I am slowly compiling all of my writings right here! Give me time, but this list will fill out! I have quite a few stories that are pretty much completed.
All Avatar, for the time being....
Please send requests if you have any. I will at least attempt any, but they may not happen if I don't connect with the story...
Enter to find out more....
The Ultimate Mother's Collection
- Lo'ak and Reader
A collection of little stories that gives Lo'ak a parent who loves him unconditionally.
Sa'nu
Part 2
- Spider Socorro and Reader
A collection of little stories through the years that gives Spider a mom who just loves him unconditionally, who is like him - human.
Momma
Momma, I am Home
-Neteyam and Reader
A collection of stories showing how you and your daughter provide a safe space for Neteyam, and while you help him learn to shed his burden once in a while, you watch the carefree friendship he forms with your daughter. Follows Canon Events.
Karyu
Part 2
Neteyam x OCfem!Na'vi
Neteyam has been dreaming of her for years. He is now an adult, well on his way to becoming Olo'eyktan after his father. The dreams get stronger until finally, the tension breaks when his dream girl shows up in the Omatikaya lands.
**Warnings** Explicit Sexual Content, Strong Language, Themes of Possessiveness and Jealousy, Adult Situations, Violence (if applicable in certain scenes), Emotional Turmoil
Staycation - Neteyam messed up. And now, after input from his family, he decides to spend a day just taking care of you, never leaving your Marui. SFW
Jake Sully
Before the Fall
After the FallSummary: Both of you are too stubborn to let the clan know that they were right, but that doesn't seem to matter to Jake when you can't remember Seeing him. SFW.
Tarsem te Kumon Arun'itan
What starts out as two shy individuals bumbling about grows as the love between them is allowed to flourish.
Dare to Believe
Daring to Believe
Dared to Believe
Dare to Believe: Through His Eyes - Tarsem's internal struggle the whole day before he finally works up his courage.
Random Writings or Pairings
Violence is Never the Answer - In Awa'atlu, you are one of three tsakarems competing for Tonowari's attention. While others rely on strategy and performance, you choose a different path: genuine kindness and authenticity. Over weeks, a connection begins to form between you and the olo'eyktan himself—one built on honesty rather than ambition. But in a world where everything is a carefully calculated move, being real proves far more dangerous than anyone anticipated.
Oel Ngati Kameie (I See You) - Norm Spellman x Fem!Na'vi Reader
Y/n, a Na'vi weaver of the Omatikaya clan, never expected to fall in love with Norm Spellman—a human scientist who chose to stay on Pandora. As their bond deepens across the divide between species, they build an unlikely family and a home that bridges two worlds. But when old enemies return with devastating force, their love and commitment are tested in ways they never imagined.
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notes reader is neteyam’s wife, workaholic neteyam, temporary separation, their son is the cutest toddler on pandora, groveling (if you squint), smut (p in v), oral (f&m receiving)
synopsis a year ago, you made the painful choice to walk away from neteyam after he proved time and again that his duties to the war party came before you and his son. you knew he was only trying to be the dutiful soldier everyone expected him to be, and that he would have kept going that way... until your son unwittingly reminded his father of everything he was throwing away for the sake of duty and war.
word count 16.8k
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Your hand on your mount’s reins tightened as the sight of the clouded Hallelujah Mountains loomed closer and closer with each beat of your ikran’s wings. The flight from your home clan to the Omatikaya was over an hour long, but you were glad that the weather was nice enough for you to travel. Your other arm renewed its hold on the woven wrap strapped securely to your body, holding your son, his small hands gripping at your woven knife sheath, his large amber eyes wide with excitement.
He was two years old today. Two years since he came into the world, his cries echoing in the vast canopy of a home that no longer existed. His birth was closely followed by the return of the sky people who tore the sky open, burned your forests, forced the people to face a seemingly endless war, and took your husband from you.
“Mama! Look! Look!” Nevan chirped, his tail whipping excitedly against your hip inside the wrap. He pointed a chubby finger at the swarm of flying fkios. “Fkios flying so fast! Like me!”
You smiled, “Yes, sweet boy,” you murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head. “They are going home, I suppose, just like us.”
He giggled when you tickled his ear with your nose. “Visit Papa?” he asked.
You clamped your mouth shut, pulling his body closer as if he wasn’t literally tied to you at the moment. “Ah, yes... Visiting Papa,” you murmured, but his attention was already back on the flying fkios, his dangling feet wiggling excitedly.
When your ikran glided down onto the landing ledges of the High Camp, the crisp smell of distant rain from high above yielded to the smell of heavy mountain air and some smoke from the resistance’s machinery. You dislodged your kuru from your ikran’s, trying not to look at the man standing at the edge of the platform.
He wasn’t wearing his warrior gear for once, only his chest knife sheath, but he still looked every bit the commander he had become since the sky people’s return. The role he allowed to step over his roles as a husband and a father, you thought cynically, but you immediately tried to quell it. What’s the use of thinking of it when it has already happened before your very eyes and it already ruined everything?
He was standing tall, almost like the pillar that he is to the clan, but the moment his eyes landed on you, his rigid posture faltered, but you tore your eyes off him when your son wriggled furiously in the wrap.
“Alright, alright, sweet boy,” you chuckled, dismounting your ikran and carefully unbuckling the woven wrap.
From your peripheral vision, you could see Neteyam walking toward you two, but as soon as you’d freed him, Nevan immediately scrambled down, his little feet pattering furiously across the ground as he ran toward his father. Neteyam dropped to his knees, his massive arms catching the boy, lifting him high into the air, making Nevan let out a high-pitched, joyful screech.
You watched Neteyam press his forehead against his son’s, closing his eyes as a fierce, protective rumble vibrated in his chest. But even as he held the boy, his eyes flew up, looking past Nevan’s shoulder, his gaze locking onto yours with a look that is so heavy, suffocatingly dense with a longing so profound it felt like a physical weight in the air between you. It was the look of a starving man staring at a feast he wasn't allowed to touch.
His eyes traced the curve of your jaw and the softness of your features, desperate to find even just a sliver of hint that you’re feeling what he’s feeling. But you didn't give him one. Carefully, you looked away, focusing instead on your son’s little kicking legs and on the way Neteyam’s large hands held him safely. You chose to see him only as a father, completely shutting out the man who used to hold you the exact same way.
It hadn't always been like this. That was the cruelest part.
Your marriage hadn't been a political arrangement or a hasty union, it had been a lifetime in the making. Your parents were part of Jake and Neytiri’s inner circle since before the first war against the sky people. Through the many times your parents would bring you to visit the Omatikaya, you had witnessed Neteyam grow from a lanky boy into the man he is now.
And he had known you were for him since you were children. Neteyam was never one to waste time or play games, so he had always stake a claim on you, and the moment you both came of age, he courted you with a fierce, unwavering devotion that made even your parents sigh. You were sweethearts as teenagers, inseparable and fiercely protective of one another. When he mated with you before his and your people, his eyes had held nothing but a future filled with you.
And, your pregnancy had been a dream. Neteyam was a doting, almost ridiculously attentive husband. He would spend hours rubbing soothing oils on your aching back, pressing his ear to your growing belly to whisper stories of the forest and your childhood escapades to his unborn child. He never left your side. You had no doubt, not a single one, that you were the center of his universe.
Then, the sky people returned.
And the man you loved was swallowed whole by the war. Suddenly, he wasn't just Neteyam. He was the firstborn of the resistance leaders, the commander, and one of the unyielding pillars that kept the people from being completely overcome by the RDA. He began leaving before the first light of dawn and returning long after you and the baby had fallen asleep.
For over a year, you lived as a ghost in your own home. You sat alone in the dark, rocking a crying infant, praying to the Great Mother that the next body brought back on a stretcher wouldn’t be his. You begged him, you cried, you pleaded for just one evening. “Just for a day, Neteyam. Stay. Be with me, be with our son...”
But his face would harden, that stubborn, unyielding Jake-Sully look taking over. “I am doing this for our future, my love. If I do not fight, our children will have no world to inherit.”
And then it all just crumbled on your son’s first birthday.
It was a simple thing, really. You had spent days gathering sweet fruits, weaving small toys, hoping against hope that Neteyam would remember. You waited until midnight. When he finally walked into the kelku, covered in war paint and soot, he didn't even look at the small, untouched feast on the woven mat. He just muttered about a successful raid on an RDA supply train and collapsed into sleep.
He had completely forgotten.
And you were hit with the realization that the man you loved was dead, replaced by a warrior who had no room left in his heart for anything but strategy and casualties. You had cried all your tears by then. The well was dry. You were just so profoundly, deeply tired. So, you talked to him about going back home, citing the safety your clan’s territory could provide for you and Nevan to make him agree.
“Baby, this is your home now...” he had told you then, his arms tight around you as he fit his head in the crook of your neck.
“I know, Neteyam. But the explosion was too close yesterday. I am afraid for Nevan. This is not a place where he can safely run around and... be a child. I do not want to lose him, too...”
“Too?” he had asked, his hands maneuvering you so you’d face him but you didn’t budge. “Baby, you didn’t lose me—”
“All evidence to the contrary, Neteyam. I haven’t shared a meal with you in so long, you weren’t there when Nevan first laughed or when Nevan first uttered the word Papa, you weren’t there when he took his first steps. I am a ghost in this home. It would make no difference if we are away, because you had been acting like you had no family to come home to.”
His arms tightened around you, his nose burying in your neck. “It would make all the difference. I am coming home to my wife and child safe and sound, and that was my solace—”
You struggled to remove his arms around you, but his arms were iron tight. Your heart throbbed with pain but you couldn’t even cry. “So, then let me go home. Nevan and I will be completely safe there, if that’s what you truly care about.”
“I can’t be away from you, yawne, you’re practically asking me to stop breathing. I cannot not see you and Nevan—”
“When was the last time you’d seen your son, Neteyam? You leave before he wakes up and comes back long after he’d fallen asleep. I think you can, Neteyam, you can stand not seeing us. As I said, it would make no difference if we were here, or we were back home.”
That was that beginning of you leaving him to his war. He hadn’t known it would be a full-blown separation... But he had long before set that distance between himself and you. You’d just gotten the memo late.
“Watch, Mama! My big splash!”
Nevan’s high-pitched voice snapped you back to the present. You sat on a smooth, sun-warmed rock by the riverbank, your hand propped on the soft woven mat laid beautifully on the grass. Around you were various food, pies, and fruits Neteyam had prepared. You could barely eat it without your throat closing at the grief of this not being a permanent thing.
You’d told him Nevan wanted to celebrate his birthday here, that he misses Jake and Neytiri, and he promised you it would be different this time. You told him not to promise you anything, and just show it to his son. So far, he had kept his promise. He had cleared his entire day, which is probably an unthinkable feat for the commander of the resistance. He had brought a mountain of gifts for his boy. Beautifully carved wooden toys that he probably spent the past moons making, a small bow, and a woven arm band.
Now, he was knee-deep in the crystal-clear water, his loincloth soaked, laughing as Nevan furiously slapped the water, sending a pathetic little wave toward his father’s shins. Neteyam exaggerated his reaction, falling backward into the water with a loud splash, making Nevan howl with glee.
For a moment, the illusion was perfect. You looked like a little family. Neteyam would look up at you from the water, a soft, hopeful smile playing on his lips, trying to pull you into the warmth of the moment. You would smile back politely, a distant curve of your lips that never reached your eyes. You were here for Nevan. Only Nevan.
Nevan waddled out of the water, dripping wet, and proudly held up a crudely constructed object from the pack you brought from home. It was a woven sheath of colorful leaves, bound tightly with vines, holding a cluster of bright purple orchids. You shook your head with a smile as you fixed the pack, wiping the puddle of water he left behind.
“Look, Papa!” Nevan beamed, shoving the wet flowers directly into Neteyam’s face. “A flower sheath! Uncle Maytel taught me how... how to twist the vines. They don't break!”
You searched for a dry towel in your pack, smiling as you watched your son speak, his little body trembling in excitement.
“Uncle... Maytel?” Neteyam echoed. The playful, warm tone in his voice vanished instantly, replaced by a low, measured cadence.
You blinked, your eyes snapping to him. Suddenly, you had become aware of how ugly that sounded in the ears of people who didn’t know. You froze for a moment, the air in your lungs suddenly feeling like liquid lead as you watched Neteyam momentarily narrow his eyes, the look of a formidable hunter spotting a prey. Or a predator sensing blood might be the better description.
“Yes!” Nevan replied excitedly, entirely oblivious to the sudden, deadly shift in the atmosphere. He had just opened a cage containing a predator, and he thought he was playing with a puppy. “Uncle Maytel... He makes the best ones! He is Mama’s friend... They talk all the time. See... This is pretty. Right, Papa? Look at Mama's hair. See? I can make that, too, Papa. I will teach you!”
Nevan pointed a chubby finger at you. You had indeed used a beautiful hair decoration to pin back your hair in a half ponytail, letting the rest of your wavy locks flow loose behind you, having no idea at all how the sight of you earlier today literally stole the breath from Neteyam’s lungs. You are so beautiful, always have been, but it hits him particularly hard now that he doesn't see you as often.
He has never been used to being away from you for so long. This is probably the longest he has gone without you, such that every time he sees you now, his heart starts doing the thing it did when he first realized he loved you: flipping inside his chest and then melting into a puddle.
You kept your face as blank as stone, waiting for Neteyam to look at youjust as his son instructed. Neteyam was standing up now, but he wasn't looking at the decorations on your hair. He was staring directly at you, and the look he gave you almost choked the air right out of your throat. He didn’t look mad, it also wasn’t the detached look of a commander. It was that intensely familiar, deeply possessive, primal look he used to give you when another hunter talked to you for a second too long during his youth. His eyes darkened, his lips tightening into a straight line as his gaze finally dropped to the decorations in your hair before snapping back to your eyes immediately.
“Is that so, my boy?” Neteyam said softly, his voice dropping an octave, his eyes never leaving yours.
“Yes! He says Mama is... is very beautiful!” Nevan cheered, completely ruining any chance of a graceful exit.
So for the rest of the afternoon, you made it your absolute mission in life to never, ever be left alone with Neteyam.
When you returned to the camp, you practically shadowed Jake and Neytiri. When Neytiri pulled Nevan onto her lap to feed him sweet fruit, you sat right beside her, suddenly intensely interested in what she has to say. When Jake took Nevan to show him the ikran roost, you walked right behind them, using your son as a shield as Neteyam followed like a shadow.
He stayed a respectful distance though, answering his son's hundred questions about the beasts, even the imaginary ones, coming up with the perfect answers for it. For a moment, you were back to being a teenager, annoying the golden heir of Toruk Makto with your silly questions and having him answer you with complete seriousness, as though he really thought about your silly questions like they were points for further research.
His eyes were a constant, burning pressure on your skin the entire time, and every time you glanced up with a neutral expression, he was watching you. Eventually, the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purple. Neytiri, seeing how exhausted the toddler was, scooped Nevan up.
“He will sleep with us tonight,” Neytiri said softly, giving you a knowing, gentle look that made your stomach twist. She thought she was doing you a favor, giving you and Neteyam a night of privacy. “Go. Rest.”
“Oh, I can take him—” you started quickly, reaching for your son.
“No, no,” Jake chuckled, clapping a heavy hand on Neteyam’s shoulder. “Let his grandparents spoil him for one night. Go on.”
You stood there, watching Neytiri walked away, your son already fast asleep against her shoulder. Oh, boy. You watched the rest of the camp clear out as the rest of the people retreated to their homes. You didn’t turn to Neteyam, turning instead toward the guest tents, your pace brisk, but you didn't even make it halfway before a large hand gently but firmly gripped your forearm.
It wasn’t a harsh pull, but his grip was unyielding. “Our home’s here,” he reminded you.
You glared at him through your lashes. “I haven’t forgotten,” you said in a clipped tone, walking straight into the shadows of your old home, and seeing that nothing much had changed, only that he’d put up photos on the wall.
And from where you were standing, you’ve seen one from his unilatron many years ago. With him painted in swirling marks of white and you, standing beside him with a huge smile. Another, at your mating ceremony, and another, a photo of you heavily pregnant. The last one was a photo of the three of you, with Nevan as a newborn, cradled in your arm, both of your faces adorned with brilliant smiles.
Grief seized your heart and you had to physical turn away from it, your hands balling into fist.
“You've been avoiding me all day,” Neteyam stated, standing between you and the flap entrance, his large frame casting a long shadow over you.
“I was spending time with our son's grandparents, Neteyam. It's his birthday,” you replied, keeping your voice entirely light and normal. You walked over to the sleeping mats, untying your travel pack and organizing your things with practiced nonchalance.
“Who is Maytel?”
The question was sharp and direct, like always. Neteyam had never liked beating around the bush. You took a deep breath, turning around with a calm, casual smile. “A childhood friend from my clan,” you said.
“A childhood friend,” Neteyam repeated, his voice low, a dangerous rumble vibrating in his throat. He took a slow step toward you, his tail twitching rhythmically behind him. “Never heard of him before.”
“I have many friends back home, Neteyam,” you said. “There was no reason to bring him up. He's just a friend. He helps at home, and he’s good with Nevan. My friends have all been a huge help to me since I moved back.”
Neteyam stopped just inches from you. He was so close you could smell the familiar mint-y scent of him. All your senses were melting. It knew the smell so well, had even associated it with home and safety, and it tore at your chest, a cruel reminder of the husband you had lost. He leaned down slightly, and though he didn’t touch you, you were forced to look into his heavy, shadowed eyes. The possessive fire in them hadn't died down, if anything, it was burning hotter, fueled by the agonizing restraint he was forcing upon himself.
“He makes ornaments for your hair,” Neteyam murmured, his eyes dropping to the flowers on your soft hair. His hand twitched, as if he wanted to reach out and rip it from your hair, but he kept his fist clenched at his side. “He talks to you all the time—”
“To help. All my friends help me, Neteyam, you’ve seen Laika and Nira helping me last time," you countered smoothly, your eyes locking onto his, refusing to back down. “I am a single mother raising a little boy. I needed all the help I can get. Nothing more.”
His head reared back a little as if you’d hit him. The words single mother hit him squarely like a slap and you saw the visible flinch in his jaw, the way his chest heaved as he swallowed the bitter taste of his own failures.
He stared at you for a long, suffocating moment. He knew you were telling the truth about Maytel being just a friend. He knows you, he knows the woman he married, he knows that you would never violate the bonds of marriage, even a broken one. But that didn't stop the sickening, agonizing jealousy from clawing at his throat. Another man was filling his space. Another man was teaching his son how to weave. Another man was making his wife smile.
“You are not single. I am still very much here,” he said.
“I don’t want to argue about what here actually means,” you replied, tearing your eyes away and removing the decorations on your hair to free it from its bounds.
He watched you, choosing not to press further, but as he stepped back, his eyes remained devastatingly heavy on you. “He is a friend,” he whispered, his voice thick with an unspoken, desperate plea. “But he is not my son’s father. And he is not your husband.”
As he uttered those words, the reality of his hypocrisy came crashing back down on him. Maytel, indeed, was not Nevan’s father, nor was he your husband... But could he honestly say he was both of those things to you and Nevan? He visited the two of you as much as he was capable, but that didn’t mean anything. He was an absent father, and an even more absent husband, and he wondered completely how his son still held excitement and affection for him instead of distance.
And how the boy knew everything he was doing for the people. He knew that, even in your current indifference, you had thoroughly made the boy understand that his father had sacrifices to make for the benefit of Eywa’eveng. He watched you lay down on the sleeping mat, pulling a woven blanket up to your shoulders and turning your back to him. He sat down on the opposite side of the yurt.
He wouldn’t lie down, and you had noticed he never did once the two of you were alone in a space. Whenever he visited back home, he would do the same thing, sitting down far away from you, his heavy, burning gaze fixed on your back, mourning a home he had lost to a war he was still fighting.
The morning arrived with a crisp chill you hadn't felt in so long. The altitude of the floating mountain made the sun feel unreal. You shared a meal with Neytiri and Jake. Your son, having already bathed, wore a new loincloth with fine weaving, and you put a hand over your mouth as you laughing at him proudly showing it to everyone.
“Grandma made this, Mama!” he told you, munching on a sweet fruit as his little body leaned into Neteyam.
Neteyam held his wrist gently, kissing the side of his head. “No sweet fruit yet without a real meal, little boy...” Neteyam mumbled, replacing the fruit with a bite-sized piece of meat.
“Okay, Papa... But Grandpa said I can eat? I don’t eat this at home... Right, Mama?“ Your son turned to you, now munching on the meat Neteyam had given him.
You smiled softly. “I try not to let him eat too many sweets unless necessary to regulate his body,” you explained. “But Papa is right, Nevan. You must eat your food first before the sweet fruit.”
Neteyam glanced at you, his soft eyes smiling even as he tried to look serious for Nevan who nodded without a fight, even picking some vegetables off his leaf and eating happily.
Neytiri smiled at you. “He is a good child, Y/N. You are doing such a great job with him,“ she said, her eyes a little misty.
You smiled, caressing your son’s head. “Neteyam is, too, Mother. Despite the grueling demands of the war, he makes sure to find time for Nevan,” you said. You couldn't possibly leave him out, not when you knew he was trying his best.
After the meal, the peace you were feeling had dissolved and was replaced by the reality that you had a hazardous flight ahead of you. Outside the yurt, the camp was already buzzing with the low, mechanical drone of the resistance. You stood beside your ikran, adjusting the heavy leather straps of the riding harness, checking every buckle with meticulous care. Nevan was already strapped securely to your body in his woven wrap. He was heavy, but his warmth was comforting, his little hands clutching a newly carved wooden ikran that Neteyam had given him.
A shadow fell over you and you didn't need to look up to know it was Neteyam. He double-checked your ikran’s saddle, his movements deliberate and sharp, before he checked the saddle of his own mount, preparing to take flight alongside you. You stopped tightening the cinch of your saddle, your hand resting flat against the leather. You swallowed the dryness in your throat and turned your head toward him.
“Neteyam,” you called out, your voice quiet but steady. He paused instantly, his ears twitching forward as he turned his head to look at you, his golden eyes wide and alert, catching every syllable. “I think... It wouldn’t be safe if you come with us.”
A subtle, pained stillness took over his features. His chest expanded with a sharp breath, his fingers tightening against his mount's reins. “The skies are not safe, yawne. The gunships have shifted their patrol grids closer to the western border. I am accompanying you home.”
“Neteyam, I would like that, too.” you said, stepping closer so your voice wouldn't carry to where Jake and Neytiri were standing a few paces away. You gestured faintly to the sky, then down to the boy against your chest. “But the tension with the sky people is worse this moon. They know your ikran, Neteyam. They know you. You are the commander of the vanguard; your presence draws the kind of attention I cannot risk when I have our son with me.“
The words seemed to render him weak. Neteyam looked at you with eyes so deeply pained, so utterly crushed, it felt like a blow to the chest. He looked down at his own hands, then at his son's chubby legs dangling from the wrap, as if he couldn't fully comprehend the reality that his very existence, the fierce, formidable identity he had built to protect his people, was now a liability to the safety of his own family.
Nevan, completely unaware of the reason of the heavy silence, looked up at his father with wide eyes. He held up his wooden toy, making a little whistling sound through his teeth. “He’ll fly with us, Papa!”
Neteyam’s heart tightened so visibly you could see the muscle in his jaw clench as he forced a small, strained smile for the boy. He reached out, his large thumb gently tracing Nevan’s round cheek, but his eyes kept flickering back to you, searching your expression for any sign of hesitation. There was none.
Behind him, Jake and Neytiri exchanged a quiet, heavy look. Jake stepped forward, his hand coming down firmly on his eldest son's shoulder.
“She’s right, son,” Jake said softly. “The RDA has scout ships tracking your specific signature. If they spot you flying with your wife and child, we don’t know what they could do.”
Neteyam’s shoulders sank, the breath leaving him in a low, defeated hiss. He knew the logic was flawless. He knew it was the right tactical decision. But the soldier in him was currently losing a brutal war against the husband and father who desperately wanted to prolong his hold on both of you.
“I will send two warriors,” Neteyam muttered, his voice thick as he stepped back from his mount. "They will fly low behind you, out of sight. They will ensure you reach home safely.”
You nodded. “Thank you,” you said softly, genuinely relieved.
Neteyam stepped closer to the side of your ikran, his large body aching to simply reach out, to wrap his iron-strong arms around both of you and never let go. He leaned in, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to the top of Nevan’s head, his eyes closing as he inhaled the scent of his son one last time.
As he began to pull away, Nevan’s small fingers suddenly shot out, grabbing Neteyam’s long braids with a stubborn, toddler grip. He yanked, preventing his father from moving back.
“Papa kiss Mama!” Nevan ordered with a bright, demanding grin, his tail swishing behind him in a mischievous flick. “Good bye!”
Neteyam froze, his head tilted downward by the boy's grip. Slowly, his eyes lifted from Nevan’s face to yours. They were completely stripped of the commander's armor, now earnest, dark, and filled with a raw longing that made your breath hitch in your throat. He waited, silently asking for permission.
You looked at his lips, then at the desperate hope in his eyes, and felt the old, stubborn walls in your chest crack just a fraction. Slowly, you tilted your chin up, offering your lips to him.
The tension in Neteyam’s shoulders died instantly. A soft, ragged sigh escaped his nose just before his large, warm hand came up to cup your neck, his thumb on your jaw. He leaned down and closed the distance. You were expecting a brief, polite kiss of departure, but you should have known by the way he held you that it wouldn’t be like that.
The moment his lips touched yours, he held you there with the fierce, unyielding eagerness of a man who had been starving for a year. His lips were warm, firm, and thoroughly possessive, parting slightly as he kissed you, reminding your body of exactly who he was to you. A sudden, stupid heat flared in your stomach, your pulse spiking as your lips instinctively softened against his, responding to the familiar, intoxicating rhythm of his kiss.
He groaned softly against your mouth, his thumb caressing your jaw, pulling you just a fraction closer, trying to collapse the entire year of separation into a breathless second. But a sharp, high-pitched giggle broke the air. Nevan was squirming between you, his small hands clapping.
The sound snapped you back to reality. You pulled away, your breath coming a little faster, your cheeks flushed dark with a sudden surge of heat. Neteyam’s hand lingered on your jaw for a second too long, a low, deep rumble of impatience vibrating in his chest at the interruption, his eyes dark and heavy as he stared at your parted lips.
“Fly safely, baby,” he whispered, his voice rough.
You couldn't even form words. You simply nodded, mounted your ikran, and took to the sky, your mind in an absolute daze as the wind rushed past your face.
The flight back home felt like a blur. Even after you had safely landed on the soft, mossy platforms of your home clan and unbuckled an exhausted Nevan from the wrap, your lips still felt strangely warm, tingling with the ghost of Neteyam's mouth.
“My bestest friend in the world! You are back!”
The cheerful voice of Maytel broke your reverie as he walked down the wooden ramp, followed closely by Laika and Nira. The three of them had been your lifeline this past moons, always ready to help with the daily chores and Nevan.
Maytel practically bounded over to you, his face painted with a mischievous, gossiping energy. He didn't even wait for you to greet them before he leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Tell me everything! How was the High Camp? My weekend went just as good! Do you remember that hunter from the clan nearby that I was eyeing? The one with the long arms? I swear, yesterday, we were together—”
“Maytel!” you hissed, your eyes widening significantly as you pointed them sharply down at your son who was rubbing his eyes but listening intently.
Nevan was an incredibly smart boy and his ears picked up on village gossip faster than a direhorse on the run.
Maytel immediately clamped his hands over his mouth, grinning apologetically. “Oh! Right. Hello there, little Neteyam. How was your visit to your Papa?”
Nevan’s ears instantly perked up, his fatigue temporarily forgotten as his eyes lit up with excitement. “We played a lot!” he chirped before holding his small arms out as wide as they could go. “Papa made big splash in the river! And gave me many toys! You’ll see, Uncle!”
Nevan eagerly held up the wooden ikran, bouncing on his heels as he babbled to Nira and Laika about the sweet fruits, the big mountain camp, and how his Grandpa let him touch a real ikran's snout. The three of them doted on him, laughing at his wild gestures until the boy's eyelids grew too heavy to fight.
You carried him down on his soft, woven cot, watching him with a doting smile as his tail curled peacefully. Even in sleep, his small forehead furrowed slightly in a way that looked identical to his father. It was a constant wonder to you how your boy could look so much like Neteyam, even with his soft baby features.
When you walked back out to the main platform, Maytel was sitting on a woven mat, repairing a fishing net. He looked up, a theatrical sigh escaping his lips.
“Now,” Maytel smirked, leaning forward on his elbows. “What happened with the dear husband?”
You rolled your eyes, sitting down across from him and pulling a basket of fibers towards you to clean. “Nothing.”
Maytel groaned loudly, tossing a piece of twine into the air. “I do not know how you could do it, syulang! How you can resist all of... that! The last time he came to visit you here, oh, I couldn't even come near the house even if I tried. The air was so heavy! He is so large... taller than all the men in our village! And so handsome, too... Ah, those thighs... One could only imagine the beast he has inside that loincloth—”
“Maytel!” you shouted, your face burning as a sudden, vivid image of Neteyam’s muscular frame hovering over you flashed unbidden into your mind. Your stomach did a treacherous little flip. Oh, indeed, it was a beast. You cleared your throat quickly, trying to suppress the heat in your neck. “Perhaps you should have visited when he was here. Just yesterday by the river, Nevan mentioned your name to him, and it sounded so terrible. Neteyam thought you were my boytoy.”
Maytel’s eyes widened to the size of stones, his hands dropping the net completely. “What?!”
You rolled your eyes at his dramatic reaction. “Yeah. I should introduce you sometime, just so he stops looking like he wants to hunt something down.”
A slow, terribly mischievous smile spread across Maytel’s face. His amber eyes danced with glee. “Was he jealous, syulang?”
You shrugged, trying to appear completely indifferent. “Neteyam has always been very possessive. It is just his nature.”
“Of course he is!” Maytel grinned, leaning in close, his voice dripping with dramatic flair. “The way that man looks at you... Oh, he looks like a predator completely ready to pounce! Only that you’ve put him inside a cage.” He shivered, rubbing his arms. “We should rattle the cage, syulang.”
Your eyes narrowed instantly into a dangerous glare. “What are you talking about?”
He smirked, waving a hand dismissively. “I mean, let’s see what happens if he keeps thinking I actually want you. You know? A little competition...'”
“No,” you said firmly, your voice dropping into a serious, unyielding tone that left no room for argument. “We will not play with my husband like that. He is currently in the vanguard, fighting a war for all of us. He has enough weight on his shoulders without us playing petty games with his mind.”
Maytel pouted, rolling his eyes as he picked his fishing net back up. “You are such a killjoy!”
When night finally came, the village fell into a quiet rhythm, the bioluminescent flora providing light in brilliant shades of cyan and deep magenta.
Inside your quiet hut, the small tablet you used for long-range communication emitted a low chime. Neteyam called almost every day when he wasn't able to visit, a routine he had stubbornly kept since the day you left.
You picked up the device, pressing the connect button and Neteyam’s face appeared on the small screen, the blue light of the monitor reflecting his sharp features, sitting in the dark of your yurt, looking exhausted.
“Papa!” Nevan’s voice cut through the quiet as the boy scrambled from his cot, his small hands immediately snatching the tablet from you.
You let him take it, stepping back. The memory of the kiss from this morning was still burning in your chest, and the ridiculous things Maytel had said earlier kept echoing in your mind. Hearing the deep, gravelly texture of Neteyam’s voice through the speaker seemed to tickle something deep within you, sending a slow, persistent heat crawling up your neck.
You watched from a distance as Nevan babbled to the screen, showing his father the toy again, telling him about the fish he saw in the river. Neteyam listened with an intensity that made your heart ache, his expression soft and full of a quiet, reverence for the boy.
“Go to sleep now, son,” Neteyam’s voice softened as Nevan yawned heavily, his little eyes fluttering shut as he rested his head against the mat, the tablet propped up beside him. “Good night, Nevan.”
“Night, Papa...” the boy murmured, completely out.
The screen shifted slightly as Neteyam adjusted his hold on his end. He knew you were still in the room. Even though he couldn't see you in the dim light of the hut, his voice dropped into a low, intimate frequency that felt like a warm hand sliding up your spine.
“Good night, my love,” he whispered into the quiet. “I love you so much.”
The line went dead with a soft beep.
You stood there in the dark for a long time, the silence of the room suddenly feeling incredibly loud. Your skin felt hypersensitive, your heart drumming a strange rhythm against your ribs as you carried the tablet back to the shelf and finally lay down on your own sleeping mat beside your son.
When sleep finally took you, it didn't bring the peaceful, dreamless rest.
It was a dream that seemed familiar to you. It was real... More like a memory haunting you. You were under a canopy in a forest that was so green and vibrantly alive. Your vision focused and you saw Neteyam in fromt of you. He looked so young, entirely devoid of the rigid exhaustion the war brought. He was grinning, a look that made your heart jump.
He had you pinned against the smooth bark of a giant root, his large hands mapping the curves of your body with a desperate fervor. You were both shivering, caught in the reckless, consuming heat of youthful desire. His fingers were knuckles-deep inside you, the slick, wet heat of you coating him as he moved frantically in and out, stretching you beyond relief. It was a tight, intense friction, but even in the haze of the dream, you found yourself thinking that it was a far gentler stretch than the thick, heavy length of his cock, which your hands were currently fisted around. You pumped him in tandem with his rhythm, his weight leaning heavily into you as a ragged groan escaped his throat.
“I missed you, my baby...” he mumbled against your skin, his lips trailing a path of burning kisses from your collarbone up to your jaw before crashing onto your mouth, tasting of pure adoration. His fingers moved faster, driving you closer and closer to a cliff you wanted to fall off of.
You let out a soft, breathless chuckle against his lips, your fingers tightening around his length. “Missed me? We are always together, ‘teyam...”
But the moment the words left your mouth, you watched his face fall, a profound sadness washing over his golden eyes. “Not really, no...” he whispered, his voice cracking with a vulnerability that made your chest ache. “You are so far away from me right now...”
Panic seized your heart, sharp and sudden like an arrow to the ribs. “What...?” you gasped, reaching for his face, but his image was already dissolving like smoke in the wind. “Neteyam—”
You woke up with a violent gasp, your eyes flying open to the quiet, dark interior of your hut.
Your heart was hammering a frantic, echoing rhythm against your ribs, and your breath came in ragged bursts. The cool night air swept over your bare skin. Between your thighs, the phantom ache of his fingers was still vividly there, a throbbing warmth that slowly turned cold as the reality settled in. You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes, trying to force the image of his younger, unburdened smile back into the dark.
You missed him so much.
This wasn't the first time. You had dreamed of him many times in the past moons. But they were never dreams that hasn’t happened, they were always memories, beautifully cruel and vibrant, haunting you even in your sleep. Your dreams weren’t showing you what could be, it was torturing you with what used to be, a reminder that while you had successfully run away from the war, you had never truly managed to run away from him.
The lingering mix of heat and longing from the dream stayed with you for days, but lately, only the heat seemed to have stuck. And it’s annoying. You were glad you didn’t have to see him for the time being, because it often happens every time you see him. Fortunately, you somehow at least manage to overcome the trials and tribulations of being a woman who chose to separate from the man she loves so much.
By midday, you were sitting on the main platform of your hut, the basket of fibers in your lap serving as a distraction while Maytel sat cross-legged opposite you. He was at it again, his fingers weaving river-grass and glossy feather-like fibers into an intricate hair crown. It wasn't for you this time, because Maytel has always been the unofficial beautifier of the clan's young women, and right now, he was carefully crafting a piece for a girl from the lower terraces.
“I am telling you, syulang, he nearly fell out of his hammock when I walked past,” Maytel was wheezing, his tail thrashing with dramatic delight as he recounted his latest encounter with his long-armed hunter. “He tried to act so smooth, but the poor thing was blushing so hard his stripes almost turned purple!”
You let out a loud, genuine laugh, shaking your head as you tossed a cleaned fiber at him. “You are terrible, Maytel. Leave the poor man alone before you break his spirit entirely.”
“Never! A little torment keeps the blood pumping,” he grinned, his fingers flying through the weaving.
“Mama! Mama!”
Nevan’s high-pitched voice shattered the lighthearted bubble. You blinked, looking toward the main walkway, expecting to see Nira or Laika chasing after your hyperactive son.
Instead, your breath caught squarely in your throat.
Walking just a step behind Nevan, his massive frame practically shadowing over your son, was Neteyam.
He was in his full warrior gear, wearing his cummerbund, his chest knife sheat, and his heavy longbow strapped to his back, looking thoroughly prepared in case he gets attacked on his way here. He looked terrifyingly formidable, and a little out of place, too. Everyone in your clan knows of his reputation as a warrior leading the resistance with his parents, and they have always treated that as something to celebrate.
Your eyes snapped straight to his face after a quick sweep of his gear, your heart jumping to your throat at the sight of his eyes narrowed into slits. To anyone else, he just looked like the stoic, fierce commander of the Omatikaya, carrying himself with his usual rigid authority. But you? You had known him since you were children. You had held him in the dark. You knew every subtle twitch of his ears, every micro-expression of his jaw.
There's your angry man.
He was staring directly at Maytel, his eyes tracking the way Maytel was sitting so comfortably close to you, sizing up his competition with a cold, calculating precision.
“Oh, Great Mother,” Maytel muttered through entirely gritted teeth, his smile freezing in place as he deliberately kept his lips from moving. “Is this your view every day? If yes, how dare you leave him, syulang? If I had one of that at home, I would never think of this clan again.”
You threw Maytel a furious, warning glare. Those seem like the perfect digs, because this isn’t your view at all, you barely even see him. You also didn’t have one of that at home... Literally, because the man was rarely home. You stood up, looking at Neteyam with look of genuine confusion. Before Maytel could even speak again, Nevan reached the steps leading to the platform, throwing his little body against your legs before turning around and pointing proudly at his father.
“Papa surprised me at the ledge, Mama!”
Neteyam stepped onto the platform, the wood creaking slightly under his weight. Without a word, he bent down and effortlessly scooped Nevan up into one massive arm, propping the boy against his hip. His jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle jumped in his cheek as he looked down at you.
“Neteyam,” you said, your voice tilting up. “You... you weren't due to visit until next week. The patrol schedules on the tablet said you were in the western valleys... You should have sent word, I haven’t prepared anything.”
His brows raised slightly, his tail twitching in an agitated flick behind him. He adjusted his grip on Nevan, his voice dropping into a deep, gravelly tone. “A word to visit my wife and my son? Do I need that now, my love?”
You blinked, completely caught off guard by the sheer pettiness dripping from the commander of the Omatikaya vanguard. A tiny, involuntary rise twitched on your brows. “N...no, of course you don’t,” you stammered slightly, trying very hard to keep your face neutral. “But what brought you here? Are the people alright?”
“The people are perfectly fine,” he answered, his eyes darting back to Maytel who was currently staring up at him with wide, completely unbothered eyes. In fact, Maytel looked like he was watching a theatrical performance, his gaze tracking Neteyam’s shoulders and the broad sweep of his chest with shameless appreciation.
You pursed yourself to stop a chuckle from escaping you at the realization that Neteyam had absolutely no idea what Maytel's true self was. To Neteyam, this was simply the man who was staying way too long talking to you, helping you, and weaving flowers into your hair.
“Neteyam,” you cleared your throat, stepping between them to cut off Neteyam's death stare before he accidentally declared a one-man war on your village. “This is Maytel. The one Nevan was telling you about.”
Neteyam shifted Nevan to his other hip, his posture locking into an intensely rigid, formal stance. He looked down at Maytel as if he were interrogating a prisoner of war. “I see,” Neteyam rumbled, his voice dripping with an absurd amount of authority. “I hear you have been a great assistance to my family, Maytel. I couldn’t thank you enough.”
Maytel blinked, a slow, highly amused smirk tugging at his lips. He stood a full head shorter than Neteyam, but showing absolutely zero fear. Instead, he let his eyes lazily trail down Neteyam's torso, before going back up to his face.
“It is no trouble at all,” Maytel purred, his voice smooth. “Your wife is my absolute favorite person to spend my days with and little Nevan here is just a joy to watch grow. You can’t take your eyes off of kids these days, they grow up so fast!”
You gritted your teeth, widening your eyes at Maytel, and having him glance at you with that confident I-can-handle-this look.
Neteyam’s ears threatened to flatten against his head. His nostrils flared as he looked at Maytel, his jaw locking hard as he absorbed the thinly veiled barb about being an absent husband and father, but the aggressive tension in his shoulder dissolved as quickly as it came. In its place emerged the smooth grin of a boy you had grown up with. Neteyam has never been one to take a slight seriously.
“Is that right?” Neteyam asked, his grin widening into something effortlessly dangerous. He patted Nevan’s back, his tail flicking behind him in slow, rhythmic moves. “Well, I can’t blame you. My wife is an excellent company, and my boy is easily the best part of anyone's day. I appreciate you keeping them entertained while I was away.”
Your lips twisted at how easily Neteyam was able to ride over that wave. Meanwhile, Maytel glanced like you, his eyes communicating ooh, the man can bite and you rolled your eyes. Neteyam caught the way Maytel glanced at you and your dear friend immediately tore his eyes off.
His plan to rattle the cage? Forget that. Neteyam looked physically capable of tossing him off the platform like a sack of dried grass, and as much as he would love to support you to the ends of the world, with the way your husband was sizing him up like a tactical competition, he decided he valued his life. It was time for a very graceful, very immediate exit.
“Oh, don't mention it. Taking care of Y/N and Nevan is the least I can do to contribute to the war efforts... Since you are too busy in it," Maytel said. You closed your eyes, shaking your head with how that once again landed like another dig!
Fortunately, a voice called out to Maytel several yards away and you saw how relieved he looked to have an excuse to get out of here. Your ears perked up, too, ready to send him away so you can finally deal with your husband.
“Oh, as much as I would like to stay...” Maytel sighed, “I think I shall leave you three to your... family time.”
“Right. Thanks, Maytel...” You said, widening your eyes at him when he sneaked in another once-over on your husband’s body.
With a theatrical swish of his tail, Maytel sauntered down the wooden ramp. Neteyam didn’t break his stare from the walkway until Maytel’s silhouette vanished into the lower terraces, but the moment he was gone, Neteyam’s golden eyes snapped down to the corner of the platform. His gaze locked onto a bundle of fibers that Maytel had carelessly left behind, a habit born from being used to coming here whenever he pleased.
“He leaves his things here,” Neteyam muttered, his tone dropping into a low growl. “Like he knows he can just walk back here anytime he pleases.”
“Maytel is harmless, Neteyam... if you’d only open your eyes to see,” you told him.You couldn’t possibly tell him what Maytel really was for that wasn't your secret to share, so you felt conflicted. You didn’t want Neteyam to think you were just allowing random men into your home.
“He is my friend. He can come back. He helps here, so he’s here almost every day.”
You saw Neteyam’s jaw tighten at the words every day and you almost groaned out loud at how you seemed to be cursed with the exact same syndrome Maytel just had: pissing off Neteyam with your choice of words.
“But that is not the point,” you quickly followed, cutting off his impending tirade before he could even start. You stepped closer, looking at the sheer exhaustion hidden beneath his rigid posture. “What’s the reason for this sudden visit?”
Neteyam looked down at Nevan, who was currently occupied with chewing on one of his father’s arm bands. Slowly, deliberately, Neteyam set the boy down on the woven mat. “Will you go inside and play for a while, son? Papa needs to speak with Mama.”
