Oel Ngati Kameie

Y/n lurched upright with a strangled gasp, hands flying to her hair and locking there so tightly her scalp burned. Her fingers wouldn’t release. Her body wouldn’t stop shaking. Tears clung to her cheeks and the strands of hair stuck to them like the dream was still trying to hold her down.

Her chest heaved.

Her throat ached.

Her vision swam.

Because she had felt it.

Not imagined.

Not dreamed.

Felt.

The ship’s metal beneath her bare feet.

The cold, recycled air.

The man’s arm crushing her windpipe as he lifted her off the ground.

Her legs kicking, kicking, kicking,

And then nothing.

Not darkness.

Not sleep.

The moment her body stopped fighting.

The moment her lungs gave up.

The moment she felt herself slipping out of herself.

And the screams,

Great Mother, the screams,

Her brothers’ voices, older now, deeper, cracking with terror as they watched her die.

Spider’s voice breaking as he begged her to breathe.

The pounding of fists against metal as they tried to get to her.

She had hidden them.

She had told them where to go.

She had promised she would come back.

But in the dream, she didn’t.

She died with their voices in her ears.

Y/n curled forward, her breath shuddering out of her as she tried to pull her hands free from her hair, but her muscles refused to listen. Panic clawed up her throat, raw and choking, as if the man’s arm were still there.

She was older in the dream, eighteen, maybe nineteen.

Her brothers were teenagers, taller, stronger, but still her boys.

Still calling her name.

Still watching her fall.

Her whole body trembled as the memory of dying, dying, washed over her again, cold and suffocating.

She wasn’t on the ship.

She wasn’t in that man’s grip.

She wasn’t dying.

But her mind hadn’t caught up.

Her spirit hadn’t returned to her body yet.

The sobs tore out of her, raw and panicked, her hands still tangled painfully in her hair. She could barely breathe around them.

Then,

“Y/n.”

Her mother’s voice. Soft. Urgent. Already breaking.

The girl lifted her head, tears streaking her cheeks, her whole face crumpled.

“Mama…” Her voice cracked, barely a whisper. “I died.”

Neytiri’s breath caught. For a heartbeat she froze, not in fear, but in the way a mother does when her child says something so devastating it knocks the air from her lungs.

“Oh… oh, my baby.”

She was across the marui in seconds.

Neytiri scooped her daughter out of the hammock as if she weighed nothing, sinking to her knees with Y/n curled against her chest. She rocked her immediately, instinctively, the way she had when Y/n was a toddler waking from nightmares.

Y/n clung to her, trembling so hard Neytiri could feel it through her own bones.

“I felt myself die,” the girl sobbed, voice high and broken. “I died. I died.”

Neytiri pressed her cheek to Y/n’s hair, her arms wrapping fully around her daughter’s small, shaking body.

“No, ma’ite,” she whispered, voice thick with her own tears. “You are here. You are safe. You are breathing in my arms.”

But Y/n shook her head violently, panic rising again.

“I felt it,” she cried. “I felt everything. I felt him, I felt my brothers screaming, Mama, I died.”

Neytiri’s heart shattered.

She tightened her hold, one hand gently prying Y/n’s fingers from her hair so she wouldn’t hurt herself, the other rubbing slow circles on her back.

“Shhh, my love. My sweet girl. It was just a dream. A terrible dream. But it did not take you from me.”

Neytiri hoped it was just a dream.

Y/n sobbed harder, burying her face in her mother’s chest.

Neytiri rocked her, humming low in her throat, the same melody she used when her children were babies, the one that always soothed them, the one that meant you are safe, you are loved, I am here.

“You did not die,” Neytiri whispered into her hair. “You are alive. You are with me. Eywa has not taken you.”

But she held her tighter, because the way Y/n shook, the way she gasped, the way she kept repeating it,

Neytiri knew this wasn’t just a nightmare.

Neytiri felt Y/n’s body jolt with every sob, but the words, the words were what made her blood run cold.

“It was real, mama,” Y/n insisted, voice shaking so hard it barely held together. “He was real. People called him Lyle. He was talking to someone called Boss. He asked what he should do… and then Boss told him, he told him to kill me.”

Her voice broke, splintering like something fragile dropped on stone.

Before Neytiri could respond, another voice cut through the dim marui.

“Lyle?”

Jake’s tone wasn’t confused.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was sharp. Alert. Already on edge.

He stepped closer, eyes locked on his daughter, his jaw tight.

“How do you know Lyle?”

Y/n flinched at the name, curling closer into Neytiri’s chest. Neytiri immediately tightened her hold, her tail wrapping protectively around her daughter’s legs.

“No,” Neytiri snapped, too quickly, too forcefully. “Ma’Jake. It is just a dream. A random dream. This has nothing to do with Lyle or Eywa showing her more visions.”

Her voice trembled.

Jake heard it.

Y/n felt it.

And Neytiri knew she had said the wrong thing the moment it left her mouth.

Because she wasn’t trying to convince Jake.

She was trying to convince herself.

Y/n shook her head against her mother’s shoulder, her small hands fisting in Neytiri’s chest wrap.

“It wasn’t random,” she whispered. “Mama, I heard them. I heard their voices. I heard the ship. I felt him. I felt myself die.”

Neytiri closed her eyes, pressing her cheek to the top of Y/n’s head.

Jake crouched in front of them, his expression torn between fear and anger, not at Y/n, never at her, but at the idea that something, someone, could reach into his daughter’s mind like this.

“Sweetheart,” he said softly, trying to catch her gaze. “Tell me exactly what you saw.”

“No,” Neytiri hissed, pulling Y/n closer. “Jake, stop. She is terrified. She does not need to relive it.”

“She already is,” Jake said quietly. “And if she’s dreaming about him,”

“It is not him,” Neytiri insisted, her voice rising. “It cannot be him. She is thirteen. She should not be dreaming of death. She should not be dreaming of Sky People. This is not a vision. It is not Eywa.”

But her hands were shaking.

And the silence that followed was heavy , the kind that meant everyone knew the truth but no one wanted to say it.

Y/n lifted her head, eyes red and swollen, her voice barely a breath.

“Mama… I wasn’t dreaming. Eywa was showing me again, and I was seeing, seeing my future.”

Neytiri froze.

Jake’s breath stopped.

And the marui, still dark and quiet around them, suddenly felt far too small.

—

A/n: small oneshot to make up for the small chapters.

Neytiri is in denial.

I am open to requests for the oneshots or future chapters if you want to just put them into my asks :)

Y/n tiptoed carefully past the hammocks where her siblings slept, holding her breath as she navigated the scattered mess Tuk had left out , toys, beads, half finished crafts, all lying in wait to betray her with a single clatter. She winced as one bead rolled under her foot, freezing until Lo’ak shifted and settled again.

Only when the marui fell silent did she continue.

It had been a week since the clan relocated to the Hallelujah Mountains. A week of thin air, swaying bridges, and the constant hum of floating stone. A week of her parents watching everyone like hawks, tension coiled tight beneath their skin.

And a week of her slipping out every night anyway.

Every night since the move, she had found her way to Tarsem.

She eased open the flap of the marui and stepped into the cool night air. She crossed the path between her mauri and her grandmothers with practiced quiet steps, her heart thudding with the familiar mix of nerves and anticipation.

On the far platform, exactly where he always waited, Tarsem leaned against a column of stone, arms folded, the wind tugging at his braids. His eyes found her instantly, softening in that way that made her chest feel too small.

“You’re getting better at sneaking,” he murmured, a smile tugging at his lips.

Y/n grinned, breathless from the climb and from him. “I’ve had practice.”

“Oh yeah?” he said softly, teasing her words as she stepped closer.

Before she could answer, his hands found her hips, steady, warm, familiar, and he pulled her gently toward him, closing the last bit of space between them.

They saw each other every day, only in passing, doing their own jobs assigned to them.

But this quiet, stolen moment, was the part he missed.

────────୨ৎ────────

They sat together on the edge of one of the smaller floating rocks, legs dangling into open sky. The air was thin up here, colder than the forest ever was, and the wind tugged at Y/n’s braids as if trying to pull the words out of her.

She stared down at the clouds drifting far below them, her fingers twisting the beads on her necklace. For a long moment, she said nothing.

Then, barely louder than the wind,

“I’m scared.”

Tarsem’s head turned immediately, his expression shifting from teasing to something softer, sharper. He didn’t speak, didn’t push, just waited.

Y/n swallowed, her voice trembling as she continued.

“I’m scared for my family, for you and for the people of the clan.”

The words left her like a confession she’d been holding in for days.

Tarsem didn’t laugh. He didn’t tell her she was being dramatic. He didn’t brush it off the way boys their age sometimes did.

Instead, he shifted closer, their knees touching, his presence steady and warm against the cold night air.

“Y/n,” he said quietly, “you don’t have to pretend you’re not afraid.”

She blinked hard, her eyes stinging.

“We lost our home,” she whispered. “Everything is different. Everyone is on edge. My parents barely sleep. And I keep thinking, what if something happens again? What if,”

Tarsem reached out, gently hooking a finger under her chin so she would look at him.

“Hey,” he murmured, “you’re not alone in this. I’m scared too.”

Her breath hitched.

“But we’re here. We’re alive. And we’ll protect each other. All of us.”

The floating rock drifted a little, the movement slow and steady, like the world itself was breathing with them.

Y/n leaned her shoulder against his, letting herself feel the comfort she’d been denying all week.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Tarsem rested his forehead against hers again, eyes closing.

“Always.”

────────୨ৎ────────

Tarsem cleared his throat as he sat up more, the floating rock shifting slightly beneath them. He looked at Y/n, really looked at her, his eyes soft but determined.

