched O’nun with one large, liquid green eye, blinking slow and content. Her bioluminescent markings above the deep grey of the usual pulsed faintly as she breathed.

“I'll take you out in the morning," he spoke, "See the light rise."

She simply blinked at him; they both knew he would not be able to wake up early enough to do so.

The village glowed brighter as full night arrived. Marui light sources shimmered beneath woven roofs and children darted between their paths, laughter skipping across the water. Somewhere, elders were talking as they ate in the communal pods, low and steady, telling tales likely old enough to have no beginning.

O’nun pushed himself to his feet and ducked into his family’s marui.

Warmth wrapped around him instantly.

His sa’nok, Malu te Atxyan Putsna’ite, stood near the hearth, her broad shoulders stayed squared despite the weight of her swollen belly. Her hair was mostly free, curled messily with braids woven at the sides of her head, before the rest pulled back into one mass. Beaded earrings hungs from her ears in multiple places, some recently having been with predator teeth the more she missed her hunts. One hand rested protectively atop her stomach while the other stirred a pot suspended over gentle flame. The scent made O’nun’s knees go weak; root spice, sea salt, and lìngpay meat cooked just to tenderness.

She glanced over, sharp eyes softening when they landed on him.

“You tied it?” she asked.

He nodded, stepping closer and offering to take the spoon, but she shook her head and pointed for him to sit instead.

“That is good.”

Her voice was firm but tired, edges worn thin by the life she carried. Ronal had warned them that she believed there to be two heartbeats, one hiding behind the other like a shy fish in coral shadow. Malu had accepted it with a warrior’s calm, but O’nun saw the cost in the way her breath came shorter and her sleep fractured. On the far side of the marui, his father sat hunched over a bundle of hunting gear, chipping sounds ringing against sharp stone. O’weanu te Ao’wahi O’van’itan looked up as his son entered, impossibly dark curls falling into his eyes, and blue eyes shined as he grinned.

“There he is,” he said, reaching out to ruffle O’nun’s hair as he passed. “Hunter of the reef.”

O’nun huffed, sending his father a begrudging look, but his ears warmed.

“You offered to help with Nalutsa patrols,” he said.

It wasn’t a question; his father was not the sort of na'vi one would find sharpening spears on the average night.

O’weanu’s grin turned sheepish, ears twitching back. “It has been too long. Tonowari needs strong backs. And-” He gestured vaguely toward Malu, who snorted.

“You will be in the way,” she said without looking at him. “But at least you will be someone else’s problem.”

O’weanu scoffed a laugh, pointing at her and opening his mouth, only to realise she was no longer looking at him and instead handling a knife to crush a few seeds. He decided against speaking against her, but O'nun saw his mother's quirked mouth and his father's pouting lips.

O’nun helped ladle stew into three bowls, careful with the portions. When his father leaned in too close, the sweet, milky scent of Yìspul root clung to him from his gathering in the day, and Malu wrinkled her nose sharply.

“Out,” she snapped, pointing with her knife to the marui door.

O’weanu, who was halfway through taking his bowl from his son, blinked before swiping it and obeying instantly, retreating to sit several feet away with his bowl and wounded dignity.

“I cannot help that your children are sensitive,” he grumbled.

“Our children,” Malu bit back.

They ate together anyway, close enough for conversation and far enough for O'weanu to not loose a hand when ultimately reaching for a second serving. Between bites, Malu pulled a small bundle of threads from beside her, spreading them across the mat. Within the collection were whites like seafoam, greens like shallow reef water and blues deep as open ocean.

“What do you think?” she asked O’nun quietly, eyes shifting up to gauge his thoughts.

He considered them carefully. “White, if she is a girl,” he said. “Green, if a boy.”

“And if both?” O’weanu called from his exile.

"Oh I don't know, I'm not Eywa," O'nun sassed his father, taking a large bite out of a chunk of fish.

Malu reached over to pinch her son's ear for his cheek, her mouth twitching despite herself as she watched her mate from where he sat, visibly eyeing up another bowl, his body language hesitating to move. She ignored it; letting him suffer in retribution for the sickly sweet scent that had been bothering her all day.