“Okay!” Nevan chirped, completely oblivious to the tension between his parents.
Once the boy was out of sight, Neteyam turned to you. The rigid, unyielding commander of the Omatikaya resistance seemed to slowly fracture, his shoulders dropping. He didn't look like he was preparing to leave. In fact, he had unbuckled his heavy longbow, setting it carefully against the weapon rack by the door, a gesture of permanence that made your heart skip a beat.
“It’s not a visit,” Neteyam said softly, his golden eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. “I am staying.”
You blinked, a sudden wave of confusion washing over you. “What do you mean, you are staying? For how long? A week? Neteyam, the raids in the west—”
“I have handed the command of the western vanguard over to Lo'ak and Rey’to,” he interrupted, his voice steady. He took a step toward you, his large hand reaching out as if to touch you, before he caught himself and let it drop to his side. “I am staying here. With you. With our son. For as long as you are here. Even if it takes years.”
Your breath hitched. You stared at him, your mind frantically trying to process the words. The golden heir of Toruk Makto, the boy who had been groomed since birth to carry the weight of his people, the commander who had chosen the war over his own family... had walked away from the vanguard.
“What... What about the resistance?” you whispered.
“I left it,” he whispered, his eyes heavy on you, but for the first time in years, he looked so unburdened. “I don’t expect a pie for it, baby. I know I have a lot of things to make up for. To you, to Nevan, and to our family. There is nothing more important to me in this world but you—”
“Neteyam, y-you cannot do that. Your father, the people, they... need you. You are one of the pillars keeping the people from falling to the demons—”
“And who is keeping us from falling?” he uttered, his voice filled of a raw, desperate emotion breaking through his warrior’s facade. He stepped closer, completely invading your space, his familiar scent clouding your senses. “I spent the entire flight here realizing the hypocrisy of my own words. I told you that Maytel was not Nevan's father, and that he was not your husband... but Eywa help me, I haven't been either of those things to you in years.”
He looked at you with eyes so heavy with longing it made your throat close up with grief.
“My father told me that a leader makes sacrifices for the future,” Neteyam murmured, his hand finally defying the distance, his long, warm fingers gently cupping the side of your neck, his thumb resting against your jaw. “But if the future means I have to stand in an empty home, realizing that the woman I love, have loved my whole life, looks at me like a stranger... then the war has already taken everything worth fighting for. I am choosing you, and I didn’t think it could be that easy. Baby, I cannot lose you...”
You held his eyes as his words hung in the air, your throat working silently as your eyes mapped the familiar contours of his face. The rigid, hyper-vigilant set of his shoulders was still there, and perhaps it always will be there, but the desperate, raw vulnerability in his eyes sent an ache in your chest. The thumb on your jaw trembled just slightly, a rare display of fear from the Omatikaya’s most formidable young commander.
He was giving you everything you had spent a year aching for. He was giving up the vanguard. He was setting down his bow. He was choosing to be a husband and a father over being a war legend.
Yet, as you looked at the set of his jaw and the sharp knife strapped to his chest, a sudden grounded clarity washed over you. You couldn't help but peek past his shoulder toward the lower terraces where Maytel had just vanished. Your eyes narrowed as you stifled a knowing smile, cutting through the heavy emotional fog.
“You are a very foolish man, Neteyam,” you whispered, your voice dropping into a soft cadence that made his ears twitch in surprise. “You fly all the way across the forest, hand over your lifelong duty to your brother, and declare an end to your warrior days... and a significant part of it is because your son said something about some guy making hair decorations for me.”
Neteyam’s posture stiffened instantly. His nostrils flared, a faint, dark flush creeping beneath his cheeks. He tried to maintain his solemn, deeply romantic expression, but the telltale twitch of his ears betrayed him.
“That’s not—I did not leave the vanguard because of that,” he muttered with a defensive, stubborn scowl that reminded you of your son, melting away at your icy defenses.
“No?” You tilted your chin up, your eyes dancing with a quiet, knowing light. “You didn't look at Maytel like you wanted to feed him to your ikran? This wasn’t prompted by the thought that someone else was here, helping me with everything and teaching your son stuff while you were away in the trenches?”
Neteyam closed his eyes for a brief second, letting out a long, defeated hiss through his teeth. When he opened them again, the fierce commander was entirely gone, replaced by the intensely possessive, fiercely protective man you know very well.
He sighed. “I hate imagining and seeing him here... seeing another man's things in our space, knowing he gets to hear our son’s first morning words while I am decoding scout reports... I hate it, yawne. It made me realize that while I have been busy holding up the sky for everyone else, my own world was moving on without me. I am a warrior, yes. But I am your man long before I became one. I am Nevan's father. If I have to crawl to get your forgiveness, I will. Please, just do not tell me to leave.”
The sheer honesty of his words struck deep within your chest, like a lightning bolt cracking at the frost that had settled over your heart during the year of separation. You love him very much, and you knew he could easily get you back if he showed you how regretful he was, but you didn’t want to make it completely effortless for him.
You tilted your head before slowly moving away to let his hand drop from you. Neteyam’s fingers flexed against the empty air, a pained, searching look crossing his features as he watched you move a pace away.
“You can stay, Neteyam,” you said softly, your expression turning serious. “You can stay and be a father to our son. You have a lot of lost time to make up for.”
Neteyam’s chest expanded with a deep, profound breath of relief. You didn’t mention anything about how your relationship will go from here, but that only made a determined, unyielding fire lit up in his eyes. He will work hard to earn you, to replace the time he wasted letting you carry the burden of his absence alone with the reminder that he is still very much here, and that he will never leave again.
“I will earn it back,” he promised, his voice thick with emotion. “Every single day.”
And surprisingly, Neteyam kept his word with a relentless, quiet devotion that left no room for doubt.
For the first few weeks, you remained intentionally wary. You kept your distance. You expected the long-range communication tablet on the shelf to chime at any moment, expecting Jake’s stern voice or Neytiri’s desperate call to summon him back to the battlefield. You expected Neteyam to pace the platforms at night, staring longingly toward the mountains like a caged predator.
But the summons never came, and Neteyam never looked back.
While he still kept a strict routine of waking up before dawn to check his longbow and spending an hour on his tablet giving quiet, tactical advice to Lo'ak or coordinate defensive tactics with his father, the moment the sun broke over the mountains, he belonged entirely to his family.
Nevan, unlike you, required absolutely zero groveling. To your son, having his father home every day was a miracle straight from Eywa. The little boy practically attached himself to Neteyam’s hip from the moment he opened his eyes.
“Look, Mama! Papa taught me how to make the ikran call!” Nevan chirped one bright morning, running into the hut with his arms spread wide, letting out a surprisingly accurate, high-pitched screech that made you laugh.
Neteyam walked in right behind him, carrying a massive basket of freshly gathered jungle fruits and roots for pie. He had stripped off his heavy war gear weeks ago, now wearing only his daily clothes. His long braids were freely dancing, and his skin lacked the harsh black soot of the vanguard. He looked exactly like the boy from your dreams... unburdened and happy.
“He is an apt hunter, yawne,” Neteyam smiled, setting the heavy basket down near your cooking hearth. He paused, his golden eyes locking onto yours, admiring the way you look in the morning with that steady, intense warmth that always made your pulse quicken. “Though he still needs to work on his stealth. He gasps too much when he spots a prey.”
“I don’t, Papa!” Nevan protested, throwing his little body against Neteyam’s sturdy thigh. “I am silent like the wind! Right, Mama?”
You couldn't help the soft, genuine laugh that bubbled up from your throat. “I supposed you are, my little breeze. Now go wash your hands before breakfast.”
As Nevan scrambled toward the water basin, Neteyam stepped closer to you. He was never an impatient lover. Even when you two were younger, he had always made sure you were comfortable with the pace he was taking. It was actually you who was impatient, pushing him to his limits and challenging the rules he set for himself.
Now, he didn't exactly invade your space aggressively, but he came close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body. He reached into the basket and pulled out a single, perfectly bloomed night-glory flower, its petals glowing a vibrant, brilliant shade of blue. Without a word, he gently tucked the stem behind your ear, his knuckles brushing against your cheek just a second longer than necessary.
“Your son said this matches the pattern of your stripes,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, meant only for your ears. “He seems to have memorized your patterns like I have when I was a boy... I think every part of me loves you, baby. That includes Nevan, because he’s a part of me.”
Your face burned a sudden, dark shade of violet. You batted his hand away with a playful, frustrated sigh, though your fingers instinctively came up to touch the cool petals. “Neteyam... You are supposed to be helping with breakfast, not picking flowers and uttering pick up lines like a flustered young hunter trying to win his intended mate.”
Neteyam’s lips curved into a slow, utterly devastating grin, the exact same cocky, confident smile that had stolen your heart when you were teenagers. “Who says I am not? I am courting you, yawne. I told you I would earn my way back.”
“You are ridiculous,” you muttered, turning back to the hearth to hide the massive smile breaking across your face.
As the moons bled into one another, Neteyam’s quiet crusade to win back your heart took on a life of its own. He stayed and showed no interest in going back at all, integrating himself so deeply into your daily life that the memories of your lonely year apart began to fade like mist under the scorching sun.
Every single day seemed like an adventure with Neteyam and Nevan always making sure you were at the center of it, but today, your son had miraculously stayed behind when Neteyam went out to hunt. Both of you shared a laugh at the fact that the boy was obviously having a lazy day.
Nevan was sitting cross-legged in front of you, his tiny tail curling in a calm concentration. You had a shallow clay bowl filled with crushed, vibrant purple berries between your knees, using the thick juice as a makeshift paint.
“Like this,” you murmured softly, dipping the tip of your finger into the dark juice. You gently pulled his small hand into yours, guiding his index finger into the bowl. “Gently, my boy. We do not want to drown the wood.”
Nevan let out a soft, eager chirp, his ears pinning back in focus as you helped him press his finger onto a flat piece of smooth wood. Together, you dragged his finger down, leaving a thick streak that was meant to represent the neck of a direhorse. The moment you lifted his hand, Nevan gasped, his golden eyes going wide as a bright, toothy smile split his face.
“Pretty, Mama! Look!" he squealed, his little tail swishing frantically against your thigh.
You couldn't help the soft chuckle that escaped your lips, leaning forward to press a sweet, lingering kiss right to the tip of his nose. “Aren’t you just Mama’s little artist?”
Nevan giggled, squirming happily against your legs before leaning his small head completely against your chest. He was getting bigger every day, but in moments like this, when he curled up against you and let out those tiny purring sounds, he was still just your little baby. You wrapped your arms securely around his small frame, resting your chin on the top of his head, gently rocking him side to side as you hummed a soft, ancient lullaby, your hands continuously working on the paint.
Unbeknownst to you, Neteyam was standing completely still in the threshold. He had just returned from his hunt, his muscles aching and his heart still filled with the adrenaline of it. He had been prepared to strip off his boundary gear and weapons, but the moment he stepped onto the platform and saw the two of you, the breath completely caught in his throat.
He couldn’t move, he couldn't possibly break the absolute sanctity of the scene before him. His eyes, usually so sharp and vigilant on the battlefield, softened until they were thick with a profound reverence. He watched the way your long hair fell over your shoulder, framing the gentle, fierce love on your face as you cradled his son. He watched how comfortably Nevan fit against your chest, completely protected from the harsh, violent world outside these walls.
He thought about all the days he missed, the quiet days you and Nevan spent together just like this, and a wave of emotion hit him squarely in the chest, so overwhelming and pure it made his throat tighten. Suddenly, his whole world shrank down to just this sight of you humming in the golden light, with his son safe in your arms, and a fierce, blinding clarity washed over him.
Nevan shifted, his little ear twitching as he caught the faint rustle of Neteyam’s movements. The boy's head snapped toward the entrance, his eyes lighting up. “Papa!”
You blinked, breaking out of your peaceful daze, and turned your head to see him just standing there.
Neteyam offered you a soft, utterly devastating smile, the last remnants of his exhaustion melting completely off his features. He stepped into the alcove, immediately welcomed by Nevan’s insistent chirping.
“Papa! Papa, look!” Nevan babbled, squirming in your grip so he could proudly point his purple-stained finger at the piece of wood. “Mama and me made... a pa'li! A big, big one! See the long neck? Like a real one? It eats through the big trees!”
Neteyam let out a low, rumbling chuckle before leaning back to press a kiss on Nevan’s head before his large hand came down to cup it, his thumb gently smoothing back the boy's twitching ear. “Wow, doesn’t this look fiercer than Agre, Mama? Papa has an own pa’li back in the forest... Mama and I loved going for a ride. One day soon, we’ll go see him,” he told Nevan, the little boy’s eyes perpetually twinkling. “Tell me more about this masterpiece.” Neteyam comfortably sat down near you.
“I— I... I didn't drown the wood!” Nevan continued eagerly, his hands gesturing wildly, completely unbothered by the purple juice drying on his skin. “Mama said do it gently. Like a hunter when you hunt the big yerik, Papa!”
As Nevan kept rambling, acting out the hunt with tiny, dramatic lunges of his hands, Neteyam’s gaze slowly drifted up from your son to meet yours. His hand slid from Nevan's head to rest against your jaw, his thumb caressing your cheekbone with a tender, heavy pressure. He was looking at you as if you had personally handed him the stars and the silence between you filled with a shared devotion for the beautiful, bubbly life you had created together.
You leaned into his palm, tilting your head up to press a soft kiss into the center of his hand. Neteyam’s smile widened, his heart hammering a heavy rhythm against his chest. You are his whole world. The little hands holding his braids right now holds his entire world. And he couldn’t believe he lost sight of that.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
“Please come! The river is very big today, Mama!” Nevan pleaded one afternoon, tugging furiously at your hand while Neteyam stood by the doorway, holding a woven utility basket.
“I have to finish mending these, Nevan,” you replied gently, gesturing to the tangled fibers in your lap.
Before you could even protest further, Neteyam walked over and effortlessly scooped you up from the floor, basket and all, setting you firmly on your feet. He took the fibers from your hands and tossed it onto the shelf.
“These can wait,” Neteyam said, his golden eyes dancing with a mischievous spark. “The commander orders a family excursion to the falls. No exceptions.”
Your lips parted for a moment, curling into a smile of disbelief. “You cannot use your commander voice on me, Neteyam te Suli. I do not report to your vanguard.”
“No,” he whispered, leaning down so his warm breath brushed against the shell of your ear, sending a sudden, electric shiver straight down your spine. “You are the only one I report to.”
You rolled your eyes, still smiling as you let your shrieking son drag you out of the hut, but your eyes lingered on Neteyam as you walked past, glinting with a mischievous light he hasn’t seen in over a year, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared that he decided he had just conjured it.
At the river, you waded in the shallow waters, watching Neteyam teach Nevan how to float on his back, the air cool and misted with the spray of the waterfalls cascading down the upper terraces. Your son splashed his little feet wildly, creating cute splashes that made Neteyam chuckle.
“You need to calm down, son. Make your body light... Think you can remain unmoving for a few seconds?” Neteyam asked, and you watched your son look up at his father with twinkling eyes.
“I can! Watch, Mama!” Nevan said proudly.
Neteyam slipped his large hands under Nevan’s small back, gently lifting him until the boy lay flat on the water's surface. “Relax your shoulders, Nevan. Look up at the sky, not at your feet,” Neteyam instructed, his voice low and soothing.
Nevan stiffened at first, his tail twitching underwater, causing him to sink immediately with a loud gasp and a splash. Neteyam caught him instantly, pulling him up with a warm laugh.
“Again, son. You must trust the water... and Papa. I won’t let you go.”
It took a few more tries. On the second attempt, Nevan held his breath too hard and tipped sideways. On the third, a stray splash hit his nose, making him sneeze and sink. But by the fourth try, you saw a quiet determination take over your son’s eyes, much like the one you often see in Neteyam’s eyes, as he took a deep breath and relaxed his tiny frame, letting the river hold him. Neteyam slowly lowered his hands away. Nevan was floating all on his own, his ears twitching in delight.
“I'm doing it? Mama, look!” Nevan squealed, the sudden movement breaking his balance and sending him plunging back into the water.
Your eyes widened, but he surfaced sputtering and giggling, and you couldn't help but laugh, too. Neteyam caught him, knowing he couldn’t really swim on his own yet. You waded closer to them and Nevan reached for you, his little arms wrapping around your neck. Neteyam grinned at you, his large hand cradling his son’s head.
“Let’s see you do it again, boy,” you grinned at him and Nevan splashed his hand in the water excitedly. You laughed, peering up at Neteyam, “He’s like one of those Terran toys Norm used to show us before.”
He tilted his head, “Robots?”
You chuckled, “No? Those stuff with a string you pull... And then it does something,” you said, helping your son lay flat on the water.
“Pull string toy? That one that talks?” he asked, already laughing.
You nodded, laughing with him as you turned to your son who is now relaxing his little body and letting the water carry him. You slowly let go of him, allowing him to float on his on.
“Calm down, Nevan... Mama will do it, too,” you mumbled, slowly letting yourself fall backward into the cool water, perfectly buoyant.
Neteyam grinned, dropping down right beside Nevan, his long limbs stretching out effortlessly. The three of you drifted together in the shallow waters, staring up at the canopy. Nevan let out a bright, bubbling laugh at the ticklish sensation of the water rushing past his ears, and the sound was so infectious that you and Neteyam burst out laughing too, your voices echoing alongside the waterfalls
The river soon became the site for your family’s almost daily bondings.
Nevan learned to swim in no time, but you still cautioned him against going to the river to swim on his own. Your son might be bigger than average kids his age, but he was still only two, and you worried he would run off to the river unsupervised.
Nevan splashed wildly in the shallow pools divided by smooth stones from the body of the river, chasing after the tiny, bioluminescent fish that darted beneath the surface. You sat on a smooth rock at the edge, watching him with a soft, content smile as you prepared the food for lunch. Nearby, Neteyam moved through the water with a fluid grace that vividly reminded you of his younger self, when he worked so hard to master his stealth as a hunter.
He was a good hunter, and an even better warrior.
He had been so skilled back then that he was grouped with older, more experienced warriors because he always seemed to know what to do. His parents took pride in how he outdid Jake in everything at an even younger age; there was no doubt at all that he would make a great Olo’eyktan. He was the golden heir who had bent his back to the crushing weight of his people’s expectations, carrying it all without a word of complaint.
And he had exceeded all of it, right up until the day he decided to leave everything behind to show you that he’s choosing you.
The thought settled heavily in your chest. You love him so much. Not once, even during the bitterest moons of your separation when you felt hollowed out by his neglect, had you stopped loving him. You had loved him as a wide-eyed child visiting Hometree and chasing him through the roots, you had loved him as a fiercely protective teenager, and you loved him now, as a woman who had given him a son.
But as you watched him move with a breeze of a warrior he will always be, a sudden, sharp ache of guilt pierced your heart.
You had taken him away from what he spent his whole life preparing for.
You were supposed to love every piece of him, just as he loved everything about you. Yet, when the war demanded too much of the man you loved your whole life, you had given up on the warrior entirely. You had forced him into an ultimatum between his duty to the people and his duty to his heart.
This realization plagued your mind for the days that followed. You watched him closely, searching for any flicker of resentment, any lingering gaze toward the horizon where the sky people’s metal birds still flew. But you found nothing. He looked entirely settled, his focus anchored completely on you, on Nevan, and within the confines of your family's hut.
In fact, the only thing that seemed to break his hard-earned peace was the occasional appearance of Maytel.
By midday, you were back on the platform, organizing a fresh basket of weaving fibers. Nevan and Neteyam had just climbed the ramp, returning from a short trek to gather wild spices for your recipe.
Neteyam had barely stepped onto the wood before his golden eyes laser-focused on Maytel, who was currently standing across from you, chatting about the latest village gossip. Under normal circumstances, the sheer intensity of Neteyam’s possessive glare would have made you stifle a laugh. But because you’ve spent days with the weight of your thoughts about him made the humor fade.
Maytel giggled at you, “You never did tell me anything, syulang! It’s been moons! With the way your husband looks at you, I was thinking you’d be round with child but now, but, oh well! You’re too slow,” he rolled his eyes, handing you the small, securely wrapped clay dish.
“Shut up,” you whispered, watching Neteyam and Nevan approach.
“Uncle Maytel!” Nevan excitedly greeted, waving a hand and skipping excitedly.
“I brought over some berry pie I baked this morning. I know how much you like this, little boy.”
Nevan peered up at him happily, his eyes twinkling as his hands clasped. “Thank you, Uncle!”
“Thank you again, Maytel,” you said smoothly.
Maytel straightened himsef up himself gracefully, his eyes darting toward Neteyam’s rigid frame. “Well, I must be off. I have a date with a certain long-armed hunter down by the shallow banks, and if I keep him waiting, he might snap another bow string out of pure despair.”
He gave you a dramatic wink, but Neteyam’s expression remained entirely hard, calculating, and intensely territorial. He stood frozen until Maytel’s silhouette finally disappeared down the main walkway.
“Mama! Look at the big leaf I found!” Nevan babbled, showing it to you.
You examined it with great curiosity, admiring its beautiful patterns. “The patterns looks like the canopy at Hometree, son,” you smiled at him.
“Wow...” Nevan looked down at his leaf with wonder before scrambling past his father’s legs and running into the hut to add the leaf among his toys.
With the platform suddenly empty, you stood up and crossed the small distance between you and your husband. For the first time since he had arrived moons ago, you stepped directly into his space, your hands coming to rest flat against the warm skin of his chest where you immediately felt the heavy thudding of his heart beneath your palms.
Before he could speak, you slid your hands up to his shoulders, tilted your chin up, and pulled him down into a deep, lingering kiss.
Neteyam froze, his breath catching sharply in his throat. He looked utterly stunned, his ears twitching back in absolute surprise before the instinctual hunger took over. His large hands came up to grip your waist, anchoring you against him as he kissed you back with a sudden, dark intensity that sent a wave of heat straight to your core.
When you finally pulled away, your lips were tingling, and his golden eyes had darkened with something different.
You let out a dramatic, teasing sigh, a faint smile breaking through the serious fog of your mind. “They always told me my husband possessed the keen eyes of a viperwolf... but it has been moons, my love, and you still haven't caught on.”
Neteyam blinked, his forehead furrowing in confusion. “What?”
You let out a soft giggle, your fingers tracing the strong line of his collarbone. “Maytel just said he has a date with his hunter, Neteyam. He is trying to get on with a man, not with your wife.”
A sudden, staggering silence fell over him, his mouth opening slightly, his ears lifting as the pieces finally clicked together. You chuckled as you watched the fearsome commander of the resistance suddenly looked incredibly flustered, a violet flush creeping along his neck.
“He... with a hunter?” Neteyam muttered, clearing his throat roughly.
“Yes,” you laughed softly, leaning your head against his chest. "There was never any reason for you to be jealous, ‘teyam. I never looked at another while I was away from you. How can I possibly ever replace you? Even when I was trying my hardest to act like I didn't care, I would never betray you like that.”
Neteyam’s gaze softened, his large hands smoothing down your back, pressing you closer to his warmth. “I know that, baby,” he whispered, his voice rough. “Not once did I ever doubt your faithfulness to me. It was... the men I did not trust. But... I suppose I should thank Maytel. Not just for watching over you and Nevan when I was too blind to be here, but because the mere threat of him made me straighten myself up.”
You smiled, looking at the scars on his chest. “Well... about that. Maytel was never a threat, you see. It is just... you left the vanguard for this. You left everything you worked hard for—”
“No,” Neteyam interrupted firmly, his forehead furrowing as he caught your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Do not think that. I did not leave the vanguard simply because I was jealous, I left because I was terrified of losing you completely. I have missed so much of our son’s life, yawne. I didn't even know how to make up for all the time I lost. I will carry the regret of that lost time for a very long time...”
A wave of emotion rose in your throat, making your lower lip tremble a little. “I was so hurt during those moons, Neteyam... but I wallowed so deeply in my own pain that I failed to see how hard you were struggling, too. You were keeping up with the two lives you were living, carrying the future of this world on your shoulders, and instead of being there to be the support you needed... I walked away. I left you alone, Neteyam—”
“Don't,” Neteyam commanded softly, his thumb sweeping across your cheek to cut off your words. “Don't you ever blame yourself, or think your choices were wrong. Baby, I wasn't keeping up with my lives. I was living fully as a warrior, entirely forgetting that I had a wife and a child who needed me to be a man, not just a leader. I was a terrible husband. I was a failure of a father. Do not deny that.”
He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath shaky.
“Your decision to walk away did me a favor, baby. I was too blinded by my duty. Who knows what would have happened if you hadn't put me in my place early on, if I had kept believing that everything was perfect while you were breaking in the dark?”
You stared at him, your throat tight, unable to find an argument. Slowly, you wrapped your arms around his neck. “Then let us settle it,” you murmured. “We both made mistakes. I should have spoken to you clearly instead of expecting you to know exactly what you were doing wrong... And you should have remembered that the war isn't the only thing worth fighting for.”
He breathed a huff of relief. “I am so scared, baby... I cannot lose you. You are half of me,” he whispered.
“I forgive you, Neteyam...” you mumbled, pressing a soft kiss against his lips.
He was quick to shake his head, looking almost angered. “I don’t want you to forgive me. I will not accept that. I want to remember this moment in our lives when I have let you and our son down. I would sacrifice and leave behind everything just to make sure this won’t happen again.”
You smiled. “Then I supposed I shouldn’t ask for forgiveness, too, for my selfishness—”
“You are not selfish and I have nothing to forgive,” he countered fiercely. “You only wanted what’s good for you and for our son, I’m glad you made that your priority. Can you imagine what younger me would have thought of me now? He would beat me up, baby, I’m willing to bet...” he pressed his forehead against yours.
Both your hands came up to hold his jaw. “We are allowed to make mistakes, my love... Both of us are still learning. What’s important is that even with what was happening between us, we were still good parents to Nevan.”
He smiled, his eyes lighting up at the mention of his son. “He’s a very resilient boy, my love... It makes me even more guilty that he just... loves me very much despite my absence.”
Your brows furrowed a little even as you smiled softly. “I guess Nevan is just a reflection of my heart. He’s a part of me, too, and every part of me loves you very much,” you caressed his jaw, pressing a soft kiss in his lips.
“I love you more. I love you so much,” he whispered against your lips, before he delivered a harder, more desperate kiss. It was a release of all the months of unspoken grief, longing, and the lingering heat that had built up between you. Neteyam groaned deep in his throat, his grip on your waist tightening until your breaths mixed into one frantic rhythm.
“Oh, Great Mother!”
The loud, dramatic gasp broke the air, making you pull away from Neteyam in an instant, breathless and flushed, only to see Maytel standing at the edge of the platform, his eyes wide with a look of pure, devious glee. He had caught you both completely red-handed, and you could practically see the chaotic, mischievous gears turning in his head.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt this moment, syulang, Neteyam... Well, I forgot my weaving shuttle... Just coming back for it...” he carefully tiptoed before getting what he came here for. “Got it!”
Maytel sneaked a smirk at you, his tail swishing with absolute triumph. Before you could hiss at him, Nevan bounded out of the hut, his little ears perking up at the sound of Maytel's voice. “Uncle Maytel! You came back?”
“I did, little star,” Maytel grinned, kneeling down to Nevan’s level while deliberately keeping his eyes locked on your flustered expression. “In fact, I am on my way up to the upper terraces to visit your grandparents. Would you like to come with me and help me pick some wild ferns?”
“Yes!” Nevan answered way too quickly. “Mama, Papa, can I go?” Nevan squealed, bouncing on his heels as he looked up at you and Neteyam.
Neteyam, still entirely dazed by the intensity of the kiss and thoroughly eager to get you back into the privacy of the hut, patted his son's head, nodded wordlessly.
Maytel giggled. “And I guess you will stay there until tomorrow, little boy...” he threw you an incredibly wicked wink. You're welcome, his eyes screamed.
“Bye, Mama! Bye, Papa!” Nevan cheered, snatching Maytel’s hand and dragging him down the ramp.
You stood on the platform, your face burning a violent shade of purple, completely aware of the heavy, dark promise in Neteyam’s gaze as he slowly turned his massive body back toward you. The platform was entirely quiet, your son was snatched away by Maytel, and the commander seemed very ready to claim a year-worth of action from you.
You bit your lip as you sensed his body turn toward you, making the air feel heavier with the thick tension you know will have you inevitably under him before the day ends. You finally turned to him when he stepped forward, his shadow falling over you, his broad chest rising and falling in deep breaths, his eyes dark as he tracked the soft features of your face, the flush your collarbone, the swell of your breasts, and the curves of your waist down to your shapely thighs.
“See you inside?” you said in a small, seductive voice, stepping backward with your eyes locked onto his while you were retreating into the hut. Neteyam followed you like a predator stalking a familiar territory. He stopped at the edge of your sleeping alcove, his tall frame blocking out the fire from the hanging firepot, casting you entirely in his shadow.
With a slow, challenging smile, your hands came up to the knot of your top, holding his unblinking gaze as your fingers untied the cords, letting the feather-like fibers slip until it pooled at your feet.
You followed it by untying your loincloth behind you, shedding it off until you stood before him entirely bare, the soft dim light catching the gentle curves of your body. You knew exactly what you looked like to him. Completely vulnerable, yet entirely in control of his sanity.
Neteyam let out a low, ragged growl through his teeth, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the wooden partition. His chest expanded, his nostrils flaring as he took in the sight of you. You looked so innocent standing in the quiet of your home, yet the mischievous, heavy heat in your eyes was pure sin.
“Do you mean to torture me, baby?“ he rasped, his voice deep and rough as his hand grabbed his crotch to give his aching hard on a squeeze.
“Torture?” you echoed innocently. “Who says you can’t touch, warrior?”
He blinked, as if it took time before he realized what you said. He stepped into the alcove, his eyes never leaving you, his hand aggressively shedding his loincloth off, as he walked toward you. You opened your mouth to tease him, but before you could do that, his large hands were already on you, his grip firm as he lifted you effortlessly and pressed you back onto the soft furs of the sleeping mat.
You reached for your kuru behind you, biting your lip when his calloused hands parted your thighs with an authoritative, heavy pressure to fit himself between them. You relished the familiar weight of him on you, the warmth and heaviness of his cock grazing your thigh. “Hello,” you mumbled, smiling as you caught his kuru that he let fall over his shoulder.
He watched you darkly, his hand prompting your hands to connect your kurus together. You gasped as the burning intensity of his emotions that surged through you, enveloping your soul with a familiar warmth you’ve never felt in almost a year. You breathlessly pulled him down for a kiss and his mouth enveloped yours right away, swallowing your breaths, kissing you hard and desperately. His arm wrapped around your frame to pull you against him until your soft mounds were squished against his chest, his large hand cupping your jaw.
You kissed and kissed, and you were reminded with just how much you loved kissing him. When you two were younger, making out with each other had been your favorite thing to do. Every lovemaking starts with what seemed like hours of making out sessions, and this moment brought you back. You licked at his lower lip and kissed him with more ferocity than you had earlier, moaning against his lips as your hands roamed the hard planes of his body.
When you pulled away to breathe, his lips found your jaw, leaving burning kisses until he reached your neck. He licked and nipped at your skin, his hand now coming down to your breast to knead and fondle, before his lips followed, filling his mouth with your flesh as he suckled on your pebbled tip.
“Oh, baby...” you cradled his head, your hand grabbing a fistful of his hair.
His kisses slid down your body, his lips kissing every inch of your skin reverently until his face reach between your leg, his hot breath brushing your slick center. You bit your lip as he kissed the soft flesh of your inner thighs, his lips wet as it sucked a bit of your flesh into his mouth before it trailed down to bury his face between your thighs. Your breath hitched in your throat when his tongue swiped upward in one long stroke.
He suckled on your sensitive nub and you shrieked when he playfully nipped down on it, your hands instantly flying into his thick braids as your hips bucked violently off the mat. The sharp, electric heat hit your sensitive nub, and Neteyam hummed a low, vibrating sound of pure satisfaction against your skin as he felt you tremble. He used his tongue relentlessly, sucking and lapping at you until your breath came in ragged, broken sobs.
Desperate for the weight of him, you tilted your pelvis upward, grinding against his mouth, begging for more. Normally, he’d insert his tongue in you, and you can’t understand why he’s being greedy with his tongue now. He paused, lifting his head just enough to look up your body, his lips glistening in the dim light. He let out a low chuckle, kissing the soft, sensitive skin of your inner thigh.
“Baby, I know you love it... but I won't put my tongue in, hm? My cock will be jealous. Your best friend hasn’t been in you for a year... you see, he hadn’t known a life like that since I was seventeen.”
You groaned loudly, throwing your head back against the furs as the teasing drove you mad. You kicked his chest lightly with your heel, though it lacked any real force. “Then fuck me already! What are you waiting for?”
Neteyam caught your ankle instantly, his grip tightening as he pulled your leg over his broad shoulder. He nipped fiercely at the tender skin near your knee, making you gasp. “So bossy,” he drawled, a wicked spark returning to his eyes. “Just for that, I’d add another thirty minutes to this...”
“Neteyam, please...” you whined.
“Give me one more, baby... I am so parched,” he said dramatically, his handsome face pulling into a mock pout before his mouth came down onto your pussy again.
He didn't give you a chance to protest. He lifted your hips high off the mat, wrapping his powerful arms beneath your thighs, draping your legs completely over his broad shoulders, before burying his face deep between your legs, using the rumbling vibrations of his voice and the flat of his tongue to drive you over the edge. The pressure on your swollen, sensitive flesh was too much, that within seconds, a violent wave tore through you, making you scream his name into the empty hut as your muscles clamped tightly around his mouth.
He held you through the tremors, lapping at your release until you were thoroughly cleaned. He eased you back onto the furs, your eyes closed, completely whited out by the intensity of your recent climax. Your skin was slick with sweat, your long hair sticking to your neck, but Neteyam only seemed to burn hotter at the sight.
You felt the heavy weight of his body settle over yours, his warm mouth moving down to claim your breast, his large hand firmly pressing your knees wider.
“Eyes,” he commanded, his voice dropping into that soft, unyielding tone he only ever used on you.
“I'm so spent...” you breathed, your eyelids fluttering as you weakly pressed a hand against his muscular chest, trying to find your breath.
Neteyam chuckled, a deep sound that vibrated straight into your bones. He kissed the tight line of your jaw before capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss. “You practically kept me in a cage, woman...” he drawled against your lips, his hard length pressing demandingly against your aching center. “And now, you’ve let me loose...”
Your eyes flickered completely open, staring up into the golden fire of his gaze. You pushed your lips forward, leaning into him, and you watched him hold his breath as he realized you were completely his.
“Fuck, I missed you so much, baby...” he whispered, his thumb caressing your slippery folds before he gathered your wetness.
You watched him lather your wetness on his throbbing length as its wide tip nudged your entrance, and with one heavy, agonizingly slow thrust, he slid inside you. Neteyam let out a ragged, guttural groan deep in his throat, his arm snaking behind your waist to pull you up as he buried himself to the hilt, earning a pleasured cry from you.
He froze for a second, his head burying into the crook of your neck as his entire body shuddered, absorbing the intense, tight heat of your walls clamping around him. “Fuck, you're so tight, baby...” he choked out, his breath scalding against your skin.
Before you could fully catch your breath, he lifted himself back up on his hands, his golden eyes finding yours again, refusing to let you look away. Slowly, he began to move. He pulled nearly all the way out, letting you feel every ridges of his length, before driving back in forcefully, making you whimper. Your head rolled back against the furs as your back arched.
His hand instantly came up to cup your jaw, his fingers firm but gentle as he guided your face back to his. “No, look at me,” he commanded, his breath hitching as he started moving.
You bit your lip, but your pleasured whimpers find their way out of your mouth as his large hand caged your jaw to make sure you won’t look away from him as his pace picked up. Your moans grew louder when his thrusts turned deeper and harder, striking the very center of your pleasure. Your breaths came in jagged huffs, mixing alongside your cries and his deep groans.
“Fuck, baby...” he moaned, his eyes closing for a moment.
You pressed a palm against his chest. “Open your eyes,” you commanded, pushing him back a little. “Watch yourself take me.”
He groaned, a huff of weakened and humored laugh escaping through his nose as he lifted himself on his hands, looking down at you with eyes filled of unadulterated hunger. His humor died in his throat the moment he saw the look in your eyes. He was the commander, yes, but right here, pinned beneath the weight of your gaze, he was entirely at your mercy.
“You like to play the general now, do you?” he rasped, his voice dropping into a dangerous register that sent a violent shiver straight down your spine.
His large hand slid from your jaw, his fingers tangling tightly into the hair at the back of your head, anchoring you firmly to the furs. With his other hand bracing his massive weight over you, he delivered a frantic, brutal, and deep pace into you. You stared up at him, your chest heaving as your breaths came in ragged, desperate gasps. You watched the way the veins in his neck strained, the way his jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped, and the sheer worship bleeding from his eyes.
He was completely undone, sweating and growling like a wild creature, stripped of all his rigid discipline until there was nothing left but his love for you.
The friction was driving you insane that you were literally reduced to a moaning, crying mess under him as your hips began to meet his every thrust instinctively, the coil of heat in your lower stomach tightening to a breaking point.
“I love you so much...” he moaned.
“Oh, baby... ‘teyam, I am so close, I can't—” you wept, your hips twitching away from his relentless thrusts but you only seemed to burn even more when his hand grabbed your waist to keep you in place.
“No, stay with me,” he rasped, his grip on your hair tightening just enough to keep you grounded. He picked up the speed, his movements becoming a blur of friction as he drove himself into you so hard that the entire world shrank down to your pussy. “Look at me when you break, baby. Give it to me.”
You couldn't hold it anymore. With one final deep plunge, the dam broke in a violent, white-hot explosion of pleasure rippling through your core, your walls seizing and pulsing around his girth. You cried his name, your eyes squeezing closed as your climax tore through you. Meanwhile, the tight clench you’re holding him with was the final blow to his restraint.
Neteyam let out a low groan as he threw his head back, burying himself to the absolute hilt, pouring his heat deep inside you while his body shuddered violently against yours. He collapsed over you a moment later, his frame curling a little so he could fit himself in your smaller frame, his face buried in the valley between your breasts.
His breath scalded your skin before his mouth moved to kiss your skin. He stayed buried deep inside you, his long arms wrapping securely around your waist, holding you so close it felt like he wanted to press his very soul into yours. You cradled his head, your other hand squeezing his shoulder when he sucked on your pebbled tip hard.
You groaned, “What about rest?” you mumbled.
He lifted his head. “Rest?” he raised a brow as if that was a foreign word.
You pushed your lips forward. “See, I was... undisturbed for moons, Neteyam. I think my stamina needed practicing,” you mumbled.
He smirked. “Now might be the best time for practice.”
You bit your lip, your hand cupping his nape to kiss him. “On the side note... You’re right,” you squeezed around him. “I miss you very much.”
He smiled, his lips coming down on yours. The hours dissolved into the shadows of the hut. The clan had grown quiet as the night went on, but neither of you noticed as though the world outside your hut didn't exist. There was only the rhythmic, heavy slap of skin against skin, his low, breathless groans, and your desperate cries of his name echoing in the quiet room.
By the time the bioluminescence outside began to glow with the midnight moons, the frantic heat had finally settled into a soft, exhausted warmth. You lay on top of him, your chin sitting on his chest as his arms wrapped securely around your waist. You were tracing the smooth, familiar lines of his chest, your breathing finally matching his steady rhythm.
Suddenly, a loud, deep rumble echoed through the quiet space.
You blinked, a bit dazed and Neteyam let out a low, amused chuckle. You pouted, pushing yourself up a little, his large hand slid down to caress the soft, slightly damp skin of your flat belly.
“Fuck, I forgot dinner,” he said, his eyes widening a little.
You blinked, lazy, satisfied smile spreading across your face. “Huh... I strangely feel full.”
Neteyam’s hand paused on your stomach, his fingers rubbing a warm, slow circle over your skin as a knowing, utterly devastating chuckle escaped him. He leaned over, pressing a sweet, lingering kiss to your lips.
“I sure hope so,” he grinned, his golden eyes flashing with a playful, wicked heat. “But let’s feed you first, my love. I’m not done with you yet.” He reluctantly sit up, lifting you up a little by your waist and gently plopping you down the furs with a hard kiss on your lips. “Don’t get up.”
He came back with the dinner you had prepared earlier and Maytel’s berry pie, both of which you devoured, occasionally feeding each other small bites while sitting cross-legged on the floor, unashamed of your nakedness. The moment the last of the food was cleared, Neteyam didn't give you a chance to think about cleaning up.
He moved to clean it all away quickly. True to his word, he wasn't done with you. The lovemaking that followed was slower and sweeter, full of whispers and quiet giggling. By the time you two settled back into a soft, exhausted warmth, you lay tucked against his side, your cheek pressed flat against his muscled chest, listening to the steady thudding of his heart while his long arm wrapped around you, anchoring you to him.
You stared into the soft darkness, tracing a light circle over his chest. “What do you think about going back to High Camp?” you asked softly.
Neteyam stiffened instantly beside you, his breath hitching before his eyes snapped down to look at you, wide and suddenly laced with absolute horror. “Baby, surely you are not kicking me back to High Camp?” he asked, his voice rough and panicked. “We have just reconciled. I want to stay. I am staying. I will never leave again. Besides... what if you get pregnant and I am not here?”
The sheer dread in his tone made you stifle a smile, but a soft chuckle eventually escaped you. You shifted, resting your chin on his chest so you could look at him properly. “I will be with you. Me and Nevan... we will all go back to High Camp together. What do you think of that?”
Neteyam blinked, entirely caught off guard, his ears twitching in confusion. “I... I don't know,” he murmured softly, his hand coming up to gently smooth down your hair. “You are safer here, baby. You and Nevan. And I don’t want to be away from you ever again...”
A sudden wave of warmth made your eyes tear up. “That is why we are coming,“ you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “You will never be apart from me again. From us. But... that doesn't mean you have to stop doing what you worked your entire life to prepare for,” you stared at him, “I fell in love with a warrior, Neteyam. I mated with a warrior. You are a leader to the people, and I shouldn't have made you choose between your duty to them and your duty to your heart. I meant what I said earlier, baby. We are all learning. I will always be here to support you now, and I will never leave your side. So... I think we should go back. But only if you want it.”
Neteyam stared at you, his own eyes growing misty in the dark. The crushing weight he had carried seemed to fully lift, replaced by a profound peace. Without a word, he pulled you up by your waist, bringing your lips down to his in a deep kiss that tasted of absolute gratitude and a love that grew even deeper and larger.
The next say, Maytel returned your son the moment the morning sun broke over the terraces. His teasing, knowing eyes were incredibly annoying as he took in your flushed skin and Neteyam’s completely relaxed posture, but you chose to ignore his smirks, focusing instead on your son who was as bubbly as ever, practically throwing his little body into your arms, eager to tell you everything about sleeping at his grandparents’ as if it was a vacation.
While you held Nevan, Neteyam stepped forward, his expression serious but entirely respectful. “Maytel,” he said, his voice deep. “Can we talk for a moment?”
Surprised, Maytel’s smirk faltered, his eyes darting quickly to you. You offered him a warm, reassuring nod and a smile, letting him know it was for something good. The two stepped outside onto the platform, and though you couldn't hear the words, you watched as Neteyam clasped Maytel's shoulder in a gesture of gratitude.
Once the air was fully cleared, Maytel left with a promise of more pie for your son, who had just discovered that his parents completely finished off the pie Maytel brought yesterday.