“Y/n,” he said, voice low, “I want to ask your parents to court you.”

Her breath caught. Even though she knew this was coming, hearing him say it out loud made her chest flutter.

He continued, shoulders tense with nerves he was trying very hard to hide. “Properly. The right way. I want them to know my intentions.”

Y/n felt warmth bloom in her cheeks. “You, you really mean it?”

Tarsem nodded, his braids brushing his shoulders. “I do. I want to do this with respect. For you. For them. For the clan.”

He hesitated, then added, quieter,

“And I want them to know I will take care of you. That I will honour you.”

Y/n’s heart squeezed. She reached out, brushing her fingers against his hand.

“They’ll listen,” she whispered. “I know My mother already knows, or atleast has some sort of inclination. My father, well” She laughed softly. “He’ll pretend he didn’t hear anything.”

Tarsem huffed a nervous laugh. “I’m more scared of your mother.”

“Everyone is,” Y/n teased.

But then her expression softened, and she leaned her forehead gently against his.

“I’m ready,” she murmured. “For you to ask them.”

Tarsem closed his eyes, letting out a breath he’d been holding for days.

“Good,” he whispered. “Because I’ve been ready for a long time.”

────────୨ৎ────────

Neytiri woke with a start, breath catching in her throat as if something had tugged her awake. Her eyes swept the marui instantly, sharp and alert even in the dim blue light.

Neteyam, asleep, steady.

Lo’ak, sprawled like a dropped sack of fruit.

Kiri, curled neatly, peaceful.

Tuk, bundled up on Y/n’s hammock, clutching one of her sister’s old toys.

But Y/n herself?

Gone.

Neytiri exhaled slowly, pressing a hand to her chest as her heartbeat settled. Not fear, not anymore. This had become familiar.

She knew her daughter snuck out.

She had known from the first night.

She had been a teenager once too, she recognized the signs, the restlessness, the quiet slipping away.

Jake stirred beside her, rubbing his face. “She gone again?”

“Yep,” Neytiri murmured, folding her arms.

Jake groaned. “That girl, honestly.”

Neytiri shot him a sideways look. “She is like you.”

Jake blinked. “What? How?”

“She thinks she is subtle,” Neytiri said, her tail flicking once. “She is not.”

Jake snorted. “Well… she’s got your stubbornness.”

Neytiri didn’t argue.

Instead, she moved to the entrance of the marui and sat down cross‑legged, her back straight, her expression unreadable. She didn’t step outside. She didn’t call out. She didn’t wake the others.

She simply waited.

The night air drifted in, cool and thin. The bridges creaked softly in the distance. Somewhere far off, a young girl whispered secrets to a boy she wasn’t supposed to be meeting.

Neytiri rested her hands in her lap, patient and still.

“She will come back,” she said quietly.

Jake leaned against the wall, watching her. “You’re not mad?”

Neytiri shook her head. “No. She is growing. She is finding her own path.” A pause. “But she will still answer to me.”

Jake huffed a tired laugh. “Yeah that’s the part I’m worried about.”

Neytiri didn’t smile, but her eyes softened.

“She thinks she is sneaking,” she murmured. “But she forgets, I am her mother. I always know.”

And so she waited, calm and steady, ready to greet her daughter the moment she stepped back into the marui.

────────୨ৎ────────

Y/n crept up to the marui slowly, the sky still dark, a few hours having passed since she’d slipped out. She lifted the flap as quietly as she could.

“And where have you been?”

Her mother’s voice cut through the silence like an arrow.

Y/n jumped, hand flying to her chest. “Sa’nu, you scared me.”

Neytiri didn’t move from where she sat, legs folded neatly, back straight, eyes sharp even in the dim light. “And how do you think I felt when I woke and saw you were gone?”

Y/n rolled her eyes, though the guilt tugged at her stomach. “Mama, I know you know exactly where I go”

Neytiri’s lips twitched , not quite a smile, not quite disapproval. “Well, daughter,” she said softly, “I suppose we are not as subtle as we both think.”

Y/n stepped inside, the flap falling closed behind her. Tuk snuffled in her sleep, curled up in Y/n’s hammock. Jake pretended to be asleep, badly, one eye cracked open just enough to watch.

Neytiri patted the spot beside her.

“Come,” she said. “Sit. If you are old enough to sneak out, you are old enough to speak honestly.”

Y/n swallowed, her heart thudding as she moved to sit beside her mother, knowing this conversation was coming and knowing she couldn’t avoid it anymore.

“Tarsem wants to court me,” Y/n said quietly, fingers twisting the beads on her necklace. “He’s planning on asking you and Father before he properly asks me. He wanted to make sure it was okay with me first.”

Neytiri’s expression softened, though her posture stayed firm. “You are seventeen, ma’ite. If that is what you want…”

“It is.” Y/n swallowed, cheeks warming. “We talked about it. We would court for a year, and then when I’m eighteen…”

She cut herself off, suddenly unsure.

Neytiri reached out, brushing a braid behind her daughter’s ear.

“I was eighteen when I met your sempu,” she said softly. “Nineteen when I had you.”

Y/n’s eyes widened slightly, she’d heard the story, but rarely in this tone.

“You are a blessing,” Neytiri continued, voice warm and steady. “But when you were a baby, there were nights I wondered… would it have been easier if we had waited?”

Y/n’s breath caught. “Mama…”

Neytiri shook her head gently. “Then I think, no. I would not exchange you for anything. Not for an easier path. Not for more time. Not for anything Eywa could offer.”

Her hand cupped Y/n’s cheek, thumb brushing lightly across her skin.

“But I want you to choose your path with open eyes. Not because you feel rushed. Not because you think you must.”

Y/n leaned into her mother’s touch, shoulders relaxing.

“I’m not rushing,” she whispered. “I just, I care about him. And he cares about me.”

Neytiri nodded slowly, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. “Then we will listen when he comes to ask. And we will see his heart.”

Jake, still pretending to sleep, muttered under his breath, “Great. Can’t wait.”

Neytiri flicked her tail at him without looking.

Y/n laughed softly, the first real laugh she’d had in days, and Neytiri’s chest eased.

Her daughter was growing.

But she was still hers.

────────୨ৎ────────

A/n: rather short chapter I’m afraid.

────────୨ৎ────────

Y/n was twelve when she caught her first real cold.

Not the sniffles she’d had as a toddler.

Not the little cough she’d gotten after swimming too long.

A real cold — the kind that made her head heavy, her eyes droopy, and her whole body ache like she’d been trampled by a pa’li.

It started in the morning.

She woke with her nose stuffy, her throat scratchy, and her voice barely more than a croak. She tried to sit up, but the world tilted, and she flopped back into her hammock with a groan.

Tuk, already awake and bouncing around, gasped dramatically.

“Mama! Y/n is dying!”

“I’m not dying,” Y/n mumbled, though it came out more like, “I’b nod dyig…”

Neytiri appeared instantly, her braids swinging as she knelt beside the hammock.

“Ma ’ite,” she murmured, pressing the back of her hand to Y/n’s forehead. “You are burning up.”

Jake poked his head in behind her. “What’s going on?”

“She has a fever,” Neytiri said.

Jake frowned. “Again?”

“Not again, That was Tuk” Neytiri corrected. “she must have caught it from her.”

Jake crossed his arms, muttering, “Still don’t like it.”

Y/n sniffled pitifully. “I’m fine…”

“You are not fine,” Neytiri said firmly. “You are staying in bed.”

Y/n groaned. “But, ”

“No,” Neytiri said, already gathering blankets. “No training. No chores. No running around with Lo’ak. You rest.”

Lo’ak, who had been eavesdropping, stuck his head in. “Aw, come on, she can still, ”

Neytiri shot him a look.

Lo’ak vanished.

────────୨ৎ────────

Neytiri tucked Y/n into her hammock with a softness that made the girl’s eyes sting. She brushed her hair back, humming an old lullaby from her own childhood.

Jake brought her water.

Kiri brought herbs.

Neteyam brought a woven cloth soaked in cool river water.

Tuk brought… a rock.

“It’s pretty,” Tuk insisted, placing it on Y/n’s chest like a sacred offering.

Y/n smiled weakly. “Thank you, Tuk.”

The fever made her sleepy, drifting in and out of dreams. Every time she stirred, someone was there.

Neteyam adjusting her blanket.

Kiri rubbing her back.

Jake checking her temperature with a worried frown.

Neytiri whispering, “Shhh, ma ’ite, rest.”

Even Lo’ak, pretending he wasn’t worried, left a small pile of fruit beside her hammock before running off again.

────────୨ৎ────────

By sunset, the fever had peaked.

Y/n whimpered softly, curling into herself as chills ran through her body. Neytiri was beside her instantly, gathering her into her arms and rocking her gently.

“Shhh, my girl,” she whispered. “It will pass. I am here.”

Jake sat on the other side, rubbing her back in slow circles. “You’re doing good, sweetheart. Just breathe.”

Y/n’s voice cracked. “I don’t feel good…”

“I know,” Neytiri murmured, kissing her temple. “But you are safe. You are loved. And you will feel better soon.”

Y/n leaned into her mother’s chest, letting the warmth and steady heartbeat soothe her. Her breathing slowed. Her trembling eased.

And finally, she fell asleep.

────────୨ৎ────────

She woke to sunlight, birdsong, and Tuk sitting cross‑legged beside her, staring intensely.

“Is you dead?”

“Tuk!” Jake barked from across the marui.

Y/n laughed, a small, croaky laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. “I’m okay.”

Neytiri checked her forehead again and smiled. “Your fever is gone.”

Jake ruffled her hair. “Told you you’d survive.”

Y/n rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t dying.”

“You sounded like you were,” Lo’ak said, earning a smack from Kiri.