As the meal wound down, O’weanu inched closer, bowl empty, with curiosity winning over caution. Soon enough, all three of them were sorting beads and stones together, fingers brushing and O'weanu taking multiple servings from the pot before Malu could spot him swiping them. O’nun leaned back against the marui post, full and warm, waytelem resting comfortable against his hip. He felt balanced. It was a good night. One day he'd look upon the memory with painful longing, but for now he was safe and sated, and home.

⸙༄

Warriors passed him as they returned to the village, one by one, moving slow and heavy as if the weight of water dragged their limbs.

Each of them reached out.

A palm to his shoulder, fingers brushing his upper arm, pats to momentarily gathered hands. A brief, grounding press to his back as they went by him toward the village from the beach, toward the marui, toward anywhere that was not here. It was instinctive and dutiful, a touch given the way one might touch a fragile pup in a moment of fear. They touched him as if his skin itself, or theirs, might carry comfort. As if contact alone could tether him to this moment.

O’nun barely felt it.

Tonowari was speaking. He knew that much. The Olo’eyktan in front of him kept his voice low, lilting in sympathy and meant to give some degree of stability, but the words slid past O’nun like water over stone. His ears flicked, registering syllables without comprehension.

Behind him, he felt his sa’nok.

He felt her terror turn to dread, and then horror.

It was a pressure at his spine, a cold, silent tremble that made his body tighten into a point of locking. He didn’t turn around; he couldn’t. Some part of him understood that if he looked back, something final would happen, he's see the knowledge in his mother and then the world would tip and never right itself again.

His sempu was dead.

Not with Eywa. There would be no rites to guide him, no body returned to the Cove of the Ancestors, no waytelem to sing. There was nothing to give back. Nothing to lay into Eywa’s keeping. Not even his waytelem. Every song his father had ever been, unspooled into the open ocean and swallowed whole. O’weanu, who laughed too loud, who smelled faintly of sweet root, who sang when he thought no one was listening, had gone out on a routine hunt and nothing had come back.

The words drifted around O’nun, in and out, breaking apart before they could settle. He didn’t know how his father had died. He didn't need to ask; the pallor of his mother's face as she stumbled forward to Tonowari told him enough as she was gently guided away, hands pressed to her belly as the shock finally tore free pains in her womb. Ronal had been there instantly, calm and sharp, ushering her toward the Tsahìk’s marui while others cleared a path.

O’nun stayed where he was.

Floating.

The sea lapped against the shore, deceptively gentle, and the wind whistled through hanging sea-glass and rattled decorations of wood and bone. Tonowari stood in front of him, looking down with a softness that hurt more than anything else. O’nun couldn’t meet his eyes. Even glancing toward the Olo’eyktan sent a sharp, tightening pain through his chest, as if his body would collapse inward.

Tonowari lowered himself to his knees.

The movement cut through the fog, sudden and wrong in its humility. Two broad teal hands settled firmly on O’nun’s shoulders, a heavy weight, and the Olo’eyktan’s tattoos, dense, dark maps of a life lived, stood out stark against his skin. The sight of them jolted O’nun blearily back into his body.

His breath hitched.

Shame flooded him then, hot and disorienting. His ears pinned back and his tail swished low and unsteady behind him. He realized dimly that he had been blocking the Olo’eyktan out, and the thought burned; disrespectful, ungrateful, weak. But Tonowari did not look offended. Instead, he leaned forward and pulled O’nun into his chest. A low, wounded rumble O'nun didn’t recognize as his own broke from his throat. A sob followed it, sharp and humiliating and entirely uncontrollable, but his hands stayed frozen at his sides. He couldn’t hug the man back. The instinct felt wrong, disloyal somehow, reaching for another anchor while his father was still lost at sea.

Tonowari eased back, leveling O’nun with a calm, serious look. This time, the words found him.

“You will be strong for your sa’nok,” the Olo’eyktan said gently, his hand placed above O'nun's heart. “She will need you. Through the birth and after it."

O'nun swallowed, nodding even as his vision swam.

“You are strong,” Tonowari continued, voice low but sure. “And well-loved, just as your father was. You will not stand alone. Not if you ask.”

Then he rose, towering again, and inclined his head toward the marui Malu had disappeared into with Ronal.