“What would you like for breakfast, my little sun?” Neteyam asked, playfully tickling Nevan’s belly.
Nevan giggled, patting it as his chest puffed proudly. “I ate many smoked fish and... and kelp soup!”
You watched Neteyam chuckle, feigning surprise for his son’s entertainment. “Oh! You already ate, huh? No wonder your belly’s so rooound.” Neteyam bent down a little to blow air into Nevan’s belly, sending your son into a fit of giggles as he threw his head back in laughter.
You leaned your cheek against your son’s small arm, looking at Neteyam as you sat down on the mats of your receiving area. “Nevan,” you smiled, smoothing his little ear back. “How would you like to go on an adventure? We are flying back to Grandma and Grandpa.”
Nevan’s eyes went completely wide, his little tail swishing frantically against your leg. “To see the big ikrans? With Papa?” he squealed, jumping straight into Neteyam’s arms and hugging his neck tightly.
Neteyam melted against his son, his eyes crinkling with absolute adoration that made your smile grow wider. Later that night, you trekked up to your parents’ hut to bring a pie you made and to discuss with them your plans to go back to High Camp. Neteyam took his time sincerely apologizing to your parents who kindly dismissed his apology, gently reminding him that your forgiveness was the only kind that mattered and it clearly seemed like you had given it.
The flight back to High Camp was long and carefully calculated. Neteyam took no chances with your and Nevan’s safety, choosing to fly his ikran yards ahead of yours, scouting the valleys first, taking a much longer, winding route to completely avoid the coordinates he knew were patrolled by the RDA.
When your ikrans finally landed on the rocky ledges of High Camp where you were welcomed back with a small, joyous celebration. Jake and Neytiri were the first to embrace you, their eyes shining with relief to see their eldest son whole again, while the council looked on with relief to have Neteyam back into the fold.
But the moons he spent just learning the rhythm of the world with you and Nevan seemed to have ingrained themselves deeper than his warrior routines. Now, he couldn’t leave the hut without sharing breakfast with you, his large hands gently guiding his son’s tiny fingers over his food to teach him how to eat on his own before heading out to the scouting decks.
Then, he would return at midday to spend the eclipse with you, helping put Nevan down for a nap before heading back out to coordinate the perimeters. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, he was home for the night, stripping off his weapons and warrior gear to belong entirely to you.
He still couldn’t believe how stupid he had been. Even though you had forgiven him, insisting that you both made mistakes because you were still just learning, he believed he should have known better. Now that he was able to manage both of his lives so seamlessly, he couldn't understand how he had let the war consume him so completely before, letting years pass making you feel neglected and thinking he had chosen his duty over you, his heart.
There are nights though, where the weight of his duty still clawed at his shoulders. After an armed encounter with the RDA during his patrols, he still tried to come home as early as possible, his body rigid and vibrating with tension. You had already blew the firelight dimmed by the time he arrived from the council, his movements hurried and when he saw that Nevan was already asleep in his hammock, you saw his shoulders slumped, his face crumpling in controlled distress.
You stood up, welcoming him to help bim remove his cummerbund and weapons, hanging them on a rack. “Has he been asleep long?”
“Only because he played too much with the other kids earlier,” you told him, chuckling as your hands caressed his shoulders. “He could barely eat his dinner, his eyelids were already drooping.”
He looked down at his son, his large caressing the boy’s head. “I’m sorry, I came home late...” he mumbled.
You bit your lip. “Neteyam...” you hugged him from the side, kissing his shoulder, feeling the tension in them soften a bit. “I heard of the encounter. Tell me what happened...”
Your hands gently worked through the knots in his shoulders as he spoke, his voice dropping into that low, tense cadence. “The skirmishes have escalated, baby,” Neteyam muttered, his jaw tightening as he stared blankly at his hands. “It’s only been three moons since we came back, and the RDA patrols are pushing further into the southern valley. Earlier, they nearly pinned my scouts against the ridge. I almost called in a full air strike, but the canopy was too thick. I had to pull them back. Lo’ak thinks we should ambush their next supply line there, but... the risk is too high.”
You stopped massaging his shoulders and shifted, angling your head so he had to look at you. “You did the right thing by pulling back,” you said softly. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned from you in all the years I’ve known you is that you are not impulsive. You are not a warrior who wants only victory. I think... they are baiting you and they are expecting an ambush on their supply line. Eywa has given us enough to fight the demons, ‘teyam. Perhaps you could change your flight paths, lead them toward the weeping bogs where their heavy metal suits can't tread. Let the forest do the fighting for you.”
Neteyam blinked, a sudden, quiet clarity washing over his stressed features. He let out a long breath through his nose, his lips parting as a humored, thoroughly impressed smile broke through his tension. “See, this is why I’m not performing well in the moons you were not with me...” he pulled you for a kiss.
You smiled, “And that’s completely my fault, I think,” you whispered. “Mind if I make up for it?”
His eyes narrowed a little as you slowly sank to your knees in front of him. His breath hitched in his throat, his hands coming down to rest heavily on your shoulders as your hand moved to his loincloth to palm his hard on, biting your lips when you found him already hard, responding to your show in an instant. You stroke it for a moment before moving the fabric aside to let the thick, throbbing length spring free.
You wrapped your hand around the base of his girth, sliding your palm up to feel the heavy ridges snaking along his length, looking straight up into his eyes, you leaned forward and opened your mouth, sliding your lips over the wide head of his cock. Neteyam let out a low, ragged groan, his knuckles turning white as he gripped on the nearest rack.
You kept an unbroken, intense eye contact as you took him deeper, your throat stretching to accommodate his impressive length, pumping your hand at the base while your mouth worked relentlessly, sucking the sensitive head before sliding all the way down until your nose pressed into his pelvic, the heat of his cock filling your mouth.
“Fuck, baby...” he choked out, his head tossing back for a second before your firm gaze anchored him right back to you.
His large hand came down, caging your jaw to keep your face tilted up toward his. His eyes darkened as he began to move his hips, delivering restrained thrusts straight down your throat. You took every inch of him, your eyes watering slightly from the depth, but you never broke your stare. You sucked harder, swirling your tongue around the ridges, driving him absolutely mad with the tight, wet friction of your mouth.
His breathing turned into frantic, ragged huffs as his thrusts became faster, deeper, completely losing his hard-earned discipline warmth of your mouth. “Fuck, you're so good to me...”
The veins in his neck strained, his jaw clenching as he reached his limit. He delivered three deep plunges into your mouth before his whole body stiffened, his thick, hot release pulsing down your throat. You swallowed every drop of his heavy warmth, your throat moving refusing to pull away even as he pulled you back.
When you slowly slid your mouth off his length with a squelching sound, he shivered, thinking it was over but when you dragged your tongue up to lick him entirely clean from base to tip, your eyes still locked onto his blown-out gaze, his knees buckled.
Neteyam looked entirely undone, his chest heaving as he stared down at you in pure, reverent worship. You licked your lips, smiling at him, while his hands lifted you up effortlessly. His arm wrapped around you, his lips crashing down on your lips at the same time your body landed on the hard planes of his. He groaning as silently against your mouth, his large hand groping your chest down to your waist and hips until it wrapped around the back of your thighs.
He lifted it up and knowing what he wanted, you hooked your arms around his shoulders before wrapping your other leg around him. His hard length was already hardening again against your thigh, and with a swift wipe aside of your loincloth, he drove into you, fucking you with a ferocity that made you feel exactly the tension that was engulfing him the whole day.
You pursed your lips to and buried your face face against the crook of his neck to muffle your pleasured sounds as his fingers dug into your hips, relentlessly moving your over his cock.
“I love you,” he groaned, way louder than he should.
“Neteyam!” you whisper-shouted, your fingers on his scratching.
He chuckled, his head angling to press his lips against your cheek, groaning as muffled as possible, but still letting you know how good he's feeling as your warmth enveloped him tightly. You let out a pleasured huff when he shivered against you, spilling his warm seed inside you, and triggering your own release.
He groaned again, but as silent as he could now, his hand working on the ties of your loincloth behind you, shedding it off you without removing himself from you. He lowered you down on the soft furs, his cock slipping out a little when he removed his own loincloth. He spread your legs wider to slip it back in though, lowering himself to kiss you softly.
Hours later, the frantic heat had settled into a soft, exhausted warmth. You lay tangled together on the messy furs, your head resting on his chest while his arm was around your waist.
“Thank you, my love,” Neteyam murmured into the dark, his fingers gently tracing patterns along your arm.
You let out a soft, sleepy giggle, pressing a light kiss against his bare chest, listening to the steady, peaceful rhythm of his heart. “Someone has to keep the commander grounded.”
The peace in the weeks that followed was a precious, yet stolen gift, because with the encounters along the borders growing increasingly volatile, you knew it would soon reach a tipping point. What began as scattered, desperate shootouts quickly spiraled out of control, and Jake found it better to lead an offensive attack before the demons pushed deeper and harder against the resistance.
So, when Toruk Makto took to the sky once more, High Camp emptied. Neteyam kissed your lips until they were bruised and held Nevan so tightly the boy let out a confused whimper, before taking to the sky on his ikran, his jaw set with the determination of a man fighting to make sure that his children would never know the shadow of a gunship.
While the sky in the distant horizons burned with the smoke of explosions, you remained in the deep caverns of High Camp, sitting among the circle of women, your fingers tightly interwoven with Kiri’s, while Mo’at led the low, rhythmic chanting, praying to the Great Mother for the battle’s success.
Every breath you took felt heavy, not just from the fear for your husband, but from the secret you had yet to tell him. You had known for a few weeks now. You were pregnant.
You chose not to tell him at the height of the planning the offense, wanting him focused entirely on staying alive, but Nevan had practically been manifesting it. Ever since one of his playmates’ mothers had given birth to a tiny, squirming infant, your son had been absolutely obsessed with the concept.
Just days before the warriors marched, Nevan had sat on the mats, badgering you both with endless demands. “Want one of those at home, Mama! To play with!”
Neteyam had just laughed, sweeping the boy up into his powerful arms to cradling him against his broad chest like an infant to distract him. “But you are still our baby, my boy,” Neteyam had teased, his voice thick with affection as he brushed the tip of his nose against Nevan's. “You are always Mama and Papa’s baby.” Nevan had thrown his head back, giggling frantically, completely forgetting about the talk.
Now, clutching your flat stomach in the dim light, you whispered a prayer to Great Mother Eywa to bring that doting their father back to you. Whole and safe. You didn’t realize how much of a pressure it would be to be his wife during a major battle. Even in your distress, you needed to put on a calm facade and show the other women the tranquility that should belong to a wife of a warrior.
Fortunately, even before night fell, Eywa answered your prayers in the thunderous, victorious roars of ikrans echoing through the mountains.
The people had won. The clans Toruk Makto had united once again cleansed Eywa’eveng of the evil the sky people brought upon your world. Tuk roamed around chirping about reports on how the war party blew up Bridgehead, crushing the RDA’s main stronghold and ensuring they won’t bounce back as quickly as they usually should, with Jake leading the talks to force them back to the sky.
High Camp exploded into a frenzy of celebratory flutes and drums as the warriors touched down, their wives and children welcoming them with tears. Through the crowd, you spotted him. Neteyam leaped off his ikran, covered in soot and paint, his braids wild. The moment his eyes found yours through the throng, his fearsome warrior mask completely shattered, walking faster to get to you.
“Papa!” Nevan sprinted toward him and Neteyam caught the boy in his arms, before colliding into you with a force that lifted you off your feet, his massive arms wrapped around your waist, burying his face into the crook of your neck as he breathed in your scent, desperate to replace the stench of burning metal.
“I'm back, baby,” he choked out, his voice rough against your skin.
You held his face, tears streaming down your cheeks as you kissed him desperately. Nevan was already pulling at his father's braids, forcing him away from you, making both of you laugh. Neteyam pressed fierce kisses all over the boy’s face, and you did the same, making Nevan giggle, his neck scrunching in ticklishness.
The celebration for the victory began as night fell, all the torches and firepots were lit, glowing brighter than it ever had before. Even the moons cast down a glow different than the ones you’ve had in the past years, as if they were breathing more peacefully, too.
As the drums beat steadily in the background, Neteyam sat with you at the edge of the gathering, his arm anchoring you to his side while a thoroughly exhausted Nevan curled up asleep against his thigh. Neteyam looked down at his son, a soft, content smile resting on his lips, before his eyes drifted back to you, brimming with an unburdened, quiet adoration.
“We can build anything now,” Neteyam whispered, his large hand lifting to cup your nape, massaging a little. “A real future. Just you, me, and our boy.”
You smiled, your heart hammering a joyful rhythm against your ribs. You took his large hand, slowly guiding it away from yours and placing his wide palm flat against your lower stomach.
Neteyam blinked, looking down at his hand on your belly, then back up at your face. He froze, his ears twitching as he caught the blooming, emotional heat in your eyes.
“Baby...?"” he breathed, his voice suddenly trembling, the fierce commander completely replaced by the image of a stunned, hopeful boy you had grown up with.
“I can’t believe you’re surprised,“ you playfully widened your eyes at him.
He chuckled, and even through that, you saw a tear slipped down his cheek. “Right. Like I wasn’t actively aiming for that.”
You huffed a chuckle through your nose. “Nevan is going to get his wish,” you whispered, “You are going to have to practice cradling another baby very soon, Neteyam.”
A breathless, ecstatic laugh erupted from his chest. He didn't care who was watching; he leaned forward and captured your mouth in a deep, bruising kiss, his large hand trembling where it rested over the new life you were carrying.
“I will be here now. Always. To hear her first laughs, first words, and to watch her first steps...” he mumbled against your lips.
Neteyam has been dreaming of her for years. He is now an adult, well on his way to becoming Olo'eyktan after his father. The dreams get stronger until finally, the tension breaks when his dream girl shows up in the Omatikaya lands.
**Warnings** Explicit Sexual Content, Strong Language, Themes of Possessiveness and Jealousy, Adult Situations, Violence (if applicable in certain scenes), Emotional Turmoil
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Masterlist
Chapter Eleven
Morning light filters through the hanging vines of their alcove, casting dappled patterns across Raya's sleeping form. Neteyam watches her breathe, tracing the contours of her face with his gaze before allowing his fingers to follow the same path. Even in sleep, she radiates strength—the slight furrow between her brows suggesting dreams of mountain winds or forest hunts. His body still aches pleasantly from their night's activities, each twinge a reminder of how completely they claimed each other. When her eyes flutter open, storm-gray meeting his gaze with immediate recognition, the connection between them pulses like a living thing.
"Morning," she murmurs, voice husky with sleep and lingering desire. Her hand rises to cover his where it rests against her cheek, turning slightly to press her lips against his palm.
The simple gesture sends warmth cascading through Neteyam's chest. "Did you sleep well in our new home?" he asks, emphasizing the word 'our' with quiet satisfaction.
Raya stretches against him, her body sliding along his in a way that instantly reignites the embers of desire that never fully cool between them. "Better than I ever have," she admits, her leg hooking over his beneath the woven covering. "Though sleep wasn't the primary activity."
Her teasing smile draws him closer, their lips meeting in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens as memories of the night flood both their systems. With reluctant effort, Neteyam eventually pulls back, resting his forehead against hers.
"The clan will be gathering for morning meal," he says, though his body betrays his lack of interest in joining them, pressing harder against her hip.
Raya's fingers trace the fresh scratches on his shoulders, her expression shifting to something more serious. "They'll see these," she observes, touching a particularly vivid mark at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. "And mine." Her hand rises to her own neck where multiple bruises form a constellation of his passion.
"Good," Neteyam responds, his voice dropping lower as his thumb brushes across one such mark. "Let them see. Let them know."
They dress with unhurried movements, occasionally pausing to exchange touches that threaten to derail their progress entirely. When finally ready, Neteyam takes her hand, intertwining their fingers with deliberate intention.
"Whatever happens," he says, "we face it together."
Raya's chin lifts in that proud gesture he's come to adore. "Always."
The descent from their alcove brings them gradually into the heart of clan activity. With each level they pass, more eyes turn to track their movement. Neteyam feels the weight of these gazes—some curious, some approving, others carrying judgment he doesn't need to hear voiced to understand. His spine straightens instinctively, shoulders squaring as if preparing for physical rather than social challenge.
Beside him, Raya moves with that fluid mountain hunter's grace, her posture neither apologetic nor confrontational—simply present, certain, unmoved by the attention they draw. The confidence in her carriage sends another surge of pride through Neteyam's chest, mingling with the protective instinct that rises stronger with each whispered comment they pass.
As they approach the communal eating area, the usual morning chatter dims noticeably. Conversations pause mid-sentence, heads turn with varying degrees of subtlety, eyes widen at the visible evidence of their night's activities that neither has made any attempt to conceal. Neteyam's hand slides to the small of Raya's back, the gesture both supportive and possessive as they move together toward the food.
"The marks go both ways, I see," Lo'ak murmurs as they pass, his voice pitched for Neteyam's ears alone, though the amusement in it carries no judgment. "Good hunting."
The comment draws a reluctant smile from Neteyam, easing some of the tension gathering in his shoulders. They collect their morning meal—roots steamed with forest herbs, fruits gathered at dawn's first light—and turn to find seats. The usual organic flow of the gathering has stiffened, spaces that would normally welcome them now suddenly appearing full or awkwardly unavailable.
Before discomfort can fully form, Tuk appears beside them, her small hand tugging at Raya's fingers. "Sit with me," she invites, leading them to where several younger clan members have made room without the hesitation of their elders. "I want to hear about the Tree of Voices. Did the seeds glow extra bright? Mother says they do for true bonds."
The innocent question brings heat to Neteyam's face even as Raya smiles down at his sister. "They did," she confirms, settling beside Tuk with natural ease. "Like stars brought down to the air."
Neteyam takes his place beside Raya, their bodies aligning with that now-familiar perfection that makes even simple proximity feel intimate. His thigh presses against hers, the contact sending ripples of awareness through his system despite the public setting. When she shifts slightly, her hip brushing his, he feels the response immediate and visceral—blood warming, pulse quickening, body remembering exactly how those hips felt beneath his hands just hours earlier.
A sudden hush falls over the gathering, drawing Neteyam's attention from these dangerous thoughts. Mo'at has risen from her place among the elders, her tall figure commanding immediate respect as she moves to stand before the central fire. Her eyes find Neteyam and Raya with unerring accuracy, her expression revealing nothing as she waits for the clan's complete attention.
"Eywa has witnessed a union," she announces, her voice carrying easily to every corner of the gathering. "The son of Jakesully and Neytiri has bonded with Raya of the Mountain Clans before the Tree of Voices."
Murmurs ripple through the assembled clan members—some approving nods, some exchanged glances of uncertainty, a few outright frowns from the more traditional elders. Neteyam feels Raya's body tense slightly beside him, though her expression remains composed, chin lifted in subtle defiance.
"The bond before Eywa cannot be questioned," Mo'at continues, her tone leaving no room for argument on this point. "It is sacred and recognized by all the People." She pauses, her gaze sweeping the gathering before returning to fix on Neteyam and Raya with unexpected intensity. "However, the incorporation of a new member to the clan, particularly one who would stand beside our future Olo'eyktan, requires formal recognition through trial."
The word lands with physical weight in the silence that follows. Neteyam's jaw tightens, muscle pulsing visibly beneath blue skin as he struggles to contain his immediate reaction. A trial—as if Raya must prove herself worthy beyond the blessing Eywa has already bestowed, beyond the choice he has already made.
"The trial will begin at midday," Mo'at declares, her eyes still holding Neteyam's with something that might be sympathy beneath her ceremonial demeanor. "The council of elders will convene to hear the wind-walker's words."
As Mo'at returns to her seat, conversation erupts around them—voices raising in animated discussion, opinions flowing freely now that official pronouncement has been made. Neteyam barely hears them, his focus narrowed to the woman beside him and the tension he can feel radiating from her frame despite her outward composure.
"A trial," he says quietly, the words emerging with more edge than intended. "As if Eywa's blessing means nothing."
Raya's hand finds his beneath the woven mat, fingers intertwining with steady pressure that grounds him despite his rising anger. "Eywa's blessing is between us," she reminds him, voice pitched for his ears alone. "The clan needs their own understanding."
Her wisdom does little to soothe the indignation burning in his chest, but the heat of her palm against his provides anchor against the tide of his emotions. When her shoulder brushes his, the contact sends a fresh wave of possessive need through his system—a reminder that whatever trial awaits, she is already his, as he is hers, bonded in ways no clan questioning can dissolve.
His fingers tighten around hers with silent promise: They face this together, as they will face all things from this day forward.
Neteyam stalks the perimeter of their alcove like a caged thanator, muscles coiled with tension that finds no release in the confined space. Each turn brings his gaze back to Raya, who sits cross-legged on their sleeping hammock, fingers methodically working through her wind-beads with deceptive calm. The morning light filters through the hanging vines, painting shifting patterns across her skin that draw his attention despite the storm brewing inside him. Three steps forward, turn, three steps back—the rhythm of his movement matches his racing thoughts, each circuit ratcheting his anger higher.
"A trial," he spits the word like poison. "As if you haven't proven yourself a hundred times over. As if Eywa's blessing means nothing."
Raya's fingers don't pause in their work, though her eyes lift to track his movement. "Your people have traditions," she says, her voice carrying that mountain steadiness that usually soothes him. Today it only highlights the contrast between her acceptance and his rage.
"Our people," he corrects sharply, stopping to face her fully. "You are Omaticaya now. Mine. Eywa has recognized it."
A small smile touches her lips at his possessive declaration. She sets aside her beads and rises from the hammock with fluid grace that momentarily distracts him from his anger. When she approaches, her scent—mountain herbs and river water now mixed with his own—envelops him in memories of their night together.
"Yes," she agrees, stopping just beyond arm's reach. "I am yours, as you are mine. Bound before Eywa at the Tree of Voices." Her storm-gray eyes hold his with unwavering confidence. "Nothing can undo that bond. Not words from elders, not questions in council, not trials or tests."
Neteyam's hands clench and unclench at his sides, the physical manifestation of his struggle for control. "They shouldn't question you at all. They shouldn't make you stand before them like—like you need their permission to be here."
"They don't question our bond," Raya says, taking another step closer. "They question whether I will stay. Whether the wind will call me away from your side." Her hand rises, fingers hovering near but not touching the marks she left on his shoulder during their passionate night. "They don't know what I know."
The nearness of her—close enough that he feels the heat radiating from her skin—sends tendrils of desire curling through Neteyam's system despite his anger. "And what do you know?" he asks, voice dropping lower as his focus shifts from rage to the woman before him.
"That I have walked my last solitary path," she says simply. Her hand finally makes contact, palm flat against his chest where his heart thunders beneath blue skin. "That I have found where I belong."
The certainty in her voice—the absolute conviction—loosens something in Neteyam's chest. His hand rises to cover hers, pressing it more firmly against his skin as if to bind her words physically to his heart. "I would fight anyone who tried to take you from me," he confesses, the words emerging rough with emotion. "Even my own clan."
Raya's eyes darken at his declaration, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of storm-gray remains visible. "It won't come to that," she promises, stepping closer until their bodies nearly touch. "The trial is just words. Our bond is flesh and blood and spirit."
The reminder of their physical connection sends fresh heat coursing through Neteyam's veins. His free hand rises to cradle her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone with reverent tenderness that contrasts with the possessive heat building in his core. "Show me again," he murmurs, gaze dropping to her lips. "Make me believe."
She answers not with words but with action—rising onto her toes to press her mouth against his with gentle insistence that quickly evolves into something more urgent. Neteyam's arms encircle her waist, pulling her flush against him as the kiss deepens, tongues meeting in familiar dance that still sends sparks racing down his spine. Her hands tangle in his hair, fingers finding the sensitive spot at the base of his queue that draws a growl from deep in his chest.
The sound seems to ignite something in her. She presses closer, her body molding to his from chest to thigh, creating friction that sends blood rushing southward with embarrassing speed. His hands slide lower, cupping the firm curve of her buttocks to lift her slightly, aligning their bodies with perfect precision that draws matching gasps from both their throats.
Lost in the taste and feel of her, Neteyam barely registers the soft footsteps approaching their alcove. It's Raya who stiffens in his arms, her lips breaking from his just moments before a deliberate cough announces they are no longer alone.
"Perhaps I should come back later," Jake's amused voice cuts through the haze of desire like cold water.
Neteyam turns to find his father standing at the alcove's entrance, arms crossed over his chest, expression caught between parental concern and undisguised amusement. Though Raya steps back from their embrace, Neteyam notes with satisfaction that she doesn't move far—her shoulder still touching his, her presence beside him unwavering despite the interruption.
"Father," Neteyam acknowledges, not bothering to hide the edge of frustration in his tone. "Did you need something?"
Jake's lips twitch with poorly suppressed humor as he enters the alcove fully. "Just checking how you're holding up before the trial." His eyes move to Raya, his expression softening into something warmer, more welcoming. "Both of you."
The simple inclusion—the natural way Jake extends his concern to Raya—eases some of the tension still coiled in Neteyam's muscles. He feels Raya relax slightly beside him, her body leaning almost imperceptibly closer to his in response to Jake's acceptance.
"I'm fine," she answers, voice steady despite the flush still darkening her cheeks from their interrupted embrace. "It's Neteyam who paces like a caged palulukan."
Jake's laugh—genuine and unrestrained—fills the alcove with unexpected warmth. "That sounds familiar." He moves further into their space, settling onto a root formation that forms a natural seat. "Your mother nearly wore a path through our sleeping area before her first council as tsakarem."
The casual comparison—linking Raya to Neytiri in family anecdote—doesn't escape Neteyam's notice. Nor does the way his father's eyes assess the marks visible on both their necks with knowing recognition rather than judgment.
"The trial is mostly ceremonial," Jake continues, his tone shifting to something more serious. "But that doesn't make it easy. They'll question your intentions, Raya. Your past. Your commitment to staying."
Raya nods, her expression composed despite the gravity of his words. "I understand."
"They may try to provoke you," Jake adds, looking now at Neteyam. "Both of you. They'll want to see if passion clouds judgment—if what you feel is temporary or lasting."
Neteyam's jaw tightens, but before he can respond, Jake leans forward, his expression earnest. "The best defense is honesty. Not just about your feelings, but about your doubts too." His gaze shifts between them. "No bond is without questions. Acknowledging them shows wisdom, not weakness."
The advice—practical, direct—carries the weight of Jake's own experience. Neteyam finds himself nodding despite his lingering anger at the situation.
"And remember," Jake adds, rising to his feet with fluid movement that belies his years, "you've already won what matters most. Eywa's blessing isn't given lightly." His hand reaches out, clasping Raya's shoulder in the traditional grip of clan greeting—the same welcome he would offer a son or daughter. "Welcome to our family, Raya. Whatever the council decides, you belong here now."
The simple gesture—his father's hand on Raya's shoulder, the clear acceptance in his eyes—loosens something in Neteyam's chest that he hadn't realized was still tight. He watches as Raya's eyes widen slightly, as something vulnerable and grateful flashes across her features before her usual composed expression returns.
"Thank you," she says simply, the two words carrying weight beyond their simplicity.
Jake's hand moves from Raya's shoulder to Neteyam's, the familiar grip grounding in its strength and certainty. "Stand together," he advises. "But let her speak her own truth. She's earned that right."
With that, he turns to leave, pausing at the alcove's entrance to glance back with a smirk that instantly reminds Neteyam of his younger days. "And maybe save the more... vigorous activities for after the trial. It's hard to focus on elders' questions when you're thinking about other things."
Heat climbs Neteyam's neck at his father's knowing comment, but he can't help the smile that tugs at his lips as Jake disappears from view. Beside him, Raya's soft laugh releases the last of the tension from the air between them.
Her hand finds his once more, fingers intertwining with easy familiarity. "Your father is wise," she observes.
"Yes," Neteyam agrees, drawing her back into his arms with gentle insistence. "But his timing could use improvement."
The council chamber pulses with tension as Neteyam enters behind the elders, his eyes immediately finding Raya at the center of the space. She stands alone, her posture neither defensive nor challenging—simply present, certain, unmoved by the gravity of the proceedings about to unfold. Sunlight filters through woven screens above, casting dappled patterns across the gathered elders who arrange themselves in a practiced half-circle before her. Their faces bear the weathered dignity of those who have survived storms both literal and figurative, who have seen seasons turn enough times to believe they understand their rhythms. Neteyam notes which ones avoid Raya's direct gaze, which ones meet it with open curiosity, which ones narrow their eyes with predetermined judgment.
Mo'at takes her place at the center of the arc, her slender figure commanding the space despite her stillness. Beside her, Taro and three other senior elders settle onto woven mats, their movements deliberate and ceremonial. Neteyam remains standing at the chamber's edge, neither part of the questioning circle nor completely separate from it—his position as ambiguous as his role in these proceedings.
"Raya of the Mountain Clans," Mo'at begins, her voice carrying the weight of generations of tradition. "You stand before the council of the Omaticaya seeking recognition as one of our people. As mate to the son of our Olo'eyktan. As future mother to children who will carry our bloodlines." Each statement lands with deliberate impact. "We would know you more fully before such recognition is granted."
Raya inclines her head in acknowledgment, the movement causing light to catch in the wind-beads woven through her hair. "Ask what you will," she responds, her voice clear and steady in the hushed chamber. "I have nothing to hide from those who would be my people."
Something fierce and proud ignites in Neteyam's chest at her calm dignity. His eyes trace the elegant line of her spine, the confident set of her shoulders, finding new reasons to admire her with each passing moment. When she shifts her weight slightly, the movement draws his attention to the graceful curve of her hip, sending an unexpected pulse of heat through his system despite the formal setting.
"Tell us of your origins," Taro requests, his weathered face betraying nothing of his thoughts. "You claim descent from the Ke'lani, yet they were lost in the time of great sorrow."
"I claim no falsehood," Raya responds, meeting his gaze directly. "My mother carried me in her womb when the Sky People brought destruction to the Ke'lani cliffs. She alone survived, finding refuge among the Ke'tseyak who dwell in the eastern mountains." Her voice carries no self-pity, only factual clarity. "I was born to one clan but raised by another—the first branch of my path that would contain many turns."
An elder woman with faded hunting scars across her shoulders leans forward. "Yet you do not wear the markings of the Ke'tseyak," she observes, eyes narrowing slightly. "Nor do you speak with their rhythms."
"I left the mountain people in my sixteenth season," Raya explains. "After bonding my ikran, I felt the wind calling me to horizons beyond stone walls." Her hands rise in subtle emphasis, the gesture drawing Neteyam's eye to the elegant line of her fingers, to the strength evident in her slender wrists. "I have lived among desert clans who taught me to find water in seemingly barren places. With river people who showed me how to read currents that others miss. With forest hunters who shared the secret languages of trees."
Neteyam watches the elders' reactions, noting the subtle shifts in their expressions as Raya speaks. Some show growing interest, others thinly veiled skepticism. When her eyes briefly find his across the chamber, the connection feels like physical touch—a reminder of the bond they share that transcends this ceremonial questioning. He offers the smallest nod of encouragement, his chest tightening at the fleeting smile that touches her lips in response.
"Many journeys," observes a male elder whose elaborate queue decorations mark him as a keeper of histories. "Many teachings. Yet no permanent connections. No lasting bonds." His head tilts slightly, bird-like in its analytical pose. "What value does one place on clan and family when they move like wind through the seasons?"
The question carries barbed edges, but Raya doesn't flinch. "The wind itself has purpose," she counters, her voice taking on a rhythm that suggests recitation of wisdom passed through generations. "It carries seeds to new soil. It brings rain to parched lands. It whispers warnings of coming storms." She straightens, her posture embodying the pride of her mountain heritage. "I have carried knowledge between peoples who would otherwise never share it. I have brought songs from desert to forest, healing practices from river to mountain."
Her eloquence sends another surge of pride through Neteyam's system, mingling with the desire that seems to pulse stronger with each moment she stands in the chamber's center—strong, confident, unapologetic for the life she has lived. When she turns slightly to include more elders in her gaze, the movement highlights the elegant column of her throat where fading marks of his passion remain visible. The sight sends blood rushing to his core, memories of placing those marks flooding his mind with inappropriate vividness given the formal setting.
"Yet now you claim readiness to set aside this wandering," challenges Taro, his voice cutting through Neteyam's dangerous thoughts. "To root yourself among the Omaticaya. To bind yourself to one people, one place, one mate." His eyes flick briefly toward Neteyam before returning to Raya. "What assurance can you offer that when winter winds blow cold or summer heat burns fierce, you will not answer the call of distant horizons?"
The chamber falls silent, the question hanging in the air between them. It strikes at the heart of the elders' concern—not just about Raya herself, but about what her potential departure might mean for their future leader, for the stability of the clan's coming generations. Neteyam feels his muscles tense, restraining the impulse to step forward, to answer for her though he knows she must speak for herself.
Raya's eyes find his across the space separating them, the connection between them seeming to generate its own heat, its own gravity that pulls at his body like physical force. When she finally speaks, her voice carries new depth, new resonance that captures every ear in the chamber.
"I have walked many paths," she acknowledges, her gaze still holding Neteyam's. "I have followed the wind because nothing anchored me to any shore." Her chest rises with a deep breath, the movement drawing his eye momentarily before her words recapture his complete attention. "But now I choose to stay for the most powerful reason of all." She pauses, the silence stretching taut as a bowstring before she releases the simple truth: "For love."
The word echoes in the chamber's stillness, its impact far greater than its single syllable might suggest. Neteyam feels it land in his chest like an arrow finding its target, spreading warmth that quickly transforms to heat as she continues to hold his gaze across the distance separating them.
"I love him," she says, voice dropping to a register that somehow feels intensely intimate despite the public setting. "Not as passing storm loves mountain—briefly, fiercely, before moving on. But as river loves its course—constantly, completely, carving deeper connection with each passing season."
Her declaration sends blood rushing to Neteyam's core, his body responding with immediate, visceral intensity to the raw emotion in her voice. The passion in her words—the absolute certainty—awakens echoing certainty in his own chest, alongside desire so powerful it takes physical effort to remain in place, to not cross the chamber and claim her lips before the entire council.
Several elders shift uncomfortably at the naked emotion flowing between the pair, their eyes dropping to avoid witnessing something that feels too private for public viewing. Mo'at alone seems untroubled by the intensity radiating across the space, her perceptive gaze moving between Raya and Neteyam with thoughtful assessment.
"Love is not always enough," one elder murmurs, though her voice lacks conviction in the face of the palpable connection filling the chamber. "Paths diverge despite best intentions."
"Yes," Raya agrees, finally breaking her gaze from Neteyam's to address the council directly once more. "But not all loves are equal." Her hand rises to touch the fading marks on her neck, the gesture sending fresh heat coursing through Neteyam's veins. "Some are written in flesh and blood and spirit. Some are blessed by Eywa herself."
The reminder of their sacred bond—of the Atokirina seeds that witnessed their union, of the Tree of Voices that blessed their connection—settles over the chamber like a physical presence. Neteyam watches as several elders exchange glances, their expressions shifting toward something that might be reluctant acceptance.
Mo'at rises, her movement drawing all eyes. "We have heard enough for now," she declares, her tone revealing nothing of her own thoughts. "The council will continue its deliberations with the full gathering after midday meal." Her eyes find Raya's, holding them with unwavering intensity. "You have spoken with clear voice, wind-walker. We have heard."
As the elders rise and begin to disperse, Raya remains at the chamber's center, her posture still proud and unwavering despite the rigorous questioning. Neteyam waits until most have filed past him before approaching her, every step toward her center feeling like returning to his own.
"You were magnificent," he murmurs when he finally stands before her, close enough to catch her scent but not yet touching, aware of the few remaining elders still within sight. "Your words about love..."
Raya's eyes meet his, storm-gray darkened to near black with emotions that mirror his own. "Not words," she corrects softly. "Truth."
The council chamber has transformed by the time Neteyam returns from the brief meal break. What was an intimate half-circle of elders has expanded into a full ring of seated figures—hunters with their distinctive scarred arms, warriors bearing ceremonial paint despite the peacetime gathering, respected craftspeople whose opinions carry weight in clan decisions. The air feels thicker, charged with the energy of multiple perspectives and unspoken alliances that shift like currents beneath the formal proceedings. Raya stands once more at the center, though this time Neteyam notes the subtle signs of fatigue in her posture—the slightly more pronounced angle of her shoulders, the controlled depth of her breathing that suggests conservation of energy for what lies ahead.
Jake and Neytiri have joined the gathering now, seated in positions that acknowledge their leadership while allowing others to speak first—a diplomatic balance that Neteyam recognizes from countless previous councils. His father catches his eye briefly, the subtle nod communicating both support and caution. Remember what we discussed, the gesture seems to say. Let her speak her truth.
Mo'at rises once all have settled, her slender form commanding immediate attention. "We continue our questioning of Raya of the Mountain Clans," she announces, her voice carrying effortlessly to every corner of the expanded circle. "Those who hunt, those who protect, those who build and create for our people—all may seek understanding from one who would join our blood and future."
The formal invitation opens the floodgates. Where the elders' questions had carried measured ceremonial weight, the hunters and warriors bring different energy—more direct, less concerned with tradition than with practical matters of clan survival and harmony.
A weathered hunter whose arms bear the distinctive scarring of multiple thanator encounters leans forward, his eyes narrowing as they assess Raya from her wind-beads to her stance. "I have tracked beasts that follow seasonal paths," he says, voice rough from years of calling signals across forest distances. "They return to the same waters, the same feeding grounds, cycle after cycle." His head tilts slightly, the movement predatory in its analytical precision. "How can we trust one who follows the wind to stay rooted? What happens when the wind calls again?"
The question lands with blunt force, stripping away diplomatic phrasing to expose the raw concern beneath. Neteyam feels his muscles tense involuntarily, shoulders squaring as if preparing to physically defend Raya from the implied accusation of impermanence. His father's earlier advice echoes in his mind—Stand together, but let her speak her own truth—requiring conscious effort to remain silent, to trust her to answer.
Raya meets the hunter's gaze directly, her posture subtly shifting to mirror his analytical stance. "I understand your concern," she acknowledges, her voice carrying neither defensiveness nor apology. "The wind has been my companion when no clan claimed me as their own." Her eyes scan the circle, making brief contact with several faces before continuing. "But the wind itself is not without pattern or purpose. It may seem random to those who haven't studied its ways, yet it follows deeper rhythms than surface appearances suggest."
Neteyam watches the hunter's reaction, noting the slight narrowing of eyes that suggests not dismissal but reassessment. Pride swells in his chest at Raya's composed response, at her ability to meet directness with equal clarity rather than retreat into diplomatic evasion.
"Pretty words," interjects a female warrior whose face bears the distinctive markings of the southern hunting grounds. "But they do not answer the question. What happens when seasons change? When difficulty comes? When the excitement of new mating fades into the routine of clan life?" Her eyes flick briefly to Neteyam before returning to Raya with pointed significance. "Will you stay then, wind-walker?"
Before Raya can respond, another voice joins the questioning—this one belonging to an elder warrior whose ceremonial position near Jake suggests respected status among the clan's defenders. His attention, however, fixes not on Raya but on Neteyam himself.
"Are you clouded by lust, son of Jakesully?" he asks, the direct question sending a ripple of surprise through the gathering. "Would you risk your future leadership for one who may not remain?"
The accusation—for it is an accusation, thinly veiled in the form of a question—sends heat flooding Neteyam's face, though whether from embarrassment or anger, he cannot fully distinguish. His jaw clenches tight enough to make a vein pulse visibly in his neck, the muscle tension traveling down his spine to settle in his shoulders. His hands curl into fists at his sides, the physical manifestation of restraint that costs him dearly to maintain.
Jake's subtle head movement from across the circle—barely perceptible but unmistakable in its warning—helps Neteyam maintain his silence, though the effort leaves him nearly trembling with contained energy. This is Raya's moment to speak, not his to defend. The wisdom in this approach doesn't make it easier to endure.
Raya turns slightly, acknowledging the question directed at Neteyam while maintaining her central position. "If I may," she says, her voice carrying new steel beneath its measured calm, "I would answer for myself."
The simple assertion—neither aggressive nor apologetic—draws approving nods from several council members, including, Neteyam notes with surprise, Taro himself. The elder who has shown most resistance to Raya's presence seems to respect her willingness to meet challenge directly.
"I never trusted belonging before," Raya continues, her eyes sweeping the circle with deliberate inclusivity. "I followed the wind because nothing held me—no clan claimed me as blood, no people welcomed me as their own." Her voice drops slightly, gaining intimacy without losing clarity. "I carried memories of the Ke'lani, stories of cliffs I never saw with my own eyes. I lived among the Ke'tseyak but always as the orphan, the reminder of loss."
Her honesty—unvarnished, without self-pity—creates a stillness in the chamber that even the most skeptical observers seem to respect. Neteyam feels his fists gradually unclenching as he watches her stand tall beneath the weight of multiple gazes, neither breaking nor bending.
"So yes," she acknowledges, turning to face the warrior who questioned her commitment. "I followed paths that led always onward, never back. I learned the ways of many peoples without becoming fully part of any." Her posture straightens further, chin lifting with quiet dignity rather than defiance. "But here—" her eyes find Neteyam's across the circle, the connection between them palpable even at this distance, "—here I have found family."
The simple declaration rings with truth that even the most skeptical eyes seem to recognize. Neteyam sees subtle shifts in several warriors' postures—not full acceptance, perhaps, but acknowledgment of her sincerity at minimum.
"Choice can change," challenges the elder warrior, his weathered face revealing nothing of his thoughts. "What holds you to this choice when other paths call?"
Raya doesn't immediately answer. Instead, she takes a measured step toward Neteyam, the movement deliberate enough to draw every eye in the chamber to their connection. She stops before completing the full distance, positioning herself between her central place and his edge of the circle—symbolically bridging the gap while maintaining the protocol of the questioning.
"I have seen many wonders across Pandora," she says, her voice carrying the weight of genuine experience. "Desert storms that turn sand to flowing rivers of gold. Forest canopies where flowers bloom only one night each decade. Mountain peaks where clouds gather beneath your feet rather than above." Her hand rises in subtle gesture that encompasses the world beyond Hometree. "Beauty exists in all these places. Life thrives in countless forms."
She pauses, the silence drawing attention to her next words with magnetic force. "But nowhere have I found what I've found here." Her eyes remain on Neteyam, the intensity in them sending fresh heat through his system despite the formal setting. "Not just in him—though Eywa knows that would be enough—but in what exists around him. Family that expands to include strangers. Strength that doesn't fear compassion. History that respects tradition without becoming trapped by it."
Neteyam watches her speak, transfixed by the naked emotion in her expression that somehow doesn't diminish her strength but enhances it. His body responds to that emotional honesty with physical intensity—heart racing, breath quickening, blood warming with pride and desire intermingled until they become indistinguishable.
"I choose to stay," she repeats, her voice gaining conviction with each word, "because for the first time, I have found something worth more than freedom. Connection that deepens rather than constrains. Belonging that strengthens rather than diminishes." Her chin lifts slightly, storm-gray eyes bright with emotion yet clear with certainty. "I follow the wind no longer because I have found my true horizon."
The poetry in her declaration—unexpected from a hunter known for directness—lands with visible impact on several council members. Neteyam sees subtle nods, thoughtful expressions, even a few approving smiles breaking through the ceremonial gravity of the proceedings.
Not all are convinced, however. The elder warrior who questioned Neteyam's judgment leans forward, his expression still skeptical beneath the weathered lines that mark his features.