Neytiri kissed Y/n’s cheek. “You were brave.”

Y/n blinked. “For having a cold?”

“Yes,” Neytiri said simply. “Even small sicknesses feel big when you are young.”

Jake nodded. “And you handled it like a champ.”

Y/n smiled, warm and sleepy and safe.

────────୨ৎ────────

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

Y/n spent her twelfth birthday out with her friends, Tarsem, Vineya, and Vineya’s cousin, Tah’ni.

Tah’ni had joined their little group two months ago. At first, Y/n had been excited. A new friend. Someone Vineya loved. Someone who might fit right in.

And Tah’ni was nice.

To everyone.

Everyone except Y/n.

It wasn’t loud or obvious. It wasn’t the kind of mean that adults would notice. It was quiet, careful, the kind of exclusion that slips in slowly until one day you realise you’re standing outside the circle you used to belong to.

Tah’ni walked close to Vineya, whispering jokes that made her cousin giggle. She linked arms with her, tugged her ahead, pulled her into conversations that didn’t leave space for anyone else.

Especially not Y/n.

And Vineya, sweet, bright Vineya, didn’t see it happening. She was too happy to have her cousin around again.

The first time it happened, Vineya looked apologetic.

“I’m sorry, Y/n, Tah’ni wants to go hunting today. We’ll play tomorrow, okay?”

Y/n smiled, because she always smiled. “Okay.”

The second time, Vineya didn’t even meet her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Y/n, I’m going with my dad, aunt and uncle. And Tah’ni. They invited her too.”

Another smile. “It’s fine.”

But it wasn’t fine.

Because every time Vineya said “I’m sorry,” Tah’ni stood behind her with that tiny, satisfied tilt to her chin, the kind that said good, stay home.

The only one who didn’t push Y/n away was Tarsem.

He still ran up to her first.

Still asked her to come along.

Still treated her like she mattered.

And somehow that made it worse.

Because whenever Tarsem stayed by Y/n’s side, Tah’ni’s comments sharpened, quiet, cutting, the kind of remarks an eleven‑year‑old shouldn’t know how to make.

“Oh, you’re coming too?”

“I guess we can slow down for you.”

“Tarsem, don’t wander off, you’ll get stuck babysitting again.”

Vile little things, wrapped in a child’s voice.

Vineya laughed at them, not because they were funny, but because she didn’t want to upset her cousin.

Tarsem glared, but he didn’t know how to speak up. Not yet.

And Y/n, she swallowed it. Every word. Every look. Every moment she was nudged a little further away.

So the day of her twelfth birthday ,a day that should have been full of laughter and light, Y/n found herself walking a few steps behind her own friends, listening to Tah’ni’s soft snickers, watching Vineya drift further from her, feeling Tarsem’s worried glances.

And she wondered, quietly, painfully, when she had stopped being part of the group and become the one they could do without.

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

A few months after her twelfth birthday, Y/n noticed the change.

Vineya didn’t just drift away, she pulled away completely.

No more greetings.

No more shared jokes.

No more “come play with us.”

She didn’t even look at Y/n anymore.

And it wasn’t just Vineya.

Her mother stopped talking to Neytiri.

Her father stopped speaking to Jake, except when respect demanded it.

Conversations that used to be warm became cold.

Smiles became tight.

Distance settled between the families like a fog.

Y/n knew why.

And she believed, with the heavy certainty only a child can feel, that it was her fault.

It had happened on a quiet afternoon. She and Tarsem had been throwing rocks into the river, laughing at whose splash was bigger. It was peaceful. Normal. Safe.

Until the screaming started.

Tah’ni and her parents burst from the trees, running for their lives, a thanator crashing behind them. The forest shook with its weight. The air filled with panic.

They jumped into the water trying to escape it.

Y/n and Tarsem ran toward them without thinking.

They tried to reach Tah’ni.

Tried to pull her away.

Tried to help.

But the ground was slick.

The riverbank steep.

And Y/n slipped.

Tarsem grabbed her arm, hauling her back before she fell over the edge. By the time they scrambled upright again, Tah’ni was gone, swept away by the river’s current, her small form disappearing into the churning water.

No body.

No chance to say goodbye.

Just absence.

Tah’ni’s parents survived.

But their daughter did not.

And grief needs somewhere to land.

They blamed Y/n.

They whispered that the thanator must have been the mate of the one she killed months earlier. That the creature had followed her scent. That it had come for revenge.

None of it was true.

But grief doesn’t care about truth.

And Y/n, only twelve, still healing from her own scars, carried their blame like a stone in her chest.

She replayed the moment over and over.

If she hadn’t slipped.

If she had been faster.

If she had been stronger.

If she had never killed the first thanator at all.

Maybe Tah’ni would still be alive.

Tarsem tried to tell her it wasn’t her fault.

Jake and Neytiri tried to comfort her.

Mo’at tried to explain that Eywa does not punish children.

But Y/n felt the weight anyway.

Because a child had died.

And the world around her had changed.

And every time Vineya turned away, every time her parents avoided Neytiri and Jake, every time silence replaced friendship.

Y/n felt the same thought echo inside her

“It’s because of me.”

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

Some of the people whispered.

They didn’t mean to be cruel, grief rarely does, but their words still reached her.

“Why didn’t she see it coming?”

“Eywa speaks to her in dreams, why not this time?”

“If she’s a seer, shouldn’t she have known?”

Y/n didn’t understand either.

Eywa had come to her before.

Had shown her things.

Had warned her.

But not this time.

Not when it mattered.

That night, she lay in her hammock staring up at the woven ceiling, listening to the soft breathing of her siblings around her. Neteyam’s steady rhythm. Lo’ak’s occasional snuffle. Kiri’s quiet hums as she dreamed. Tuk’s tiny sighs.

Her father’s snores rumbled from the other side of the marui.

And then she heard her mother.

The soft shift of Neytiri climbing out of her and Jake’s shared hammock. Bare feet padding across the floor. A pause beside Y/n’s hammock.

Then the gentle dip of weight as Neytiri climbed in beside her.

Without a word, she pulled her daughter into her arms.

Y/n’s lip trembled.

Her breath hitched.

And then the dam broke.

She sobbed, loud, shaking, months of swallowed pain pouring out all at once.

“It’s my fault,” she cried into her mother’s chest. “It’s my fault.”

Neytiri held her tighter, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other rubbing slow circles on her back.

Y/n’s voice cracked. “I hated her, I wished she would leave me alone… and now she’s dead and it’s my fault. And you should hate me.”

Neytiri’s eyes filled with tears.

Her baby, her gentle, soft‑hearted child, had been carrying this alone. For months. Blaming herself for something no child should ever have to understand, let alone bear.

Y/n shook in her arms, small and hurting and only a child.

Neytiri pressed her cheek to her daughter’s hair, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Oh, ma’ite, no. No, my child.”

She rocked her gently, the way she had when Y/n was tiny.

“You did not cause this. You did not wish this. You did not bring this upon anyone.”

Y/n sobbed harder, clutching at her mother’s chest as if she might fall apart without something to hold.

Neytiri kissed the top of her head, tears slipping down her own cheeks.

“You are a child,” she whispered. “A child who tried to help. A child who almost fell herself. A child who survived something no one should have seen.”

She pulled Y/n closer, wrapping her completely in her arms.

“You are not to blame. Not for the thanator. Not for Tah’ni. Not for the grief of others.”

Y/n’s cries softened into hiccups, her small body exhausted.

Neytiri held her through every tremor, every breath, every tear.

Because her daughter, her brave, gentle, hurting daughter, had finally broken.

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

Neytiri held Y/n close, her fingers combing through her daughter’s hair in slow, soothing strokes. Y/n’s sobs had softened into small, broken hiccups, her face pressed against her mother’s chest.

“I’m sorry, mama…” she whispered again, voice raw.

“Do not apologise, ma yawn,” Neytiri murmured, kissing the top of her head. “You have done nothing wrong.”

A shift sounded from across the marui.

Jake’s snores had stopped.

For a moment, there was only silence, then the soft rustle of him sitting up, confused, listening. He knew the sound of his children’s cries. He knew the difference between a nightmare and something deeper.

“’Tiri…?” he whispered into the dimness.

Neytiri didn’t answer with words, she simply tightened her arms around Y/n, and that was enough for Jake to understand something was wrong.

He climbed out of their hammock quietly, padding across the floor until he reached them. The faint bioluminescence from outside caught the worry on his face.

“Hey…” he breathed, kneeling beside them. “What’s going on?”

Y/n tried to curl in on herself, ashamed, but Neytiri held her gently in place.

Jake reached out, brushing a tear from her cheek with the back of his knuckle. “Sweetheart… talk to me.”

Y/n shook her head, a fresh wave of tears spilling over. “I’m sorry, Daddy…”

Jake’s chest tightened. He hadn’t heard her call him that in months.

He glanced at Neytiri, who nodded softly, giving him permission to join them.

Jake eased himself into the hammock beside them, wrapping his arms around both his girls. Y/n was small between them, trembling, exhausted.

“Hey, hey…” he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers. “You don’t have to be sorry. Not to me. Not to anyone.”

Y/n’s voice cracked. “They all hate me…”

Jake’s breath caught. “No. No, baby, they’re hurting. That’s different.”

“It’s my fault,” she whispered. “I should’ve seen it. Eywa didn’t show me anything. I should’ve, I should’ve, ”

Jake cupped her face gently, guiding her eyes to his.

“Y/n,” he said softly, firmly, “you are a child. You are not Eywa. You are not responsible for every danger in this forest.”

Her lip trembled again.

Jake pulled her into his chest, holding her as tightly as Neytiri did.

“You tried to help,” he whispered into her hair. “You almost fell yourself. You did everything you could. And I am so damn proud of you.”