“Go.”

O’nun went.

He moved like he was pushing through a strong current, lungs burning eventhough he wasn’t underwater. Every step felt delayed and distant, but he made it inside the marui without collapsing.

His mother was crying into Ronal’s shoulder.

Not the restrained, furious upset O’nun had grown up knowing when her own sempul had died. Her large eyes, green-ringed and fierce, were red and overflowing, pouring out a grief O’nun had never seen in her before. His own pain retreated, shoved to the back of his mind like an unimportant thing. There would be time for it later, if it ever came at all. Right now, there was only her. Right now, his sa’nok needed him.

He moved closer.

Ronal met his eyes and gave a small, steady nod. With practiced care, she helped Malu sit upright, bracing her back as the woman cried into her hands. O’nun knelt at her side and reached for one of her hands, holding it close, pressing his forehead gently to the side of her own.

He breathed her in.

Salt. Smoke. Home.

Ronal continued her checks, her voice low and precise as she asked short, pointed questions. Slowly, Malu began to answer. First through tears, then through familiar sharp retorts that broke like flint. The Tsahìk accepted each one with a faint, knowing huff. They had always been alike, those two, both unyielding, stubborn, and utterly unafraid. Their bond was strong in their youth, even if time had distanced them.

Malu did not let go of O’nun.

Her grip was harsh, almost painful, but he didn’t move. His arm ached where her grip tightened reflexively with each wave of pain or sorrow. He didn’t even think to try to move. Sometimes his vision drifted, the emptiness creeping back in like a rising tide, but it never took him fully. A sharp exchange between the women would pull him back, or a question he needed to answer.

Ronal spoke quietly then, her tone certain. “Both pups are at the front.”

His mother barely reacted, but he clung to every word almost as desperately as Malu did to him.

Ronal went on, explaining how Eywa had spoken; one was a girl. Which one, she could not say. Perhaps both, or perhaps the smaller or the stronger. Only, she knew that one carried the softness that made Malu’s body reject Yìspul.

O’nun’s stomach lurched violently at the word.

His father’s scent; his father’s laughter earlier that night three days ago; his father alive.

Nausea rose, but he swallowed it down, letting the dizziness roll through him instead until it broke harmlessly at the edge of his thoughts.

His mother would struggle and these babies would need him. O’nun tightened his grip on Malu’s hand, grounding himself in the warmth of her skin. He would be the best brother he could be; the strongest son.

The water had taken his father, but he swore then that he would not let it take the rest.

⸙༄

The sea was not the next thing to take.

O'nun learnt only a month later, not for the final time in his life he was sure, that he was powerless to Eywa's will.

There had always been risk in Malu’s pregnancy. She was small of frame, all sharp angles and unyielding will, but her health had never matched her spirit. Ronal had known it from the beginning, had spoken of it softly to Tonowari and to O’weanu while Malu herself listened with a clenched jaw and an unflinching stare. O'weanu and Malu had mated late, and it meant that Malu's body could not take what it once might have when O'nun was born. Further, Malu's family history was one the Tsahìk knew well. Malu's own sa’nok had died bringing life into the world, her younger brother born still and silent. Loss had always stalked the women of that line. And after the death of O’weanu, after the tearing away of someone so deeply, utterly bound to her, Ronal had felt the thread fray beyond saving.

O’weanu and Malu might have mated late, but they had been circling one another since childhood, drawn together by something inevitable and unbreakable. They had never truly existed apart. To take one was to doom the other.

So when the birth came hard and fast, when Malu’s strength bled away between contractions, Ronal knew. She did everything Eywa would allow, moving Malu to her marui from the water and praying as she soaked up seeping blood with moss and desperate scraps of cloth. Eywa, it seemed, had decided it was Malu's time.

But where does that leave me? O’nun thought distantly, eyes sore with dried tears as the hours stretched thin and Ronal’s voice grew more urgent.

Where does that leave us?

The first cry answered that question before it could finish forming.

The larger twin arrived first; slick with birth, limbs flailing and lungs burning with their first taste of air. He screamed like a dorado verde cutting across open sky, sharp and furious, announcing himself to the world with no hesitation at all. His skin was deep teal, marked with pale clustered patterns already beginning to glow faintly as the light shifted.