"Beautiful sentiments," he acknowledges with grudging respect. "But sentiment fades when tested by time and trial. What assurance can you offer that your choice will hold when difficulty comes? When the excitement of new mating gives way to the weight of clan responsibility?"
Raya meets his gaze without flinching, her response coming with quiet certainty that carries throughout the chamber. "I offer no assurance beyond what stands before you. I am who I am—mountain-born, wind-taught, now forest-claimed." Her shoulders square with subtle pride. "Judge me by what you see, by what I do, by how I live among you from this day forward. I ask no special treatment, only the chance to prove through action what words alone cannot convey."
The honesty in her answer—the refusal to offer false promises while extending genuine commitment—seems to resonate even with those most resistant to her presence. Neteyam watches as the elder warrior sits back, his nod conveying respect if not full acceptance. It is, perhaps, the most that can be hoped for in this moment—the beginning of understanding rather than its completion.
Mo'at rises once more, her movement drawing all eyes. "We have heard much," she observes, her tone revealing nothing of her own thoughts. "The council will continue after brief reflection. Consider what has been spoken. Listen not just with ears but with the wisdom Eywa has granted each of you."
As the gathering begins to shift and murmur in anticipation of a break, Neteyam's eyes remain fixed on Raya. She stands tall despite the hours of questioning, her dignity intact, her certainty unshaken. When she finally turns toward him, the look they exchange across the dissolving circle carries all the words they cannot speak aloud in this public forum—pride, desire, commitment that transcends the temporary judgment of those who cannot yet understand the depth of what Eywa has joined between them.
The council reconvenes with heavier energy than before, as if the brief interlude has allowed concerns to crystallize rather than dissipate. Neteyam returns to find the circle tighter, the faces more set in their expressions—lines drawn in the subtle politics of clan governance that he has studied since childhood without ever fully embracing. Raya stands again at the center, her posture betraying no fatigue despite the hours of scrutiny. The sunlight slanting through the woven screens has shifted, afternoon shadows stretching across the gathered faces in patterns that seem to emphasize divisions rather than connections. Neteyam feels tension gathering in his chest like storm clouds before lightning strikes, something building that cannot be contained indefinitely.
Mo'at gestures for silence, though little is needed—the chamber has fallen into expectant hush that seems to press against Neteyam's skin like physical weight. "We continue our questioning," she announces, her voice neither approving nor condemning, maintaining the neutral ground her position requires. "Let those with remaining concerns speak now, that all may be heard before judgment is rendered."
For several heartbeats, silence holds. Then an elder leans forward—one whose faded tattoos speak of seasons long past, whose presence in council has always carried the weight of tradition's most conservative interpretation. Neteyam recognizes him as Zur'ik, a warrior from his grandfather's generation whose opinions have consistently favored caution over innovation, preservation over adaptation. His weathered face settles into lines of practiced skepticism as he studies Raya with eyes that seem determined to find fault.
"Pretty words," he says dismissively, echoing the criticism offered earlier but with sharper edge. "The wind-walker speaks well—as one might expect from one who has practiced many stories for many audiences." His gnarled fingers gesture toward Raya in a manner just short of disrespectful. "But the wind-walker will leave when the seasons change. It is her nature."
The statement—delivered not as opinion but as certainty—lands in the chamber like a stone dropped in still water, ripples of reaction spreading outward through the gathered council. Some nod in agreement, others shift uncomfortably, while a few frown at the elder's tone if not his sentiment. Neteyam feels each reaction like individual blows against his restraint, each nod of agreement feeding the pressure building in his chest.
His father's earlier advice—Let her speak her truth—wars with the primitive protective instinct rising in his blood like floodwater against weakening dam. His muscles coil tighter with each passing heartbeat, jaw clenching hard enough that his teeth ache with the pressure. His eyes burn into Zur'ik's profile, willing the elder to meet his gaze, to acknowledge the disrespect being offered not just to Raya but to Neteyam's own judgment, his own choice, his own future.
Raya opens her mouth to respond, her expression composed despite the blatant dismissal. But something shifts in Neteyam's chest before she can speak—a final crack in the restraint he's maintained throughout the questioning. The pressure transforms from defensive tension to certainty, from contained anger to clarity that flows through his system with sudden, liberating force.
Without conscious decision, he steps forward, breaking the circle's formation with deliberate movement that draws every eye. His voice emerges rough but steady, carrying to every corner of the suddenly silent chamber: "She is mine."
The simple declaration hangs in the air, powerful in its brevity. Neteyam takes another step toward the center where Raya stands, his posture straightening with each movement, shoulders squaring with unconscious authority that transforms his presence from observer to central figure.
"Eywa has seen it," he continues, voice gaining strength and resonance with each word. "I have seen it, and if you doubt her, you doubt me."
The words ripple through the council—not just a son's defense of his chosen mate but a future leader's declaration of where he stands. Heads turn toward Jake, expecting him to silence his son's interruption of formal proceedings, to remind him of protocol that dictates candidates must speak for themselves during clan trials. Neteyam feels these expectations but does not bend to them, his eyes remaining fixed on Zur'ik, challenging the elder to maintain his dismissive posture now that the line has been clearly drawn.
Instead of the expected correction from Jake, silence stretches—deliberate, weighted, significant in its extension. When Neteyam finally breaks his gaze from Zur'ik to glance toward his father, he finds Jake watching him with unexpected intensity. Their eyes meet across the circle, father and son, current leader and future successor, and Jake gives a single, subtle nod of approval that changes everything.
The gesture doesn't go unnoticed. A new tension fills the air as the council realizes the Olo'eyktan stands with his son, that the interruption is not viewed as impulsive outburst but legitimate assertion. Neteyam feels the shift in the chamber's energy—power dynamics realigning, alliances recalibrating, assumptions dissolving in the face of this unexpected development.
Zur'ik's expression tightens, his eyes narrowing as he measures this new situation. "With respect, Olo'eyktan," he begins, addressing Jake rather than Neteyam directly, "youthful passion often speaks louder than wisdom. The future of our clan requires more consideration than—"
"I have considered," Neteyam interrupts, his voice carrying the edge of authority that until this moment he has used only in hunting expeditions and warrior training. "I have considered every doubt you raise, every concern you harbor, every fear you mask behind tradition's shield." His eyes scan the circle, meeting gazes that now watch him with new assessment. "Do you think I would choose lightly? That I would bring to our clan one who would weaken rather than strengthen us?"
The questions hang in the air, challenging not just Zur'ik but every skeptical face in the gathering. Neteyam moves to stand beside Raya now, close enough that their shoulders nearly touch, a physical manifestation of the unity he declares with words.
"She brings knowledge our hunters lack," he continues, voice steady and clear. "Techniques from mountain clans who track prey across bare stone. Healing methods from river people that could save lives when injuries occur far from Hometree. Songs and stories that connect us to parts of Pandora the Omaticaya have never seen." His hand rises, not quite touching Raya but gesturing to encompass her presence. "She offers these gifts freely, asks nothing in return but the chance to belong."
Neteyam feels Raya's posture shift slightly beside him—surprise at his defense, perhaps, or appreciation for his recognition of what she brings beyond their personal bond. The subtle movement only strengthens his resolve, fuels the certainty flowing through his system.
"And yes," he acknowledges, voice dropping to a register that somehow carries more power for its controlled intensity, "I have chosen her as my mate. Eywa has blessed our union at the Tree of Voices. Our bond is sealed before the one authority that matters above all others." His eyes find Zur'ik's once more, holding them with unwavering conviction. "If you doubt her commitment, you doubt my judgment. If you question her belonging, you question my choice as future leader of our people."
The chamber falls into stunned silence at this direct challenge. What began as a trial of Raya's suitability has transformed into a defining moment for Neteyam himself—a declaration of how he will lead, what he values, where he will stand when difficult choices arise. He feels the weight of this transformation settling into his bones, not as burden but as certainty that has been waiting for this moment to fully manifest.
Jake rises from his place in the circle, the movement drawing all eyes. Instead of contradicting his son's declaration or reminding him of protocol, he moves to stand on Neteyam's other side, creating a line of three figures at the chamber's center—Olo'eyktan, future leader, and the woman who has catalyzed this moment of transformation.
"My son speaks truth," Jake says simply, his voice carrying the weight of his position without need for elaboration.
The three words—spoken with quiet certainty rather than defensive force—land with impact that silences even the most skeptical murmurs. Neteyam feels something shift in the chamber's atmosphere, resistance giving way not to full acceptance, perhaps, but to recognition that the path forward has been clarified beyond further debate.
Across the circle, Mo'at's eyes meet his with new assessment—not just as grandson or future leader, but as man who has found his voice in defense of what matters most. The subtle approval in her gaze sends unexpected warmth through Neteyam's chest, a counterbalance to the protective fire that drove him to speak.
Beside him, Raya stands tall, her shoulder now pressing against his in silent acknowledgment of his declaration. Though she doesn't speak, doesn't move beyond this subtle contact, he feels her presence like anchor and wings simultaneously—grounding him in certainty while lifting him toward the leader he is still becoming.
A current of murmurs ripples through the council chamber, the sudden shift in power dynamics generating energy that feels almost tangible in the afternoon heat. Neteyam stands tall beside Raya, his father's support creating a physical representation of unity that even the most skeptical elders cannot easily dismiss. He feels her presence beside him like a flame—warm, vital, drawing his awareness despite the serious proceedings still unfolding around them. When Mo'at rises from her place, her movements deliberate and graceful despite her years, the murmurs fade to expectant silence. The Tsahik carries spiritual authority that transcends political alliances, her judgment carrying weight that even Jake's leadership cannot override in matters of Eywa's domain.
She moves to stand before them, her slender figure somehow commanding the space with quiet intensity rather than physical presence. Her eyes—piercing with the clarity that has guided the Omaticaya through war and peace alike—assess the three figures at the chamber's center. Neteyam feels her gaze like physical touch, searching for truth beyond words or postures or political considerations.
The chamber holds its collective breath, waiting. Even Zur'ik, whose dismissal of Raya had sparked Neteyam's intervention, sits motionless now, unwilling to challenge the Tsahik's authority directly. Neteyam's heart hammers against his ribs, each beat carrying both defiance and respect—unwilling to yield his position yet acknowledging Mo'at's right to render spiritual judgment that all must accept.
Mo'at raises her hands in a gesture that encompasses the entire gathering, cutting through the undercurrents of tension with ceremonial precision. "Eywa has bound them," she declares, her voice carrying the weight of her spiritual authority. "It is not for us to unmake what is woven."
The simple statement—delivered without embellishment or qualification—lands in the chamber with physical impact. Neteyam feels tension draining from his shoulders, replaced by warmth that spreads through his chest like sunrise breaking through night clouds. Beside him, Raya remains outwardly composed, though he senses the subtle shift in her posture that suggests similar relief.
"The Atokirina gathered at their union," Mo'at continues, her gaze now sweeping the circle of elders and warriors. "The Tree of Voices blessed their bond with light that witnesses report shone with unusual brightness." Her hands lower slowly, the movement bringing focus back to the three figures at the center. "These signs are not given lightly, nor should they be dismissed for the comfort of familiar traditions."
The gentle rebuke—directed at no one specifically yet encompassing all who had questioned the legitimacy of the bond—causes several elders to lower their eyes in acknowledgment if not full acceptance. Neteyam watches their reactions, noting which faces show genuine consideration and which merely mask continued reservation behind ceremonial respect.
Jake steps forward then, moving to stand beside Mo'at in a physical alignment of political and spiritual leadership that the Omaticaya recognize as significant. "My son speaks truth," he reiterates, his voice carrying the firm authority that has guided the clan through two decades of peace. "She is Omaticaya now, and will be treated as such."
The dual declaration—Mo'at's spiritual recognition and Jake's political mandate—creates finality that even the most resistant council members seem unwilling to challenge. The air in the chamber shifts perceptibly, tension releasing like storm clouds dispersing after threatened rain passes without falling.
"The council acknowledges Eywa's blessing," Taro states, rising to speak for the assembled elders in a move that surprises Neteyam with its diplomatic grace. Though the elder had questioned Raya most persistently, his formal acceptance now carries weight that helps bridge the remaining gap between factions. "The wind-walker—" he pauses, correcting himself with visible effort, "—Raya of the Omaticaya is recognized as mate to our future leader."
The official acknowledgment draws approving murmurs from throughout the gathering. Neteyam feels victory settle into his bones like strength after long exertion—not triumph over opposition but affirmation of truth that should never have required defense. His hand moves almost of its own accord, fingers brushing against Raya's in subtle contact that nonetheless sends electricity racing up his arm.
"This council is concluded," Mo'at announces, the formal dismissal allowing the gathered members to rise, to stretch limbs stiff from hours of ceremonial stillness, to begin the transition back to daily rhythms temporarily suspended for this important judgment.
As the circle breaks apart, conversations resuming with animated energy that suggests the trial will provide discussion material for days to come, Neteyam turns slightly toward Raya. Their eyes meet in the shifting light, connection forming between them that feels as tangible as the neural link they shared at the Tree of Voices. Without words, he reads the emotions crossing her features—relief, pride, and beneath these, desire that mirrors his own growing awareness of her proximity.
Jake approaches them, his hand clasping Neteyam's shoulder with firm pressure that communicates both approval and understanding. "Well done," he says simply, the two words carrying layers of meaning beyond their surface. His gaze shifts to include Raya, warmth replacing the formal authority he had maintained during the proceedings. "Both of you."
Neytiri joins them, her movements fluid despite the formality of the gathering. "The clan will celebrate your union properly now," she informs them, her eyes holding knowledge that makes heat climb Neteyam's neck. "Three nights hence, when the smaller moon is full."
The mention of formal celebration—of public recognition that will seal what Eywa has already blessed—sends a wave of satisfaction through Neteyam's chest. He nods acknowledgment to his mother, words temporarily beyond his capacity as emotion and desire tangle in his system, each intensifying the other until speech seems inadequate response.
More clan members approach as Jake and Neytiri move away—hunters offering congratulations, craftspeople suggesting ceremonial gifts, children darting between adult legs to express their simpler joy at the outcome. Through it all, Neteyam remains acutely aware of Raya beside him, her body occasionally brushing his as they receive the clan's acknowledgments together.
When her hand finds his amid the press of well-wishers, fingers intertwining with deliberate intent rather than casual contact, the touch sends heat coursing through his system with surprising intensity given its public nature. Her thumb traces small circles against his palm—a private communication amid the social chaos that promises far more intimate connection once duty releases.
The crowd gradually thins, clan members returning to interrupted tasks or moving to spread news of the council's decision throughout Hometree. Neteyam feels Raya's fingers tighten around his, drawing his attention fully back to her face. Her eyes have darkened to the storm-gray that he's come to recognize as desire, pupils expanding despite the chamber's bright afternoon light.
"I told you," she murmurs, voice pitched for his ears alone, "Eywa's blessing cannot be undone by words."
The simple statement, delivered with quiet certainty that matches the strength she's shown throughout the trial, sends another wave of heat through his core. Neteyam curls his fingers more firmly around hers in full view of the remaining council members, claiming her publicly with a gesture that seems innocuous to casual observers but carries significance both of them feel with visceral intensity.
"Mine," he responds, the single word emerging rough and low, not question but confirmation.
Her smile blooms slowly, transforming her face from ceremonial composure to something more intimate, more dangerous given their still-public surroundings. "Yours," she agrees, the word carrying promise that sends blood rushing to his core with immediate, instinctive response. "As you are mine."
The reciprocal claim—spoken without hesitation or qualification—completes something within Neteyam's chest, a circle closing that has been forming since their first meeting. The heat that flows between their joined hands seems to intensify with each passing moment, promising reconnection that both know must wait until private space can be secured.
But in this moment, with her hand in his, with their bond officially recognized by clan and leaders alike, with desire building between them that even public setting cannot diminish, Neteyam feels completion unlike anything he's experienced before. The mountain hunter has found her forest home, and he has found the partner who will stand beside him through whatever challenges await—not just in body, but in spirit, in strength, in vision for the future they will build together.
# Scene 7 - from Perspective Often Balances More Spiritual Considerations's point of view
As the main body of the council disperses, a smaller circle remains—Jake and Neytiri standing close together, Mo'at seated once more with the dignity her position commands, and a handful of elders whose expressions suggest they still harbor questions if not outright concerns. Taro remains, his weathered face now thoughtful rather than challenging. Beside him sits a female elder whose healing knowledge is respected throughout the clan, her fingers continually moving through small seeds she carries for both comfort and focus. Two other elders complete the intimate gathering—one a keeper of histories, the other a master craftsman whose practical perspective often balances more spiritual considerations. Neteyam feels the shift in energy from formal tribunal to something more personal, more conversational, though no less significant for this change in tone.
Raya stands straighter beside him, her posture transforming subtly from defensive witness to active participant. The trial's conclusion seems to have unlocked something in her demeanor—not quite defiance, but a certainty that hadn't been fully visible while judgment remained undecided. Neteyam watches this transformation with rising pride, his body responding to her confidence with immediate physical awareness that he struggles to keep appropriate for the present company.
To his surprise, Raya steps forward without prompting, addressing the remaining elders directly rather than waiting for their questions. The boldness of the move draws raised eyebrows from Taro, though Neteyam notices the faint approval in Mo'at's expression as she watches this assertion of place within the clan structure.
"I would speak now," Raya begins, her voice carrying that mountain certainty that first captured Neteyam's attention, "not as one seeking approval, but as one offering gratitude for acceptance already granted."
The subtle repositioning—from supplicant to equal—sends another surge of pride through Neteyam's chest. His eyes trace her profile, the proud line of her jaw, the subtle tilt of her chin that speaks of dignity without arrogance. Each detail registers with heightened clarity, as if his senses have sharpened specifically to capture everything about her in this pivotal moment.
"I have walked many paths," she continues, her gaze moving deliberately from face to face, including each elder in her address without yielding to any. "I have slept beneath desert stars so bright they seem to sing. I have sheltered in forest canopies where rain falls upward before reaching ground. I have climbed peaks that pierce the very clouds."
Her hands rise in subtle gesture, emphasizing her words without theatrical excess. The movement draws Neteyam's eye to the elegant line of her arms, to the strength visible in her slender wrists, sending another wave of heat through his system that has nothing to do with the chamber's afternoon warmth.
"Yet none have felt right beneath my feet until now," she says, her voice dropping lower, taking on resonance that seems to vibrate through the air between them. "No place has felt like home until I found myself in his arms."
The directness of her declaration—the intimate nature of it delivered without apology or softening—sends blood rushing to Neteyam's face and elsewhere, his body responding with immediate, visceral intensity. Several elders shift uncomfortably, their eyes dropping to avoid the naked emotion now flowing between the mated pair. Mo'at alone seems untroubled by this display, her perceptive gaze noting each reaction with the careful assessment that has guided the clan through countless challenges.
"I bring more than just my heart to your clan," Raya continues, either oblivious to or unconcerned with the elders' discomfort. "I offer knowledge gathered across territories few Omaticaya have seen."
This practical turn draws renewed attention, even from those most discomfited by her previous words. The healer elder leans forward slightly, her seeds momentarily stilled in her weathered hands.
"From the plains people, I learned hunting techniques that waste no step, no breath, no heartbeat in pursuit," Raya explains, her voice taking on the rhythm of practiced storytelling that suggests frequent sharing of knowledge. "Their hunters can track prey across distances that would exhaust forest stalkers, reading signs in bent grass stems that most would never notice."
Neteyam watches the elders' expressions shifting from lingering reservation toward genuine interest. Even Taro's face shows the subtle relaxation that indicates willingness to listen rather than merely endure.
"The river dwellers taught me healing methods using water plants that grow in strong currents," she continues, her gaze now directed specifically toward the healer elder. "They bind wounds with fibers that close cuts clean and prevent corruption, draw poisons from snake bites through applications of crushed stems that appear useless until properly prepared."
The healer's eyes sharpen with professional curiosity, her fingers resuming their movement through the seeds with new energy that suggests awakened interest rather than nervous habit. Neteyam feels something in the chamber's atmosphere shifting—resistance giving way to potential, skepticism yielding to practical consideration of what Raya might contribute beyond her role as his mate.
"From mountain clans, I bring songs that have never been heard in these forests," Raya says, her voice softening with unexpected vulnerability that catches in Neteyam's chest. "Melodies that tell of ancestors who spoke to stars, who read coming seasons in cloud patterns, who found their way home through storms that would blind most hunters."
The keeper of histories straightens at this, his expression transforming from polite attention to genuine engagement. "These songs," he inquires, "they contain historical knowledge? Records of events before the time of sorrow?"
"Some date back seven generations," Raya confirms, a smile touching her lips at his interest. "The mountain people preserve memory through melody, believing that what might be forgotten in spoken word will remain when sung with proper rhythm."
This exchange—practical rather than personal—seems to ease the remaining tension among the elders. Neteyam watches with fascination as Raya navigates this transition, offering knowledge and skills that demonstrate her value to the clan beyond her connection to him. The strategy—whether instinctive or calculated—works with remarkable effectiveness, drawing even the most skeptical elders into conversation about specific techniques or traditions they find most intriguing.
Throughout this discussion, Neteyam remains acutely aware of her physical presence—the subtle shifts in her posture as she emphasizes certain points, the graceful gestures that accompany descriptions of hunting movements, the way sunlight catches in her wind-beads when she turns to address different elders. Each detail feeds the desire building in his system, transforming his pride in her diplomatic skill into something more primal, more urgent.
When she speaks of finding water in desert environments, describing how certain root systems betray hidden springs beneath apparently dry ground, the metaphor of hidden depths beneath surface appearances sends heat coursing through his veins. Her words are entirely practical, focused on survival techniques that could benefit clan hunters during dry seasons, yet Neteyam hears intimate subtext in each description—echoes of discoveries they've made in each other's bodies, of depths still waiting to be explored once privacy allows.
The healer elder leans forward, asking detailed questions about the river dwellers' wound-binding techniques. As Raya demonstrates the weaving motion with her slender fingers, Neteyam's mind fills with vivid memories of those same fingers tracing patterns across his chest, tangling in his hair, gripping his shoulders with bruising force during their passionate reunion. The juxtaposition of her current measured movements with these heated recollections sends blood rushing southward with embarrassing predictability.
He shifts his position slightly, grateful for the loose drape of his ceremonial garment that conceals his body's obvious response to these dangerous thoughts. Yet when Raya glances toward him mid-explanation, the flash of awareness in her eyes suggests she reads his state with perfect accuracy despite this concealment. The slight curve of her lips—too subtle to be noticed by any but him—confirms this perception, adding deliberate provocation to her otherwise professional demeanor.
The master craftsman asks about mountain building techniques, how cliff-dwellers secure structures against winds that would destroy forest constructions. Raya answers with technical precision, describing anchor points and flexible joints that allow movement without breaking. Yet her eyes occasionally find Neteyam's during this explanation, holding his gaze just long enough to communicate double meaning that has nothing to do with architecture and everything to do with the physical connection they both crave with increasing urgency.
Mo'at observes this unspoken communication with perceptive eyes that miss nothing, though her expression reveals neither approval nor censure—merely the assessment of one who understands passion's power and its proper place within clan life. When she finally rises, her movement draws all attention, creating natural pause in the increasingly technical discussion.
"You bring much to our people," she acknowledges, addressing Raya directly. "Knowledge shared freely honors both giver and receiver." Her eyes move briefly to Neteyam, a flicker of something that might be amusement crossing her features before ceremonial dignity returns. "The remaining details can be discussed after proper celebration of your union. Three nights hence, as has been decided."
The subtle dismissal—kind but unmistakable—brings relief that Neteyam feels in every tense muscle. Three days seems impossibly distant given the desire currently burning through his system, but at least this interminable council session has reached its conclusion. He steps forward to stand beside Raya once more, his hand finding the small of her back in a gesture that appears merely supportive to observers but sends electricity racing through both their bodies.
As the small gathering breaks apart, the elders moving away with new considerations evident in their expressions, Neteyam leans slightly closer to Raya, his breath warming her ear as he murmurs, "You've impressed even Taro. A feat I've rarely witnessed."
She turns just enough that her lips nearly brush his cheek, her voice pitched for his ears alone. "I've impressed you too, it seems," she observes, the subtle emphasis leaving no doubt about her awareness of his physical state. "Rather thoroughly."
The teasing observation, delivered with husky undertone that promises rather than mocks, sends fresh heat through Neteyam's core. His fingers press more firmly against her lower back, thumb tracing small circles that communicate his growing impatience with continued public interaction.
"I think," he responds, voice dropping to match her intimate tone, "we've fulfilled our obligations to clan protocol for today."
Her eyes meet his, storm-gray darkened to near-black with desire that matches his own. "Then perhaps," she suggests, the words innocent enough for any who might overhear while her expression carries messages for him alone, "you should show me more of the forest paths you know so well."
Without thought for protocol or restraint, he reaches for her, arms encircling her waist and pulling her against him in embrace that carries all the emotion of the day's trials. Her body molds to his with perfect responsiveness, arms rising to circle his neck, face turning naturally to fit against the curve of his shoulder. The contact—full-length, unrestrained—sends waves of sensation through Neteyam's system, every nerve ending suddenly, painfully alive with awareness.
He feels her heartbeat against his chest, rapid and strong, matching the thunder of his own pulse. Her scent—mountain herbs and river water now mingled with the subtle musk of desire—fills his nostrils with each breath, feeding the hunger building in his core. When her fingers tangle in his hair, applying just enough pressure to draw his face down toward hers, he follows without hesitation, propriety forgotten in the wake of this public acceptance.
Their foreheads touch, breath mingling in the narrow space between their faces. It requires physical effort not to close that final distance, not to claim her mouth before the elders whose acceptance they've fought so hard to gain. The restraint costs him, tension vibrating through his frame as he holds himself back from what every instinct demands.
"Soon," she whispers, her breath warm against his lips, the word both promise and plea.
"Too long," he responds, his voice emerging rough with need that has built throughout the ceremonial day, intensified by watching her stand strong before the council, by hearing her declare her choice to stay for love of him.
Their eyes meet at close range, communication flowing between them that requires no words, no neural link, no physical connection beyond the gaze that binds them as surely as any ceremony could. In that look, Neteyam reads everything—her desire matching his own, her joy at their acceptance, her impatience for privacy that echoes the urgency thrumming through his veins.
As the gathering finally disperses—elders returning to interrupted duties, Jake and Neytiri moving away with knowing glances that suggest complete understanding of the couple's current state—Neteyam and Raya remain locked in their embrace, reluctant to separate even for the brief journey to whatever private space they might claim.
"Come," he murmurs against her hair, finally forcing himself to loosen his grip enough that movement becomes possible. "I know places where even the most curious eyes won't find us."
Raya's smile blooms against his shoulder, felt rather than seen. "Then lead, Omaticaya," she challenges softly, her hands sliding down to rest against his chest with deliberate pressure that promises rather than restrains. "And I will follow. This once."
The teasing qualification—so characteristic of her independent spirit—draws unexpected laughter from Neteyam's chest, joy bubbling up through the layers of desire and relief and triumph that have accumulated throughout this momentous day. He steps back just enough to look into her face, to memorize the way afternoon light catches in her eyes, the subtle flush darkening her cheeks, the slight swelling of her lips from being caught between her teeth during moments of tension.
"This once is enough," he responds, hand finding hers with the easy familiarity that still somehow sends electricity racing up his arm. "For now."
As they move toward the chamber's exit, their bodies remain close, shoulders brushing with each step, fingers intertwined with intimate certainty. The glances they exchange—heated, promising, increasingly urgent—speak of patience rapidly thinning, of public decorum maintained by ever-narrowing margins, of need that has built throughout the day's trials and now demands recognition with physical intensity neither can ignore much longer.
The moment they pass beyond the last outpost of Hometree—a twisted root formation that marks the boundary between clan spaces and the deeper forest—Neteyam's restraint shatters. His hand tightens around Raya's with near-painful intensity before he pulls her sideways off the main path, his movements driven by instinct rather than conscious thought. The thick undergrowth closes behind them like a living curtain, green shadows enveloping their bodies as he guides her deeper into the forest with urgent steps that barely maintain balance on the uneven ground. Neither speaks—words seem inadequate, unnecessary in the face of need that pulses between them with each rapid heartbeat.
Neteyam moves with hunter's precision despite his urgency, weaving through tangled vegetation with practiced ease, each step carrying them farther from curious eyes and ears. His body hums with awareness—of her fingers intertwined with his, of her breathing that matches his in quickening tempo, of the electric charge that seems to flow between their connected skin. The afternoon light filters through the canopy in dappled patterns that dance across Raya's face when he glances back, illuminating the desire in her storm-gray eyes that mirrors his own mounting need.
When they reach a small clearing ringed by massive trees—trunks wider than three warriors standing shoulder to shoulder, roots creating natural alcoves perfect for concealment—he stops so abruptly that she collides with his back. The contact, though brief and accidental, sends sparks racing down his spine, his body responding with immediate, visceral intensity. He turns to face her, their bodies separated by mere inches of increasingly heated air, tension vibrating between them like bowstring pulled too tight.
"Here," he says, the single word emerging rough and low, carrying all the desperation that has built throughout the endless ceremonial day.
Raya's response isn't verbal. She closes the narrow gap between them with single fluid movement, her body crashing against his with force that nearly topples them both. Her mouth finds his with unerring accuracy, lips parting immediately to deepen the kiss beyond gentle exploration into hungry demand. The taste of her floods Neteyam's senses—wild honey and mountain herbs and something uniquely her, intoxicating in its familiar perfection. His arms encircle her waist, pulling her tighter against him until no space remains between their bodies, until he feels her heartbeat thundering against his chest in perfect synchronization with his own frantic pulse.
The kiss transforms from urgent to desperate, mouths moving together with none of the tentativeness of their early encounters. This contains months of knowing exactly what the other desires, weeks of learning each other's bodies, days of anticipation heightened by public restraint, and hours of watching her stand strong before those who questioned her belonging. His hands roam her body with possessive hunger, fingers digging into the firm muscle of her back, her waist, her hips with enough pressure to leave marks—temporary evidence of his claim that somehow matters despite the permanent bond between them.
"I wanted to touch you like this all day," he growls against her throat as his mouth leaves hers to trail burning kisses along her jaw. "Watching you stand before them, so strong, so certain—" His words break off as his teeth find the sensitive juncture where her neck meets shoulder, the spot that always draws those sounds from her throat that drive him toward the edge of control.
She doesn't disappoint. A moan escapes her lips, her head falling back to grant him better access, her body arching against his with perfect responsiveness. "Every word I spoke," she gasps as his teeth graze her skin with deliberate pressure, "every truth I offered—" Her fingers tangle in his hair, guiding his mouth more firmly against her throat. "I thought only of you."
The admission—raw and honest in the aftermath of ceremonial formality—snaps the last thread of Neteyam's restraint. His hands slide lower, gripping the backs of her thighs and lifting her with effortless strength born of hunting and training and desperate need. Her legs wrap around his waist immediately, ankles locking at the small of his back, the position aligning their bodies with exquisite precision that draws matching sounds from both their throats. Three steps carry them to the nearest massive trunk, its rough bark creating perfect support as he presses her against the living wood with his full weight.
Their mouths meet again, the kiss deeper, wilder, teeth catching on lips with pressure that borders on pain yet somehow intensifies pleasure rather than diminishing it. Neteyam feels her hands everywhere—tangling in his hair, scraping down his back, tugging at the ties of his ceremonial garment with increasing urgency. His own fingers aren't idle, finding the fastenings of her clothing with practiced ease despite the frantic energy consuming them both. Fabric parts beneath their combined efforts, cool forest air a momentary shock against heated skin before their bodies press together again, blue flesh meeting blue with nothing between them but accelerating desire.
"Mine," Neteyam growls against her collarbone, his voice hardly recognizable in its primal intensity. The word emerges not as question but as claim, as certainty reinforced rather than established. His mouth moves lower, finding the curve of her breast, teeth and tongue working in concert to draw another cry from her lips. "Say it."
"Yours," she gasps, the word fragmenting as his mouth closes around her nipple, teeth grazing the sensitive peak with calculated pressure that makes her body arch against the tree trunk. "Always—only—yours."
Her affirmation feeds something primitive in his blood, satisfaction and desire twining together until they become indistinguishable. His mouth returns to her throat, finding the fading marks from previous encounters, renewing his claim with deliberate intent that she meets with equal hunger. Her nails dig into his shoulders, creating crescents of sweet pain that will remain visible for days, her own marking as clear as the bruises his mouth leaves on her skin.
"Now," she demands, the word raw with need that matches his own. Her legs tighten around his waist, heels pressing into the small of his back with unmistakable urgency. "Need you inside me. Now."
The command—direct and unashamed in its hunger—sends fresh heat surging through Neteyam's core. He shifts his weight, one hand supporting her against the tree trunk while the other guides himself to her entrance, feeling her heat and readiness with fingertips that nearly tremble with anticipation. Their eyes lock in the dappled forest light, storm-gray meeting golden yellow in silent communication that transcends even their most intimate physical connection. Then he enters her with single powerful thrust, burying himself completely in one fluid motion that tears matching cries from both their throats.
For one suspended heartbeat they remain perfectly still, joined completely, the sensation of their bodies finally reunited after hours of public separation overwhelming enough to require moment of adjustment. Neteyam feels her pulse around him, muscles clenching in welcome that nearly undoes his control before movement even begins. Her eyes hold his, pupils expanded until only thin ring of gray remains visible, lips parted with breath that comes in short gasps matching his own labored breathing.
"You feel like home," he whispers against her lips, the confession emerging rough and low, intimate words meant for her alone despite the forest's emptiness around them.
Her response comes in movement rather than words—hips rolling against his with deliberate pressure that breaks the momentary stillness, that transforms suspension into action with undeniable demand. Neteyam follows her lead, establishing rhythm that starts measured but quickly accelerates as need overtakes finesse, as bodies remember exactly what brings most pleasure to the other. His thrusts grow harder, deeper, each movement driving her back against the unyielding trunk with force that would concern him if not for the encouraging sounds spilling from her lips, the way her body rises to meet each motion with equal intensity.
"More," she urges, voice rough with desire, nails scoring his back with fresh marks that send sparks racing down his spine. "Harder."
The command ignites something primal in Neteyam's blood. His hands grip her hips tight enough to leave fingerprint bruises, controlling her movements as he complies with her demand. Each thrust now carries enough force to shake bark loose from the trunk above them, the rhythm no longer measured but desperate, frantic, bodies seeking release with single-minded urgency that leaves no room for gentleness or restraint.
Raya's cries grow louder with each powerful movement, her usual composure abandoned completely in the face of pleasure too intense to contain silently. The sounds echo through the forest around them—wordless expressions of ecstasy that feed Neteyam's own mounting pleasure with each breathless gasp, each broken moan, each fragment of his name that falls from her lips. His mouth reclaims hers, swallowing these sounds with kisses that contain all the possessive hunger building in his core.
When he feels her approaching the edge—muscles tensing, breathing shifting to shorter gasps, internal pulses quickening around him—Neteyam doubles his efforts, determined to watch her unravel completely before surrendering to his own release. One hand slides between their bodies, finding the center of her pleasure with unerring accuracy born of nights spent learning exactly how to bring her maximum ecstasy. His fingers circle the sensitive point with deliberate pressure, timing the motion with each deep thrust until he feels her teetering on the precipice.
"Let go," he commands against her ear, voice rough with both exertion and restraint. "Let me hear you come for me."
The permission—or perhaps the command itself—pushes her over the edge. Raya's entire body goes rigid against him, back arching away from the trunk, head thrown back in abandoned ecstasy as release crashes through her system. His name tears from her throat in cry loud enough to startle nearby forest creatures into flight, her body clenching around him in rhythmic pulses that nearly trigger his own climax through sheer responsive pleasure.
He maintains control by narrowest margin, continuing to move within her through the waves of her orgasm, prolonging her pleasure while building his own to near-unbearable intensity. Only when her tremors begin to subside, when her eyes open to find his with dazed satisfaction mingling with renewed desire, does he allow himself to chase his own release with single-minded focus.
His thrusts become harder, faster, more erratic as control frays completely. Raya meets each movement despite her recent climax, her body responding to his with perfect synchronicity born of their neural bond even without physical connection of queues. Her hands frame his face, pulling him into kiss that contains tenderness beneath continued passion—acknowledgment of connection deeper than mere physical pleasure even as that pleasure builds toward explosive culmination.
"Mine," she whispers against his lips, deliberately echoing his earlier claim, the possessive declaration pushing him past final threshold of restraint.
Neteyam's release hits with physical force that nearly buckles his knees, pleasure radiating outward from where their bodies join in waves that seem endless in their intensity. His vision blurs at the edges, focus narrowing to the woman in his arms, to the sensation of emptying himself deep within her with final powerful thrust that pins her firmly against the tree trunk. Her name emerges as broken cry against her neck, where his face presses to muffle the sound despite the forest's privacy.
For several heartbeats they remain locked together, bodies trembling with aftershocks, breathing gradually slowing from desperate gasps to merely elevated rate. His forehead rests against hers, sweat-slicked skin sliding together with each shuddering breath. When their eyes finally meet, Neteyam finds himself smiling despite the lingering urgency still humming through his system—joy bubbling up through layers of satisfaction and possession and relief that have accumulated throughout this momentous day.
"Do you think they heard that at Hometree?" he asks, voice still rough but lightened with unexpected humor.
Raya's laugh—breathless but genuine—vibrates against his chest where their bodies remain pressed together. "If they did," she responds, fingers tracing idle patterns across his shoulders where her nails have left visible evidence of her passion, "they won't question our bond again."
The simple observation draws answering laugh from Neteyam's throat, tension releasing in ways their physical joining began but couldn't completely resolve. With gentle care, he eases her legs down from around his waist, supporting her weight until he's certain her limbs will hold her upright. Their bodies separate with mutual sounds of reluctance, the cool forest air a shock against heated skin now exposed once more to the elements.
Yet they don't move apart. Instead, Neteyam pulls her against him in embrace that carries different energy than their desperate coupling—no less intimate but somehow deeper, more encompassing than mere physical connection. His arms encircle her completely, one hand cradling the back of her head where it rests against his chest, the other spanning her lower back in protective gesture that speaks of possession beyond carnal claim.
"Today could have ended differently," he murmurs against her hair, the admission carrying traces of fear he hadn't allowed himself to acknowledge while outcome remained uncertain. "If they had ruled against us—"
"They didn't," Raya interrupts, leaning back just enough to meet his gaze with storm-gray eyes now clear and certain in the afternoon light. "Eywa blessed what lies between us. The council merely acknowledged what was already true." Her hand rises to trace the line of his jaw, thumb brushing across his lower lip with tenderness that contrasts with the marks her nails have left elsewhere on his body. "I am yours, as you are mine. No words from elders could change that."
The certainty in her declaration—the absolute conviction behind it—loosens final knot of tension in Neteyam's chest that he hadn't realized remained tied. His lips find hers in kiss gentler than those they've shared since entering the forest, carrying gratitude and promise rather than desperate need. When they separate, he takes a moment to simply look at her—hair tangled from his fingers, lips swollen from his kisses, skin bearing fresh marks of his possession alongside the fading ones from previous encounters.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, the word emerging rough with emotion too complex for more elaborate expression. His fingers trace the path his eyes have followed, touching each mark with proprietary satisfaction that sends echoes of arousal through his system despite their recent release.
"We should return," Raya says eventually, though her body leans into his touch rather than away from it. "Before search parties are sent."
The practical reminder draws reluctant nod from Neteyam, though his hands linger on her skin, seemingly unwilling to surrender contact despite the wisdom in her words. With visible effort, they begin gathering scattered clothing, helping each other dress with touches that contain as much intimate appreciation as practical assistance. Each brush of fingers against skin threatens to reignite the fire barely banked between them, promising future encounters once night falls and their alcove provides more comfortable setting for continued exploration.
As they prepare to return to Hometree, Neteyam pulls Raya close once more, his lips finding the darkest mark on her neck—the one most recently renewed, most visible against her blue skin. His tongue traces its outline with deliberate attention that draws soft gasp from her throat.
"Let them see," he murmurs against the sensitive skin, his voice carrying possessive satisfaction rather than concern for propriety or appearances. "Let them know."
Her smile—felt rather than seen against his shoulder—carries confirmation rather than objection. "Yes," she agrees, her hand rising to touch similar mark on his neck where her teeth found purchase during their passionate reunion. "Let them see."
Together they step back onto the forest path, bodies still vibrating with echoes of pleasure shared and promises exchanged through touch rather than words. Their hands find each other with automatic ease, fingers intertwining as they walk toward Hometree carrying visible evidence of their bond that no council could question, no elder could deny, no ceremony could make more real than it already is in flesh and blood and spirit.
Tarsem x Reader
You and Tarsem are expecting your first child, and Tarsem ensures that you want for nothing.
Masterlist
You remember the moment you told him with perfect clarity.
It lives in your chest like something precious and fragile—a memory you turn over in your hands when the weight of now feels too heavy. When your back aches and your hips throb and you can't find a comfortable position no matter how many cushions Tarsem arranges. When you're tired and irritable and your body doesn't feel like your own anymore.
You go back to that moment.
You'd been nervous. Terrified, actually. Your hands had trembled as you'd led him away from the village, away from the training grounds where he'd been working with the younger hunters, away from everyone. He'd followed without question, concern already creasing his brow, his hand warm and steady in yours.
"What is wrong?" he'd asked the moment you were alone, his voice low and urgent. His eyes had searched your face, looking for injury, for fear, for whatever had made you pull him away mid-afternoon. "Are you hurt?"
"No." Your voice had come out smaller than you'd intended. "No, I'm not hurt."
"Then what—"
"I'm pregnant."
The words had fallen between you like stones into still water.
He'd gone completely still. Not the stillness of calm, but the stillness of shock—his whole body frozen, his breath caught somewhere in his chest. His eyes had gone wide, his lips parting on a word that never came. For a terrible, endless moment, you'd thought maybe you'd made a mistake. Maybe he didn't want this. Maybe—
Then his hands had moved.
Slowly. Reverently. Like you were something holy he was afraid to break.
He'd reached for you, his palms settling on your belly with a touch so gentle it made your throat tight. His hands had been trembling—this man who never trembled, whose hands were always steady on a bow, always sure—and you'd felt the tremor of it against your skin through the thin fabric of your top.
"Pregnant," he'd repeated, his voice barely a whisper. Not a question. A prayer.
"Yes."
His breath had shuddered out of him. His forehead had dropped to yours, his eyes closing, and you'd felt the wetness of tears on his cheeks—or maybe they were yours, you couldn't tell, couldn't breathe past the emotion rising in your throat like a tide.
"Our child," he'd whispered against your skin, his voice breaking on the words. "You're carrying our child."
"Yes."
His hands had pressed more firmly against your belly then, still trembling, still so careful. Like he was trying to feel something that wasn't there yet, trying to connect with the life you'd only just discovered. When he'd pulled back to look at you, his eyes had been bright with tears and wonder and something so fierce it had stolen your breath.
"I love you," he'd said, his voice rough and raw. "I love you. I love you both."
And then he'd kissed you—deep and desperate and tender all at once, his hands cradling your face like you were the most precious thing in all of Pandora. When he'd finally pulled away, he'd rested his forehead against yours again, his breath warm on your lips.
"Thank you," he'd whispered. "Thank you for choosing me. Thank you for this."
You'd started crying then—really crying—and he'd held you while you shook with the weight of it all. The fear and the joy and the overwhelming reality of what was coming. He'd held you like he'd never let go.