Neytiri rested her hand over Jake’s, their fingers tangling together across Y/n’s back.

“You are our daughter,” Neytiri murmured. “Our brave, gentle girl. Nothing will ever make us hate you.”

Jake kissed the top of Y/n’s head, his voice thick. “Not then. Not now. Not ever.”

And between them, held, protected, finally allowed to break, Y/n cried until her small body went limp with exhaustion.

Jake and Neytiri stayed awake long after she fell asleep, their arms still wrapped around her.

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

Y/n didn’t show up for training.

Mo’at waited longer than usual, giving the girl time, she knew Y/n had been struggling, even if the child tried to hide it. But when the sun rose higher and still no sign of her granddaughter, Mo’at set aside her tools and made her way toward the Sully family marui.

She didn’t announce herself. She simply stepped inside, her presence filling the space with quiet authority.

Jake looked up from sharpening his knife. Neytiri paused in braiding Tuk’s hair. The children glanced over, all except Y/n.

She sat in her hammock, knees pulled to her chest, staring at nothing.

Mo’at’s eyes softened.

“Ma ’ite,” she said, her voice gentle but carrying weight. “You did not come to me this morning.”

Y/n didn’t answer.

Mo’at approached slowly, giving her space, then sat on the edge of the hammock beside her. The woven fibers dipped under her weight.

“Look at me, child.”

Y/n lifted her head only slightly, her eyes red and tired.

Mo’at reached out, brushing a braid from her face. “Why did you not come?”

Y/n swallowed. “I… I didn’t feel good.”

Mo’at hummed, not unkindly. “Your body is well. It is your spirit that is tired.”

Y/n’s lip trembled.

Mo’at continued, “You think Eywa has turned from you.”

Y/n’s breath hitched. “Everyone thinks I should have seen it. They think I’m supposed to know things. But I didn’t. And Tah’ni, ”

Her voice cracked.

Mo’at placed a steady hand over Y/n’s heart. “Visions are not a duty. They are not a promise. They are not a burden for a child to carry.”

Y/n blinked hard, tears gathering.

Mo’at leaned closer, her voice low and warm. “Eywa does not speak to you because you are meant to save everyone. She speaks because your heart listens. That is all.”

Y/n shook her head. “But I didn’t listen this time.”

Mo’at cupped her cheek. “Because there was nothing to hear.”

Y/n froze.

Mo’at continued, “Eywa did not show you Tah’ni’s path because it was not yours to walk. You could not have stopped it. You could not have changed it. You are not to blame.”

Y/n’s shoulders shook, the tears finally spilling over.

Mo’at pulled her gently into her arms, holding her the way she had when Y/n was a baby. “You are my granddaughter,” she whispered into her hair. “You are a child of Eywa. And you are not responsible for the grief of others.”

Jake looked away, swallowing hard. Neytiri wiped her eyes silently. Tuk crawled closer, resting her head on Y/n’s knee.

Mo’at stroked Y/n’s back in slow, soothing circles. “Come to me tomorrow,” she said softly. “We will train. Not because you must… but because your spirit needs healing.”

Y/n nodded into her grandmother’s shoulder, her small voice barely audible. “Okay.”

Mo’at kissed the top of her head. “Good. Now rest, granddaughter. You have carried enough.”

｡ ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

Tarsem decided enough was enough. He needed to see his….. Y/n.

He arrived early, as he always did, carrying a small woven basket of fruit he claimed he “just happened to find on the way,” though Neytiri suspected he had picked each piece carefully.

Y/n brightened the moment she saw him, her shoulders lifting in a way Neytiri hadn’t seen in weeks. Tuk immediately latched onto Tarsem’s arm, demanding he help her braid flowers into her hair. He obliged, laughing as she bossed him around.

But it was the way he looked at Y/n that caught Neytiri’s attention.

He was thirteen now, taller, stronger, his voice beginning to settle, but when he looked at her daughter, all of that fell away. His expression softened, warmed, focused entirely on her.

Like she was the only person on Pandora.

Y/n didn’t notice. She never did. She just tugged him toward the river, excited to show him the new stones she and Tuk had found. She talked with her hands, animated and bright, and Tarsem watched her with a quiet awe that made Neytiri’s chest tighten.

Not in worry.

In recognition.

She had seen that look before, in Jake’s eyes, many years ago, when she was young and fierce and unaware of her own light.

Neytiri stood at the entrance of the marui, arms folded loosely, observing them. Y/n skipped ahead, calling for Tarsem to hurry. Tarsem didn’t take his eyes off her even as he jogged to catch up.

He wasn’t loud like Lo’ak.

He wasn’t boastful like some boys his age.

He simply… cared.

Deeply. Quietly. Steadily.

And Neytiri saw it all.

Jake came to stand beside her, following her gaze. “What’s going on?”

Neytiri tilted her head slightly. “Tarsem is here.”

Jake squinted. “Yeah, I see that.”

Neytiri didn’t answer, she just gave him a look.

Jake blinked, then looked again.

Tarsem was offering Y/n his hand to help her down a small slope. She took it without thinking, and he smiled like she had handed him the moon.

Jake’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh.”

Neytiri hummed. “Yep.”

Jake rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s… uh… he’s looking at her like,”

“Like she is precious,” Neytiri finished softly.

Jake exhaled. “She’s twelve.”

“And he is thirteen,” Neytiri said. “He is only looking. Nothing more.”

Jake nodded slowly. “He’s a good kid.”

“He is,” Neytiri agreed. “And he cares for her.”

They watched as Y/n splashed Tarsem with river water, laughing when he yelped. Tarsem didn’t mind. He never minded anything she did.

Neytiri’s expression softened.

“Eywa sends people into our lives for many reasons,” she murmured. “Perhaps he is meant to help her heal.”

Jake slipped an arm around her waist. “As long as he treats her right.”

Neytiri smiled. “He already does.”

And down by the river, Y/n laughed, a real laugh, bright and unburdened, while Tarsem watched her with that same quiet devotion.

｡. ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

Y/n was eleven when the pressure became too much.

Everyone expected her to excel, the future Tsahik, Mo’at’s apprentice, Neytiri’s daughter, the girl with the steady hands and the sharp eyes. But when it came to hunting… she struggled.

Not with the tracking.

Not with the bow.

But with the fear.

Fear of missing.

Fear of failing.

Fear of embarrassing the people she loved most.

On the morning of her first real attempt, she stood at the edge of the forest with her bow trembling in her hands. Her breath came too fast. Her palms were damp. Every lesson she had learned seemed to slip away like water through her fingers.

Mo’at watched her quietly, her expression unreadable.

After a long moment, the Tsahik stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on Y/n’s shoulder.

“Granddaughter,” she said softly, “you do not have to hunt if it does not call to you. Your path is already chosen. Eywa does not demand this of you.”

Y/n swallowed hard, blinking back the sting in her eyes.

“I know,” she whispered. “But… I want to make Sa’nu proud.”

Mo’at’s gaze softened, not pity, but understanding. She opened her mouth to speak, but another voice answered first.

Neytiri stepped out from the trees, having heard everything.

Her expression wasn’t stern.

It wasn’t disappointed.

It was heartbreakingly gentle.

“Oh, ma’ite,” she murmured, crossing the distance in three quiet steps.

Y/n froze, embarrassed, cheeks burning. “Sa’nu, I’m sorry. I just,”

Neytiri knelt in front of her, cupping her daughter’s face with both hands.

“Listen to me,” she said, voice low and steady. “There is nothing you could do that would make me or your father ashamed. Nothing.”

Y/n’s lip trembled.

“You do not need to hunt to make me proud,” Neytiri continued. “You do not need to be perfect. You do not need to be fearless. You are my daughter. That is enough.”

Y/n’s breath hitched, and she leaned into her mother’s touch.

Mo’at watched them with a small, knowing smile.

Neytiri brushed a tear from Y/n’s cheek. “If you wish to try your own hand on this hunt, I will let you. If you do not, I will still be proud. Always.”

Y/n nodded slowly, voice small. “I want to think about it.”

Neytiri smiled, pressing her forehead to her daughter’s. “I will be right behind you whatever you choose.”

And for the first time that morning, Y/n’s hands stopped shaking.

｡. ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

The mauri was quiet after Jake left with the boys, their voices fading into the night. Only the girls remained.

Tuk slept in Y/n’s lap, tiny fingers curled around one of her braids.

Kiri sat nearby on a woven mat, humming softly to herself as she played with a bead, calm and content just being close to her sisters. She wasn’t listening, not really, just existing in that peaceful way she always did.

Y/n watched the fire for a long moment, her heart heavy but steady. She had made her decision earlier, but saying it aloud felt different. More real.

“Sa’nu…” she said quietly.

Neytiri looked up immediately, sensing the weight in her daughter’s voice. “Yes, ma’ite.”

Y/n swallowed, eyes dropping to Tuk’s tiny hand resting against her stomach. “I… I don’t want to hunt.”

Neytiri’s expression softened. She set aside the small basket she’d been weaving and moved closer, lowering herself gracefully beside her daughter.

“You do not have to,” she said gently. “Not ever.”

Y/n’s throat tightened. “I thought… maybe you’d be disappointed.”

Neytiri reached out, brushing a braid behind Y/n’s ear. “I could never be disappointed in you. Not for choosing your own path.”

Y/n blinked hard, her voice small. “I just want to make you proud.”

Neytiri cupped her cheek, her thumb brushing away the tear that slipped free. “You already do, ma yawne. Every day. Whether you hunt or heal or simply sit here with your sisters.”

Kiri hummed softly in the background, unaware of the conversation but adding a quiet warmth to the space.