Ronal laughed once, breathless despite herself.

“A strong one,” she murmured.

She placed him against Malu’s chest, and despite her exhaustion and the light flickering from her markings, she lifted trembling hands to cradle him. Her voice was barely a whisper as she hushed him, her breath uneven but determined. His voice softened only slightly, fussing and thrashing as if offended by existence itself. 

O’nun was crying openly then.

He had known long before Ronal’s eyes flicked to him, long before the Tsahìk’s mouth pressed into a thin, controlled line. Malu's strength, her fight, was burning fast. Whispering a name, O'emey, her throat came out hoarse and quiet. Glancing up, she smiled at O'nun a final time, small and fierce, and his soul ached. He was watching his sa’nok fade before his eyes.

The second birth came in foreboding quiet.

She held on through sheer force of will until the smaller twin slipped free into Ronal’s waiting hands, and took a last, shaky exhale. She did not inhale again.

Ronal swallowed hard, pressing two fingers to Malu’s throat even as she knew. She bowed her head for the briefest moment, grief threatening to break through the Tsahìk’s composure, but duty came first. She looked to the tiny babe in her hand. A girl; silent save for a soft, tentative breath that barely stirred her chest. The Tsahìk swallowed hard, her own eyes burning as she took the infant, cleaned her gently, and then, because there was no one else to give her to, placed her into O’nun’s unstable arms.

The weight was nothing, but the world narrowed.

She was warm and so small it terrified him. Her breathing was soft and uneven, a tiny sound akin to water lapping stone. A tear slipped from O’nun’s cheek and landed on her skin. She grumbled faintly, shifting her head closer to his chest, drawn instinctively to his heartbeat.

At fourteen, young and grown all in one moment, O’nun accepted his situation with brutal clarity.

He drew a shaky breath and brushed a finger along her small nose. It scrunched reflexively, and the sound that escaped him then was half-sob, half-laugh; broken and helpless. Eywa, what was he to do?

He glanced to where O’emey was being checked by Ronal, the boy’s face already twisted into fierce indignation despite being less than an hour old. Then back to the girl in his arms.

“O’txoa,” he whispered.

Forgiveness.

He would need it more than he had ever needed anything. Forgiveness for Eywa, for the sea and a fate that had taken both his parents in the span of weeks. He had to forgive, or he would not persist through what came next.

Ronal eventually took the girl from him, murmuring soft thanks as she did. O’nun accepted O’emey in her place, the larger baby now bundled tightly in wraps. His little brother, this tiny angry babe, was so unmistakably marked by Malu’s heavy brow, and another sound tore free from his throat. He moved slowly, pulling himself and the child closer to Malu’s still body. Carefully, he rested his head against her chest, just as he had done when he was small and frightened.

There was only warmth, clinging stubbornly on.

Even that would not last.

At least this time there would be ceremony and she could be laid with their ancestors.

Later, when the worst of it was done, he was handed O'txoa once more. O’nun was tall and strong for his age, but not strong enough for everything. Others helped move Malu, helped prepare her, their touches gentle and reverent. The custom was to keep the dead in their home for a night or two before the journey to the Cove of the Ancestors, but Ronal and Tonowari spoke softly to him, offering compassion where tradition allowed. They would let Malu remain here for the night, they said. He could sleep in the marui have help with the babies before the funeral the next day. He agreed; it was better that way, and he did not think sitting alone with this pain too long would save him.

When it was suggested, carefully and kind, that the twins could be raised by other families, as the clan allowed, O’nun refused with a snarl.

“No,” he hissed, the sound catching in the back of his throat thickly. “They stay with me.”

And that was that.

He would do this; for his sa’nok and his sempul, and for the small lives pressed now against his own.

O’nun te Ao’wahi O’weanu’itan straightened his spine to face loss and responsibility both.

He would be strong.

A/n: Kaltxi, my dears. Well, that was an emotional baggage or two. I hope you all enjoyed reading the first part of the prologue here, and that you weren't frightfully bored with how it begins with a side character's POV. This will be a very long fic, but as the prologue took me a few days to get written before I decided to actually commit and post them, updates will likely come once a week or two (curse lectures and being academically responsible).