That was months ago.
Now, your belly is round and heavy with the child he'd trembled to touch. Now, his hands know the shape of you pregnant, the way the baby moves beneath your skin, the places that ache and need his careful pressure. Now, you're so close to meeting the life you made together that you can feel it in every breath.
But you remember that moment.
You remember his trembling hands and his broken voice and the way he'd looked at you like you'd given him the world.
You remember, and it steadies you.
You wake to discomfort.
It's the first thing you're aware of—not the soft light filtering through the woven walls of your alcove, not the distant sounds of the village stirring to life, but the deep, persistent ache in your lower back. The weight of your belly pulls at you even lying down, and your hips throb with a dull pressure that makes you want to shift but also makes shifting feel impossible.
You're so tired of being heavy.
The second thing you're aware of is that Tarsem is already awake.
You feel his gaze before you open your eyes—that particular quality of attention that's different from sleep, different from absence. When you finally blink into the dim morning light, you find him propped on one elbow beside you, his golden eyes soft and watchful. There's no surprise in his expression when you meet his gaze. Just that quiet, protective tenderness that's become as familiar as breathing.
"How long have you been awake?" you murmur, your voice rough with sleep.
"Not long." His hand moves to your face, his thumb brushing your cheek with a touch so gentle it makes your throat tight. "How do you feel?"
The truth is you feel like a beached tulkun—ungainly and uncomfortable and trapped in a body that doesn't quite feel like yours anymore. But the way he's looking at you, the reverence in his touch, makes you soften.
"Tired," you admit. "My back hurts."
He nods like he expected this. Like he's been cataloging every discomfort you've had for weeks and has already prepared for this one. "Let me help you up."
He moves with careful precision, rising first and then offering you both hands. You take them gratefully, and he pulls you upright slowly—so slowly—letting you adjust to the shift in weight, the way your center of gravity has changed. His grip is steady and sure, and when you're finally sitting, he doesn't let go. Just holds your hands in his, his thumbs tracing small circles against your palms.
"Better?"
"A little."
He reaches behind him without looking, and you realize he's already prepared a cup of cool water, already arranged the cushions at your back for support. He must have been awake longer than he admitted—long enough to anticipate exactly what you'd need before you even knew you needed it.
You take the cup he offers, and the water is perfect—cool and clean and exactly what your dry throat craves. He watches you drink with that same soft attention, and when you lower the cup, he's already adjusting the cushions behind you, his hands careful and sure.
"Is that comfortable?" His voice is low, almost reverent. Like you're something sacred he's been entrusted to care for.
You nod, leaning back into the support he's created, and feel some of the tension ease from your spine.
"Thank you," you whisper.
He settles beside you, close enough that his warmth radiates against your side, and his hand finds your belly with the ease of long practice. His palm spreads wide over the curve, and you feel the baby shift beneath his touch—a small flutter of movement that makes his breath catch.
"Good morning," he murmurs to your belly, his voice soft with wonder.
And despite the ache in your back, despite the weight and the exhaustion, you feel something warm unfold in your chest.
This. This is why you never snap at him, even when you're irritable with everyone else.
Because he makes you feel cherished.
He presses one more kiss to the curve of your belly before rising smoothly to his feet, and you watch as he moves to the small cooking area of your shared alcove. His movements are efficient, practiced—gathering ingredients for breakfast without needing to ask what you want. He knows. He always knows.
"You don't have to do that," you say, though your voice lacks conviction.
He glances back at you, one eyebrow raised, a small smile playing at his lips. "I know I don't have to."
"I can help—"
"You can rest." His tone is gentle but firm. "Let me take care of you."
You watch him work—the flex of his shoulders as he reaches for dried fruit, the careful way he arranges everything within reach, the quiet competence in every gesture. There's something deeply satisfying about watching him like this, in the soft morning light, preparing food for you and the child you carry.
But you're also restless.
You've been resting for weeks. Sitting. Being careful. Being managed by well-meaning hands and concerned voices. And while Tarsem's care never feels suffocating—never feels like he's trying to control you—you're still tired of being treated like you might break.
"I'm going to get dressed," you announce, pushing yourself upright with more effort than you'd like to admit.
Tarsem turns immediately, his hands stilling. "Do you need—"
"I can dress myself." The words come out sharper than you intended, and you see him blink, surprised. You soften immediately, guilt pricking at you. "I'm sorry. I just... I need to do something. I can't just sit here for weeks until I'm not..." You gesture vaguely at your belly. "...huge."
His expression shifts—not hurt, but understanding. He crosses to you in three strides and cups your face gently, his thumb brushing your cheek. "You're not huge. You're carrying our child. You're beautiful."
Your throat tightens. "I feel like a beached tulkun."
"You look like the most precious thing I've ever seen." He says it so simply, so matter-of-factly, that you almost believe him.
You lean into his touch for a moment, letting yourself be soothed, before pulling back. "I still want to help with breakfast."
He studies you for a long moment, then nods. "Alright. But if you need to sit—"
"I'll sit." You manage a small smile. "I promise."
He helps you stand—because despite your protests, you do need the help—and then steps back to give you space. You dress slowly, your movements awkward with the weight of your belly, and when you're finished, you join him at the cooking area.
He doesn't hover. Doesn't try to take over. Just makes room for you, adjusts his movements to accommodate yours, and lets you work beside him. It's such a small thing, but it matters. It makes you feel like yourself again—like you're still capable, still useful, still you beneath all this heaviness.
When the food is ready, Tarsem gathers it carefully into a woven carrier. "We'll eat with the others this morning," he says, and there's something in his voice—something warm and almost... proud.
You raise an eyebrow. "Feeling social?"
"Feeling like showing off my beautiful mate." He says it so easily, so openly, that heat rises in your cheeks.
The walk to the communal area is slow. Your body doesn't move the way it used to, and every step requires more effort than it should. But Tarsem matches your pace without comment, his hand steady at the small of your back, and when you need to pause to catch your breath, he simply stops beside you and waits.
"I hate this," you mutter at one point, frustration bubbling up. "I hate being slow."
"You're not slow. You're carrying our child." He says it like it's the most important work in the world.
When you finally reach the communal cooking area, several clan members look up and smile. Säla'ite waves enthusiastically from where she's grinding herbs, and you manage a tired wave back.
But then an older woman—Tsantu, well-meaning but overbearing—hurries over with concern etched across her face. "You shouldn't be walking so much in your condition," she says, reaching for your arm like she's going to guide you to a seat. "You need to rest, child. Sit, sit—"
"I'm fine." You pull your arm back, irritation flaring hot and immediate. "I'm pregnant, not broken."
Tsantu blinks, taken aback by your sharpness.
You feel Tarsem's hand press gently against your back—not restraining, just... present. Grounding.
"She's been resting," he says smoothly, his voice warm and diplomatic. "The walk was good for her. But thank you for your concern, Tsantu."
The older woman nods, still looking slightly wounded, and retreats.
You exhale slowly, guilt and frustration warring in your chest. You didn't mean to snap. You're just so tired of everyone treating you like you're fragile.
Tarsem guides you to a quieter spot and helps you settle onto a woven mat. Then he moves through the communal area, gathering food from various sources—fruit from one family, roasted meat from another, fresh bread from the cooking fires. And as he moves, you watch the way people look at him.
More specifically, you watch the way he looks at you.
Every time someone asks how you're doing, his gaze finds you across the space. Every time he accepts food, he glances back to make sure you're comfortable. And when he returns to you, his arms full of offerings, there's something in his expression that makes your breath catch.
Pride.
Not possessive pride. Not the pride of ownership.
But the pride of a man who can't quite believe his fortune. The pride of someone who's been given something precious and wants the whole world to know how grateful he is.
He settles beside you and begins arranging the food, and you notice the way his hand lingers on your knee, the way he leans close when he speaks, the way he looks at you like you're the only person in the village.
"Everyone's watching us," you murmur.
"Good." His smile is soft, almost shy, but there's warmth in his eyes. "Let them see how lucky I am."
Your throat tightens. "Tarsem—"
"You chose me," he says quietly, his hand moving to rest on the curve of your belly. "You're carrying our child. Do you have any idea what that means to me?"
You do. You can see it in every gentle touch, every careful word, every moment of reverence.
He's not just devoted to you.
He's honored by you.
And somehow, despite your exhaustion and discomfort and the snappish irritation simmering beneath your skin, that makes everything feel bearable.
The meal is finished—the last of the fruit eaten, the water drunk, the small bowls pushed aside. Tarsem gathers them carefully, setting them aside with the same deliberate care he brings to everything, and then he turns back to you with that soft, patient expression you've come to know so well.
"A walk would be good," he says gently, settling beside you again. "Before it gets too warm."
You stare at him.
"A walk."
"Yes."
"Tarsem." You gesture at yourself—at the massive swell of your belly, at the way you're already slightly out of breath just from standing here. "I am approximately the size of a small hut. I move like a boulder rolling downhill. Slowly. And painfully."
His mouth twitches. "You're beautiful."
"I'm huge."
"You're carrying our child."
"I'm aware." You blow a strand of hair out of your face, irritation simmering. "I'm very, very aware. Because our child is currently using my bladder as a toy and my ribs as a climbing structure."
He steps closer, his hand finding the small of your back. "The movement will help. You said your hips were aching."
He's right.
You hate that he's right.
"Fine," you mutter. "But if I melt into a puddle halfway there, you're carrying me back."
"I will carry you anywhere you need to go." He says it so simply, like it's the easiest promise in the world.
The walk to the river is slow.
Agonizingly slow.
Your body doesn't move the way it used to. Every step requires a conscious effort—the shift of weight, the adjustment of balance, the way you have to waddle slightly because your hips have spread and your center of gravity is somewhere near your knees now. You're sweating before you've even left the alcove, and the morning air hasn't even warmed yet.
Tarsem matches your pace without comment, his hand steady at the small of your back.
"I used to be fast," you say after a long moment, frustration bubbling up. "Remember? I could keep up with you on hunts. I could run."
"You still can."
"Tarsem, I can barely walk."
"You're doing something much harder than running." His voice is quiet, reverent. "You're growing our child. You're creating life. That takes more strength than any hunt."
You want to argue. Want to snap that it doesn't feel strong—it feels slow and clumsy and deeply, deeply uncomfortable. But the sincerity in his voice stops you.
You just exhale slowly and keep walking.
The path winds through the trees, dappled with early light. Normally it's a pleasant walk—ten minutes, maybe less. Now it feels endless. Your back aches. Your feet are already swelling in the heat. And you're so hot—a constant, oppressive warmth that radiates from your core and makes every breath feel thick.
"I hate this," you mutter.
Tarsem glances at you, concern flickering across his face. "Do you need to stop?"
"No. I just—" You gesture vaguely at yourself again. "I hate being this slow. I hate how much space I take up. I hate that I can't see my own feet. I hate that I'm always hot and tired and—" You stop walking abruptly, pressing a hand to your lower back. "And I hate that my back hurts all the time now."
He stops immediately, turning to face you. "Here." His hands find your hips, steadying you. "Lean on me."
"I don't want to lean on you. I want to not need to lean on anyone."
"I know." His thumbs press gently into the small of your back, finding the knot of tension there. "But you can lean on me anyway."
You close your eyes, letting him support some of your weight. His hands are warm and sure, and the pressure against your aching muscles is—
Perfect.
Damn him.
"Better?" he asks softly.
"...Yes."
He presses a kiss to your temple. "We can go back if you want."
"No." You pull away slightly, stubbornness flaring. "I'm not going to just sit in the alcove for the next three weeks until this baby decides to come out. I'll lose my mind."
"Then we keep walking." He takes your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "Slowly."
You start moving again, and he adjusts his pace to match yours—long strides shortened, his usual fluid grace tempered to accommodate your awkward waddle. He doesn't complain. Doesn't sigh. Doesn't even glance ahead like he's wishing you'd move faster.
He just walks beside you.
After a few minutes, he points to a cluster of flowers blooming near the path. "Look. Seze blossoms."
You glance over. They're small, delicate, pale purple.
"They're pretty," you say flatly.
"You like them."
"I like a lot of things. I also like not being the size of a mountain."
His mouth twitches again—that almost-smile that means he's trying not to laugh at you.
"What?" you snap.
"Nothing."
"Tarsem."
"You are not the size of a mountain."
"I'm the size of at least a very large hill."
"You are the size of a woman carrying a child." He squeezes your hand gently. "And you are beautiful."
You make a frustrated noise in the back of your throat. "You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
"I'm sweating. I'm waddling. I'm—" You stop again, pressing a hand to your belly as the baby shifts, a sharp jab against your ribs. "Ow. Great. Now the baby's kicking me."
Tarsem's expression softens immediately, his free hand moving to rest over yours on your belly. "Strong," he murmurs.
"Strong and rude."
He laughs—a quiet, warm sound that makes your chest ache despite your irritation.
You start walking again, but the heat is getting worse. The sun is climbing, and the air feels thick and heavy. Sweat trickles down your spine, and your breathing is labored now, each inhale requiring effort.
"This is miserable," you mutter.
"We're almost there."
"That's what you said ten minutes ago."
"We're closer now."
You shoot him a look. "Tarsem, I swear—"
"What?" He's smiling now, that soft, patient smile that's impossible to stay angry at.
"You're too nice. It's infuriating."
"I'm sorry."
"No, you're not."
"No," he agrees. "I'm not."
You huff, but there's no real heat in it. Just exhaustion. Just the bone-deep weariness of carrying this weight, of being so uncomfortable in your own skin.
And then you stumble.
It's not dramatic—just a misstep, your foot catching on a root. But your balance is off, your center of gravity all wrong, and for a terrifying moment you feel yourself tipping forward—
Tarsem catches you.
His arm is around your waist instantly, pulling you back against his chest, steadying you with the kind of easy strength that makes it look effortless.
"I've got you," he murmurs.
Your heart is pounding. "I'm fine."
"I know." But he doesn't let go.
You close your eyes, leaning back against him, and for a moment you just breathe. His chest rises and falls against your back. His hand splays wide over your belly, protective and sure.
"I'm sorry," you say quietly.
"For what?"
"For being so—" You gesture vaguely. "Grumpy. Snappish. Miserable."
"You're not miserable."
"I'm very miserable."
"You're uncomfortable," he corrects gently. "And tired. And doing something incredibly difficult. You're allowed to be grumpy."
"I shouldn't take it out on you."
"You're not." He presses a kiss to the side of your neck. "You're just telling me how you feel. I want to know how you feel."
Your throat tightens. "I feel like a beached tulkun."
"You've mentioned."
"And I feel slow. And huge. And hot. And—" Your voice cracks slightly. "And scared that I'm going to feel like this forever."
His arms tighten around you. "You won't. I promise."
"You can't promise that."
"I can promise I'll be here. No matter how you feel. No matter how long it takes." His voice is low, steady. "I'm not going anywhere."
You lean back into him, letting him hold your weight, and for a long moment you just stand there on the path—his arms around you, his hand on your belly, the morning light filtering through the trees.
"Okay," you say finally.
"Okay?"
"Okay, we can keep walking." You pull away slightly, turning to look at him. "But if I complain the entire way, you're not allowed to be annoying about it."
His mouth curves. "I would never."
"Liar."
He takes your hand again, and you start walking.
Slowly.
But together.
And when you reach a particularly steep part of the path, he doesn't even ask—just scoops you up into his arms like you weigh nothing, like carrying you is the most natural thing in the world.
"Tarsem—"
"Shh." He adjusts his grip, settling you against his chest. "Let me."
You want to protest. Want to insist you can walk on your own.
But you're so tired.
So you just wrap your arms around his neck and let him carry you, your head resting against his shoulder, and when he murmurs, "Almost there, yawne," you believe him.
Because with him, you always do.
By the time you reach the river, you're overheated and miserable—your skin sticky with sweat, your back aching from the weight you carry low in your belly, every step feeling like you're dragging yourself through thick mud.
"Here," Tarsem says softly, setting you down carefully at the water's edge. His hands linger at your waist, steadying you. "Let me help."
You nod, too tired to argue, and he kneels in front of you—his fingers gentle as he unties the wrap at your hips, sliding the fabric away with the kind of reverence that makes your chest tighten. Like you're something sacred. Something precious.
He stands again, his hands finding yours, and he guides you slowly into the shallow pool.
The water is cool—blessedly, perfectly cool—and the moment it touches your overheated skin, you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.
"Oh," you whisper. "Oh, that's—"
"Good?"
"So good."
He wades in beside you, still holding your hands, his eyes never leaving your face. The water rises to your thighs, then your hips, and when it reaches the swell of your belly, the relief is so immediate and overwhelming that you nearly cry.
The weight lifts.
Not gone—never gone—but eased. Held by the water instead of pressing down on your spine, your hips, your exhausted legs.
You close your eyes and just breathe.
Tarsem's hands slide to your waist, steadying you, and you lean into him without thinking—your forehead resting against his chest, letting out a large sigh.
"Better?" he murmurs, his voice low and warm against your ear.
"So much better."
His hand moves to the small of your back, pressing gently, and you make a soft sound of relief as the pressure eases even more. He knows exactly where you ache. Always knows.
"Stay as long as you need," he says, his lips brushing your temple. "I'm not going anywhere."
You tilt your head back to look at him, and the expression on his face—soft and adoring and utterly devoted—makes something warm unfurl in your chest.
"You're staring," you say, but there's no bite to it.
"I know." His hand slides up your spine, his thumb tracing the line of your shoulder blade. "I can't help it."
"Tarsem—"
"You are beautiful," he says simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "You are carrying our child. You are strong and perfect and I—" He stops, his throat working. "I can't stop looking at you."
Your eyes sting.
"You're going to make me cry," you whisper.
"Then cry." He cups your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing just beneath your eyes. "I'll be here."
And then he kisses you.
Slow and deep and achingly tender—his mouth moving against yours like he has all the time in the world, like there's nothing more important than this moment, this touch, this connection between you.
You melt into him, your hands sliding up to his shoulders, and when he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, you're both breathing hard.
"I love you," he says, his voice rough. "I love you so much it terrifies me."
"I love you too."
His hand moves to your belly, pressing gently, and you feel the baby shift beneath his palm—a strong, rolling movement that makes you both go still.
"There," you whisper, guiding his hand lower. "Feel that?"
His breath catches.
"Yes." His eyes are wide, awed, his fingers spreading across the curve of your stomach like he's trying to memorize the shape of this moment. "Is it—does it hurt?"
"No." You cover his hand with yours. "They are just... active today."
He laughs softly, and the sound is so full of wonder that it makes your chest ache. "Strong," he murmurs. "Like their mother."
"Or stubborn," you say. "Like their father."
He grins at that, and then he's kissing you again—your mouth, your jaw, your neck—his lips trailing down to your shoulder as his hands map the shape of you with a tenderness that makes you tremble.
This.
This is what you live for.
Not the grand gestures or the declarations—though those matter too—but this. His complete and utter focus. His hands on you like you're the only thing in the world that matters. His attention so absolute that you feel seen in a way you never have before.
You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging gently, and he makes a low sound against your skin that sends warmth pooling low in your belly despite the coolness of the water.
"Tarsem," you breathe.
He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, and the look on his face—hungry and reverent and so full of love—makes you feel like you're glowing.
"Tell me what you need," he says, his voice rough. "Anything."
"Just this." You pull him closer, your arms wrapping around his neck. "Just you."
He holds you like that for a long time—his arms around you, his hand resting on your belly, the water cool and soothing around you both. The baby moves again, a gentle flutter this time, and you feel Tarsem smile against your shoulder.
"I can't wait to meet them," he whispers.
"Me neither."
"But I'm not ready to share you yet." He presses a kiss to the curve of your neck. "Is that selfish?"
You laugh softly. "A little."
"I don't care." He pulls back to look at you, his eyes bright. "Right now, you're mine. And I'm going to take care of you for as long as you'll let me."
"Forever, then."
His smile is slow and devastating. "Forever."
And when he kisses you again—deep and claiming and impossibly tender—you give him your full attention in return. Your hands on his face, your body pressed against his, your heart open and unguarded in a way it only ever is with him.
Because this—his devotion, his love, his unwavering presence—is everything.
And you wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.
By the time you make it back to the village, the sun is high and merciless, and you're sticky with sweat despite the river's temporary relief. Your back aches. Your feet are swollen. The baby has decided that your bladder is an excellent toy, and you're approximately three seconds away from snapping at the next person who looks at you with that concerned, pitying expression.
You should rest.
You know you should rest.
But you're so tired of resting. So tired of being treated like you're made of glass. So tired of sitting while everyone else works, of being useless and heavy and—
"I'm helping with the meal," you announce as you approach the communal cooking area.
Tarsem, walking beside you, doesn't argue. Just gives you that soft, knowing look that says he understands exactly why you need this, even if it's a terrible idea.
"I'll be nearby," he says quietly, his hand brushing the small of your back. "If you need me."
You nod, grateful, and he steps away—not far, just to the edge of the clearing where he can see you but isn't hovering. Where he can let you have this without making you feel smothered.
The cooking area is busy, full of clan members preparing the evening meal. Fires crackle. Voices overlap. The air smells of roasting meat and herbs, and for a moment, you feel almost normal.
Then Säla'ite sees you.
"Oh, no," she says immediately, rushing over with her hands outstretched like she's about to catch you mid-collapse. "No, no, no. You should not be standing."
"I'm fine," you say, reaching for a basket of vegetables.
She snatches it away. "You are not fine. You are enormous. Sit down."
Your jaw tightens. "I'm pregnant, not broken."
"You're very pregnant," she insists, setting the basket down and physically steering you toward a low stool. "Sit. I'll handle this."
"I don't want to sit."
"Well, you should." She pats the stool like she's coaxing a child. "The baby could come any day now. You need to rest."
"The baby is not coming today," you say through gritted teeth. "And I am perfectly capable of cutting vegetables."
But she's already turned away, calling to another woman across the fire. "She's trying to work again. Can you believe it?"
You close your eyes and count to five.
From the edge of the clearing, you feel Tarsem's gaze on you. Steady. Watchful.
Then another voice joins in—Txäll, one of the older women, her tone dripping with unsolicited concern. "You should be resting, child. My sister's daughter stood too long in her last weeks, and the baby came early. You don't want that."
"It's cutting vegetables," you say flatly, reaching for the basket again.
Txäll moves it further away. "Let us take care of you."
"I don't need—"
"Of course you do." She pats your belly without asking, and you flinch. "Look at you. You're carrying so low. It's definitely a boy. Boys always sit low like that."
"Actually," you say, your voice tight, "Mo'at said—"
"Oh, Mo'at." Txäll waves a dismissive hand. "I've birthed six children. I know these things."
Your fingers curl into fists at your sides. The heat is unbearable. Your back is screaming. And these women—these well-meaning, intrusive, exhausting women—won't stop touching you, won't stop talking about your body like it belongs to them.
You take a breath.
Force a smile that feels like glass.
"I appreciate your concern," you say, each word carefully measured. "But I'd really like to help."
"Nonsense." Txäll steers you toward the stool again. "Sit. Rest. We'll bring you something cool to drink."
"I don't want something cool to drink," you say, your patience fraying with every syllable. "I want to be useful."
Säla'ite reappears with a cup of water anyway. "Here. Drink this."
You take it because refusing feels like more effort than it's worth, and you sit on the stool because your back is screaming and your feet are throbbing and maybe, maybe, if you sit for just a moment, they'll let you work.
They don't.
Instead, Säla'ite crouches in front of you, her expression painfully earnest. "So," she says, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Have you thought about the birth?"
"Yes," you say shortly. "I've thought about it."
"Are you scared?"
"Säla'ite—"
"Because it's okay to be scared. My cousin said it was the worst pain of her life. But also the best? She said you forget the pain after. But also, she screamed so loud they heard her across the village."
You stare at her.
Your jaw is so tight it aches.
"That's... helpful. Thank you."
She doesn't catch the sarcasm. "And have you prepared? Do you have enough cloth for after? Because you'll bleed. A lot. My mother said—"
"I'm aware," you interrupt, your voice sharper than you intended.
Säla'ite blinks, but she doesn't stop. "It's just—I want to make sure you're ready. Because when the baby comes, everything changes. You won't have time to think, and—"
"I know." Your hands are shaking now. Your throat is tight. "I know."
Before she can continue, another woman—Kiäro, who you barely know—leans in with a smile that makes you want to scream.
"You're so brave," she says, like you've done something heroic instead of just existing. "I don't know how you're managing. I was miserable in my last weeks."
"I'm managing fine," you say.
"Are you sleeping? You look tired."
"I'm pregnant. Everyone looks tired."
"And eating enough? You need to eat for two now."
"I'm aware."
Kiäro's smile falters, but she presses on. "It's just—you're so small. I'm worried the baby won't have enough room."
Your fingers tighten around the cup. "The baby has plenty of room."
"Are you sure? Because my sister—"
You take a breath.
Then another.
The words are right there, sharp and cold and ready to cut. I think I need all of you to stop talking to me about my body like it's a community project.
You can feel them building in your throat, taste the bitterness of them on your tongue. You're about to say something you'll regret. Something that will hurt Säla'ite, who's only trying to help. Something that will make you feel like the worst person in the world.
And then Tarsem is there.
He doesn't rush. Doesn't make a scene. Just appears at your side with that quiet, steady presence that somehow fills the entire clearing. His hand settles on your shoulder—warm, grounding, unmistakably protective.
"Forgive me," he says, his voice calm and respectful as he addresses the women. "But I need to take her now."
Säla'ite blinks up at him. "Oh. Is everything—"
"She needs to rest," he says simply, his tone leaving no room for argument but carrying no reproach. "I should not have let her come here. The heat is too much."
Txäll nods immediately, her expression shifting to concern. "Of course. Of course. We were just saying she should rest."
"You were," Tarsem agrees, and there's something in his voice—gentle but firm—that makes it clear the conversation is over. "Thank you for watching over her."
He helps you to your feet before anyone can protest, his arm sliding around your waist to support you. You lean into him without hesitation, and the relief is so immediate, so overwhelming, that you almost sag against him.
"I'll make sure she eats," he continues, guiding you away from the cooking area with careful, unhurried steps. "And drinks. And rests in the shade."
"Good," Säla'ite says, standing and brushing off her knees. "That's good. She needs to take care of herself."
"She does," Tarsem agrees. "And I will make sure of it."
There's no tension in his words. No sharpness. Just calm, unshakeable certainty. The women accept it easily, nodding and murmuring their agreement, and within moments, you're walking away from the cooking area with Tarsem's arm steady around you.
No one's feelings are hurt.
No harsh words were spoken.
No guilt sits heavy in your chest.
You make it halfway across the clearing before you let out a shaky breath.
"Thank you," you whisper.
His hand tightens on your waist. "You were about to say something."
"I was." You glance up at him, and his expression is knowing, patient. "Something I would have regretted."
"I know."
"How did you—"
"I know you," he says simply. "I saw it in your face. In the way you were holding yourself." He presses a kiss to your temple. "You were trying so hard to be kind. But you were running out of patience."
You lean into him, grateful beyond words. "I almost snapped at Säla'ite. She was just trying to help, and I almost—"
"But you didn't." His voice is soft, reassuring. "Because I stopped you."
"You saved me from myself."
"Always," he murmurs, guiding you toward a quiet platform away from the village noise. "That's what I'm here for."
You close your eyes and let him lead you, his presence steady and grounding, and for the first time all afternoon, you feel like you can breathe.
The platform he brings you to is tucked away from the main pathways—shaded by broad leaves, quiet enough that the village noise fades to a distant hum. Private. Peaceful. Yours.
He settles you carefully onto the woven mat, his hands never leaving you until you're seated, and even then, he lingers—adjusting your position, making sure you're comfortable before he moves away.
"Stay," he says softly, and disappears.
You close your eyes and lean back against the trunk of the tree, letting the coolness of the shade wash over you. Your back aches. Your feet throb. The baby is pressing against your ribs in a way that makes breathing feel like work.
But here—away from the well-meaning concern, the intrusive questions, the endless advice—you can finally exhale.
Tarsem returns moments later with an armful of soft furs and woven cushions. He doesn't ask where you want them. He just knows. He arranges them behind you, beneath you, supporting your lower back and hips with the kind of care that makes your throat tighten.
"Better?" he asks, crouching in front of you.
You nod, unable to speak past the sudden swell of emotion.
He disappears again.
This time, he comes back with food—slices of fruit, roasted meat still warm, a cup of cool water beaded with condensation. He sets it all within reach, then settles beside you, close enough that his thigh presses against yours.
"Eat," he says gently. "You barely touched anything earlier."
"I wasn't hungry."
"You are always hungry." His tone is teasing, affectionate. "The baby makes sure of that."
You huff a soft laugh and reach for a piece of fruit. It's sweet and cool, and the moment it touches your tongue, you realize how thirsty you are. How hungry. How much you needed this—this quiet, this care, this man who knows you better than you know yourself.
He watches you eat with that soft, steady gaze that never feels intrusive. Just... present. Attentive. Like watching you is the most important thing he could be doing.
When you've eaten enough to satisfy him, he shifts closer, his hand coming to rest on your belly.
The baby moves beneath his palm—a strong, rolling kick that makes you both still.
"There," you whisper, guiding his hand to where the movement is strongest. "Feel that?"
His breath catches. His fingers spread wide, reverent, and when the baby kicks again, his eyes shine.
"Strong," he murmurs, his voice thick with wonder. "So strong."
"Like their father," you say softly.
He shakes his head, his gaze lifting to yours. "Like their mother."
Your throat tightens.
"You are doing this," he says, his voice low and fierce and filled with something that makes your chest ache. "You are creating life. You are carrying our child—housing the being the Great Mother made from our joining. From our love."
His hand presses gently against your belly, and his other hand comes up to cup your face.
"Do you understand what that means?" he asks, his thumb brushing your cheek. "What you are?"
You can't speak. Can't breathe.
"You are sacred," he whispers. "You are a miracle. Every day, your body does something I cannot fathom—something I could never do. You grow our child. You keep them safe. You endure discomfort and pain and exhaustion, and you do it with such strength, such grace—"
"I snapped at Säla'ite," you interrupt, your voice breaking. "I was about to say something cruel."
"But you didn't." His hand tightens on your face, grounding you. "You held back. You tried. And when you couldn't anymore, I was there. That's what we do. That's what this is."
He leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours.
"You are not perfect," he says softly. "You are tired. You are uncomfortable. You are carrying the weight of another life inside you, and some days, that is too much. Some days, you will be irritable. You will be sharp. You will want to scream at everyone who looks at you."
His lips curve into a small, knowing smile.
"But you never scream at me."
"No," you whisper. "I don't."
"Do you know why?"
You shake your head, even though you do. Even though you've always known.
"Because I am your safe place," he says, his voice so gentle it breaks you. "Because with me, you don't have to be strong. You don't have to be kind. You don't have to be anything other than what you are—tired, grumpy, uncomfortable, and still the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."
A tear slips down your cheek, and he catches it with his thumb.
"You chose me," he continues, his voice trembling now. "Out of everyone, you chose me. You decided I was worthy of this—of you, of our child, of this life we're building. And I will spend every day proving that you were right."
"Tarsem—"
"Let me finish." His hand slides down to rest over your heart. "You are strong. You are capable. You are everything our child will need. And when you are too tired to be those things, I will be them for you. I will carry you. I will shield you. I will stand between you and the world if that's what you need."
He presses a kiss to your forehead, soft and lingering.
"You are doing something sacred," he whispers against your skin. "The Great Mother has entrusted you with this. And I am honored—so deeply honored—to stand beside you while you do it."
You break.
The tears come fast and hot, and you bury your face in his chest, your hands fisting in his chest covering. He holds you close, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other resting protectively over your belly.
"I've got you," he murmurs. "I've got you both."
And you believe him.
Because this—this quiet platform, this gentle care, this man who sees you at your worst and loves you anyway—this is your sanctuary.
This is why you never snap at him.
Because he is the only place in the world where you don't have to be anything other than exactly what you are.
Tired.
Pregnant.
Loved.
Safe.
By the time the sun begins its descent, painting the sky in shades of amber and violet, you've made your way to the communal fires with Tarsem's hand steady at the small of your back.
This is his time.
You negotiated this months ago, when his hovering became so constant you could barely breathe without him appearing at your side. One meal, you'd told him. One meal per day where you won't complain, won't tell him to give you space, won't insist you're fine. One meal where he can be exactly as protective and devoted as his instincts demand.
He'd agreed immediately.
And he's never once failed to claim it.
The communal area is already alive with activity—fires crackling, the scent of roasted meat and spiced vegetables filling the air, voices rising and falling in easy conversation. You spot the Sullys near the central fire: Jake and Neytiri seated close together, Neteyam and Lo'ak laughing about something with a group of younger hunters.
Tarsem guides you to a spot near the edge of the gathering, close enough to be part of the clan but far enough that you won't be overwhelmed. He's already arranged cushions and furs before you even arrived—soft, supportive, positioned exactly how you need them.
"Sit," he says gently, and you do.
He settles beside you, close enough that his thigh presses against yours, and immediately his hand finds your belly. It's instinct now. Automatic. His palm spreads wide over the swell of your stomach, and when the baby shifts beneath his touch, his eyes light up.
"Strong tonight," he murmurs, his voice filled with wonder.
"Always strong when there's food nearby," you say, smiling. "Takes after their father."
His gaze lifts to yours, and the pride in his expression is so open, so unguarded, it makes your chest tighten.
"Takes after their mother," he corrects softly.
Before you can respond, he's already moving—rising smoothly to his feet and heading toward the food without needing to ask what you want. He knows. He always knows.
You watch him go, and you're not the only one.
Säla'ite catches your eye from across the fire and grins, shaking her head in amused disbelief. You shrug, smiling back. Let them watch. Let them see how he loves you.
Tarsem returns with a woven plate piled high—slices of tender meat, roasted root vegetables still steaming, fresh fruit arranged carefully on the side. He settles beside you again, closer this time, and holds out a piece of fruit.
"Open," he says, his tone gentle but firm.
You roll your eyes but obey, letting him feed you. The fruit is sweet and cool, and when juice runs down your chin, he catches it with his thumb, his touch lingering.
"Tarsem," you murmur, half-embarrassed, half-pleased.
"What?" His expression is innocent, but his eyes are warm. Satisfied. "I'm taking care of my mate."
"You're showing off."
"Yes." He doesn't even try to deny it. "I am."
And he is.
When Neteyam approaches a few minutes later, crouching beside you with that easy, respectful smile, Tarsem's hand moves to your shoulder—proprietary, protective, but not possessive. Just... present.
"How are you feeling?" Neteyam asks, his gaze flicking between you and your belly. "My mother says the baby will come soon."
"Soon," you confirm, resting your hand over Tarsem's where it still curves around your stomach. "A few weeks, maybe less."
"She is strong," Tarsem says, and there's no mistaking the pride in his voice. "The baby is strong. Everything is as it should be."
Neteyam grins. "I don't doubt it. You've been preparing for months."
"We have," Tarsem agrees, and his thumb strokes slow, reverent circles against your belly. "The Great Mother has blessed us."
There's something in the way he says it—something fierce and tender and deeply, unmistakably proud—that makes your throat tighten.
Neteyam notices too. His smile softens, and he nods. "You'll both be wonderful parents."
"Thank you, brother," Tarsem says quietly.
When Neteyam moves away, you lean into Tarsem's side, letting your head rest against his shoulder.
"You're glowing," you murmur.
"I am proud," he says simply. "Why would I hide it?"
"You don't have to. Not tonight."
His arm comes around you, pulling you closer, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head. "Not ever," he corrects. "But especially not tonight."
Lo'ak is next, bounding over with that reckless energy that never quite fades, even as he's grown into a skilled hunter. He drops into a crouch in front of you, grinning.
"So," he says, eyes bright with mischief. "Any day now, huh?"
"Any day," you agree, smiling.
"You nervous?"
"Terrified," you admit.
Lo'ak's grin softens into something more genuine. "You'll be great. Both of you." He glances at Tarsem. "Especially you. You've been hovering like a mother palulukan for months."
Tarsem doesn't rise to the bait. He just smiles—calm, steady, utterly unbothered. "I will hover for the rest of my life if that's what she needs."
"Great Mother help us all," Lo'ak mutters, but he's laughing.
You laugh too, and Tarsem's hand tightens on your shoulder, his thumb brushing the curve of your neck.
When Lo'ak leaves, you turn to look at Tarsem fully. His expression is soft, his eyes warm, and there's something in the way he's looking at you—like you're the most precious thing he's ever held.
"What?" you ask softly.
"You chose me," he says, his voice low and reverent. "Out of everyone, you chose me."
"I did."
"And now you carry our child." His hand moves back to your belly, cradling the swell with both palms now. "Our child, yawne. Made from our love. From our bond."
Your eyes sting.
"I am so proud," he whispers. "So proud to be yours. So proud that you are mine. So proud of what we are creating together."
You reach up and cup his face, your thumb brushing his cheek. "I love you."
"I love you both," he says, and then he leans in and kisses you—soft and slow and full of everything he can't put into words.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and his hands never leave your belly.
Around you, the clan continues their meal, their conversations, their laughter. But here, in this small pocket of space, it's just the two of you.
And the life you're building together.
Tarsem feeds you throughout the meal—offering bites of meat, pieces of fruit, sips of cool water. He doesn't ask if you need anything. He just knows. And when you shift uncomfortably, trying to ease the pressure on your hips, he moves immediately—adjusting the cushions, repositioning you with careful hands, murmuring soft reassurances.
"Better?"
"Yes."
"Good." He kisses your temple. "Tell me if you need anything else."
"I will."
But you won't have to. He'll already know.
Jake and Neytiri approach near the end of the meal, and Tarsem rises immediately, offering them respectful nods. Neytiri's gaze is warm as it settles on you, and she reaches out to touch your belly gently.
"Soon," she says softly. "Very soon."
"I know," you whisper.
"You are ready," she says, and it's not a question. "And he—" she glances at Tarsem, her smile knowing, "—he will not leave your side."
"No," Tarsem agrees, his hand finding yours. "I will not."
Jake chuckles. "Good man."
When they move away, Tarsem settles beside you again, pulling you close. His arm wraps around your shoulders, and you let yourself sink into him completely.
"Thank you," you murmur.
"For what?"
"For this. For being exactly what I need."
His hand moves to your belly again, and when the baby kicks, his breath catches.
"Thank you," he whispers, "for choosing me. For trusting me. For giving me this."
You don't answer with words.
You just turn your face into his chest and let him hold you.
And around you, the clan continues to celebrate, to laugh, to live.
But here—in Tarsem's arms, with his hand on your belly and his heart beating steady against your ear—you are home.
7. Trial of the senses. Mating under your star. (NSFW)
8. What it means to be human. (Slight horror)
9. Butterfly effect. (NSFW)
10. Lemonade as a love potion. (NSFW)
11. An eye for an eye. (Slight horror.)
12. Things keep getting worse. (NSFW)
13. Skeletons in your closet.
14. Kill Bill 2.
Second Book "His Strong Heart" (Sky Breaker and Secret of the Spires DLCs)
Third Book "Ghosts of the Past." (From the Ashes DLC)
(Extras):
Reader's new home / how you two first met / TCATT reader with Wukula /TCATT reader x Okul / So'lek glaring daggers at Neyan / owo so'lek
Playlist-
-Drag path (twenty one pilots) [So'lek struggles to come to terms with his feelings, but no matter how many times he leaves he will always come back to you. Can you find a place in your heart to forgive him? Can you find him?]
-Seafret - Atlantis [even if those who swore to destroy you win. He will forever try to protect what you two had built, he can save his Atlantis.]
- Hurts- Somebody to die for [It's impossible to plan when to fall in love. You both found eachother in the middle of a war where your species shot each other on sight, in a world ruled by chaos, you both found somebody to die for, somebody to cry for.]
- One day the only butterflies left will be in your chest as you march towards your death [The day Eywa decides to take So'lek to the spirit realm, the only thing he will think about is the day you both mated, how the beautiful wings of the Shimmyflies cast down gorgeous lights across your body. He will feel those butterflies in his chest as he breathes his last breath.]
-Beautiful mess [Your relationship isn't perfect, and yet many find inspiration and admiration for what you two have built. Your love is as admirable as it is untouchable.]
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Just a fun little rewrite of Dare to Believe. Tarsem's internal struggle the whole day before he finally works up his courage.
Masterlist
Tarsem has faced down thanators.
He's stood his ground against sky people with their fire-sticks and their metal birds. He's jumped from cliff edges into churning rivers, tracked viperwolves through the darkest parts of the forest, led hunting parties into territories where one wrong step means death.
He's never been afraid of dying.
But this—this small carved necklace weighing down the pouch at his belt—this terrifies him more than any predator ever has.
He wakes before dawn with his heart already racing, the beads of the necklace pressing against his hip like an accusation. Today, he tells himself. Today you will be brave enough.
The words feel hollow even as he thinks them.
He's been carrying the necklace for three days now. Before that, it sat in his alcove for two weeks while he worked up the courage to even bring it with him. And before that, he spent months carving each bead, shaping each curve of the flower pendant, his hands steady and sure because he wasn't thinking about actually giving it to her. He was just thinking about making something beautiful. Something worthy of her.
Now the making is done, and all that's left is the giving, and Eywa help him, he can't seem to do it.
Tarsem goes through his morning routine on autopilot—prayers at the Tree of Souls where he can barely focus because she's three people over and the morning light makes her skin glow like honey, breakfast that tastes like ash in his mouth, checking his weapons with hands that won't quite stop trembling.
"You're distracted," Mo'at observes during the morning prayers, her ancient eyes seeing far too much. "Your spirit is elsewhere."
"Forgive me, Tsahik," he murmurs, but he doesn't deny it. What would be the point? His spirit is elsewhere—it's been following her around the village for months like a lost yerik, and he's powerless to call it back.
He watches her help the younger children with their morning tasks, patient and gentle, and something in his chest pulls so tight it hurts. She laughs at something one of them says, and the sound makes his breath catch. He wants to be the one making her laugh. He wants to know what it feels like to have that smile directed at him, warm and genuine and his.
But wanting and having are different things, and the space between them feels vast as the sky.
Just talk to her, he tells himself. You've talked to her before. You've helped her carry things, you've sat beside her at meals, you've had entire conversations. This is no different.
Except it is different. It's completely different. Because before, he could pretend he was just being helpful, just being friendly. Before, he didn't have a courting necklace burning a hole in his pouch and his intentions written plainly across his face for anyone to see.
Before, he could still retreat.
The morning hunt helps. Out in the forest, tracking a yerik through the undergrowth, he can almost forget the weight at his belt. Almost forget the way his heart stutters every time he sees her. Out here, he's just Tarsem the hunter, Tarsem the warrior, confident and capable and sure.
But then the hunt ends, and they return to the village, and he sees her sitting on the lower platform mending a net, and all that confidence evaporates like morning mist.
His feet carry him toward her before his mind can catch up.
The afternoon sun filters through the canopy in golden shafts, painting her in warm light. She's focused on her work, fingers moving with practiced ease through the cordage, and she doesn't notice him approaching until his shadow falls across her hands.
She looks up, and Eywa help him, her smile makes his heart stutter.
"Tarsem," she greets him, setting down the net. "Are you alright?"
He realizes he must look wild—chest still heaving from the hunt, braids disheveled, standing over her like he's preparing for battle instead of a simple conversation. He tries to school his expression into something less intense, less desperate.
"I—yes. Yes, I am well." His voice comes out rougher than intended, like he's been shouting. Or like his throat has closed up with nerves. "Did something happen on the hunt?"