Y/n let out a shaky breath, relief loosening her shoulders. Tuk stirred in her sleep, nuzzling deeper into her sister’s chest.

After a moment, Y/n whispered, “If I don’t hunt… can I still bond with an Ikran?”

Neytiri smiled, her eyes shining with pride. “Of course you can. The Iknimaya is not only for hunters. It is for all who wish to fly.”

Y/n’s breath caught. “Even if I don’t… kill anything?”

Neytiri leaned forward, pressing her forehead gently to her daughter’s. “Bonding with an Ikran is about courage, trust, and connection. The sky does not ask you to be a hunter. Only to be brave.”

Y/n exhaled, a long, relieved breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.

Kiri shifted on her mat, still humming, still content, a quiet reminder that family didn’t need to speak to be present.

Neytiri wrapped an arm around Y/n’s shoulders, careful not to disturb Tuk. “When the time comes, I will take you myself. And your Ikran will choose you for who you are.”

Y/n leaned into her mother, warmth blooming in her chest.

Y/n kept her promise.

From that night on, she never harmed another creature. Not even the small ones. Neytiri still taught her the bow, form, breath, discipline, but only at targets woven from vines, never fish, never moving life. And Y/n was good at it. Precise. Controlled. But she never aimed at anything with a heartbeat again.

Neytiri didn’t push. She only watched her daughter grow into a gentler kind of strength.

｡ ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

Then came the day by the river.

All five siblings together, Y/n, Kiri, Neteyam, Lo’ak, and little Tuk, playing along the bank where the water curved around smooth stones. It wasn’t the nicest day. The sky was overcast, heavy grey clouds hanging low, the air thick with the promise of rain. The forest felt muted, quieter than usual.

Neteyam and Lo’ak splashed each other in the shallows, shouting and laughing. Kiri crouched near the reeds, humming to herself as she poked at the water with a stick. Tuk toddled between them all, squealing whenever someone scooped her up.

Y/n stayed close to the edge, watching them with a protective eye. She always did. Even at ten, she felt responsible, the one who made sure no one wandered too far, no one slipped, no one got hurt.

A cool breeze rippled across the river, carrying the scent of rain.

Y/n glanced up at the sky. “We shouldn’t stay long,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “It’s going to storm.”

But the boys didn’t listen. They never did.

Lo’ak splashed deeper. Neteyam chased him. Tuk squealed. Kiri hummed.

And Y/n felt that familiar tug in her chest, the one that always came before something went wrong.

The forest was too quiet.

The air too still.

The river too dark beneath the clouds.

Something was coming.

A low, rumbling growl rolled across the riverbank.

It came from behind Kiri and Tuk.

Kiri froze first. Her ears twitched. She turned slowly, eyes widening, and then she screamed.

Y/n’s head snapped up so fast her braids whipped over her shoulder.

“Kiri!”

Her voice cracked with fear.

She saw it instantly, the shape in the shadows, the glint of eyes, the ripple of muscle. Too close. Far too close to her sisters.

Y/n’s heart slammed against her ribs.

“Slowly back up, toward me, Kiri!” she shouted, her voice sharp and commanding in a way she didn’t know she could sound.

Kiri stumbled backward, grabbing Tuk by the arm and pulling her close. Tuk whimpered, confused, clinging to her sister’s leg.

Neteyam and Lo’ak stopped splashing. The river went silent.

Y/n stepped forward, placing herself between the creature and her siblings, bow in hand even though she had sworn never to use it on a living thing again.

Her hands trembled.

Her breath shook.

But she didn’t move.

She didn’t run.

She stood her ground.

Behind her, Tuk began to cry softly. Kiri held her tighter, backing up step by careful step.

Y/n didn’t look away from the creature. “It’s okay,” she whispered, though her voice wavered. “Just keep moving. Come to me.”

The growl deepened.

The thanator didn’t move.

It just stared, unblinking, predatory, its gaze fixed on the smallest ones.

On Kiri.

On Tuk.

Y/n’s stomach dropped.

Neteyam and Lo’ak scrambled out of the water, instinct pulling them to her side. They didn’t need to be told twice. They knew that look in her eyes, the one that meant listen to me or we die.

“When I say run,” Y/n whispered, never taking her eyes off the creature, “you run straight home.”

Her voice was steady. Too steady for a ten year old.

But fear had sharpened her into something older.

“Kiri,” she continued, “you keep Tuk in your arms. No matter what.”

Kiri nodded, already scooping Tuk up, holding her tight against her chest. Tuk whimpered, sensing the tension, but didn’t cry.

“If one of us falls,” Y/n said, her voice low and fierce, “you don’t stop. You keep going. Get Tuk to Mama. The others will help whoever falls.”

Neteyam swallowed hard. Lo’ak’s tail curled tight around his leg. But they nodded.

They trusted her.

“Okay,” Y/n breathed, grounding herself. “Okay.”

The thanator’s muscles tensed.

Y/n’s heart hammered.

She took one last breath, deep, steady, the way Neytiri taught her, and shouted.

“Run!”

Everything exploded into motion.

Kiri bolted first, clutching Tuk to her chest. Neteyam and Lo’ak sprinted after her, feet pounding the wet earth.

Y/n stayed where she was for half a heartbeat longer, just long enough to make sure the creature followed her and not them.

Then she ran.

They ran for what seemed like hours, Branches whipped past them, the river fading behind as their feet pounded the wet ground. The thanator crashed through the brush after them, its growl vibrating through Y/n’s bones.

Neteyam was just ahead of her when his foot caught on a root.

He fell hard.

“Neteyam!” Y/n grabbed his arm, yanking him upright with all the strength she had. The thanator lunged, close enough that its claws grazed her back as she shoved her brother forward.

Pain flared hot and sharp, but she didn’t stop.

“Go!” she shouted, pushing him toward Kiri and Tuk.

They ran again.

Until Lo’ak tripped over the same root.

This time the thanator was closer, too close. Lo’ak rolled onto his back, eyes wide, staring straight into the creature’s gaze.

“Y/n, Neteyam, Lo’ak!”

Neytiri’s voice cut through the forest like lightning.

She was running toward them, fast, desperate. Kiri must have made it home.

But the thanator was already lowering itself to strike.

Lo’ak’s breath hitched.

Then,

A single arrow flew.

It struck true.

The thanator collapsed, the ground shaking beneath it.

Lo’ak blinked, stunned. He looked at the arrow, expecting to see his mother’s fletching.

But it wasn’t hers.

It was Y/n’s.

He turned.

His sister stood a few paces behind him, bow still raised, her hands shaking violently. Tears streamed down her face, not from pain, not from fear, but from the terrible knowledge of what she had just done.

Neytiri reached her first, dropping to her knees and gripping Y/n’s shoulders.

“My babies… are you hurt?” Her voice trembled as she looked between them, Neteyam scraped, Lo’ak shaken.

But Y/n didn’t answer.

She stared at the fallen creature, lips quivering, bow limp in her hand.

Neytiri followed her gaze.

Then she saw the arrow.

Her daughter’s arrow.

“Oh… ma yawntu,” she whispered, voice breaking with pride, sorrow, and awe all tangled together.

She pulled Y/n into her arms, holding her tight as the girl finally let out a sob, not because she was hurt, but because she had broken the promise she made to herself.

And she had done it to save them.

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

Y/n sat completely still.

Numb.

Mo’at worked behind her with steady, practiced hands, cleaning and binding the long scratches across her back. They weren’t life‑threatening, but they were deep, she deep enough that three pale scars would remain long after the pain faded.

Neytiri sat in front of her, holding her daughter’s hand in both of hers, thumb rubbing slow circles across the back of it. She didn’t speak. She didn’t rush her. She simply stayed.

Outside, the clan prepared the thanator for a feast, its life thanked properly, its body treated with respect. The sounds drifted faintly into the tent: voices, tools, the low hum of ritual.

But inside, everything felt quiet.

“Y/n?” Mo’at’s voice was gentle, coaxing her granddaughter back to the present.

The ten‑year‑old blinked slowly, as if waking from a dream, and turned her head just enough to meet her grandmother’s eyes.

“It is alright, child,” Mo’at said softly. “Eywa knows you acted in defence. She knows your heart.”

Y/n swallowed, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I know it was the right thing. I know if I hadn’t done it… Lo’ak would be dead.”

Neytiri’s grip tightened around her hand.

“But…” Y/n’s breath trembled. “I broke my own promise. I said I would never hurt a creature again.”

Her voice cracked on the last word.

Neytiri looked at her daughter, really looked, and for a moment she forgot she was only ten. There was something older in her eyes. Something heavy. Something that shouldn’t belong to a child.

Her daughter had made a sacrifice today.

She had saved her siblings.

She had faced death.

She had made her first kill, something most children took weeks or months to prepare for.

And she had done it even though she never wanted to.

Neytiri brushed a hand over Y/n’s cheek, her voice soft with awe and sorrow. “Ma’ite… you protected your family. That is not breaking a promise. That is honour.”

Y/n’s lips quivered, tears gathering again. “But it still hurts.”

“I know,” Neytiri whispered, pulling her close without disturbing Mo’at’s work. “I know, my child.”

Mo’at tied the final wrap, her touch gentle. “Your scars will remind you not of what you broke, but of what you saved.”

Y/n closed her eyes, leaning into her mother’s hands, letting herself breathe for the first time since the river.

She didn’t feel proud.

She didn’t feel brave.

She just felt… tired.

But she was alive.

Her brothers were alive.

Tuk was safe.

Kiri had made it home.

And Neytiri held her as if she were the most precious thing in the world.

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

Y/n sat on the fallen tree, legs dangling, staring at the river as it moved lazily under the overcast sky. The air felt heavy, the kind of quiet that made the forest hold its breath.

The log suddenly dipped under a new weight.

She looked to her left, expecting to see her father coming to check on her.

Instead, she saw pink.

A beautiful pink Ikran perched beside her, its talons gripping the bark, its wings folding neatly against its sides. Its eyes were bright, intelligent, fixed entirely on her.

Y/n blinked once.

Then again.

Then she shrugged, unimpressed. “I’m not sharing this branch with you.”

The Ikran let out a low, rumbling roar, not threatening, more like a complaint, and leaned closer, staring directly into her eyes.

Y/n’s breath caught. Her parents had always told her, Never look an Ikran in the eyes unless you’re bonded.

She tried to look away.

She couldn’t.

The Ikran wouldn’t stop staring, its gaze steady, almost expectant. Like it was trying to speak without words.

“I don’t have any food for you,” she muttered.

The Ikran blinked slowly.

Y/n frowned. “What? What do you want me to do!”

The Ikran threw its head to the side with a sharp, impatient roar, as if she were being dense.

Y/n stared at it, confused until the meaning clicked.

“You want me to make tsaheylu?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

The Ikran dipped its head.

Y/n’s heart thudded in her chest.

She was eleven.

She wasn’t supposed to bond yet.

She wasn’t even training for the Iknimaya.

She didn’t hunt.

She didn’t want to hunt.

But this Ikran, this strange, beautiful pink creature, had come to her.

Chosen her.

She swallowed hard, her fingers trembling as she reached for her queue.

The Ikran lowered its head further, waiting.

And for the first time since the river, since the thanator, since the promise she broke to save her brother,

Y/n felt something warm bloom in her chest.

Not fear.

Not guilt.

Something else.

Something like destiny.

The moment the bond clicked into place, Y/n gasped.

The world sharpened.

The wind shifted.

The Ikran’s heartbeat pulsed against her own.

And before she could even breathe, the pink Ikran launched itself into the sky, wings snapping open, lifting them both in a rush of air that stole every thought from her mind.

Y/n clung to the neck ridge, eyes wide, hair whipping behind her as the forest dropped away beneath them. She didn’t scream. She didn’t panic.

She laughed.

A breathless, stunned, whoooooo that echoed across the canopy.

Far below, Neytiri and Jake burst into the clearing, panic written across their faces. They had been searching everywhere, the river, the trees, the paths, calling her name until their voices cracked.

Then they heard it.

“Yipyipyip!”

They froze.

Slowly, they looked up.

And their jaws dropped.

High above them, circling with the confidence of a seasoned rider, was their ten year old daughter, sitting on the back of a pink Ikran as if she had been born there.

Jake’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Neytiri’s eyes went wide, her hand flying to her chest.

The Ikran spiraled lower, graceful and sure, landing with a soft thud that shook the ground. Y/n slid off its back, legs wobbling, hair wild, cheeks flushed with exhilaration.

Before either parent could speak, she threw her hands up defensively.

“I promise I did not climb the rocks!” she blurted. “She found me. On a branch. I swear!”

The Ikran behind her let out a proud, rumbling huff, as if backing up her story.

Jake blinked. “She found you? On a branch?”

Y/n nodded vigorously. “I wasn’t doing anything! She just sat next to me and stared and then she” she gestured helplessly at the Ikran “she asked me!”

Neytiri stepped closer, awe softening her features. “Ma’ite an Ikran does not choose lightly.”

“I know,” Y/n whispered, looking back at the pink creature who watched her with calm, steady eyes. “But she chose me.”

Jake let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Well looks like someone’s ahead of schedule.”

Neytiri knelt, cupping Y/n’s face gently. “Eywa has plans for you, my child, what’s her name?”

Behind them, the pink Ikran dipped her head, proud, patient, waiting.

And Y/n, still breathless, still shaking, still glowing with disbelief, whispered.

“I think… I think she’s Syawn”

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Y/n was 9 when she first noticed it.

They were walking back from gathering herbs, Neytiri’s basket full, Y/n’s half‑full but proudly carried, when her mother paused. Just a small pause, barely a second, but enough for Y/n to see the way her chest rose a little too sharply, the way her shoulders tightened as she breathed.

Y/n slowed her steps, watching her mother more closely. Neytiri’s movements were still graceful, still sure, but… slower. Softer. As if each breath took more effort than it should.

“Sa’nu?” Y/n asked quietly, her voice small but steady. “Are you okay?”

Neytiri blinked, surprised. She hadn’t expected her daughter to notice. She hadn’t expected anyone to notice, she had been hiding it well, or so she thought. The slight shortness of breath. The heaviness in her limbs. The way her heart seemed to race after even simple tasks.

“I am fine, ma’ite,” Neytiri said gently, offering a smile. But it didn’t reach her eyes.

Y/n didn’t look convinced. She stepped closer, her brows knitting together in that way that made her look far older than seven. “You’re breathing funny,” she said softly. “Slower. And you stopped walking.”

Neytiri exhaled, a little too quickly, a little too shallow.

She crouched down so she was eye‑level with her daughter. “You see too much,” she murmured, brushing a braid behind Y/n’s ear. “Even things I try to hide.”

Y/n’s tail curled anxiously. “Is it bad?”

“No,” Neytiri said, but the hesitation was there, thin as a thread. “Just tired. That is all.”

Y/n studied her mother’s face, her eyes full of worry far too big for her small body. She reached out and placed her hand over Neytiri’s chest, right where her heart beat fast beneath her skin.

“Maybe… maybe you should rest,” she whispered.

Neytiri’s breath caught, not from exhaustion this time, but from the tenderness of it. Her daughter, the child who once clung to her for comfort, was now offering comfort back.

She pulled Y/n into her arms, holding her close. “I will rest,” she promised. “For you.”

Y/n nodded against her shoulder, small arms wrapping around her neck, before pulling away and grabbing her mamas spare hand, pulling her to rest beneath the shade of a wide‑leafed tree.

Neytiri leaning back against the trunk. Y/n sat beside her, legs crossed, humming softly as she sorted the herbs in her basket.

For a moment, everything was peaceful.

Then Y/n looked up at her mother with those wide, knowing eyes, the ones that always seemed to see more than they should.

“Sa’nu,” she said softly, “do you know the name of the new baby?”

Neytiri’s head snapped up.

Her heart stumbled in her chest.

She hadn’t told anyone yet. Not even Jake. She had barely admitted it to herself, the subtle changes in her body, the heaviness in her limbs, the way her breath caught too easily. She had been trying to hide it, to understand it, to be sure.

But her daughter… her daughter knew.

“I do not,” Neytiri said carefully, voice steady despite the shock tightening her throat. “Do you?”

Y/n nodded, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. “Mm‑hm. I heard you say it in one of my dreams.”

Neytiri felt the world tilt.

Her breath caught, not from exhaustion this time, but from something deeper, something ancient. She reached out and gently cupped Y/n’s cheek, searching her daughter’s face.

“What name did you hear, ma’ite?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Y/n leaned into her touch, eyes soft, unafraid. “Tuktirey, but we call her Tuk for short, she’ll be beautiful mama. You were holding her. She was small… and she was crying.”

Neytiri swallowed hard, her pulse quickening.

Her daughter’s visions had always been strange, unsettling, powerful, but this… this was different. This was personal. This was hers.

And Y/n, only seven, spoke of it with the calm certainty of someone who had already walked through the future and returned with pieces of it in her hands.

Neytiri pulled her close, pressing her forehead to Y/n’s. “Eywa speaks to you in ways I do not yet understand,” she murmured. “But I am listening.”

Y/n wrapped her arms around her mother’s neck, small and warm and steady.

“I know,” she whispered. “That’s why she tells me things.”

Y/n was ten when everything changed again.

Neytiri’s labour began just a day after Neteyam’s seventh birthday, and the little boy was furious about it. He stomped around the mauri muttering about how “the baby stole my birthday week,” tail flicking in pure betrayal. Lo’ak found this hilarious. Kiri, perched beside Y/n, simply blinked at him with her usual calm curiosity.

But when Neytiri’s pains grew sharper, everything shifted.

Mo’at ushered the children out with a firm gesture, and Jake stayed at Neytiri’s side. With no one else available, Y/n gathered her siblings, Neteyam sulking, Lo’ak bouncing with excitement, and Kiri clutching Y/n’s hand and led them away from the mauri.

She felt the weight of it.

The responsibility.

The trust.

For nearly a whole day, she kept them busy.

She helped Neteyam carve shapes into soft bark to distract him from his birthday misery.

She chased Lo’ak through the clearing until he collapsed in the grass.

She braided Kiri’s hair, humming softly as the girl leaned against her shoulder.

Kiri watched her with wide, thoughtful eyes. “Mama will be okay,” she said quietly, as if sensing Y/n’s worry.

Y/n nodded, though her stomach twisted with nerves.

By the time the sun dipped low, all four children were exhausted , y/n most of all.

Then Jake appeared at the edge of the clearing, breathless and glowing with pride.

“She’s here,” he announced, voice warm and full. “Little Tuktirey has made her entrance.”

Neteyam’s sulk vanished instantly. Lo’ak whooped. Kiri squeezed Y/n’s hand.

But Y/n stood slowly, heart fluttering with something deeper. Something she had felt in dreams long before this day.

When they entered the mauri, the boys rushed toward Mo’at, who was cleaning the tiny newborn. Kiri followed, quiet and curious.

But Y/n didn’t look at the baby.

She went straight to her mother.

Neytiri lay propped on soft blankets, hair damp with sweat, face glowing with exhaustion and joy. Y/n knelt beside her, eyes wide with worry.

“Are you okay, sa’nu?” she whispered.

Neytiri’s smile softened, warm and full. She reached out and cupped her daughter’s cheek.