"The hunt?" The question confuses him for a moment—the hunt feels like it happened days ago, not mere minutes. His mind has been so consumed with her that everything else feels distant and unimportant. "No, no. The hunt was... it was fine. Good. We tracked a yerik to the eastern groves, but we let it go. Not the right time."
"Oh." She waits, her eyes curious and patient, and he realizes he's just standing here like an idiot, his hands flexing at his sides because he doesn't know what to do with them.
The silence stretches. His hand twitches toward his belt, toward the necklace hidden there, but he can't seem to make himself reach for it. Not yet. Not when she's looking at him like that, so open and trusting.
"Did you... need something?" she asks gently.
Yes, he thinks desperately. I need to tell you that I see you, that I've been seeing you for months, that I made you something and I want to court you and I think about you constantly and—
"Your net," he blurts out instead, his eyes dropping to the obvious repair work in her lap. "It's torn."
She glances down at it, and he can see the confusion flicker across her face. "Yes... that's why I'm fixing it."
Brilliant, Tarsem. Truly brilliant.
"Right. Of course." He shifts his weight, his tail lashing behind him in agitation. He needs to salvage this somehow. "Do you need help? I could—I'm good with knots. I could help you."
It's a weak excuse and they both know it. He's a hunter, a warrior. Weaving and repair work aren't his domain. But she smiles anyway, kind enough not to point out the obvious, and gestures to the space beside her.
"I would welcome the company."
Relief floods through him so intensely it makes him dizzy. He sits down with less grace than usual, his knee bumping against hers as he settles. The contact sends a spark through him, and he doesn't move away. Neither does she.
He reaches for a section of the net, trying to remember the basic weaver's knot he learned as a child. His fingers fumble with the cordage, clumsy and uncertain, and he ends up with a tangled mess instead of a proper knot.
Pathetic.
"Here," she says softly, and then her hands are on his, guiding his fingers through the proper movements. "Like this."
Her touch is gentle, warm, and he goes very still. He can feel every point of contact—her fingertips against his knuckles, her palm brushing his wrist. His hands are larger than hers, rougher, scarred from years of holding weapons and climbing trees and fighting. But she touches him like he's something precious anyway.
He stares at where their hands meet, his heart pounding so hard he's sure she can hear it.
"Tarsem, are you sure you're alright?" Her voice is concerned now. "You seem..."
"I'm fine," he says quickly, but his voice is strained, betraying him. He forces himself to look up at her, to meet her eyes. "I'm just—it's been a long day."
"It's barely past midday," she points out gently, and there's a hint of amusement in her tone.
"A long morning, then." He pulls his hands back before he does something stupid like turn them over and lace his fingers through hers. The loss of contact feels like a physical ache. He clears his throat, looking away. "You're right. I'm not very good at this. I should—I should let you work."
He starts to stand, already hating himself for running again, but her hand catches his wrist.
"Stay," she says, and the word stops him cold. "Please. You don't have to help with the net. Just... stay and talk to me."
He freezes, looking down at where her fingers wrap around his wrist. His pulse is racing beneath her touch—she must be able to feel it, must know what she does to him. When he looks at her, he can't hide the raw vulnerability in his expression.
"I..." He swallows hard, trying to find words that won't reveal too much, won't scare her away. "I would like that."
He sits back down, closer this time, hyperaware of every inch of space between them. She releases his wrist and returns to her work, but he can feel the warmth of her body beside him, can hear the soft sound of her breathing.
Say something, he commands himself. This is your chance. Just talk to her like a normal person.
"How is Neteyam's training going?" she asks, and he latches onto the topic like a drowning man grabbing a vine.
"Good. Very good. He's a natural hunter—has his father's instincts and his mother's grace." The pride in his voice is genuine. Teaching Neteyam is one of the few things that still feels easy, still feels right. "Yesterday he tracked a hexapede for two hours without losing the trail once."
She smiles, and the sight of it makes his chest tight. "He admires you greatly. I've heard him talking about you to his siblings."
His ears perk up in surprise. "He does?"
"Of course. You're patient with him. Kind. You push him to be better without making him feel inadequate." She pauses in her weaving to look at him directly, and the sincerity in her eyes makes something in him ache. "You're a good teacher, Tarsem."
The compliment undoes something in him. For a moment, he just looks at her, drinking in the warmth in her expression, the genuine affection. He wants to reach for her. Wants to cup her face in his hands and tell her everything he's been holding back for months.
"I just... I want him to be ready," he says instead, his voice softer now. "For whatever comes. The sky people are still out there, and Jake says—" He stops himself, shaking his head. This isn't what he wants to talk about. This isn't why he sat down beside her. "But that's not what I wanted to talk about."
Her eyes widen slightly, curious and attentive. "What did you want to talk about?"
This is it. This is the moment. The necklace is right there in his pouch, warm against his hip. All he has to do is reach for it, pull it out, and say the words he's been practicing for weeks.
I see you. I made this for you. I want to court you.
His hand moves toward his belt. His mouth opens.
"Tarsem!" Neteyam's voice rings out from above, shattering the moment like a stone through still water. "There you are!"
Tarsem closes his eyes briefly, fighting the urge to curse. When he opens them, Neteyam is swinging down from a higher branch with the fearless agility of youth, landing beside them with a grin.
"I've been looking everywhere for you!" The boy is bouncing on his toes, eager and energetic. "You promised we'd work on my aim this afternoon, remember?"
Tarsem looks between Neteyam and her, torn. He did promise. He never breaks his promises to his students. But Eywa, he was so close—
"I... yes, I remember, but—"
"Great! Let's go!" Neteyam is already tugging on his arm, and then he seems to notice her for the first time. "Oh, hello! Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."
"You're not interrupting," she assures him, even though he absolutely is, and Tarsem wants to howl with frustration.
"I could come back," Tarsem says quickly, desperately. "Later. I could come back later and we could—"
"It's alright," she says, smiling even though he thinks he sees a flash of disappointment in her eyes. "I'll be here."
He stares at her for a long moment, trying to memorize the way the light catches in her eyes, the curve of her smile. Then Neteyam is pulling him away, and he's stumbling to his feet, looking back at her twice as he goes.
The second time, he nearly walks into a support beam.
An hour later, after he's helped Neteyam with his aim until the boy's arms were shaking with fatigue, Tarsem finds himself climbing to the top of the canopy.
He needs to try again. Needs to approach her differently. The net-mending was too intimate, too intense—he'd gotten overwhelmed by her proximity, by the touch of her hands on his. He needs something simpler. Something that will give him an excuse to talk to her without the pressure of sitting so close, of feeling her warmth and breathing her scent and losing his mind.
A gift. He'll bring her a gift.
The yovo fruit he finds is perfect—deep purple, unblemished, exactly the kind she mentioned loving weeks ago in a passing comment he's never forgotten. He plucks it from the branch with trembling hands, tucking it carefully into his pouch beside the necklace.
Just a fruit, he tells himself as he climbs back down. No pressure. Just a kind gesture. You can do this.
The communal cooking area is busy when he arrives, several women working together to prepare the evening meal. She's there, slicing tubers with rhythmic precision, and when she looks up and sees him, her face lights up.
That smile. Eywa, that smile could bring him to his knees.
He walks toward her with purpose, his heart hammering against his ribs. He's cleaned up since the net-mending—washed the sweat away, neatened his braids, changed into a fresh loincloth. He wants to look presentable. Wants to be worthy of her attention.
"Hello again," she says, setting down her knife.
"Hello." His voice is steadier now, more controlled. He's had time to prepare, to practice what he'll say. He reaches into his pouch and pulls out the yovo fruit, holding it out to her. "I wanted to—I brought you something."
Her eyebrows rise. "You did?"
He nods, acutely aware of how his hand is shaking slightly. "I remembered you saying you liked these. And I saw this one while I was out with Neteyam, and I thought... I thought you might want it."
She takes the fruit from his hand, her fingers brushing his palm, and the contact sends warmth flooding through him. She turns it in her hands, admiring it, and the pleasure in her expression makes his chest tight.
"Thank you, Tarsem. This is very sweet of you."
Sweet. His ears twitch at the word, heat rising in his cheeks. "It's nothing. Just a fruit."
"It's not nothing," she says firmly, looking up at him with such sincerity it makes him ache. "This is perfect. It must have taken you a while to find one this good."
He shrugs, trying to appear casual even though he'd spent twenty minutes searching through the canopy for the best one. "I wanted... I wanted you to have the best one."
The way he says it—too honest, too revealing—makes her eyes soften. She looks at him like she's seeing something she hadn't noticed before, and his heart races faster.
This is it. He can feel it. The moment is right, the words are there, waiting. All he has to do is speak them.
"I need to tell you something," he says, and the words come out in a rush. "I've been trying to tell you all day, and I keep—I keep losing my courage, but I can't keep doing this. I can't keep circling around you like a—like a—"
"Tarsem!" One of the other women calls out, waving him over. "Could you help us lift this pot? It's too heavy."
No. No, no, no—
He closes his eyes, his jaw clenching so hard it hurts. For a moment, he considers ignoring the request. Considers telling them to find someone else, that he's busy, that this is more important than any cooking pot could ever be.
But he can't. He's never been able to ignore someone who needs help. It's not in his nature.
"One moment," he calls back, then looks at her with something like anguish in his eyes. "Don't go anywhere. Please. I'll be right back, and then we can—"
"I'll be here," she promises, clutching the yovo fruit to her chest, and the sight of her holding his gift makes something in him sing even through the frustration.
He hurries over to help with the pot, lifting it with ease even though his mind is entirely focused on getting back to her. The women thank him with knowing giggles, and he accepts their gratitude with a distracted nod.
When he turns back, Säla'ite has appeared at her side and is already pulling her away, chattering about something urgent.
She looks back at him apologetically, and the expression on his face must be utterly forlorn because Säla'ite grins at him with far too much knowing amusement.
He stands there, watching her disappear into the crowd, still holding the yovo fruit like a treasure.
Coward, he thinks viciously. You had two chances and you wasted both of them.
By late afternoon, Tarsem is walking through the forest with Neteyam, ostensibly checking the training grounds but really just trying to clear his head.
"You're being ridiculous," Neteyam says suddenly, breaking the silence.
Tarsem looks at his student, this child he's supposed to be mentoring, and feels shame burn hot in his chest. "I do not know what you mean."
"Yes, you do." Neteyam crosses his arms, looking far too much like Jake in that moment—blunt and unimpressed. "You've been following her around all day like a lost pa'li. Everyone's noticed. Even the children are talking about it."
"I haven't been—"
"You climbed to the top of the canopy for a fruit," Neteyam interrupts. "You tried to help her mend a net even though you don't know the first thing about weaving. You've walked past the cooking area six times in the last hour." He shakes his head. "Just tell her. What's the worst that could happen?"
She could say no, Tarsem thinks. She could laugh. She could look at me with pity or embarrassment or worse—indifference. She could take this feeling in my chest and prove it's one-sided, and then I'd have to see her every day knowing she doesn't feel the same.
"She could reject me," he says quietly.
"She could say yes," Neteyam counters. "But you'll never know if you keep acting like a coward."
The word hits like a physical blow. Tarsem has been called many things—brave, strong, dependable, fierce. Never a coward. The fact that it's true makes it worse.
"I fought a thanator last month," he says, almost to himself. "I've faced sky people and viperwolves and I've jumped off cliffs. Why is this so much harder?"
"Because you care," Neteyam says simply, with the kind of wisdom that shouldn't come from someone so young. "The thanator couldn't break your heart."
Tarsem would laugh if it didn't hurt so much.
"Takuk was talking about her yesterday," Neteyam adds, almost casually. "Said he thought she was pretty. Said he might ask to court her."
Something hot and possessive flares in Tarsem's chest, so intense it nearly chokes him. No. The thought of Takuk—of anyone—approaching her with intentions, offering her gifts, making her smile the way Tarsem wants to make her smile—
The thought is unbearable.
"I need to go," he says abruptly, already turning back toward the village.
Neteyam grins behind him. "Finally."
Tarsem cleans up properly this time. Washes thoroughly at the river, braids his hair with careful hands, changes into his best loincloth. He checks the necklace one more time—the beads are smooth, the pendant perfect, every knot secure. His hands are shaking so badly he nearly drops it.
He positions himself near the training grounds as the sun begins to set, and he paces. Back and forth, back and forth, his tail lashing with agitation. He practices what he'll say, the words tumbling over each other in his mind.
I see you. I've made this for you. I want to court you.
Simple. Direct. Honest.
Terrifying.
His hand touches the necklace again. The beads are warm from being against his skin all day. He thinks about all the hours he spent carving them, each one shaped with her in mind. The flower pendant took him a week alone—he must have started over a dozen times, never satisfied, always wanting it to be perfect.
Because she deserves perfect.
And maybe he's not perfect—his hands shake, his words tangle, his courage has failed him twice today already. But the necklace is real. The feeling in his chest is real. The months of watching her, wanting her, knowing her—that's all real.
He's learned something today, through every fumbled attempt and interrupted moment: hesitation doesn't protect him. It just gives time for others to step forward. For Takuk to notice what Tarsem has been too afraid to claim. For opportunities to slip away like water through his fingers.
Standing still isn't safety. It's the most dangerous choice of all.
The fear is still there—he can feel it humming beneath his skin, making his pulse race and his breath come quick. But it's not in control anymore. He's carried it with him through every hunt, every battle, every moment that mattered. Fear has never stopped him before. It's just another companion on the path.
And maybe—maybe vulnerability isn't the weakness he thought it was. Maybe opening his heart, offering it to her with trembling hands, is the bravest thing he's ever done. Braver than facing thanators. Braver than standing against sky people.
Because this matters more.
He sees her approaching through the trees, and his heart launches into his throat. The golden light of the setting sun catches in her hair, paints her skin warm and luminous. She's so beautiful it makes his chest ache.
"Are you alright?" she asks, her voice gentle, concerned, and he realizes he must look half-wild standing here.
The words are already rising in his throat, clear and certain. No more waiting. No more almost-moments.
This is real. This is happening. And he's ready.
"I need to tell you something," he says.
She stops in front of him, waiting, and he can see the curiosity in her eyes mixed with something else—something that might be hope, if he's not imagining it.
His hands are steady as they move toward his belt. His voice doesn't waver. The fear is there, but so is everything else—the certainty, the hope, the absolute knowledge that whatever happens next, he'll have been brave enough to try.
That's all that matters.
"I see you," he says, and his voice is rough with emotion but steady. "I have seen you for a long time now, and I can't keep pretending that I don't. I can't keep circling around you, hoping you'll somehow know how I feel without me having to say it."
Her eyes widen, her lips parting slightly, and he forces himself to continue before his courage fails.
"You are kind. You are sweet and patient and you make everyone around you feel valued. When you smile, it's like the sun coming out from behind clouds. When you laugh, I want to do anything to hear it again. And I know I'm not good with words, and I know I've been acting like a fool all day, but I needed you to know that I—"
He pauses, his hand moving to his belt, pulling out the necklace with trembling fingers.
"I made this for you. I've been working on it for months, and I've been carrying it around all day, trying to find the courage to give it to you." He holds it out, the beads catching the golden light. "This is my declaration. My promise that I will do everything in my power to make you happy, to protect you, to be there for you the way you deserve."
He takes a breath, meeting her eyes.
"I want to court you. Properly. Officially. I want the chance to earn your affection, to prove myself worthy of you. I know I might not be, but I want to try. If you'll have me."
The moment between his offer and her response feels like falling—that breathless, weightless terror of not knowing if you'll fly or crash.
And then she smiles.
"I see you too," she says, and the words are like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
The relief is so intense it nearly brings him to his knees. She's saying yes. She's reaching for the necklace with wonder in her eyes, and she's saying she's been waiting for him, hoping for him, wanting this too.
His hands shake as he fastens the necklace around her throat, his fingers brushing against her skin. She shivers at the contact, and he feels it echo through his whole body.
When she rises up on her toes to kiss him, the fear finally, finally releases its grip on his chest.
Her lips are soft against his, warm and perfect, and he makes a sound low in his throat as he pulls her closer. The kiss is everything he imagined and nothing like it at the same time—better, sweeter, more real than any fantasy could ever be.
When they finally part, both breathing hard, he rests his forehead against hers.
"I've wanted to do that for so long," he admits against her lips.
"Then why did you wait?" she asks, smiling.
Because he was afraid. Because he's a warrior who can face death without flinching but the thought of her rejection unmade him completely.
But he doesn't say that. Instead, he says: "Because I'm an idiot."
Her laugh is everything he hoped it would be—bright and genuine and his.
And when they walk back to the village hand in hand, the necklace gleaming at her throat, Tarsem finally understands what true bravery is.
It's not facing down predators or enemies.
It's this—opening your heart and trusting someone else to be gentle with it.
You had worried for Spider the whole time he was gone. When he finally returns to High Camp again, breathing the Pandoran air, you find out that he is more than okay.
Part 1 | Masterlist
The waiting is the worst part.
You've been standing near the airlock for three hours now, arms crossed tight against your chest like you can physically hold yourself together through sheer force of will. Max is beside you, his presence steady and quiet, but even he can't fill the silence that's eating you alive from the inside out.
Spider is safe. That's what the message said. Safe with Jake and the others in Awa'atlu. Safe.
But safe doesn't mean here. Safe doesn't mean you can see him, touch him, confirm with your own eyes that he's whole and breathing and alive. Safe is just a word someone sent through a radio, and words aren't enough. They've never been enough.
"He's okay," Max says quietly, not for the first time. "Jake wouldn't lie about that."
You nod because you know he's right. But knowing and feeling are two different things, and right now all you can feel is the absence. The Spider-shaped hole in the world that's been there since the day he was taken. Weeks of not knowing. Weeks of imagining the worst. Weeks of waking up in the middle of the night reaching for a child who wasn't there.
The base hums around you—generators, air filtration, the mechanical heartbeat of Hell's Gate. It sounds wrong. Everything sounds wrong without Spider's voice cutting through it, without his footsteps running down corridors, without his laugh echoing off metal walls.
Max's hand finds yours, his fingers threading through yours and squeezing. You squeeze back, grateful for the anchor.
Then the alarm sounds—the one that signals incoming from the forest—and your heart stops.
You're moving before you consciously decide to, Max right behind you, both of you heading for the main airlock. Other people are gathering too—scientists, technicians, everyone who's been waiting for news. But you push through them, get to the front, press yourself against the observation window.
The outer door is cycling open.
And then you see her.
Neytiri.
She's not walking.
She's laid out on a makeshift stretcher—a plank, really, rough-hewn wood lashed together with vines—and even through the window you can see the arrow shaft protruding from her shoulder, the dark stain of blood spreading across her skin. Tarsem is at the front, his face grim and tight with worry, and two other Omaticaya warriors support the back. Her head lolls slightly with each step they take.
Unconscious.
Your breath catches. If Neytiri is here like this, if she's wounded this badly—
The inner door opens and the warriors carry her through. The stretcher tilts slightly as they navigate the threshold and you see her face fully now—pale beneath her stripes, her braids hanging limp, her breathing shallow.
He's moving before you can process it, his medical training overriding everything else. He's already calling for supplies, for assistance, his voice sharp and focused in a way that means someone's life is on the line. He doesn't look back at you. Doesn't hesitate.
Of course he doesn't.
This is what he does. This is who he is.
But it still leaves you standing there alone, your hand empty, watching as they rush Neytiri toward the medical bay. Watching as Max disappears with them, already assessing, already working, already gone.
You stand frozen for a moment, the crowd flowing around you like water around a stone.
Then you follow.
The medical bay smells like antiseptic and recycled air and the faint metallic tang of blood.
You hover near the doorway, staying out of the way as Max and the medical team work. Neytiri is laid out on the largest examination table they have—built for avatar bodies, thank god—and Max's hands are already moving, cutting away fabric, examining the wound, his face set in that expression of absolute concentration you've seen a thousand times.
The arrow is still lodged in her shoulder. You can see the shaft trembling slightly with each shallow breath she takes.
Tarsem stands against the far wall, his arms crossed, his jaw tight. Norm is beside him, quieter, but his eyes never leave Neytiri's face. Waiting. Watching.
You join them.
Nobody speaks.
The minutes stretch. Max works with steady hands, murmuring instructions to his assistant. They're preparing to remove the arrow, to clean the wound, to stitch her back together. Standard procedure. Routine, even.
But your hands won't stop shaking.
Because if Neytiri is here like this, wounded and unconscious, then something went wrong. Something bad enough to send her back to Hell's Gate instead of keeping her with Jake and the children.
And Spider—
"He is safe," Tarsem says quietly, and you realize you've spoken aloud without meaning to. "Jake has the children. They are protected."
You nod, but the knot in your chest doesn't loosen.
Safe is just a word until you can see it with your own eyes.
Time moves strangely. You're not sure if it's been twenty minutes or two hours when Max finally steps back from the table, peeling off his gloves. The arrow is out. The wound is packed and bandaged. Neytiri's breathing is deeper now, more even.
Stable.
"She'll wake soon," Max says, and his eyes find yours across the room. There's an apology there. A recognition that he left you standing alone.
But you just nod. You understand.
He turns back to Neytiri, checking her vitals one more time, and you settle in to wait.
When Neytiri's eyes snap open, it's with a gasp—sharp and desperate, like someone breaking the surface after drowning.
Her hand flies to her chest, clawing at the IV line taped there.
"The children," she gasps. "The children—"
"Neytiri, no—" Norm lunges forward, trying to catch her wrist, but she's already ripping the lead from her chest, the monitor shrieking as it loses contact. "You need to stay—"
"The children!" Her voice cracks, raw with panic, and she's trying to sit up, trying to swing her legs off the table despite the fresh bandage on her shoulder, despite the way her face goes white with pain.
Mo'at is there suddenly, her hands firm on Neytiri's uninjured shoulder, speaking fast and low in Na'vi—words you don't understand but can feel the weight of. Grounding. Commanding.
But Neytiri fights her.
She's gasping, her eyes wild, unfocused, and she's trying to stand, trying to push past Mo'at's hands, trying to move—
"Where?" Tarsem's voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and urgent. He leans forward, his hand catching Neytiri's face, forcing her to look at him. "Where are they, Neytiri? Where?"
She blinks. Focuses. Her breathing is ragged, her whole body trembling.
"Awa'atlu," she manages. "We were on our way here. Wind traders—attacked. Jake has them. Taking them—" She winces, her hand going to her shoulder. "Taking them through the forest. Home."
"How long?" Tarsem demands.
"Hours. Maybe—" She gasps again, her eyes squeezing shut. "Maybe less. I don't know."
The room explodes into motion.
Tarsem is already moving, barking orders in Na'vi to the warriors waiting outside. Norm is running for the link room, his human body moving fast, already calling out coordinates, routes, rally points. Mo'at releases Neytiri but stays close, her expression tight with worry and determination.
You're frozen, watching it all happen around you—the organized chaos of people preparing to move, to fight, to find the children.
Max's hand finds yours, squeezes once.
You're staying behind.
You push forward through the movement, slipping past Norm as he rushes by, and you reach Neytiri's side just as she's trying to stand again, Mo'at supporting her weight.
"Spider," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. "Neytiri—Spider. Is he—"
Her eyes meet yours.
There's pain there. Exhaustion. But also certainty.
She nods, just once.
"He lives," she says, her voice rough but clear. "Last I knew. With Lo'ak." She takes a breath, steadying herself against Mo'at. "Safer than alone."
It's not much.
It's not a promise.
But it's something.
You nod, your throat too tight to speak, and step back as Mo'at guides Neytiri toward the door, toward the warriors already assembling outside, toward whatever comes next.
You nod, your throat too tight to speak, and Max's arm tightens around your waist.
Soon.
The next hour is agony.
You pace. You sit. You stand. You pace again. Max tries to get you to eat something but you can't, your stomach is too tight, too knotted with anticipation and residual fear. You keep replaying Neytiri's words. Safe. Coming. Soon.
But soon is relative. Soon could be minutes or hours or—
The alarm sounds again.
This time you run.
You're at the equipment locker before anyone else, your hands shaking as you pull down the exopack. The mask is familiar—you've worn it a thousand times—but today it feels different. Heavier. Like you're strapping on a cage.
Max helps you secure it, his fingers steady on the clasps even as his eyes search yours. "You okay?"
You nod, not trusting your voice. The mask settles over your face, and immediately the world becomes filtered. Recycled air hisses through the filters, cool and artificial against your skin. You can taste the chemical tang of it on your tongue, that metallic edge that means you're breathing something manufactured. Something safe. Something that keeps you alive in a world that would kill you in minutes without it.
The airlock cycles open.
You step through into the outer chamber, and the weight of Pandora's atmosphere presses against you like a physical thing. Even through the mask, you can sense it—the wrongness of the air, the toxicity that would burn your lungs if you breathed it unfiltered. Your heart rate picks up. The mask hisses with each breath you take, a constant reminder of your dependence on the technology strapped to your face.
Max emerges behind you, his own mask secure, and together you move to the outer door.
The alarm sounds again—the signal that the group is approaching.
The outer door begins to cycle open, and you step out into the Pandoran atmosphere. The air around you is thick, humid, alive in a way that Hell's Gate's recycled air never is. You can see it shimmer slightly in the afternoon light. Toxic. Lethal. Beautiful.
And you're suffocating behind plastic and filters.
Your breathing sounds loud in your own ears—the rasp of your lungs pulling in processed air, the mechanical hiss of the exopack working overtime to keep you alive. You can feel the weight of the mask on your face, the pressure of the seal against your skin, the slight ache in your jaw from clenching. Every breath is a reminder: you don't belong here. You need this. You need this to survive.
The Na'vi warriors emerge first from the forest—Omaticaya, their faces painted, their weapons ready. They move through the toxic air like it's nothing, like they're breathing water, like their lungs were made for this world in a way yours never will be.
Then you see them.
Jake, tall and unmistakable. Kiri. Tuk. Lo'ak.
And then—
Spider.
He emerges from the tree line, and your breath catches so hard you nearly choke on the filtered air in your mask.
He's walking on his own, moving with that familiar loose-limbed grace, his head turning to look at something Lo'ak is saying. He's dirty, his hair wild, his clothes torn and stained. But he's whole. He's here.
And he's not wearing a mask.
The realization hits you so hard the world tilts.
No exopack. No mask. No protective technology strapped to his face. Just Spider—your Spider—breathing Pandora's air like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like he was born to it.
He walks through the toxic atmosphere that would kill you in minutes, and he's breathing it freely. Easily. Like his lungs were always meant for this.
Your vision blurs behind the mask. You're crying before you even realize it, tears streaming down your face as you watch him through the plastic barrier. The exopack hisses with each ragged breath you take, the filtered air suddenly feeling suffocating, wrong, a prison of your own biology.
He's breathing.
He's free.
He doesn't need the mask anymore, doesn't need the technology that's kept him alive his whole life, doesn't need the barrier between him and the world he loves. He can just walk through this air—this air that's killing you even as you stand here protected—and he can breathe it like it's home.
Like he's finally home.
Your son is standing in an atmosphere that would destroy you, and he's breathing it like it's the most natural thing in the world.
He can just... be.
"Oh my god," Max breathes beside you, his voice stunned. "He's—"
"Breathing," you whisper. "He's breathing."
The outer door begins to cycle open and you're moving before it's fully unsealed, pushing through, not caring about protocol or procedure or anything except getting to him.
Spider sees you the moment you emerge.
His whole face transforms—exhaustion and wariness melting into something open and young and relieved. He takes a step toward you, then another, and then he's running and you're running and you meet in the middle of the airlock chamber, your arms coming around him, pulling him close.
He's solid. Real. Here.
And he's breathing.
You can feel it against your chest—the rise and fall of his lungs, steady and strong, pulling in Pandora's air without mechanical assistance. No hiss of filters. No fog on a mask. Just breath. Just life.
You're sobbing now, your hands in his hair, on his back, touching him everywhere you can reach like you need to confirm he's real. That this isn't a dream. That he's actually here, actually safe, actually breathing air that would kill you but gives him life.
"Mom," Spider says, his voice muffled against your shoulder. His arms are tight around your waist, holding on just as desperately. "Mom, I'm okay. I'm okay."
But you can't speak. Can't do anything except hold him and cry and feel the miracle of his breathing.
You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands coming up to frame his face. He's thinner than he was. There are shadows under his eyes, new scars on his skin, a hardness in his expression that wasn't there before. He's been through something. Something terrible.
But he's here.
"Let me look at you," you whisper, your thumbs stroking across his cheekbones. "Let me see you."
Spider's eyes meet yours—dark and deep and so, so tired. But there's something else there too. Something new. A kind of peace you've never seen in him before.
He opens his mouth. Closes it. His jaw tightens.
"I can breathe," he finally says, and it comes out rough, fractured. Like the words themselves cost him something.
You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. Your thumbs keep moving across his cheekbones—a rhythm, an anchor.
He swallows hard. "I don't—" He stops. Tries again. "I'm not going back."
It's not what you expected him to say. But it's everything.
And that's when you understand what he's really saying.
You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands coming up to frame his face. He's thinner than he was. There are shadows under his eyes, new scars on his skin, a hardness in his expression that wasn't there before. He's been through something. Something terrible.
But he's here.
"Let me look at you," you whisper, your thumbs stroking across his cheekbones. "Let me see you."
Spider's eyes meet yours—dark and deep and so, so tired. But there's something else there too. Something new. A kind of peace you've never seen in him before.
Your greatest fear—the one that's lived in your chest since the day you first took his hand and led him outside—has been the mask. The fragility of it. The knowledge that one crack, one malfunction, one moment of equipment failure could take him from you. You've lived with that terror for years, checking his seals obsessively, maintaining his equipment with paranoid precision, always aware that his life hung on technology that could fail.
And now it doesn't.
Now he's free.
"You're safe," you whisper, pulling him close again. "You're safe."
He melts into you, and for a moment he's not a teenager who's survived kidnapping and war. He's just your boy. Your Spider. The child you raised, the son you chose, the piece of your heart that walks around outside your body.
You hold him and cry and breathe with him, and it's enough.
It's everything.
Eventually—minutes or hours later, you're not sure—you become aware of the others around you. Jake standing nearby with his children, his expression soft and understanding. Max close by, his hand on your shoulder, his presence steady. The Omaticaya warriors giving you space but watching with curiosity and something that might be approval.
You pull back slowly, reluctantly, your hands still on Spider's shoulders. He's not pulling away either, still standing close, still seeking your presence.
"We should get you checked out," you say, trying to sound practical even though your voice is still shaking. "Make sure you're okay. Make sure—"
"I'm fine," Spider says. "Really. I'm just tired."
"Humor me."
He nods, accepting this, and you start to guide him toward the medical bay. But as you move, your hand slides from his shoulder to the back of his neck, a familiar gesture of comfort and connection, and your fingers brush against something.
You freeze.
Spider notices immediately. "What?"
You can't speak. Your fingers are tracing the base of his skull, and there—right there—you feel it.
Tiny tendrils. Gossamer-thin and impossibly delicate, barely an inch or two in total length, but absolutely real. They're like the finest silk threads, so fragile you're almost afraid to breathe on them, and they're growing from the base of his queue in soft, wispy strands. The beginning of a kuru. Eywa's acceptance made manifest in these newborn filaments, so new they're still finding their shape.
Your breath stops. Your vision blurs again. Your fingers are shaking as they trace the tiny kuru, so small it's almost nothing, but it's there. It's real.
Eywa has accepted him.
Spider is going to have tsaheylu.
"Mom?" Spider's voice is uncertain now, worried. "What's wrong?"
You can't answer. You're crying too hard, your hand still on the back of his neck, feeling the proof of what he's becoming. What he's always been meant to be.
Not human. Not entirely.
Something new. Something whole.
Na'vi.
"You're growing a kuru," you finally manage, your voice breaking on every word. "Spider, you're—Eywa accepted you. You're going to be able to make the bond. You're going to—"
You can't finish. Your voice cracks completely, and suddenly Spider's pulling you close, his arms coming around you with surprising strength, and you're falling apart against his chest.
"Whoa, hey, hey—" He's laughing a little, breathless and overwhelmed, his hand coming up to cup the back of your head. "Mom, you're gonna make me cry too, bro, and that's—that's not—"
But his voice wavers. You feel him swallow hard against your hair.
"I know," you manage between sobs. "I know, I'm sorry, I just—"
"Don't be sorry." His grip tightens. "This is—God, this is insane. This is actually insane."
Max's hand is on your back now, and when you glance up through your tears, you see his face is wet too. He understands. He sees what this means.
"Let me see," Max says quietly, and Spider turns slightly, letting Max examine the small kuru.
Max's breath catches. "It's really there," he whispers. "Spider, this is—do you know what this means?"
"I know," Spider says, and there's wonder in his voice now. Awe. "Kiri explained it. She said Eywa was changing me. Making me... making me what I was supposed to be."
What he was supposed to be.
Not human. Not Na'vi. But something in between. Something new.
Something perfect.
You pull back enough to look at him again, your hands framing his face, and you see him clearly now. Not the child you raised. Not the boy who brought you stones and feathers and pieces of the world.
But the person he's becoming. The bridge between worlds. The proof that love and choice and belonging matter more than biology.
"I'm so proud of you," you whisper. "So, so proud."
Spider's face crumples slightly, his own eyes filling with tears. "I missed you," he says, his voice small. "I missed you so much."
"I missed you too, baby. Every single day."
You hold him again, and this time it's different. This time you're not just holding your child. You're holding someone Eywa has touched. Someone the world itself has claimed.
And you're grateful.
So, so grateful.
For his breath. For his safety. For his kuru. For every impossible, miraculous thing that's brought him to this moment.
For the fact that he's here, alive, whole, and free.
Your son.
In every way that matters.
Forever.
The apartment is small, but it's yours.
Metal walls, yes—industrial and cold in their bones—but softened now with years of living. Woven tapestries hang across the largest panels, deep blues and greens that Lo'ak's grandmother made, intricate patterns that catch the low light. Vines trail from clay pots on the windowsill, their leaves broad and glossy, reaching toward the glass. The windows themselves look out over the forest, dark now with evening settling in, bioluminescent specks beginning to glow like scattered stars among the branches.
It smells like home. Like the tea Max brewed an hour ago—something herbal and faintly sweet that Spider wrinkled his nose at but drank anyway. Like the flatbread warming on the hotplate. Like the forest air that seeps in through the vents, earthy and alive.
Spider hasn't left your side since you walked through the door.
He's pressed against you now on the low couch—one of Max's salvage projects, reupholstered with fabric that's more patch than original—his shoulder tucked under your arm, his head tipped back against the cushion. His legs are stretched out long, bare feet crossed at the ankles, and he's still shirtless, still wearing that worn tewng from Awa'atlu. His locs spill across your shoulder, and you can feel the warmth of him, the solid realness of him, the fact that he's breathing without effort.
Lo'ak is sprawled on the floor near the window, leaning back against the wall with his knees drawn up, picking at the edge of a woven mat. He's been quiet since they arrived—watchful in that way he gets when he's processing something too big to name. But he's here. He insisted on staying, and you didn't argue.
Max is at the small table across the room, pouring tea into mismatched mugs, his movements careful and deliberate. He glances over at you and Spider, and something soft crosses his face. Relief. Gratitude. Love.
"You want more?" Max asks, lifting the pot slightly.
Spider shakes his head. "I'm good."
"You sure? You barely ate."
"I ate, bro." Spider's voice is light, teasing. "You watched me eat like three pieces of flatbread."
"Two and a half," Max corrects, deadpan. "I was counting."
Lo'ak snorts from the floor. "He does that. It's weird."
"It's called caring," Max says mildly, setting the pot down. "You should try it sometime."
"I care," Lo'ak protests, grinning. "I just don't count food like a creep."
Spider laughs—a real laugh, bright and unguarded—and the sound fills the small space like light. You close your eyes for a moment, just listening. Just feeling the vibration of it against your ribs.
You've heard him laugh a thousand times. But this is different.
This is after.
After Quaritch. After the seadragon. After his mask shattered and he thought he was dying. After Eywa reached into his lungs and said, You belong here.
This is the laugh of someone who made it through.
Your hand moves without thinking, sliding up to rest against the back of his head, fingers curling gently into his locs. He leans into the touch immediately, his eyes closing, his breath evening out.
"You okay?" you murmur.
He nods against you. "Yeah. Just—" He pauses. Swallows. "Just really glad to be here."
Your throat tightens. You press a kiss to the top of his head, breathing him in—salt and forest and something faintly floral that must be from the reef.
"Me too, baby."
Max crosses the room and settles into the chair near the couch, cradling his own mug. He's watching Spider with that quiet, assessing look he gets—the one that's part scientist, part father, all concern.
"You should sleep soon," Max says gently. "You've been going nonstop since you got back."
Spider cracks one eye open. "I'm fine."
"You're exhausted."
"I'm fine."
Max raises an eyebrow. "Spider—"
"I don't want to sleep yet." Spider's voice is firmer now, but there's something underneath it. Something raw. "I just—I want to be here. With you guys. Is that okay?"
The question lands soft, but it hits hard.
You tighten your arm around him. "Of course it's okay."
"You can stay up as long as you want," Max adds, his voice gentler now. "I just don't want you crashing later."
"I won't crash." Spider shifts slightly, turning so he can see Max better. "I'm good. I promise."
Max studies him for a long moment, then nods. "Okay."
Lo'ak stretches his legs out, his feet nearly reaching the couch. "So what's the plan? We just gonna sit here all night?"
"That's the plan," you say.
"Cool." Lo'ak grins. "I can do that."
Spider huffs a quiet laugh. "You're such a dork."
"Says the guy who cried when he saw his mom."
"Bro, you cried too—"
"I did not—"
"You literally had tears on your face—"
"That was sweat—"
"From your eyes—"
You can't help it. You laugh, and it breaks the tension like a stone through glass. Lo'ak and Spider both turn to look at you, their bickering forgotten, and they're grinning now—both of them—like this is exactly what they needed.
Max is smiling too, shaking his head. "You two are ridiculous."
"We're bonded," Lo'ak says solemnly, pressing a hand to his chest. "It's a sacred thing."
"It's a loud thing," Max mutters into his tea.
Spider leans harder into you, his grin softening into something quieter. His hand finds yours where it rests on your knee, and he laces your fingers together—that same instinctive need for contact, for reassurance, for the proof that you're real and here and not going anywhere.
You squeeze his hand gently.
He squeezes back.
The room settles into a comfortable quiet. The kind that doesn't need filling. Lo'ak goes back to picking at the mat, his expression distant but peaceful. Max sips his tea, his gaze drifting toward the window where the forest glows faintly in the dark. Spider's breathing slows against you, his weight growing heavier, and you know he's not asleep—not yet—but he's close.
You let your own eyes close, your hand still tangled with his, your other hand resting against his hair.
You've spent months imagining this. Months wondering if you'd ever get it back—this simple, ordinary closeness. The weight of him against you. The sound of his breathing. The knowledge that he's safe.
And now he's here.
Not just safe. Not just surviving.
Transformed.
Your mind drifts back to the things he told you earlier—halting and careful, like he wasn't sure how much you could handle. Quaritch's face. The recom squad. The seadragon hunt. Kiri's hands on his chest. The moment his mask cracked and the air rushed in and he didn't die.
He didn't die.
Eywa wouldn't let him.
Your chest aches with it—the gratitude, the disbelief, the overwhelming love for a world that chose your son when it could have let him go.
"Mom?"
Spider's voice is quiet, drowsy.
You open your eyes. "Yeah, baby?"
"Can I just—" He pauses, shifting slightly. "Can I stay here tonight? Like, right here?"
You glance at Max. He's already nodding.
"Of course," you say softly. "You can stay as long as you want."
Spider exhales, long and slow, and you feel the last of the tension drain out of him. "Okay. Good."
Lo'ak yawns from the floor, stretching his arms overhead. "I'm crashing here too, by the way."
"You don't have to ask," Max says.
"I know. I'm just being polite."
Spider snorts. "Since when?"
"Since now, bro. I'm evolved."
You smile, your eyes drifting back to the window. The forest is alive out there—glowing, breathing, singing its quiet night song. And in here, in this small metal room softened by love and years and the stubborn insistence on making a home, your family is whole.
Not perfect.
Not untouched by pain.
But whole.
Spider's hand tightens around yours, and you squeeze back.
"Love you," he murmurs, so quiet you almost miss it.
Your throat closes. You press another kiss to his hair.
"Love you too, baby. So much."
Max sets his mug down and moves to the couch, settling on Spider's other side. He doesn't say anything—just rests his hand on Spider's shoulder, his thumb brushing gently against the base of his neck. Spider leans into him too, caught between you both, held and safe and home.
Lo'ak glances over, his expression soft. "You guys are disgustingly cute."
"Shut up," Spider mumbles, but he's smiling.
The room falls quiet again.
Outside, the forest glows.
Inside, you hold your son.
And for now—for this fragile, precious now—it's enough.
Hiiiii🩷💙🩵!! I just wanted to thank you so much for creating a masterpiece out of my little Neteyam request!!!! it was the first request of mine that has ever been answered/fulfilled so I give you much thanks. <3
It is always exciting when another person on the internet does what you want 😂😁 Did it live up to your expectations??
I am happy that people are enjoying the stories! The interactions and requests are such motivation! Like, yes I write for myself, but it is such a cherry on top that you guys like them, too!!
And, I am always down to hear requests or suggestions! I might not connect with an idea, but I will usually try anyway 😁
Heyyyyyyy🩷!!!! I absolutely adored both The Lo’ak and Spider mom writings you did:) they were the cutest things 🥰 I followed you immediately:) I was wondering if you liked the idea of something similar to the Loak and Spider stories but maybe Neteyam somehow or Aonung <3 anyway I thought that would be sooooo cute for you to write . Byeeeeeeeee
OOOHHH! I LOVE THIS!!
I ran with this! I changed it up a tad, but OOOH.
And What Kind Words You Leave Me... 🩷 Always reach out! I love to hear from people!
Here is the link to your request: Karyu
I hope it meets your expectations! Let me know what you think!
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Everyone needs a place to unwind; people to let you just be yourself. That was what you were for Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk'itan. Watching he and your daughter fall in love was the honey atop the sweet-bread.
Neteyam and mother!reader
***Follows canon events*** There is a lot of grieving at the end...
16
The pattern shifts.
Neteyam still comes to your dwelling, still seeks the sanctuary you provide—but now Ka'ni seeks him out too. She appears in the evenings when his duties are done, when the clan has settled and the forest grows quiet. She finds excuses to visit—bringing food, asking for help with gathering, claiming she needs company.
But you see the truth.
She wants to be near him.
And he—
He wants to be near her.
You're weaving one evening when they arrive together, their voices carrying through the trees before you see them. They're arguing about something—playful, teasing—and when they emerge into the clearing, Ka'ni is laughing.
"You're impossible," she says.
"I'm right," Neteyam counters.
"You're impossibly wrong."
"That doesn't even make sense."
She just grins and drops down beside you, and Neteyam follows, settling close enough that their knees touch. Neither of them moves away.
"What are you arguing about?" you ask, amused.
"Whether hexapedes are smarter than yerik," Ka'ni says.
"They are," Neteyam insists.
"They're not."
"They absolutely are. I've seen them solve problems, work together—"
"Yerik are cautious. That's intelligence."
"That's instinct."
"Same thing."
"It's not—"
You laugh, and they both turn to look at you, their expressions indignant.
"What?" Ka'ni demands.
"Nothing. Just—" You shake your head. "You two."