“I’m okay, ma evi,” she murmured, voice tired but overflowing with love. “Eywa has blessed us again.”

Only then did Y/n turn her head, slowly, cautiously, to look at the tiny bundle in Mo’at’s arms. Tuktirey blinked up at the world with unfocused eyes, small and perfect.

Kiri leaned against Y/n’s side, whispering, “She’s pretty.”

Neteyam puffed his chest. “She better not steal my birthday next year.”

Lo’ak giggled.

“Well, see, She will have her birthday the same time every year” Jake corrected Neteyam, with a laugh.

Y/n felt something else entirely.

A quiet recognition.

A soft ache of déjà vu.

The echo of a dream she’d had long before this moment.

She had seen this child before.

Held her in visions.

Heard her name whispered in the dark.

And now she was here.

Real.

Alive.

Family.

Y/n adored Tuk from the moment she saw her.

She thought she was the cutest baby Eywa had ever made, even cuter than Lo’ak, which she announced loudly and repeatedly, much to Lo’ak’s dramatic horror. Tuk’s tiny fingers, her soft coos, the way her ears twitched when she dreamed… Y/n loved all of it.

And she didn’t mind sharing Neytiri with her.

Not even a little.

If Neytiri wasn’t holding Tuk, Y/n was.

If Tuk wasn’t in her mother’s arms, she was curled against Y/n’s chest, tiny head tucked beneath her sister’s chin.

The baby adored her for it.

Tuk was calmest in Y/n’s arms, always.

She would fuss and squirm with Jake, wiggle impatiently with Mo’at, and even cry with Neteyam or Lo’ak if they held her too long. But the moment Y/n took her, Tuk melted into stillness, eyelids drooping, breath softening.

Neytiri watched them with a quiet, swelling pride.

Her eldest daughter, the one who once clung to her with trembling hands, the one who woke screaming from visions she didn’t understand, now held her baby sister with a steadiness that felt ancient. Natural. Right.

Sometimes Y/n would sit outside the mauri with Tuk sleeping on her chest, humming softly as she braided little strands of her own hair. Kiri would sit beside her, leaning against her shoulder, watching the baby with wide, curious eyes.

“She likes you best,” Kiri would say.

Y/n would smile, brushing a gentle finger over Tuk’s cheek. “I think she remembers my voice” she’d whisper. “From before she came.”

Kiri never questioned it.

She just nodded, because with Y/n… things like that always felt true.

And Neytiri, watching from the doorway, felt her heart swell with love for all of them, her fierce eldest, her curious daughter, her wild boys, and the tiny new life cradled safely in Y/n’s arms.

Tuk was loved.

Y/n made sure of it.

As Y/n grew older, she began to drift, not away from her mother, but outward, expanding into the world with a confidence Neytiri had always known she would find.

At ten years old, she was no longer the little girl clinging to Neytiri’s side. She still sought her mother’s warmth, still curled into her lap on quiet evenings, but during the day she moved with purpose. Training. Learning. Becoming.

She had started preparing for her Iknimaya far earlier than most.

Too early, some whispered.

But Mo’at only smiled, and Neytiri said nothing, because she saw the truth.

Y/n was ready.

She was the youngest in her training group, surrounded by children two, sometimes three years older. Yet she surpassed them with ease. Her balance was steady. Her steps were silent. Her aim was frighteningly good.

One afternoon, after a long session of archery practice, the head hunter approached Jake and Neytiri with a grin stretching across his face.

“Her aim is great,” he said, nodding toward Y/n as she retrieved her arrows. “If she were not destined to be Tsahik, I would say she is on her way to becoming a fine head hunter.”

Jake’s chest swelled with pride. He tried to hide it , failed miserably. “That’s my girl,” he muttered, unable to stop smiling.

But neytiri was glowing.

Before Y/n could even set her bow down, her mother swept her up, arms wrapping around her in a fierce, joyful embrace. Neytiri peppered her daughter’s face with kisses, laughing as Y/n squealed and tried to squirm away.

“Ma tsamsiyu,” Neytiri murmured against her temple, voice thick with pride.

Y/n giggled, cheeks flushed, tail flicking with shy happiness. “Sa’nu! Everyone is watching!”

“Let them watch,” Neytiri said, pulling her close again. “Let them see what you are becoming.”

And they did.

The clan saw a girl who would one day guide them as Tsahik.

A girl who could track like a hunter, heal like a Tsahik, and shoot with the precision of someone far beyond her years.

A girl who carried Eywa’s touch in her dreams and her hands.

Jake saw a leader.

Mo’at saw a future.

Neytiri saw her daughter.

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By six years old, Y/n’s nightmares had stopped following any pattern at all.

Some nights she cried for Neteyam, reaching out as if watching him fall from some impossible height. Other nights it was Lo’ak, her small voice breaking as she begged someone, anyone, to help him, shouting about a gun, something a child had no rights knowing about. Those dreams left her shaking, clutching her chest as if the fear had followed her into waking.

But the worst were the ones that made no sense.

One night she woke screaming about Kiri drowning beneath the glowing roots of a spirit tree. Neytiri held her close, whispering comfort, but inside she felt a cold, creeping confusion. The spirit tree wasn’t underwater. It had never been underwater. Yet Y/n described it in vivid detail, the way the light dimmed, the way Kiri’s hand slipped from hers, the way the water swallowed everything.

And then there was the dream Neytiri didn’t know how to explain at all.

A child not yet born.

A face Y/n shouldn’t have known.

A tiny voice crying out for help from a place that didn’t exist.

Y/n woke from that one trembling so hard Jake had to steady her shoulders. She clung to Neytiri like she was afraid to let go, whispering, “Mama, the baby… the baby was scared…”

By the fourth night without sleep, Neytiri could barely keep her eyes open. Y/n had woken screaming again, this time sobbing For her father, trembling so violently Neytiri feared she might break apart in her arms. When dawn finally crept over the treetops, Neytiri didn’t hesitate. She wrapped her daughter close and carried her straight to the Tsahik.

Mo’at was already waiting, as if she had felt them coming.

She said nothing at first. She simply guided Neytiri to sit, then placed her hands gently on Y/n’s temples. The child shivered, but didn’t pull away. Mo’at closed her eyes, her breathing slowing, her entire presence sharpening into stillness. Neytiri watched, heart pounding, as the air around them seemed to thrum, soft, subtle, but unmistakable.

Minutes passed.

Then Mo’at exhaled, long and low, and opened her eyes.

“Eywa is warning her,” she said, voice steady but threaded with something deeper, reverence, perhaps, or awe. “These are not curses. These are sight.”

Neytiri blinked, confused. “But… she dreams of things that cannot be. Kiri drowning beneath a spirit tree that is not underwater. A child who does not exist. How can these be good things?”

Mo’at cupped Y/n’s cheek, her thumb brushing away a tear the child hadn’t even realised she shed.

“Ma’ite,” she murmured, looking up at Neytiri with a softness rarely seen in the Tsahik, “Eywa shows her what others cannot yet see. Not all visions are of the present. Some are of what may come. Some are of what must be prevented.”

Neytiri felt her breath catch.

Mo’at continued, “This gift is rare. Powerful. And heavy for one so small. But it is not to be feared. We should nourish this. Guide it. Teach her to listen without being consumed.”

Y/n leaned into her grandmother’s touch, exhausted but calmer than she had been in days.

Neytiri swallowed hard, torn between pride and dread. “She is only a child.”

Mo’at nodded. “Yes. And that is why she needs us. Not to silence the visions… but to help her carry them.”

For the first time in weeks, Neytiri felt something loosen in her chest, not relief, not exactly, but direction. Purpose.

If Eywa had chosen her daughter, then Neytiri would make sure Y/n never faced that path alone.

By the time Y/n was halfway through her sixth year, the change was undeniable.

The nightmares hadn’t vanished, but they no longer ruled her nights. Most evenings she slept peacefully, curled against her woven blankets, her breaths soft and even. Only once a week did the visions return, sharp, sudden, tearing a scream from her throat that sent both her parents bolting upright. The sound still froze their blood, still made Neytiri’s heart lurch painfully, but at least now they expected it. At least now they knew she would settle again.

And in the quiet mornings after, when the sun filtered through the leaves and Y/n blinked sleepily awake, Neytiri would smooth her hair and whisper, “You are strong, ma’ite.”

Y/n would nod, as if she already knew.

Her days had begun to fill with something new, something steadier, something sacred.

Mo’at had taken her under her wing fully now, guiding her with a seriousness that made even Jake stand a little straighter when he watched them. Y/n followed her grandmother through the forest with a small woven basket, learning which herbs soothed fever, which roots eased pain, which flowers could be crushed into medicine or brewed into calming tea.

She learned the scent of healing before she learned the names.

She learned to listen to the plants before she learned to speak of them.

Mo’at watched her closely, pride hidden beneath her stern expression. “Good,” she would murmur when Y/n chose the right leaf without being told. “Your hands know what your heart already understands.”

Some afternoons, Mo’at would place Y/n’s small palms over a patient’s wound or fevered brow, guiding her breathing, teaching her how to feel the subtle hum of Eywa’s presence. Y/n’s eyes would flutter, her face softening with concentration, and Mo’at would nod, slow, approving.

“She will be Tsahik when the time comes,” Mo’at said one evening, her voice low but certain. “Eywa has already chosen her path.”

Neytiri felt her chest swell with a complicated mix of pride and fear.

Jake rested a hand on her shoulder, grounding her.

And Y/n ,small, bright, steady Y/n, simply continued learning, absorbing every lesson with the quiet determination of someone who had already seen too much, and yet still chose to heal.

When Y/n wasn’t with Mo’at or running through the village with her friends, she was with her mother.

Neytiri insisted that even a future Tsahik must know how to protect herself, how to move silently, how to read the forest, how to understand the language of tracks and wind. And Y/n loved these lessons. They were peaceful in a way nothing else was: no siblings shouting, no father teasing, no responsibilities tugging at her mind. Just her and her mother, walking as one.

She followed Neytiri’s steady steps with fierce concentration, her small breaths uneven from trying so hard to stay quiet. Her eyes were wide, alert, tracking every shift of Neytiri’s shoulders, every placement of her feet. She wanted to be good at this. She wanted to make her mother proud.

“Sa’nu… can I try?” she whispered, watching as Neytiri lifted her bow with effortless grace.

Neytiri glanced down, a soft chuckle slipping from her lips.

“My bow is too big for you, paskalin,” she said, brushing a gentle hand over Y/n’s head. “We will make you your own bow soon enough.”

Y/n nodded, though her lips pushed into a tiny pout she couldn’t quite hide. Neytiri smiled at that, the stubbornness, the eagerness, the spark that reminded her so much of her younger self.

“Come,” Neytiri murmured, crouching low. “Watch how the forest moves. Before you shoot, you must learn to see.”

Y/n dropped into a crouch beside her, copying the posture exactly, tail curling around her ankle for balance. She leaned forward, eyes narrowing with focus, trying to see whatever her mother saw.

Neytiri watched her for a moment, the determination, the quiet intensity, the way Y/n’s small fingers curled into the earth as if grounding herself.

“You learn quickly,” Neytiri whispered, pride warming her voice. “Eywa has blessed you with many gifts.”

Y/n’s pout softened into a shy smile.

And together, mother and daughter waited in the hush of the forest, the world around them holding its breath as Y/n took another step toward the woman she would one day become.

There were rare days when Jake wasn’t busy, no patrols, no meetings, no crises, just a quiet stretch of time where it was simply him, Neytiri, Y/n, and the other children. Those days felt like gifts.

Jake would be in the clearing with the younger ones, swinging one child around by the arms while another clung to his back, all of them shrieking with laughter. He looked ridiculous and happy, and Neytiri pretended not to smile at the sight.

Y/n, meanwhile, sat cross‑legged in front of her mother, back straight, shoulders stiff, trying her absolute hardest not to move as Neytiri worked through her hair.

“You are as stiff as an arrow, ma yawne,” Neytiri teased, fingers finishing the last braid with practiced ease.

Y/n didn’t dare turn her head, but her lips twitched, the beginnings of a smile she tried to hide. Neytiri saw it anyway.

Before Y/n could relax, Neytiri’s hands slid from her hair to her sides, fingers wiggling with wicked intent.

Y/n squeaked, then burst into giggles, twisting and squirming as Neytiri tickled her.

“Sa’nu! No!” she laughed, trying to escape but not really wanting to.

Neytiri laughed softly, pulling her daughter into her lap and pressing a kiss to her temple. “Much better. I like you soft, not stiff like a bowstring.”

Across the clearing, Jake paused mid swing, watching them with a grin.

That was when Y/n suddenly scrambled to her feet, eyes bright with mischief.

“Attack!” she shouted.

Jake barely had time to blink before she launched herself at him, tiny legs pumping, a fierce little war cry bursting from her throat. She hit him square in the chest, knocking him backward into the grass.

Neteyam, Kiri and Lo’ak didn’t hesitate they pounced, piling onto him with triumphant shrieks.

Jake let out a dramatic, breathless groan. “Oh! Eywa help me!”

All four children dissolved into mad giggles as he tried to breathe under the weight of them.

“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” Neytiri laughed as she came over, trying to peel her children off her poor, flattened mate. “Let your father live.”

Jake lay there, hair a mess, chest heaving, looking up at her with a helpless grin.

“You see what they do to me?”

Neytiri smirked. “You encourage them.”

Y/n plopped down beside him, still giggling, still glowing with victory.

“We win,” she declared proudly.

Jake poked her cheek. “Yeah… you win.”

And for a moment, the whole family simply stayed there, tangled in the grass, warm in the fading light, wrapped in a peace they wished could last forever.

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By the time Y/n te Suli Neytiri’ite reached her fourth year, she had grown into a small, bright flame of a child, steady in her steps, curious in her mind, and still fiercely attached to her mother’s side.

Most mornings began the same way: Y/n pressed against Neytiri’s hip as she worked, her tiny hands helping in whatever way she could. Sometimes she carried small baskets of herbs for Mo’at, sometimes she fetched water with a seriousness far beyond her years, and sometimes she simply sat beside her mother, humming softly as Neytiri braided her hair.

She didn’t stray far.

Not unless she had to.

Not unless she was with people she trusted.

But she did love to play, especially with Tarsem and Vineya.

Tarsem, the son of a skilled hunter, was bold and loud and always running somewhere he shouldn’t. Vineya, daughter of Ninat, had a voice like birdsong and a laugh that made Y/n giggle even when she didn’t understand the joke.

Together, the three of them were a whirlwind of tiny feet and tangled braids.

Still, even in the middle of play, Y/n’s eyes always drifted back to her mother.

Just to check.

Just to make sure Neytiri was still there.

And Neytiri always was.

Y/n took her role as big sister very seriously , or as seriously as a four‑year‑old could.

She helped Neteyam when he tripped over his own feet, patting his head like she was the adult and he was the baby. She helped Kiri collect flowers, even though Kiri always wandered off to stare at bugs instead. And she helped Lo’ak… mostly by keeping him from eating things he shouldn’t.

One afternoon, Jake found her dragging a basket twice her size across the marui floor.

“What’re you doing, sweetheart?” he asked, trying not to laugh.

“Helping,” she grunted, pulling harder. “Mama need this.”

Neytiri, watching from the corner, smiled softly.

“She is my little Toruk.”

Y/n beamed at that, because being her mother’s shadow was her favourite thing in the world.

Tarsem and Vineya often came looking for her, calling her name from outside the marui.

“Y/n! Come play!” Tarsem shouted one morning, already halfway up a tree.

Vineya stood below him, hands on her hips. “You’re going to fall again.”

“I won’t!” he yelled, right before slipping and landing in a pile of leaves.

Y/n giggled, covering her mouth. Neytiri nudged her gently.

“Go on, ma’ite. Play.”

Y/n hesitated, just for a heartbeat, then ran to her friends, her tail swaying happily behind her.

They played chase, climbed roots, and pretended to hunt imaginary nantang. Tarsem always insisted he was the leader. Vineya always corrected him. Y/n always followed, content to be part of their little world.

But every so often, she would pause mid‑game, glance back toward her mother, and only continue once she saw Neytiri watching with a smile.

Even with her growing independence, Y/n’s favourite place remained the same: curled against Neytiri’s side, her head resting on her mother’s arm, her siblings piled around them like sleepy viperwolves.

At night, when the forest hummed and the marui glowed softly with bioluminescent light, Y/n would whisper:

“Mama… stay?”

Neytiri would kiss her forehead.

“Always, ma Y/n.”

Y/n drifted to sleep with a smile on her face.

On the eve of her fifth birthday, Y/n jolted awake with a scream that tore through the quiet marui like a blade.

One moment the night was calm, the soft hum of the forest drifting through the woven walls, and the next, she was thrashing beneath her blankets, sobbing so hard her breaths came out in sharp, broken gasps.

“Neteyam! Neteyam!” she cried, voice cracking, reaching out for someone who wasn’t there.

Jake was on his feet before he was fully conscious, instincts snapping into place. Neytiri was right behind him, her heart already pounding as she dropped to her knees beside their daughter.

Y/n’s face was wet with tears, her cheeks streaked, her little hands trembling as she clawed at the air. Her sobs were raw, panicked, the kind that came from a dream too big for a child to understand.

“Y/n, ma’ite, I am here,” Neytiri whispered, gathering her into her arms.

But Y/n only cried harder, burying her face in her mother’s chest, her voice muffled and desperate.

“Neteyam… where’s Neteyam…”

Jake exchanged a worried glance with Neytiri , not fear, but that helpless ache parents feel when their child is hurting and they don’t yet know why.

Neytiri rocked her gently, brushing her fingers through her daughter’s hair, murmuring soft words in Na’vi meant to soothe the spirit.

Jake crouched close, his hand resting on Y/n’s back.

“Hey, sweetheart… you’re safe. Your brother’s right here in the marui. He’s okay.”

But Y/n only clung tighter, her small body shaking with leftover terror.

Whatever she had seen in that dream, it had felt real to her.

Y/n’s fifth birthday passed in a haze of exhaustion and trembling little breaths.

She spent most of the day curled against Neytiri’s side, her small body pressed close as if she feared the world might slip away if she let go. Her eyes were red and swollen, lashes clumped together from the tears she’d shed through the night. Every time her head drooped onto her mother’s shoulder, sleep tugging at her, she would jolt awake again with a tiny gasp, as if the nightmare were waiting for her just beneath her eyelids.

It became a pattern.

Drift… drop… jerk awake.

Over and over.

Neytiri held her through each cycle, rubbing slow circles on her back, humming soft melodies meant to soothe the spirit. Jake stayed close too, watching with that quiet, worried intensity he always carried when it came to his children.

Even the other kids noticed.

Neteyam hovered near her, offering her his toys.

Kiri sat beside her, leaning her head gently against Y/n’s arm.

Lo’ak toddled over with a confused little frown, sensing something was wrong even if he didn’t understand what.

But Y/n barely spoke.

Barely moved.

Barely smiled.

She just clung to her mother, eyelids heavy, breath uneven, fighting sleep with the stubbornness only a frightened child could muster.

And Neytiri, stroking her daughter’s hair, whispered again and again:

“You are safe, ma Y/n. Nothing will take you. Not while I have breath.”