They exchange a glance, and something passes between them. Something warm and private.
Then Neteyam reaches over and tugs gently on one of Ka'ni's braids.
She swats his hand away, but she's smiling.
And you see it—the ease between them, the comfort, the way they've grown into each other's space without even realizing it.
Later, after the meal is finished and the fire has burned low, Ka'ni stands to gather more wood. Neteyam rises immediately.
"I'll help," he says.
"I can manage."
"I know. But I'll help anyway."
She doesn't argue, just leads him into the forest. You watch them go, their silhouettes disappearing into the darkness, and you hear their voices—low and soft, punctuated by quiet laughter.
They're gone longer than necessary.
When they return, Ka'ni's cheeks are flushed, and Neteyam won't quite meet your eyes.
But they're both smiling.
The visits become more frequent.
Neteyam finds reasons to come by—bringing gifts from hunts, asking for advice, claiming he needs to check on you. But his eyes always find Ka'ni first, and she always lights up when she sees him.
They don't name what's happening between them.
But it's there.
In the way his hand lingers on her shoulder when he passes.
In the way she leans into him when they sit together.
In the way they find excuses to touch—brushing fingers, bumping shoulders, tangling legs beneath the table.
One evening, you're preparing medicine when they arrive, both of them breathless from running. Ka'ni's hair is wild, and there are leaves caught in Neteyam's braids.
"What were you doing?" you ask.
"Racing," Ka'ni says, grinning.
"I won," Neteyam adds.
"You cheated."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did. You took the shortcut through the—"
"That's not cheating. That's strategy."
She shoves him, and he catches her wrist, laughing. For a moment, they just stand there, his hand wrapped around her wrist, her eyes locked on his.
Then she pulls away, her cheeks flushing.
"I'm going to wash up," she says quickly, and disappears toward the stream.
Neteyam watches her go, his expression dazed.
Then he turns to you, and there's something vulnerable in his eyes.
"Karyu," he says quietly.
"Yes?"
"I—" He stops, his jaw working. "I think I'm in love with her."
Your chest tightens.
"I know," you say gently.
He looks at you, his eyes wide. "You do?"
"I've watched you, Neteyam. I've seen the way you look at her. The way you light up when she's near. The way you—" You pause. "The way you love her."
His breath shudders out. "I don't know what to do."
"Have you told her?"
"No. I—" He scrubs a hand over his face. "What if she doesn't feel the same? What if I ruin everything? What if—"
"Neteyam." You rest your hand on his shoulder. "She loves you too."
He stares at you. "How do you know?"
"Because I'm her mother. And I see the way she looks at you." You squeeze his shoulder. "But you need to tell her. When you're ready. When the time is right."
He nods, slow and uncertain.
"I'm scared," he admits.
"I know. But love is worth the fear."
He's quiet for a long moment, turning that over.
Then Ka'ni returns, and the moment passes.
But you see the way he watches her for the rest of the evening—like she's something precious and fragile and impossibly beautiful.
And you see the way she watches him back.
The weight on Neteyam's shoulders grows heavier as the months pass.
His father pushes him harder, demands more, prepares him for threats you can't quite name. The sky people are returning, whispers say. War is coming. And Toruk Makto's eldest son must be ready.
But when Neteyam comes to you, the weight falls away.
He arrives one evening, exhausted and tense, his jaw tight with frustration. Ka'ni is out gathering, and you're alone when he appears at the edge of the clearing.
"Neteyam," you say gently.
He crosses to you and sinks down beside you, his shoulders dropping.
"I'm tired," he says quietly.
"I know."
"My father—he's preparing for something. I can feel it. He's running us through drills, over and over, like he's expecting—" He stops, his throat working. "Like he's expecting war."
You set aside your work and turn to face him fully. "And you?"
"I'm trying to be ready. Trying to be strong. Trying to be—" His voice cracks. "Trying to be enough."
"You are enough, Neteyam."
"Am I?" He looks at you, and his eyes are too old for sixteen. "Because it doesn't feel like it. It feels like no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, it's never enough. I'm never enough."
Your chest tightens.
"Come here," you say softly.
He comes without hesitation, and you pull him close, holding him the way you did when he was small. He's too big for it now, too tall, too broad—but he folds into your embrace anyway, his head dropping to your shoulder.
"You are enough," you whisper. "You have always been enough. Not because of what you can do or how strong you are or how well you fight. But because of who you are. Kind and brave and true. That is enough. That will always be enough."
His breath shudders against your shoulder, and you feel the dampness of tears.
"I don't know what I'd do without you," he whispers.
"You'll never have to find out."
He nods, and you hold him until the tension eases from his frame, until his breathing steadies, until he's ready to face the world again.
When Ka'ni returns, she takes one look at him and crosses immediately to his side. She doesn't ask what's wrong. Just sits close, her shoulder pressed to his, her hand finding his beneath the table.
And he holds on.
Tight.
Like she's the only thing keeping him grounded.
The evening is warm and quiet when it happens.
You're inside the dwelling, preparing for sleep, when you hear their voices outside—low and soft, punctuated by quiet laughter. You move to the entrance and pause, watching.
They're sitting by the fire, close enough that their shoulders touch. Ka'ni is talking, her hands moving as she speaks, and Neteyam is watching her with an expression so tender it makes your throat tight.
Then she says something that makes him laugh—a real laugh, open and unguarded—and she turns to look at him, her eyes shining.
The laughter fades.
They just stare at each other, the air between them thick with something unspoken.
Then Neteyam reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering against her cheek.
"Ka'ni," he says softly.
"Yes?"
"I—" He stops, his throat working. "I need to tell you something."
Her breath catches. "Okay."
"I—" He closes his eyes, gathering courage. Then he opens them and looks at her with such raw honesty it steals your breath. "I see you. I've seen you for—I don't even know how long. But I do. I see you."
She stares at him, her eyes wide.
Then she smiles—bright and beautiful and full of joy.
"I see you too," she whispers.
His breath shudders out, relief and wonder flooding his expression.
Then she leans forward and kisses him—soft and sweet and tentative.
He freezes for a heartbeat.
Then he kisses her back, his hand coming up to cup her face, his touch gentle and reverent.
You step back, giving them privacy, your heart full.
Because this—
This is what they both deserve.
17
Ka'ni passes her Iknimaya on a morning bright with promise.
You watch from below as she makes the climb—steady and sure-footed, fearless in a way that makes your chest tight with pride and terror in equal measure. She's sixteen, still so young, but she moves like she was born for this. Like the sky has always been calling her home.
When she bonds with her ikran—a sleek female with deep blue markings that shimmer violet in the light—the clan erupts in celebration.
But it's Neteyam's face you notice first.
He stands at the edge of the gathering, seventeen now, tall and broad-shouldered, every inch the warrior his father trained him to be. But when Ka'ni lands, when she slides from her ikran's back with flushed cheeks and shining eyes, he doesn't move like a warrior.
He moves like a boy in love.
He crosses to her in three long strides and pulls her into his arms, lifting her off her feet, spinning her once before setting her down. His hands frame her face, and he's saying something—too quiet for you to hear over the celebration—but whatever it is makes her laugh.
Then he kisses her.
Right there.
In front of everyone.
It's brief, chaste, nothing improper—but it's a declaration. A claiming. A promise made visible.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against hers, and the look on his face—
Eywa.
He looks at her like she's the only thing in the world that matters.
Like she's air and he's drowning.
That evening, after the celebration has quieted and Ka'ni has gone to sleep—exhausted and glowing—you hear the familiar sound of footsteps approaching your dwelling.
Neteyam.
But this time, he's alone.
He appears at the edge of the clearing, and even in the dim light, you can see the tension in his shoulders. The way his hands flex at his sides. The uncertainty in his posture.
"Come," you say quietly, gesturing to the space beside you.
He crosses to you and sits, but he doesn't speak immediately. Just stares out at the forest, his jaw working like he's trying to find the right words.
You wait.
You've always been good at waiting.
Finally, he exhales—long and shaky.
"I need to ask you something," he says.
"I'm listening."
He turns to face you, and the vulnerability in his expression makes your chest ache. This boy—this young man—who has carried so much for so long. Who has been expected to be perfect, to be strong, to never falter.
"I want to court Ka'ni," he says. "Properly. Officially. I want—" He stops, his throat working. "I want to build a life with her. Eventually. When she's ready. When we're both ready."
You reach out and rest your hand on his shoulder.
"You already are courting her," you say gently.
"I know. But I wanted—" He closes his eyes. "I wanted your blessing. Your permission. She's your daughter, and you've been—" His voice cracks. "You've been more to me than I can ever repay. I needed you to know that I see her. That I love her. That I will protect her and honor her and—"
"Neteyam." You squeeze his shoulder, and he opens his eyes. "You don't need my permission. Ka'ni makes her own choices. But if you're asking for my blessing—"
You pause, letting the weight of the moment settle.
"You have it. You've always had it."
His breath shudders out, relief flooding his face.
"She loves you," you continue quietly. "And I see the way you love her. The way you look at her like she's the center of your world. The way you bring her gifts and make her laugh and hold her like she's precious."
"She is precious."
"I know." You smile. "And so are you, Neteyam. You are worthy of this love. You are worthy of happiness. Don't let anyone—not even yourself—tell you otherwise."
He nods, his eyes bright with unshed tears.
Then he leans forward and wraps his arms around you—tight and desperate and full of gratitude.
"Thank you," he whispers against your shoulder. "For everything. For seeing me. For giving me a place to rest. For—for loving me when I didn't know how to love myself."
You hold him close, your hand smoothing over his braids.
"Always," you whisper back. "Always, Neteyam."
The courtship that follows is intense.
Deliberate.
Almost desperate in its devotion.
Neteyam brings her gifts—small things at first. A carved comb made from pale wood, the handle shaped like a syaksyuk in flight. A necklace of polished stones he gathered from the stream where they used to play. Flowers woven into crowns that he places on her head with such tenderness it makes your throat ache.
"You don't have to bring me things," Ka'ni tells him one evening, laughing as he presents her with a bundle of tawtsngal blossoms—her favorite.
"I know," he says simply. "I want to."
And he does.
Every visit, there's something new. A feather from his ikran. A piece of fruit he found on patrol, perfectly ripe. Once, a small carved figure of a palulukan—a joke between them, something about the terrible story she told him years ago.
She keeps everything.
Lines them up in her sleeping space like treasures.
Like proof.
You watch him with her, and you see the way he's changed. The boy who used to seek refuge in your home, who needed sanctuary from the weight of expectation—he's still there. But now there's something else too.
A fierceness.
A need to prove himself worthy.
Not to his father.
To her.
He seeks her out every evening he can steal away from his duties. Appears at the edge of the clearing as the sun dips low, his face lighting up when he sees her. They disappear into the forest together—always proper, always respectful, but you see the way they move around each other.
The way his hand finds the small of her back when they walk. The way she leans into him without thinking. The way they fit.
But he still comes to you.
Not every time—not anymore. But often enough that you know he still needs this. Still needs the sanctuary you provide.
Sometimes he comes alone, late at night, when the weight of his father's expectations grows too heavy. He sits beside you in silence, and you rest your hand on his shoulder, grounding him the way you always have.
Other times, he brings Ka'ni with him.
Those evenings are different.
Lighter.
Full of laughter and easy conversation and the kind of joy that comes from being with people who see you completely.
One evening, the three of you sit together around the fire, and Neteyam is telling a story about one of the younger warriors—something ridiculous involving a yerik and a very poorly-timed sneeze. Ka'ni is laughing so hard she's leaning against his shoulder, and he's grinning, his whole face transformed.
You watch them, and your chest fills with warmth.
This.
This is what he needed.
Not just Ka'ni's love, though that's part of it.
But this—the three of you together. A space where he can be himself. Where he doesn't have to perform or prove or carry the weight of the world.
Where he can just be Neteyam.
When the laughter fades, Ka'ni leans her head on his shoulder, and he wraps his arm around her, pulling her close. His other hand reaches out—almost unconsciously—and rests on your knee.
A connection.
A grounding.
You cover his hand with yours, and he glances at you, his expression soft.
"Thank you," he says quietly.
"For what?"
"For this. For letting me bring her here. For—" He pauses, his throat working. "For still being my safe place. Even now."
"You will always have a place here, Neteyam," you say. "Both of you. For as long as you need it."
Ka'ni lifts her head and smiles at you—bright and full of love.
And Neteyam's hand tightens on yours.
Just for a moment.
One night, they return later than usual, and Ka'ni's hair is full of leaves again. There's a scrape on Neteyam's arm, and they're both breathless with laughter.
"What did you do?" you ask, amused and exasperated in equal measure.
"Climbed to the canopy," Ka'ni says, grinning. "To watch the sunset."
"It was her idea," Neteyam adds quickly.
"It was a good idea."
"It was reckless."
"You loved it."
He doesn't argue. Just shakes his head, smiling, and when Ka'ni reaches up to brush the leaves from his hair, he catches her hand. Brings it to his lips. Kisses her knuckles with such reverence it steals your breath.
"I did," he says softly, his eyes never leaving hers.
She flushes, pleased and shy, and you turn away to give them privacy.
But you feel it.
The weight of his love for her.
The way he pours everything he has into this—into her—like she's the only good thing he's ever been allowed to keep.
Later, after Neteyam has left and Ka'ni is preparing for sleep, you sit beside her and brush out her hair.
It's a ritual you've shared since she was small—this quiet, intimate moment at the end of the day.
"He loves you very much," you say quietly.
Ka'ni's cheeks flush, but she smiles. "I know."
"And you love him."
"I do." She pauses, her fingers twisting in her lap. "Is it—is it supposed to feel like this? Like my heart is too big for my chest? Like I can't breathe when he's not here?"
You smooth your hand over her hair, your touch gentle.
"Yes," you say. "That's what love feels like. Especially young love. Especially first love."
"It's terrifying."
"I know."
She turns to look at you, her eyes wide and vulnerable. "What if something happens? What if he—what if we—"
"Ka'ni." You cup her face in your hands. "You can't live in fear of what might happen. You can only live in this moment. And in this moment, you love him. And he loves you. That's enough."
"But what if it's not?"
"Then you'll survive it. The way we all do. But don't borrow tomorrow's grief today, my daughter. Let yourself have this joy. Let yourself love him without fear."
She nods, her eyes bright with tears.
Then she leans forward and wraps her arms around you, burying her face in your shoulder.
"Thank you," she whispers.
"For what?"
"For letting me love him. For not—for not trying to protect me from this."
You hold her close, your hand smoothing over her back.
"I will always protect you, Ka'ni. But I won't keep you from living. From loving. From becoming who you're meant to be."
She nods against your shoulder, and you feel the dampness of her tears.
But you also feel her smile. And you know— She's going to be all right.
They both are. For now.
The evenings continue, and the pattern becomes familiar.
Sometimes Neteyam comes alone, seeking the quiet sanctuary he's always needed. You sit together in comfortable silence, or he talks about his training, his fears, the weight of his father's expectations. You listen, you ground him, you remind him that he's more than what's expected of him.
Other times, Ka'ni joins you, and the three of you share meals and stories and laughter. Those evenings are full of warmth and light, and you see the way they both relax in this space. The way they can be themselves—young and in love and unburdened by the world outside.
One evening, as the sun sets and the forest grows quiet, Neteyam sits beside you while Ka'ni gathers firewood.
"I don't know what I'd do without this," he says quietly. "Without you. Without her. Without this place."
You rest your hand on his shoulder.
"You'll never have to find out," you say.
He looks at you, his eyes searching.
"Promise?"
You want to promise. You want to tell him that this will last forever. That he'll always have this sanctuary. That nothing will ever take it away.
But you can't.
Because you know—deep in your bones—that the world is changing. That darkness is coming. That nothing lasts forever.
So instead, you squeeze his shoulder and say, "For as long as I can give it to you, Neteyam. For as long as you need it."
He nods, accepting the truth you can't speak.
Then Ka'ni returns, her arms full of wood, and the moment passes.
But the weight of it lingers. A shadow on the horizon. A warning you can't name.
The clan notices. Of course they do.
Neteyam doesn't hide his affection. Doesn't temper it or make it small. When there are gatherings, he sits beside her, his hand resting on her knee beneath the table. When she speaks, he watches her like she's reciting poetry. When she laughs, his whole face transforms.
The other young warriors tease him—gently, respectfully, because he's still Toruk Makto's son. But he takes it with grace, with humor, with the quiet confidence of someone who knows exactly what he wants.
"You're making the rest of us look bad," one of them says, grinning.
Neteyam just shrugs. "Then try harder."
Ka'ni hides her smile behind her hand, but her eyes shine.
You watch them together at the communal fire one evening, and you see the way the clan has accepted this. The way they look at Neteyam and Ka'ni and see something good. Something right.
A future.
Even Jake Sully watches his son with something that might be approval. Neytiri smiles when she sees them together, her expression soft.
And Neteyam—
He's happy.
Truly, deeply happy.
For the first time in all the years you've known him, the weight on his shoulders seems lighter. Not gone—never gone—but bearable.
Because he has her.
Because she sees him.
And he sees her.
But then the tension returns.
Slowly at first.
You notice it in the set of his shoulders when he arrives one evening. The tightness around his eyes. The way his smile doesn't quite reach the way it used to.
"What's wrong?" you ask quietly while Ka'ni is inside gathering food.
He shakes his head. "Nothing. Just—training. My father is pushing us harder."
"Why?"
His jaw tightens. "He says we need to be ready. That the sky people—" He stops, his hands clenching. "He won't say more. But something's coming. I can feel it."
Your chest tightens.
"You're worried."
"I'm always worried." He tries to smile, but it falls flat. "But this feels different. Like he's preparing for something specific. Something bad."
You rest your hand on his shoulder, and he leans into the touch—just slightly, just enough.
"Whatever comes," you say quietly, "you'll face it. You're strong, Neteyam. Stronger than you know."
"I don't feel strong." His voice cracks. "I feel—I feel like I'm running out of time."
The words hang between you, heavy and ominous.
Then Ka'ni emerges, and his whole demeanor shifts. The tension smooths from his face, and he reaches for her automatically. She comes to him without hesitation, settling into his side like she belongs there.
And for a moment, the fear recedes. For a moment, there's just this. The three of you together. Safe.
The visits continue, but the weight grows heavier.
You see it in the way Neteyam holds Ka'ni now—tighter, longer, like he's memorizing the feel of her. The way he watches her when she's not looking, his expression almost pained.
The way he comes to you alone sometimes, late at night, and sits in silence. Just needing to be here. Needing sanctuary.
He arrives on an evening that tastes like ash. His face is hollow when he appears at the edge of the clearing, and you know—before he speaks, before he even crosses to you—that something has shattered.
"Neteyam?" You stand, your hands already reaching for him.
He moves toward you like he's walking through water, and when he reaches you, he collapses into your arms. Not gracefully. Not with the control he usually maintains. He just—breaks.
His whole body shakes against yours.
"They're leaving," he says into your shoulder, his voice barely a whisper. "We're leaving. Tomorrow. The day after. I don't—I don't know exactly when, but soon. Very soon."
Your blood runs cold.
"What happened?"
"Humans from Dad's past. They took Spider. He—" His breath comes in ragged gasps. "My father decided. Just like that. We're leaving the forest. We're leaving—"
He can't finish.
You hold him tighter, your hand smoothing over his back, trying to ground him the way you always have. But this is different. This isn't the slow dread of anticipated loss. This is the shock of the world tilting sideways without warning.
"I didn't know," he whispers. "I didn't have time to—I didn't say goodbye to—"
Ka'ni.
You don't say her name, but you both feel it.
The absence of her.
The fact that he came to you first, in this moment of devastation, tells you everything about what you mean to him. But it also means she doesn't know yet. She's still out there, unaware that her world is about to end.
"We need to tell her," you say quietly.
He pulls back, his eyes red and wet, his face crumpled like paper. "I know. I just—I needed—"
"I know." You cup his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing away tears. "You needed to be here first. That's okay. That's what I'm here for."
He nods, but he's trembling.
"Come," you say, taking his hand. "We'll find her together."
Ka'ni is at the stream when you find her, trailing her fingers through the water, humming softly to herself. She looks up when she hears you approach, and her smile is bright and unsuspecting.
Then she sees Neteyam's face.
The smile dies.
"No," she says immediately, standing up. "No. What—what happened?"
He crosses to her in three long strides and pulls her into his arms, and she clings to him, her whole body going rigid.
"We're leaving," he says, his voice breaking. "My father made the decision today. We're going to Awa'atlu. To the reef. We leave tomorrow or the next day, and I—I didn't know. I didn't have time to prepare you or—"
"No." Ka'ni pulls back, her eyes wide and desperate. "No, you can't. You can't leave. Stay. Stay here with us. You don't have to go with them."
His face crumples. "Ka'ni—"
"Please." Tears stream down her face. "Please don't leave me."
He cups her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away her tears even as his own fall.
"I see you," he whispers. "I will always see you. No matter where I am. No matter how far. You are part of me now. You always will be."
The day they leave, the whole clan gathers to see them off.
You and Ka'ni stand at the edge of the crowd, and when Neteyam sees you, he breaks away from his family. Crosses to you with long, desperate strides.
He pulls you into his arms first, and you hold him tight.
"Thank you," he whispers against your hair. "For everything. For giving me a place to rest. For seeing me. For—" His voice breaks. "For loving me."
"Always," you whisper back. "Always, Neteyam."
He pulls back, his eyes red, and then he turns to Ka'ni.
She's trying so hard to be strong. To hold herself together. But when he reaches for her, she crumbles.
He kisses her—deep and desperate and full of everything he can't say. His hands tangle in her hair, and she clings to him like he's the only solid thing in the world.
When they finally break apart, they're both shaking.
"I'll come back," he says, his forehead pressed to hers. "I promise. I'll find a way. I'll—"
"Don't make promises you can't keep," she whispers.
His breath shudders. "Then I promise this: I will love you. Every day. No matter where I am. No matter what happens. I will love you."
"I love you too." Her voice breaks. "I see you, Neteyam."
"I see you, Ka'ni."
They stand there, holding each other, and you see Jake Sully watching from a distance. His expression is tight, pained, but he doesn't call his son away. He gives them this. This moment. This goodbye.
Finally, Neteyam releases her. Steps back. His hand slides from hers slowly, fingers trailing, reluctant to let go.
Then he's gone. Walking back to his family, his shoulders set, his jaw tight. He doesn't look back. If he looks back, he won't be able to leave.
You pull Ka'ni into your arms as the Sullys mount their ikran. As they take to the sky. As they disappear into the distance, swallowed by clouds and horizon.
Ka'ni sobs against your shoulder, and you hold her. You hold her as the clan disperses. As the clearing empties. As the world goes quiet.
And you don't tell her that you're afraid too. That you felt something in that goodbye. Something final. Something that tasted like ending.
You just hold her. And you let her believe that he'll come back. That this isn't forever. That love is enough to bring him home.
Because right now, in this moment— Hope is all you have left to give her.
The Hollow Days
The forest feels too big now.
You notice it first in the mornings, when you wake and move through the familiar motions—gathering your tools, checking the drying herbs, preparing the day's meal. The space around you stretches wider than it should. The clearing that once felt intimate and full now yawns open like a mouth.
Empty.
Ka'ni moves through the dwelling like a ghost. She eats when you place food in front of her. She helps with the gathering, her hands working automatically—plucking roots, stripping bark, sorting leaves. But her eyes are always distant. Always searching the tree line.
Waiting.
You don't tell her to stop.
You wait too.
You catch yourself preparing three portions instead of two. Your hands reach for the extra bowl before your mind catches up, before you remember that he isn't coming tonight. That he won't arrive at dusk with leaves in his hair and exhaustion in his eyes, seeking the refuge you've always offered.
The silence is the worst part.
Not the absence of sound—the forest is never truly quiet. The yerik still call in the distance. The wind still moves through the trees. The stream still rushes over stones.
But the specific silence where Neteyam's voice should be—that's what hollows you out.
You miss his laughter. The way it would start low and surprised, like he'd forgotten he was allowed to find joy. The way Ka'ni could pull it from him so easily, her teasing and brightness cracking through his careful control.
You miss the sound of him arriving. The rustle of branches. The soft greeting. The way he'd pause at the edge of the clearing, waiting for permission even though he never needed it.
You miss the weight of him beside you at the fire. The way he'd sit close, his shoulder brushing yours, seeking contact without asking for it. The way his presence filled the space—not loud, not demanding, just there. Solid. Real.
Ka'ni spends hours by the water.
You find her there most evenings, sitting on the bank with her feet in the stream,her hands idle in her lap. She stares at nothing. At everything. At the place where the water meets the sky.
"He'll come back," she says one night, her voice small and fierce. "He promised."
You sit beside her. Rest your hand on her shoulder.
"I know, 'ite."
But you don't know.
You don't know anything except that the world feels wrong without him in it. That your home—this place that was always meant to be a sanctuary—feels like a shell. Beautiful but hollow.
The meals you prepare taste like ash.
You make his favorites anyway. The roasted teylu he loved. The fruit he'd eat until his fingers were sticky. The herb tea that always made him wrinkle his nose before drinking it anyway.
Ka'ni picks at her portion. Eats enough to survive.
You do the same.
At night, you lie awake and listen to her breathe in the darkness. Sometimes she cries—soft, muffled sounds she tries to hide. Sometimes she's silent, but you know she isn't sleeping. You can feel her wakefulness like a weight in the air.
You want to tell her it will be okay.
You want to promise her that love is enough. That he'll return. That the light will come back into her eyes.
But you can't lie to her.
Not about this.
So you just hold the space. You keep the fire burning. You gather the food and prepare the meals and maintain the rhythms of living.
Because that's all you know how to do.
The clan notices.
Other mothers ask if Ka'ni is well. If she's eating. If she needs anything.
You smile and tell them she's fine. Just missing a friend.
They nod, understanding but not understanding. They don't know what Neteyam was to her. To both of you. They don't know that he wasn't just a visitor or a friend or even a love.
He was the boy who made your daughter light as a feather.
He was the boy who came to unwind, to shed the weight of being Toruk Makto's son, to simply be.
He was the boy who filled your home with something you didn't have a name for—something warm and essential and irreplaceable.
And now he's gone.
And the space he left behind is so vast you could drown in it.
The News
Mo'at arrives on a morning heavy with mist.
You see her coming through the trees, her posture rigid, her face carved from stone. There are others with her—warriors you recognize, their expressions grim. And strangers. Travelers, their eyes hollow with something you don't want to name.
Your hands still on the root you're cleaning.
Ka'ni looks up from the fire, her face brightening for just a moment—hope flaring like a flame—before she sees Mo'at's expression.
The hope dies.
"Sa'nok," Ka'ni whispers, her voice breaking on the word.
You stand. Your legs feel distant. Unsteady.
Mo'at crosses the clearing slowly, and with each step, the world narrows. The sounds of the forest fade. The mist thickens. Everything becomes small and sharp and unbearably clear.
She stops in front of you.
Her eyes—ancient and knowing and filled with a grief so deep it has no bottom—meet yours.
"I bring news from Awa'atlu," she says, her voice steady but soft. Careful. Like she's holding something fragile. "From the Metkayina. From the Sully family."
Your throat closes.
"No," Ka'ni says. She's on her feet now, moving toward Mo'at, her hands outstretched like she can push the words away before they're spoken. "No. Don't—"
"Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk'itan," Mo'at says, and her voice cracks—just slightly, just enough to shatter you—"has returned to Eywa."
The world stops.
Not metaphorically. Not poetically.
It stops.
Your heart stops beating. Your lungs stop pulling air. The forest stops breathing around you.
"No," Ka'ni says again, but it's not a denial anymore. It's a plea. A prayer. A sound torn from somewhere so deep it has no name. "No, no, no—"
She crumples.
Not gracefully. Not slowly.
She just—collapses. Her legs give out and she falls to her knees, her hands clutching at the earth like she's trying to hold onto something solid. Like the ground itself is dissolving beneath her.
You move without thinking. Drop beside her. Pull her into your arms.
She's shaking. Her whole body convulses with sobs that sound like they're ripping her apart from the inside.
"He was killed in battle," Mo'at continues, and you want to scream at her to stop, to be silent, to take the words back. "Protecting his family. Protecting his siblings. He died a warrior's death."
A warrior's death.
As if that matters.
As if that makes it hurt less.
"How?" Your voice doesn't sound like yours. It's too thin. Too hollow.
"A bullet," one of the travelers says—a woman with kind eyes and devastation written across her face. "To the chest. He—it was quick. He didn't suffer long."
Quick.
Didn't suffer long.
The words are meant to comfort.
They don't.
Ka'ni screams.
It's not a sound you've ever heard from her. Not a sound you knew she could make. It's raw and animal and so full of anguish that it tears through you like a blade.
You hold her tighter. Press your face into her hair. Try to ground her. Try to keep her from shattering completely.
But you're shattering too.
The boy who came to your fire. Who sat beside you and let the weight fall away. Who looked at you with eyes too old for his face and whispered I don't know what I'd do without this.
Gone.
The boy who made your daughter laugh. Who courted her with such fierce, desperate devotion. Who promised to always see her.
Gone.
The boy who was like a son. Who filled your home with warmth and safety and the kind of love that doesn't ask for anything in return.
Gone.
Mo'at's eyes are wet, but her voice is steady. "Neteyam died as a warrior should. Eywa has taken him home."
You can't speak.
You can't breathe.
You just hold Ka'ni as she breaks apart in your arms, and you feel your own heart crack open—not cleanly, not mercifully, but in jagged, irreparable pieces. The mist thickens around you. The forest holds its breath.
And somewhere, impossibly far away, a boy who should have lived forever has returned to Eywa.
Living Through Grief
The days blur together.
Ka'ni moves through them like she's underwater. She wakes. She eats when you place food in her hands. She sleeps when exhaustion drags her under.
But she's not here.
Not really.
She spends hours in the forest, sitting beneath the trees with her queue connected to the moss-covered roots. Communing with Eywa. Seeking Neteyam in the only place he still exists.
You don't stop her.
You can't.
Because you understand.
You feel him there too—in the rustle of leaves, in the way the light filters through the canopy, in the quiet spaces where his presence used to live. Eywa holds him now. Keeps him safe in a way you couldn't.
In a way no one could.
Ka'ni comes home at dusk, her face pale and drawn, her eyes red-rimmed. She sits beside you at the fire and eats mechanically. Chews. Swallows. Doesn't taste.
You don't push her to talk.
There's nothing to say.
What words could possibly hold the weight of this loss?
At night, you lie awake and listen to her cry. Sometimes she sobs—loud and wrenching, her grief too big to contain. Sometimes she's silent, but you hear her breath hitch, hear the wet sound of tears she's trying to muffle.
You want to go to her. To hold her. To promise her it will get easier.
But you can't move.
Because you're drowning too.
You miss him with a ferocity that terrifies you.
You miss the boy who arrived at your fire with exhaustion in his eyes and the weight of the world on his shoulders. The boy who let you feed him, care for him, love him without condition or expectation.
You miss the way he'd sit beside you in comfortable silence, his presence a balm to something in you that you didn't know needed healing.
You miss the way he looked at Ka'ni—like she was the sun and the stars and every beautiful thing the Great Mother ever created.
You miss the light he brought into your home.
The warmth.
The sense that, despite everything, there was still goodness in the world. Still hope. Still love worth fighting for.
Now your home feels like a tomb.
Beautiful. Familiar.
Empty.
You prepare meals for two, but you can't stop your hands from reaching for the third bowl. Can't stop yourself from glancing toward the edge of the clearing at dusk, waiting for him to appear.
He never does.
He never will.
The clan tries to help.
Other mothers bring food. Offer comfort. Sit with you in silence because they don't know what else to do.
You accept their kindness with gratitude you don't feel.
Because they don't understand.
They didn't know him the way you did. Didn't see the boy beneath the warrior. Didn't hold him when he broke. Didn't watch him fall in love with your daughter like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.
They offer platitudes: He died a warrior. He is with Eywa now. His spirit lives on.
You nod.
You don't tell them that you don't care about his warrior's death. That you would trade every honor, every glory, every piece of his legacy for one more evening with him at your fire.
You don't tell them that Eywa having him is no comfort when your daughter is hollow-eyed and broken.
You don't tell them that his spirit living on means nothing when his body—warm and solid and here—is gone forever.
You just nod. And you survive. Because that's all you can do.
Ka'ni begins to speak to him.
You hear her sometimes, when she's sitting by the stream or beneath the trees. Her voice is soft, barely audible, but you catch fragments:
"I miss you."
"I don't know how to do this without you."
"Please. Please come back."
It breaks you every time. But you don't stop her.
Because maybe Eywa hears. Maybe he hears. Maybe somewhere in the vast network of life and memory and spirit, he knows that he was loved. That he is loved. That he always will be.
One evening, Ka'ni comes home and sits beside you at the fire. She doesn't eat. Just stares into the flames, her expression distant.
"I felt him today," she says quietly.
You look at her. Wait.
"In the forest. Through Eywa." Her voice is steady, but tears stream down her face. "He's there. He's still there. Not gone. Just—different."
You reach for her hand. Lace your fingers with hers.
"He loved you," you say. "So much."
"I know." She squeezes your hand. "I know."
The fire crackles between you. The forest breathes around you. And for the first time since Mo'at brought the news, you feel something other than emptiness.
Not peace. Not acceptance. But something close to survival. You and Ka'ni—you're still here. Still breathing. Still moving through the world together.
Fundamentally changed. Irrevocably marked by the boy who filled your home with light and love and the kind of safety that can't be replaced.
But still here.
Still holding each other.
Still finding ways to honor his memory—not by forgetting the pain, but by carrying it. By letting it shape you. By loving him even in his absence.
Because that's what he gave you.
The knowledge that love doesn't end with death.
That the people who matter—who truly, deeply matter—leave marks on your soul that time can't erase.
Ka'ni leans her head on your shoulder, and you wrap your arm around her.The fire burns low. The stars emerge overhead, bright and infinite.
And somewhere, held in Eywa's embrace, a boy who was like a son watches over you both. You feel it. You know it. And you hold your daughter close, and you breathe, and you survive.
Everyone needs a place to unwind; people to let you just be yourself. That was what you were for Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk'itan. Watching he and your daughter fall in love was the honey atop the sweet-bread.
Neteyam and mother!reader
***Follows canon events*** There is a lot of grieving at the end...
Karyu
Finding Refuge
The forest breathes around you as you work, your fingers deft among the undergrowth. This place is yours—not in ownership, but in familiarity. Far enough from the main village that the voices fade to whispers on the wind, close enough that the path home is easy even with full gathering baskets. The earth here is rich and dark, and the kllpxiwll grows thick and sweet.
You hum softly as you work, a song your own mother taught you, checking each plant for ripeness before adding it to your basket. The sun filters through the canopy above in shifting patterns of light and shadow.
A small sound makes you pause.
Not the forest. Not the wind.
You turn slowly, and there he is—a child, perhaps six or seven years old, standing at the edge of the clearing. Small for his age, all knees and elbows, with eyes too old for his face. He watches you with the stillness of someone who has learned not to draw attention.
"Kaltxì," you say gently, not moving toward him. Some children are like the palulukan—they flee if you approach too quickly.
He doesn't answer immediately. His tail twitches once, twice. Then: "Kaltxì."
His voice is soft, careful. You notice the way his shoulders curve inward, as if he's trying to make himself smaller. There's something about him that tugs at your heart—a heaviness that sits wrong on such young bones.
"Are you hungry?" you ask, because this is always safe. Children are always hungry.
He hesitates, then nods.
You gesture to the fallen log beside your basket, and after a moment, he comes. His steps are quiet, practiced. He sits with his hands folded in his lap, back straight despite the exhaustion you can see in the set of his jaw.
You reach into your gathering bag and pull out spartan fruit, already peeled and sectioned. You'd prepared it for Ka'ni's midday meal, but your daughter won't mind. You offer it to him without ceremony, without questions.
His eyes widen slightly. He takes a piece with both hands, small fingers careful not to drop it, and brings it to his mouth. The way he eats—slowly, deliberately, as if he's forgotten how to simply enjoy food—makes your chest ache.
"It's sweet today," you say, taking a piece for yourself. "The rains last week were good for the trees."
He nods, still chewing. A drop of juice runs down his chin and he wipes it away quickly, almost ashamed.
You return to your gathering, giving him space to simply be. The silence stretches, but it's not uncomfortable. You can feel him watching you work, his breathing gradually slowing, deepening. The tension in his small frame begins to ease, degree by degree.
"What are you gathering?" he asks finally.
"Kllpxiwll," you say, holding up a cluster of leaves. "For tonight's meal. And tawtsngal root—see here? You have to dig carefully or it breaks." You demonstrate, your fingers working the soil away from the pale root. "Would you like to help?"
You don't expect him to say yes. But he slides off the log and kneels beside you, his hands hovering uncertainly over the earth.
"Like this," you murmur, guiding his small fingers to the base of the plant. "Gentle. Feel for where it wants to give."
He works slowly, his tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. When the root comes free, whole and perfect, his face transforms. For just a moment, he looks like what he is—a child, proud of a small accomplishment.
"Good," you say warmly. "Very good. You have patient hands."
Something in his expression flickers. He stares down at his soil-darkened fingers as if seeing them for the first time.
You work together in comfortable quiet, the sun warm on your shoulders, the forest breathing its eternal rhythm. He doesn't speak much, but he doesn't need to. You can feel him settling, the way a frightened ikran settles when it realizes the hand on its neck means no harm.
When your basket is full, you sit back on your heels and stretch. He mirrors you, unselfconscious now, rolling his small shoulders.
"Thank you," he says quietly. "For the fruit. And for... letting me help."
"You're welcome here anytime," you tell him, and you mean it. "I gather most days, when Eywa provides. If you want company that doesn't ask questions, you'll find me."
He looks at you then, really looks at you, and you see it—the weight he carries, the expectations pressing down on shoulders too small to bear them. You don't know who he is, not yet. You don't recognize the particular shape of his face, the specific amber of his eyes.
You only see a child who needs a place to rest.
"I'm Neteyam," he says, so softly you almost miss it.
"I see you, Neteyam," you reply, and his eyes shine with something that might be tears, might be relief.
He helps you carry your basket partway back toward the village before he slips away, quiet as he came. You watch him go, this small boy with his careful steps and his heavy heart, and you wonder what burdens a child so young.
That night, when Ka'ni chatters about her day and asks about the gathering, you mention the boy who helped you. You don't mention the sadness in his eyes, or the way he seemed to breathe fully for the first time only after sitting in silence with you.
Some things are sacred in their smallness.
You simply say, "He was kind. I think he'll come back."
And somehow, you know he will.
7
The seasons turn, and Neteyam comes back.
Not just once. He returns again and again throughout the year, slipping away from whatever duties bind him to find you among the forest groves and quiet clearings. Sometimes he stays for hours, helping you gather or simply sitting in companionable silence. Sometimes he appears only briefly, as if checking that you're still there, still real, still a place he can return to.
You never ask why he comes. You simply welcome him.
But today is different. Today, Ka'ni is with you.
Your daughter has been asking about him for weeks now—the boy who helps Sa'nok gather, the one who's so quiet and kind. You've deflected gently, not wanting to make promises about someone else's time, someone else's pain. But this morning, when you prepared to leave for the gathering grounds, she looked at you with those wide, hopeful eyes and asked, "May I come?"
How could you say no?
So she walks beside you now, her gathering basket bumping against her hip, chattering about the kllpxiwll she hopes to find, about the way the morning light makes the moss glow like liquid gold. She's always been this way—bright where you are steady, effervescent where you are calm. She fills the world with words and wonder, and you love her for it.
You're kneeling in the undergrowth, showing her how to identify the mature tawtsngal root by the color of its leaves, when you hear the soft footfall on forest floor.
You know without looking. Your heart recognizes him before your eyes do.
"Kaltxì, Karyu," Neteyam says quietly.
You turn, and your breath catches. He's grown. Not dramatically—it's only been a handful of weeks since his last visit—but enough that you notice. Taller, his shoulders broader, his face losing some of its childish softness. He must be seven now, perhaps eight. Still small, still young, but carrying himself with a discipline that makes him seem older.
The weariness in his eyes has deepened.
"Kaltxì, Neteyam," you say warmly, rising to your feet. "I see you."
"I see you," he replies, but his gaze has already shifted to Ka'ni, who stands frozen among the ferns, her basket forgotten in her hands.
She stares at him with open curiosity, her tail swishing behind her in that way it does when she's excited or nervous. You can see her taking him in—the careful way he stands, the bow slung across his back, the knife at his hip. He looks like a warrior already, despite his age.
"Neteyam," you say gently, "this is my daughter, Ka'ni."
"Kaltxì," Ka'ni says, her voice smaller than usual. She dips her head in greeting, suddenly shy.
Neteyam's ears flick back, and for a moment he looks uncertain. Then he steps forward and returns the gesture, his movements formal, practiced. "Kaltxì. I see you."
"I see you," Ka'ni whispers.
The silence stretches. Neteyam shifts his weight from foot to foot. Ka'ni twists the handle of her basket. You bite back a smile.
"Well," you say brightly, "I could use two pairs of hands today. The kllpxiwll is particularly thick this season. Neteyam, would you help us?"
Relief flashes across his face. "Yes, Karyu."
He sets down his bow carefully, reverently, and moves into the undergrowth. Ka'ni watches him from the corner of her eye, pretending great interest in the plants near her feet.
You guide them both to a rich patch, demonstrating again how to harvest without damaging the plant, how to select the best leaves. Neteyam remembers from before—his hands are sure and gentle. Ka'ni works with enthusiasm, if not always precision, and you correct her with patient murmurs.
Slowly, the awkwardness begins to ease.
"You're good at this," Ka'ni says suddenly, watching Neteyam work. "Sa'nok said you helped her before."
Neteyam glances up, startled. A faint flush darkens his cheeks. "Karyu is a good teacher."
"She is," Ka'ni agrees. Then, emboldened: "Do you gather with your family too?"
Something shutters in Neteyam's expression. "Sometimes. When there's time."
You intervene gently, sensing the dangerous territory. "Ka'ni, show Neteyam the tawtsngal root you found earlier. The one with the double stem."
She brightens immediately, grateful for the redirect, and beckons him over. "It's here—see? Sa'nok says it's rare. Two roots from one plant."
Neteyam follows, and you watch as they crouch together in the soft earth, Ka'ni's chatter filling the space between them. She points out the root structure, the way the leaves spiral, and Neteyam listens with the same careful attention he gives everything. He asks a question—something about how deep the roots grow—and Ka'ni launches into an explanation that's half-remembered lesson, half-enthusiastic speculation.
A smile tugs at Neteyam's mouth. Small, but real.
Your chest warms.
The three of you work together as the sun climbs higher, filling your baskets with the forest's gifts. Ka'ni's initial shyness melts away entirely, and soon she's teasing Neteyam about the way he examines each plant so seriously, asking if he's training to be a tsahìk instead of a warrior. He huffs a laugh—an actual laugh—and tells her that his grandmother would probably prefer that.
"Your grandmother?" Ka'ni asks.
"She's tsahìk," Neteyam says, then seems to catch himself. He glances at you, uncertain.
You simply nod, acknowledging without making it significant. You'd guessed, of course. The bow, the bearing, the weight of expectation—it all makes sense now. Toruk Makto's son. The eldest. But here, in the forest with soil between his toes and leaves in his hands, he's just Neteyam.
Just a boy.
"That must be amazing," Ka'ni says, eyes wide. "Does she teach you about the plants? About healing?"
"A little," Neteyam admits. "Mostly she teaches my sister. I'm supposed to focus on..." He trails off, his jaw tightening.
"On gathering," you finish smoothly, holding up a particularly fine cluster. "Which you're doing excellently. Look at this—perfect color, no damage. Well done, Neteyam."
His shoulders relax. "Thank you, Karyu."
Ka'ni grins at him. "You really are good at this. Better than me—I always tear the leaves."
"You're getting better," you assure her. "Practice, my heart."
"That's what Sa'nok always says," Ka'ni tells Neteyam with exaggerated exasperation. "Practice, patience, gentle hands." But she's smiling, and so is he.
When the baskets are full and the sun is high, you rise from the undergrowth. Neteyam helps Ka'ni with her basket without being asked, carrying it alongside his own. She chatters at him about a kllpxiwll recipe she wants to try, and he listens with that same careful attention, occasionally offering a soft comment or question. You walk slightly behind them, watching the way they chatter.
At the edge of the gathering grounds, where the path splits toward the village, Neteyam sets down the baskets and straightens. The formality returns to his posture, the careful control.
"Thank you for letting me help," he says to you. Then, to Ka'ni: "It was good to meet you."
"You too," Ka'ni says shyly. "Will you... will you come back?"
Neteyam looks at you, something vulnerable in his eyes. Asking permission. Asking for reassurance.
"You're always welcome, Neteyam," you say softly. "Whenever you need to."
He nods, and some of the tension leaves his frame. "I will. If that's okay."
"More than okay," you tell him.
Ka'ni beams. "Maybe next time you can show me how you do the leaves so perfectly. Sa'nok's been trying to teach me forever, but I still mess them up."
"I could do that," Neteyam says, and there's something almost like hope in his voice.
He helps you carry the baskets a little farther before slipping away, quiet as always, but this time he looks back once before disappearing into the trees. Ka'ni waves enthusiastically, and you see the small smile that crosses his face before he's gone.
"I like him," Ka'ni announces, picking up her basket. "He's serious, but he's kind. And sad, I think. Did you see his eyes, Sa'nok?"
"I did," you murmur.
"Why is he sad?"
You consider how to answer. "Some people carry heavy things," you say finally. "Things that are hard to set down."
Ka'ni is quiet for a moment, processing this. Then: "Is that why he comes to you? To set them down for a little while?"
Your daughter, you think, is wiser than her years.
"Yes," you say. "I think so."
She nods solemnly. Then, brightening: "Then I'm glad he comes. Everyone should have a place to rest."
You pull her close, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Yes, my heart. Everyone should."
That night, as you prepare the evening meal, Ka'ni talks about Neteyam—about his careful hands, his quiet voice, the way he really listened when she spoke. She wonders aloud if he'll come back soon, if he likes kllpxiwll prepared with tawtsngal root, if he'd want to see the grove where the hexapede gather.
You listen, stirring the pot, and feel the shape of something beginning. Something tender and fragile and precious.
Neteyam will come back. You know this as surely as you know the forest's rhythms.
8
The visits become a rhythm.
Not predictable—Neteyam doesn't come on any schedule you can mark—but steady. Reliable. Like the forest's breath itself, he returns. Sometimes twice in one moon cycle, sometimes with weeks between. But he always comes back.
And each time, the weight on his shoulders seems heavier.
You notice it first in the way he moves. At six, he was small and careful. At seven, growing but still soft at the edges. Now, at eight, his body is changing—leaner, harder, trained into something that looks less like a child and more like a weapon being forged. His shoulders are broader. His hands are developing calluses you recognize from warriors twice his age.
He arrives one afternoon in the late season, when the sun hangs low and golden through the canopy. You're preparing teylu at the edge of your home, and Ka'ni is weaving nearby, her fingers nimble with the dried vine strands.
She sees him first.
"Neteyam!" Her whole face lights up, and she's on her feet before you can blink, rushing toward him with that unguarded joy only children possess.
He catches her—stumbles slightly under her enthusiasm, but catches her. His arms come around her automatically, and for just a moment, something in his expression softens. Eases.
Then he sets her down carefully, like she's something precious he's afraid of breaking.
"Kaltxì, Ka'ni," he says quietly.
"You've been gone forever," she accuses, but there's no real heat in it. Just relief. Just gladness.
"I know." He glances past her to you, and you see it—the exhaustion carved into the lines of his face, the tension in his jaw, the way his tail hangs lower than it should. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry," Ka'ni says, tugging at his hand. "You're here now. That's what matters."
You rise, wiping your hands on a bit of moss, and meet his eyes. He looks at you like a drowning person looks at air.
"Come," you say simply. "Sit. Eat."
His shoulders drop half an inch.
Relief.
He eats like he hasn't in days—not ravenous, but steady, methodical, like he's forgotten what it feels like to be full. You don't comment. Just keep refilling his bowl, adding more teylu, more root vegetables, more of the spiced broth Ka'ni helped you prepare this morning.
Ka'ni sits beside him, closer than she used to, her knee brushing his. She chatters about the forest, about the new pa'li foal born last week, about the beads she's been collecting to make a new bracelet. Neteyam listens—really listens, the way he always does with her—and occasionally asks questions that make her beam.
"You should see it," she says, eyes bright. "The foal, I mean. It's so small, Neteyam. And clumsy. It can't even run properly yet."
"Maybe you could show me," he says quietly.
Ka'ni's whole face transforms. "Really? You want to?"
"If your sa'nok doesn't mind."
He glances at you, and there's something careful in the look. Asking permission. Acknowledging that this is your home, your daughter, your generosity he's relying on.
"Go," you say, smiling. "The light is gentle today."
Ka'ni is already pulling him to his feet, laughing, tugging him toward the forest path. He follows—lets himself be led—and you watch them go.
Watch the way his posture changes as they move away from the village center. The way his shoulders loosen. The way he laughs—actually laughs—at something Ka'ni says, the sound carried back to you on the warm, earthy breeze.
He's eight years old. He should laugh like that all the time.
They return as the sun begins its descent, both of them breathless and bright-eyed. Ka'ni is talking a mile a minute about the foal, about how Neteyam approached it so gently, about how it nuzzled his hand. Neteyam is quieter, but there's color in his cheeks now, and his eyes are brighter than they were when he arrived.
"Did you have fun?" you ask, handing them both water.
"So much fun," Ka'ni says, beaming. Then, to Neteyam: "You're really good with animals. Better than me."
"You're good too," he says, and there's no condescension in it. Just honesty. "You're fearless."
Ka'ni glows under the praise.
You prepare the evening meal while they sit together near the fire, Ka'ni showing Neteyam her bead collection. He examines each one with the same careful attention he gives everything—turning them over in his hands, asking where she found them, listening intently to her stories.
"This one's my favorite," Ka'ni says, holding up a carved bead that gleams amber and gold in the firelight. "I found it after a storm. It was just sitting there, like Eywa left it for me."
"It's beautiful," Neteyam says softly, studying the intricate carving. "You have a good eye. You notice things most people miss."
Ka'ni beams at him. "Really?"
"Really." He turns the bead over carefully in his palm, examining the work. "You're brave too. Most people wouldn't wander far enough from the village to find something like this."
"I like exploring," Ka'ni says, tucking the bead back into her collection. "There's so much to discover if you're not afraid."
Neteyam watches her with something like wonder—the way she moves through the world without hesitation, the way she finds beauty in small things. He hands the bead back to her gently.
"That's a good way to be," he says quietly.
You serve the meal and feel something warm settle in your chest.
The visits continue. Some days, Neteyam arrives and barely speaks—just sits with you while you work, his hands moving automatically through the familiar motions of gathering, preparing, mending. He's learning the rhythms of your life, the small domestic tasks that keep a home running. You teach him without teaching, simply by letting him be present. Letting him help.
Other days, he's more talkative. He tells you about his training, about the new techniques his father is teaching him, about Lo'ak's latest mishap. He never complains. Never says it's too much. But you hear it anyway, in the spaces between his words.
The pressure is building. Toruk Makto's eldest son. The one who has to be perfect.
Ka'ni becomes his refuge within the refuge. When he's with her, the careful control slips. He smiles more easily. Laughs more freely. Lets himself be eight years old instead of a warrior-in-training.
You find them one afternoon in a sun-dappled clearing, Ka'ni teaching him how to find spartan fruit hidden in the undergrowth. She's kneeling in the soft moss, her hair catching the light, and Neteyam is beside her, his hands following her instructions.
"You have to feel for them," she's saying. "They hide really well, but if you're patient—there!"
She pulls up a ripe fruit, triumphant, and Neteyam grins at her.
"Show me again," he says.
So she does. And again. And again. Until he finds one himself, and Ka'ni cheers like he's accomplished something magnificent.
The way he looks at her then—
There's a lightness in his face you rarely see. The weight lifts, just for a moment. With her, he doesn't have to be Toruk Makto's son. Doesn't have to be perfect or controlled or ready for the next test. He's just a boy, learning something new, celebrated for the simple act of trying.
Ka'ni gives him that. Permission to be young. Permission to be imperfect.
You watch them together in that dappled light, and you understand: this is what healing looks like. Not grand or dramatic, but quiet. A child allowed to be a child. A friend who asks nothing of him except his presence.
Your heart settles.
One evening, after Ka'ni has gone to sleep, Neteyam lingers.
He's been doing that more often lately—staying after she's gone to bed, sitting with you in the quiet dark, the fire burning low between you. Sometimes he talks. Sometimes he doesn't. Tonight, he's silent, staring into the flames with an expression you can't quite read.
"Neteyam," you say gently.
He blinks. Looks up at you.
"Are you all right?"
For a long moment, he doesn't answer. Then: "My father says I'll be leading my first hunt soon."
"That's an honor."
"I know." His jaw tightens. "I have to be ready. I have to be—" He stops. Swallows hard. "I can't make mistakes."
You set down the weaving in your hands and move to sit beside him. Not touching, but close. Present.
"You're eight years old," you say quietly.
"I'm the eldest son of Toruk Makto."
"You're eight years old," you repeat, firmer this time. "You're allowed to make mistakes. You're allowed to be a child."
His eyes shine in the firelight—too bright, too wet.
"I don't feel like a child," he whispers.
Your heart breaks. You reach out slowly, giving him time to pull away, and rest your hand on his shoulder. He doesn't pull away. Instead, he leans into the touch—just slightly, just enough—and you feel the tremor that runs through him.
"You come here," you say softly, "because here, you can be. Here, you don't have to be Toruk Makto's son. You don't have to be perfect. You can just be Neteyam."
He nods, but doesn't speak. Can't, maybe.
You pull him closer, and he comes—lets himself be held like the child he is, his face pressed against your shoulder, his breath shuddering. He doesn't cry. Doesn't break. But he lets himself be small for a moment. Lets himself rest.
"You're doing so well," you murmur. "You're so strong, Neteyam. But you don't have to be strong all the time. Not here."
His hands fist in your shawl.
You hold him until the trembling stops. Until his breathing evens out. Until he pulls back, wiping at his eyes quickly, embarrassed.
"I'm sorry," he starts.
"Don't be." You cup his face gently, meeting his eyes. "Never be sorry for being honest. For being real."
He nods. Swallows hard.
"Ka'ni—" he begins, then stops. Starts again. "She makes it easier. Being here. Being... me."
"I know," you say gently.
"I don't want to—" He struggles for words. "I don't want to bring my burdens here. To her."
"You don't," you assure him. "When you're with her, you're lighter. Happier. She sees the best parts of you, Neteyam. And you see the best parts of her. That's not a burden. That's a gift."
He looks at you with those too-old eyes, and slowly, carefully, he nods.
"Thank you," he whispers. "For letting me come here. For—for everything."
You smile, brushing a strand of hair from his face. "You're always welcome here. Always. This is your home too, if you want it to be."
Something in his expression cracks open—relief and gratitude and something that looks almost like hope.
"I want it to be," he says quietly.
"Then it is."
The next time he visits, he brings Ka'ni a gift.
It's a small carving—a hexapede, rendered in pale wood, no bigger than her palm. The detail is exquisite, every curve and line carefully shaped.
"I made it," he says, shy suddenly, holding it out to her. "I thought—you said you liked them. So."
Ka'ni takes it with reverent hands, her eyes wide.
"Neteyam," she breathes. "It's perfect."
"It's not—"
"It is." She looks up at him, and her smile is radiant. "Thank you. I love it."
She hugs him quickly, a bright, uncomplicated embrace, and he pats her back awkwardly before she pulls away. She turns the carving over in her hands, examining every detail with wonder.
"Come on," she says, tucking it carefully into her pouch. "I want to show you the new grove. The moss is so soft there."
He follows her, and you watch them go—Ka'ni chattering excitedly about the grove, Neteyam listening with that soft expression he only ever wears around her, the weight on his shoulders seeming just a little lighter.
Your refuge has become his.
And Ka'ni—bright, joyful Ka'ni—has become the reason he smiles.
You send a silent prayer to Eywa.
Keep them safe. Keep them whole. Let them have this—this innocence, this joy, this friendship.
For as long as they can.
9
By the time Neteyam is nine, he no longer hesitates at the edge of your clearing. He walks in like he belongs there. Because he does.
The visits have shifted from occasional refuge to something closer to routine—though never predictable, never expected. He comes when he needs to. When the weight of being Toruk Makto's son becomes too much. When the drills run too long, when his father's voice sharpens with disappointment, when Lo'ak's recklessness earns them both a lecture that lands heaviest on Neteyam's shoulders.
He comes to you. And you welcome him. Always.
It's during the evening meal that you notice the change most clearly. The clan gathers in the central clearing, families clustered around cook fires, the air thick with woodsmoke and roasting hexapede and the low hum of conversation. You sit with Ka'ni near the edge, close enough to be part of things but far enough to feel separate. Comfortable in your quiet corner.
Then you see him. Neteyam, moving through the crowd with that careful, controlled grace he's learned too young. His posture is perfect—spine straight, shoulders back, every movement deliberate. He nods politely to the elders who greet him, answers questions with the respect expected of Toruk Makto's eldest son.
But his eyes are scanning. Searching. When he finds you, his whole body shifts.
The careful control doesn't disappear—not entirely—but something loosens in his shoulders. His stride quickens. And before you can set down the bowl you're holding, he's there, dropping to sit beside you with an ease that makes your heart ache.
"Karyu," he says softly, and the word is warm. Familiar.
"Neteyam." You smile, shifting to make room. "Have you eaten?"
"Not yet." He glances at your bowl, then at Ka'ni's. "What did you make?"
"Teylu stew," Ka'ni says brightly, scooting closer to him. "With kllpxiwll and those mushrooms you like."
His eyes light up—just a flicker, but you catch it. "The ones from the grove near the stream?"
"Mm-hmm. I found them this morning." She beams at him, proud. "I helped gather them for the pot."
He looks at her like she's handed him something precious.
"Thank you," he says quietly.
You watch him settle in—his knee brushing Ka'ni's, his shoulder close enough to yours that you feel the warmth of him. Around you, the clan continues their meal, their conversations, their lives. But Neteyam sits with you, and the tension that clings to him everywhere else seems to drain away.
He eats the stew Ka'ni brings him. Listens to her chatter about the new pa'li foal, about the beads she's been stringing, about the tree she climbed that morning that had the best view of the forest canopy. He asks questions. Laughs softly at her stories.
And when Jake Sully's voice rises across the clearing—calling instructions to one of the warriors, his tone sharp and commanding—Neteyam doesn't flinch.
He just leans a little closer to you.
Later, when the meal winds down and families begin to drift toward their homes, Neteyam doesn't leave.
He helps you gather the bowls, follows you back to your dwelling without being asked. Ka'ni skips ahead, humming to herself, and Neteyam walks beside you in comfortable silence.
Inside, he moves with the ease of someone who knows where everything belongs. He sets the bowls near the water basin, crouches to add wood to the fire, settles onto the woven mat near the hearth like it's his place.
Because it is.
"You're staying tonight?" Ka'ni asks, hopeful.
Neteyam glances at you, a question in his eyes.
"You're always welcome," you say simply.
He nods. "If it's not too much trouble."
"It's never trouble."
And it isn't.
He curls up near the fire with Ka'ni, the two of them talking in low voices while you finish tidying. You catch fragments of their conversation—something about a hunt, about the way the light filters through the canopy at dawn, about a bird Ka'ni saw with feathers the color of sunset.
Neteyam listens with that focused attention he gives her. Like every word matters. Like she matters.
When you finally settle beside them, Neteyam shifts closer, his head resting against your shoulder in a gesture so natural it steals your breath.
"Karyu?" he murmurs.
"Mm?"
"Thank you."
You press a hand to his hair, smoothing it back gently. "You don't have to thank me, 'itan."
The word slips out before you can stop it. Son.
He doesn't pull away. Doesn't stiffen. He just exhales, slow and deep, and lets himself lean into your touch.
The pattern continues. Neteyam spends less time at clan gatherings now—less time sitting with his family, less time performing the role of perfect son. When he does appear, he seeks you out immediately. Runs to you across the clearing, his face lighting up in a way it never does anywhere else.
The clan notices. Of course they do. But no one questions it. Jake and Neytiri know where he goes. They see him with you, see the way he relaxes in your presence, and they don't interfere. Perhaps they're grateful. Perhaps they understand that their son needs this—needs a place where he can simply be.
You don't ask. You just open your arms when he comes to you. Let him sit close during meals, let him help you gather in the forest, let him curl up by your fire at night with Ka'ni beside him and the weight of the world temporarily lifted from his shoulders.
He's becoming more rooted here. In your space. Your home. Your life.
And you— You're becoming his.
Not his mother. Neytiri holds that place, and you would never try to take it. But something close. Something necessary. A sanctuary. A refuge. A place where he doesn't have to be Toruk Makto's son. Where he can just be Neteyam.
And that— That is a gift from the Great Mother.
10
You hear him before you see him.
The sharp crack of branches underfoot, the rustle of leaves too aggressive to be careful. Neteyam moves through the forest like he's trying to outrun something—fast, reckless, angry. Not the quiet, controlled boy who usually appears at the edge of your clearing with soft footsteps and softer greetings.
This is different.
Ka'ni looks up from the beads she's stringing, her eyes wide. "Is that—?"
"Stay here," you say gently, rising to your feet.
But you don't need to go far. Neteyam bursts into the clearing, chest heaving, fists clenched at his sides. His jaw is tight, his ears pinned back, and his eyes—
His eyes are blazing.
Not with tears. With fury.
"Neteyam," you say carefully, keeping your voice low. Steady. "What happened?"
He doesn't answer right away. Just stands there, breathing hard, his whole body vibrating with tension. His braids are disheveled, a few strands loose around his face. There's a smudge of dirt on his cheek, a scrape on his forearm like he pushed through the undergrowth without caring.
"He—" Neteyam's voice cracks, and he stops. Swallows hard. Tries again. "He broke it. He broke it, and he didn't even—"
His hands shake.
You step closer, slow and deliberate. "What did Lo'ak break?"
"The bow." The words come out sharp, bitter. "The one sempul gave me. The one I've been working on for weeks to get the draw right, to—" He cuts himself off, his breath hitching. "And Lo'ak just—he took it without asking, and he snapped the limb because he didn't brace it right, and when I found him, he just—he laughed."
His voice breaks on the last word.
Not with sadness. With rage.
"He laughed like it didn't matter. Like it was funny. And then sempul said—" Neteyam's fists clench tighter, his knuckles going pale. "He said I shouldn't have left it where Lo'ak could reach it. That I should've been more careful. That I need to watch him better."
The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut.
You see it now. The weight he carries. The responsibility that's been piled on his shoulders since he was old enough to understand what it means to be the eldest son of Toruk Makto.
Not just to be perfect. To be responsible for his brother's mistakes too.
"It's not fair," Neteyam whispers, and his voice is raw. Stripped bare. "I do everything right. I train harder, I listen, I don't complain, I don't—" He stops, his breath shuddering. "And he gets to do whatever he wants. He gets to break things and laugh and walk away, and I'm the one who has to fix it. I'm the one who gets blamed."
You don't tell him it's not true. Because it is.
Instead, you step forward and rest your hand on his shoulder. Firm. Grounding.
"You're allowed to be angry," you say quietly.
He looks at you, his eyes wide and wet and furious.
"I'm always angry," he says, and the confession sounds like it's been ripped out of him. "I'm angry all the time, and I can't—I can't show it. I can't say anything because I'm supposed to be the good son. The responsible one. The one who doesn't make mistakes."
His voice cracks again, and this time, a tear slips free. He wipes it away roughly, like he's ashamed.
"Neteyam." You crouch down so you're at his level, your hands on both his shoulders now. "You don't have to swallow it here. You don't have to be perfect here."
He stares at you, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps.
And then Ka'ni is there. She doesn't say anything. Just steps up beside him and slips her small hand into his. Her fingers curl around his palm, warm and steady, and she looks up at him with those wide, earnest eyes.
"I'm sorry Lo'ak broke your bow," she says simply. "That wasn't fair."
Neteyam's breath hitches. He looks down at her, and something in his expression shifts. Softens. The anger doesn't disappear—it's still there, simmering beneath the surface—but it's no longer the only thing he feels.
"It's not your fault," he says quietly.
"I know." Ka'ni squeezes his hand. "But I'm still sorry."
You watch them stand there together—this boy who carries too much and this girl who offers comfort without hesitation. And you see the way Neteyam's shoulders drop just a fraction. The way his breathing slows.
He's still angry. But he's not alone.
"Come," you say gently, guiding him toward the fire. "Sit. Let me get you something to drink."
He follows without protest, sinking down onto the woven mat with Ka'ni still holding his hand. You bring him water, and he drinks it in silence, his gaze fixed on the flames.
"You don't have to fix everything," you say after a moment, settling beside him. "You don't have to carry your brother's mistakes."
"But I do." His voice is flat. Resigned. "That's what being the eldest means."
"No." You shake your head. "Being the eldest means leading. Not suffering."
He looks at you, and for a moment, you see the boy beneath the warrior. The child who just wants someone to tell him it's okay to be tired. To be frustrated.
"You're allowed to be angry at Lo'ak," you continue. "You're allowed to be frustrated with your father. You're allowed to feel all of it without being less than who you are."
Neteyam's jaw tightens, but he doesn't look away.
"And you're allowed to come here," you add softly, "and let it out. You don't have to carry it alone."
His breath shudders, and he closes his eyes.
Ka'ni leans against his shoulder, her head resting there like it's the most natural thing in the world. And slowly—so slowly—Neteyam lets himself lean back. Lets himself breathe.
"I hate it," he whispers. "I hate that he doesn't care. I hate that I have to care for both of us."
"I know."
"I hate that sempul expects me to just—to just fix everything."
"I know."
His voice drops to barely a whisper. "I hate that I can't even be angry without feeling like I'm failing."
You reach over and rest your hand on his knee. Steady. Present.
"You're not failing," you say. "You're ten years old. And you're allowed to be angry."
He opens his eyes, and the tears that have been building finally spill over. Not many. Just enough to release the pressure that's been building inside him for too long.
Ka'ni doesn't move. Just stays there, her small hand still holding his, her presence a quiet comfort.
And Neteyam—
Neteyam lets himself cry.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just quiet, shuddering breaths and tears that slip down his cheeks and drip onto his clenched fists.
You don't tell him to stop. You just sit with him. Let him feel it. Let him be angry and hurt and exhausted without judgment.
Because this— This is what he needs. Not another person telling him to be strong. But someone who lets him be weak.
When the tears finally slow, he wipes his face with the back of his hand and takes a deep, shaky breath.
"Thank you," he whispers.
"You don't have to thank me."
"I do." He looks at you, his eyes red-rimmed but clearer now. Lighter. "Because you're the only one who lets me be... this."
Your throat tightens, but you manage a small smile.
"You're always welcome here, 'itan," you say softly. "Angry or not."
He nods, and for the first time since he arrived, his shoulders truly relax.
Ka'ni shifts beside him, her hand still in his. "Do you want to help me finish my beads?" she asks quietly. "You're better at the knots than I am."
Neteyam huffs a soft, wet laugh. "Okay."
And just like that, the storm passes.
11
You're waist-deep in the stream when you hear Ka'ni's delighted shriek.
"Sa'nok! Look how many!"
She's standing on the bank, her gathering basket overflowing with yovo fruit—the small, tart berries that grow in thick clusters along the water's edge. Her legs are mud-streaked, her hair escaping its braid in wild curls, and she's grinning like she's discovered treasure.
"Careful," you call, laughing. "Don't drop them."
"I won't!" She sets the basket down with exaggerated care, then immediately starts wading back into the shallows, her hands already reaching for another cluster.
The water is cool against your skin, the current gentle. You've been gathering sänrr root—the kind that grows deep, requiring you to dig with your fingers through silt and stone. Your arms ache pleasantly, and the sun is warm on your shoulders.
It's a good day. And then you hear footsteps.
You turn, water dripping from your hands, and see Neteyam emerging from the tree line.
He's taller than he was two months ago. Broader through the shoulders and chest, his arms carrying new muscle that speaks of long hours training with bow and blade. His movements are more controlled, more precise—like he's learned to carry his body with a warrior's awareness.
But when he sees you both, his whole face transforms.
Relief. Pure, unguarded relief.
"Neteyam!" Ka'ni splashes toward him, her basket forgotten. "You're back!"
"I'm back." His voice is warm, and when she reaches him, he catches her in an easy hug—lifting her slightly off her feet and spinning her once before setting her down. "You've gotten taller."
"You've gotten bigger," she says, poking his arm. "What have they been feeding you?"
"Discipline and suffering," he says dryly, and you laugh.
"Come help us," you call, gesturing to the stream. "We're gathering, and Ka'ni's found enough yovo to feed the entire clan."
"I have not!" Ka'ni protests, but she's grinning.
Neteyam doesn't hesitate. Just sets down his bow, and wades into the water. The tension you'd seen in his shoulders—the tightness that comes from too many eyes watching, too many expectations pressing—melts away as soon as his feet touch the current.
"What do you need?" he asks.
"Sänrr root," you say, showing him the pale, twisted root in your hand. "They grow deep. You have to dig."
He nods and crouches beside you, his hands disappearing into the silt. For a few moments, there's only the sound of water and the quiet focus of work.
Then Ka'ni splashes him.
Neteyam jerks upright, water dripping from his face, and stares at her in mock outrage. "Did you just—"
"You looked too serious," she says innocently.
"I was concentrating."
"You were brooding."
"I don't brood."
You snort. "You absolutely brood."
He turns to you, betrayed. "Karyu—"
"It's true," you say, grinning. "You get this look. Very intense. Very Toruk Makto's son."
"I do not—"
Ka'ni splashes him again.
This time, he's ready. He sweeps his arm through the water, sending a wave directly at her. She shrieks and stumbles backward, laughing, and then it's chaos—water flying, all three of you soaked and breathless and ridiculous.
When you finally call a truce, you're all dripping and grinning like children.
Neteyam's braids are plastered to his neck, his chest heaving, and there's a lightness in his eyes that wasn't there when he arrived. He looks young again. Unburdened.
"Come on," you say, wading toward the bank. "Let's eat before we lose the rest of the afternoon."
You spread a woven mat beneath the trees, and Ka'ni unpacks the food she'd brought—flatbread, dried meat, and a handful of the yovo berries she'd gathered. Neteyam settles beside her, close and easy, and accepts the food you offer with quiet gratitude.
"How's training?" you ask.
He shrugs, tearing off a piece of bread. "Hard. My father's been... focused. He wants me ready for anything."
"Are you?"
"I don't know." He glances at you, then away. "Sometimes I think I am. Other times I feel like I'm just... pretending."
"You're not pretending," Ka'ni says firmly. She's leaning against his shoulder, casual and comfortable. "You're the best archer I've ever seen."
"You've seen three archers."
"Still counts."
He huffs a soft laugh, and you see the tension ease from his jaw.
"You're doing well," you say quietly. "Even if it doesn't feel like it."
He nods, but doesn't speak. Just eats in silence, his gaze distant.
Ka'ni nudges him. "Want to see the new weaving pattern I learned?"
"Sure."
She pulls a half-finished bracelet from her pouch and shows him the intricate knotwork. Neteyam leans closer, studying it with genuine interest, and then—without prompting—starts helping her untangle a section she'd knotted wrong.
"Here," he murmurs, his fingers deft and careful. "Like this."
They work together, heads bent close, and you watch them with a quiet ache in your chest.
This.
This is what he needs.
Not more training. Not more expectations.
Just this—simple work, easy laughter, the freedom to be eleven years old and nothing more.
When the bracelet is finished, Ka'ni ties it around his wrist with a triumphant grin. "There. Now you have to come back."
"I was going to come back anyway," he says, but his voice is soft. Grateful.
"Good." She leans against him again, her head on his shoulder. "Because we missed you."
He glances at you, and you nod.
"We did," you say simply.
His throat works, and for a moment, you think he might cry. But he doesn't. Just wraps his arm around Ka'ni and pulls her closer.
"I missed you too," he whispers.
The three of you sit like that for a long time—sun-warmed and still damp from the stream, surrounded by the quiet sounds of the forest. No pressure. No performance. Just presence. Just peace.
And when Neteyam finally stands to leave, his movements are slower. Reluctant. "I'll come back soon," he promises.
"You'd better," Ka'ni says, poking his chest. "Or I'll come find you."
He grins. "I believe you."
You walk him to the edge of the clearing, and he pauses, turning back to face you.
"Thank you," he says quietly. "For letting me be... normal."
"You're always normal," you say, resting your hand on his shoulder. "You're always just Neteyam."
He nods, his eyes bright, and then he's gone—disappearing into the trees with the bracelet still tied around his wrist.
Ka'ni appears at your side, slipping her hand into yours.
"He's different," she says thoughtfully. "Bigger. Stronger."
"He is."
"But he's still Neteyam."
You squeeze her hand gently.
"Yes," you say. "He's still him."
And as long as he keeps coming back—
As long as this place remains his refuge—
He always will be.
12
You hear him before you see him—the familiar rhythm of his footsteps through the undergrowth, steady and sure.
Ka'ni's head snaps up from the basket she's weaving, her whole face brightening. "That's Neteyam."
It is.
He emerges from the tree line, bow slung across his back, and the moment he sees you both, something in him shifts. The tension in his shoulders melts away. The tightness around his eyes eases. His whole posture softens, like he's shedding a weight he's been carrying for too long.
"Kaltxì," he calls, and his voice is lighter than you've heard it in months.
"You're late," Ka'ni says, grinning as she sets down her weaving and stands. "We already started without you."
"Started what?"
"Everything."
He laughs—a real laugh, warm and unguarded—and crosses the clearing in a few long strides. He's twelve now, taller than you by half a head, his frame filling out with the lean muscle of a boy becoming a young man. His face has lost some of its childhood softness, his jaw more defined, his features sharper.
But when he grins at Ka'ni, he's still just a boy.
"What are you making?" he asks, crouching beside her basket.
"A mess," she admits. "The pattern keeps twisting wrong."
He picks up the half-finished weaving, turning it over in his hands with the same careful focus he brings to everything. "Here. You're crossing the wrong strand. See?"
She leans in, watching as he demonstrates, and you see the easy comfort between them—no awkwardness, no self-consciousness. Just two friends working together, heads bent close, voices low and companionable.
"Oh," Ka'ni says, understanding dawning. "I've been doing it backward this whole time."
"You have," Neteyam agrees, handing it back to her. "But it's fixable."
"Will you help?"
"If you want."
"I want."
They settle side by side, working in comfortable silence, and you return to your own task—preparing the evening meal. You've set up a small fire, and the scent of roasting hexapede fills the clearing, rich and savory.
Neteyam glances up, his nose twitching. "That smells good."
"It will be ready soon," you say. "If you're staying."
"I'm staying." He says it without hesitation, like there was never any question.
And maybe there wasn't.
This is his place. His refuge.
The place where he doesn't have to be Toruk Makto's son or the perfect eldest brother or the future leader of the clan.
Here, he's just Neteyam.
The three of you eat together as the sun sinks lower, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. Neteyam sits cross-legged on the woven mat, his posture relaxed, his movements easy. He tears off pieces of flatbread and passes them to Ka'ni without being asked, refills your cup before you notice it's empty, laughs at Ka'ni's terrible joke about a palulukan and a yerik.
"That doesn't even make sense," he says, grinning.
"It does if you think about it."
"I am thinking about it. It still doesn't make sense."
She throws a berry at him.
He catches it and eats it, smug.
You watch them, warmth settling in your chest. This—this easy banter, this lightness—is what he's been seeking all along. Not grand gestures or profound moments. Just the simple freedom to be himself.
To laugh without worrying if it's too loud.
To tease without worrying if it's inappropriate.
To exist without the weight of expectation pressing down on him.
"How's training?" you ask, when the laughter fades into comfortable quiet.
Neteyam shrugs, his expression thoughtful. "Hard. My father's been pushing us—me and Lo'ak both. He says we need to be ready for anything."
"Are you?"
"I don't know." He picks at the edge of the flatbread, his brow furrowing slightly. "Sometimes I think I am. Other times I feel like I'm just... going through the motions. Like I'm playing a part."
"You're not playing a part," Ka'ni says firmly. She's leaning against his shoulder now, casual and comfortable. "You're learning. That's different."
He glances at her, something soft in his eyes. "Maybe."
"Definitely."
You rest your hand on his knee, grounding him. "You're allowed to feel uncertain, Neteyam. That doesn't make you weak. It makes you honest."
His throat works, and he nods slowly. "I know. It's just—" He stops, searching for the words. "It's easier here. To be honest. To not have to pretend I have all the answers."
"You don't have to pretend anything here," you say gently. "Not ever."
He meets your eyes, and you see the gratitude there. The relief.
"I know," he whispers. "That's why I keep coming back."
Later, when the fire has burned low and the stars are beginning to emerge, Neteyam helps you clean up. He moves through the familiar tasks with practiced ease—gathering the empty bowls, rinsing them in the stream, stacking them neatly beside the fire.
Ka'ni has fallen asleep on the mat, curled on her side with one hand tucked beneath her cheek. Neteyam glances at her and smiles, soft and fond.
"She always falls asleep after eating," he murmurs.
"She does," you agree. "Every time."
He crouches beside her, carefully draping a woven blanket over her shoulders. His movements are gentle, protective—not romantic, just the instinctive care of someone who loves her as a friend. As family. When he straightens, you're standing beside him.
"Thank you," you say quietly. "For being good to her. For being good to both of us."
He shakes his head, his expression earnest. "You don't have to thank me. You've given me more than I could ever repay."
"You don't owe us anything, Neteyam."
"I know." He pauses, his gaze drifting to the fire. "But I'm grateful anyway."
You rest your hand on his shoulder, and he leans into the touch—just slightly, just enough.
"You're always welcome here," you say. "No matter what. No matter when. This is your home too."
His breath catches, and when he looks at you, his eyes are bright.
"Thank you," he whispers.
And you know he means it. Not just for the words, but for the truth behind them. For the sanctuary you've given him. For the place where he can simply be.
When Neteyam finally leaves, the night is deep and quiet. He pauses at the edge of the clearing, turning back one last time.
"I'll come back soon," he says.
"We'll be here," you reply.
He nods, his smile soft and genuine, and then he's gone—disappearing into the shadows with the same quiet grace he arrived with.
Ka'ni stirs beside you, blinking sleepily. "Did he leave?"
"He did."
"Good." She yawns, stretching. "He needed this."
"He did," you agree, pulling her close.
Because Neteyam had arrived burdened and left lighter.
He had arrived tense and left at peace.
He had arrived as Toruk Makto's son and left as just Neteyam.
13
You hear them before you see them—laughter echoing through the trees, bright and unrestrained.
Ka'ni's voice, high and breathless. "You can't catch me!"
And Neteyam's response, deeper now, edged with challenge. "Watch me."
The sound of footsteps crashing through undergrowth. A shriek of delight. More laughter, wild and free.
You smile to yourself, hands steady as you work the fibers you're weaving. The clearing is quiet around you, dappled with afternoon light, and you've grown accustomed to this—the distant sounds of their adventures, the knowledge that somewhere in the forest, Neteyam is running.
Not from something.
Just running.
They burst into view a moment later, both of them flushed and grinning, leaves caught in their hair. Ka'ni reaches the stream first and spins around, triumphant, her chest heaving.
"I won!"
"You cheated," Neteyam says, but there's no heat in it. He's smiling—a real smile, open and easy, the kind you see so rarely when he first arrives. His face has changed this past year. Sharper. The soft roundness of childhood giving way to the angles of a young man. He's taller than you now, lean and strong, his movements carrying the fluid grace of a trained hunter.
But when he looks at Ka'ni, he's still just a boy.
"I didn't cheat," she protests, pushing wet hair from her face. "You're just slow."
"I let you win."
"You did not."
"Did."
"Didn't."
You watch them bicker, warmth settling in your chest. This is what he needs—this lightness, this freedom to be ridiculous and young. To race through the forest with no purpose beyond joy. To tease and be teased without consequence.
Ka'ni splashes water at him.
He dodges, laughing, and the sound is so unguarded it makes your throat tight.
"Sa'nok!" Ka'ni calls, finally noticing you. "Tell him I won."
"You won," you say dutifully.
Neteyam shakes his head, still grinning. "Traitor."
"I speak only truth."
He crosses the clearing toward you, his breathing still quick from the run. There's a scrape on his forearm—fresh, beading with blood—and dirt smudged across his cheek. He looks wild. Unkempt. Perfectly, beautifully himself.
"You're hurt," you observe.
He glances down at his arm, dismissive. "It's nothing. Caught a branch."
"Sit."
"Karyu—"
"Sit, Neteyam."
He sits.
You retrieve the healing salve from your gathering pouch, and he extends his arm without protest. The scrape isn't deep, but you clean it carefully, your touch gentle and practiced. He watches you work, his expression soft.
"You don't have to fuss," he murmurs.
"I know."
"But you will anyway."
"I will."
His smile is small and private. "Thank you."
Ka'ni flops down beside him, still catching her breath. "We found a palulukan den," she announces. "Way up in the rocks near the waterfall."
Your hands still. "You didn't go near it."
"We're not stupid," Neteyam says quickly. "We stayed back. Just watched from the ridge."
"There were cubs," Ka'ni adds, her eyes bright. "Three of them. They were playing, just like—" She gestures between herself and Neteyam. "Just like us."
You finish binding the scrape and rest your hand on Neteyam's shoulder. Firm. Grounding. "Be careful. A mother palulukan will kill to protect her young."
"I know." His voice is quiet, serious. "We were careful. I promise."
You believe him.
Because for all his wildness today, for all the laughter and recklessness, Neteyam is never careless. Not really. He's been trained too well, carries too much responsibility even here, even when he's trying to forget it.
"Good," you say simply.
They stay a while longer, talking over each other as they recount their adventure—the climb, the view, the way the cubs tumbled over each other in the sun. You listen, asking questions, letting them relive it. Ka'ni's hands move constantly as she speaks, painting pictures in the air. Neteyam leans back on his palms, relaxed and easy, his gaze drifting between her and the trees beyond.
Eventually, Ka'ni stands, stretching. "I'm going to gather sari blossoms before the light fades. You coming?"
Neteyam glances at you.
You see the question in his eyes. The hesitation.
"Go," you say gently. "I'll be here."
He nods, but doesn't move immediately. Just looks at you for a long moment, something unspoken passing between you.
Then he rises, brushing dirt from his legs, and follows Ka'ni into the forest.
He comes back alone as the sun begins to set.
You're preparing the evening meal when you hear his footsteps—slower now, quieter. Deliberate. He emerges from the tree line and crosses to where you're working, settling beside you without a word.
The shift is immediate.
The wildness fades. The laughter dims. He's still Neteyam, but this version is different—softer, more vulnerable. The version that needs sanctuary, not adventure.
"Ka'ni?" you ask.
"She said she was tired and to tell you she was going to bed."
You nod, slicing teylu root with practiced efficiency. Neteyam picks up a second blade and begins helping, his movements automatic. You work in comfortable silence, the rhythm familiar and soothing.
After a while, he speaks.
"My father's been pushing harder," he says quietly. "More drills. Longer hunts. He says I need to be ready."
"Ready for what?"
"I don't know." His jaw tightens. "Everything. Anything. He doesn't say it, but I can feel it—he's preparing for something. Like he knows something's coming."
You set down your blade and turn to face him fully. "And you?"
"I'm tired." The admission comes soft, almost ashamed. "I know I shouldn't be. I know I need to be strong, need to be ready, but—" He stops, his throat working. "Sometimes I just want to run through the forest and not think about what I'm training for."
"You're allowed to be tired, Neteyam."
"Am I?" He looks at you, and his eyes are too old for thirteen. "Because it doesn't feel like it. It feels like if I stop, if I let myself rest for even a moment, everything will fall apart."
You reach for his hand, covering it with yours. His fingers are long now, callused from bow and blade, but they curl around yours with the same desperate trust they always have.
"You came here," you say simply. "That's resting. That's letting yourself stop."
"Only because you let me."
"I will always let you."
His breath shudders, and he closes his eyes. For a moment, he's six years old again—small and lost and looking for somewhere safe to land.
Then he opens his eyes, and he's thirteen.
Growing.
Changing.
But still yours.
"Thank you," he whispers.
You pull him close, and he comes without resistance, tucking his head against your shoulder the way he used to when he was small. He's too tall for it now, has to fold himself down to fit, but he does it anyway.
And you hold him.
The way you always have.
The way you always will.
14
The pattern continues.
Neteyam comes when he can—less often now, his duties pulling him away for longer stretches. But when he does come, it's the same. He and Ka'ni disappear into the forest, and you hear their laughter echoing through the trees. They climb. They run. They explore the hidden places only the young and fearless dare to go.
And then he comes back to you.
Always.
You're grinding pxorna seeds when he arrives this time, the late afternoon sun slanting golden through the leaves. He's fourteen now, and the changes are unmistakable. Taller. Broader through the shoulders. His face has lost the last softness of boyhood, his features settling into the strong, clean lines of his father's people.
But his eyes—
His eyes are still the same.
"Kaltxì," he says, and his voice has deepened too, no longer the clear tone of childhood but something richer, rougher.
"Kaltxì, Neteyam." You gesture to the mat beside you. "Sit. You look exhausted."
He does. There are shadows beneath his eyes, tension in the set of his jaw. He sinks down beside you with a quiet sigh, his shoulders dropping as if released from some invisible weight.
"Long week?" you ask.
"Long month." He scrubs a hand over his face. "My father's been running us through combat drills. Over and over. Lo'ak keeps messing up, and I keep having to cover for him, and—" He stops, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter."
"It matters to you."
"It shouldn't."
You set aside your work and turn to face him fully. "Where's Ka'ni?"
"Helping her grandmother with the evening meal. She said she'd come by later if she could." He pauses. "I wanted to see you first."
The admission settles between you, quiet and honest.
"I'm glad you're here," you say simply.
He nods, some of the tension easing from his frame. You return to grinding the seeds, and after a moment, he picks up a second stone and begins helping. The rhythm is meditative—the soft scrape of stone on stone, the familiar motions, the companionable silence.
"I saw a toruk yesterday," he says eventually. "Flying over the mountains."
"Did you?"
"It was far away. Just a shadow against the clouds. But I knew what it was." He's quiet for a moment. "My father rode one once. Did you know that?"
"Everyone knows that."
"Right." He huffs a soft, humorless laugh. "Of course they do. Toruk Makto. The legend." His hands still. "Sometimes I wonder if that's all I'll ever be. The son of the legend. Not Neteyam. Just... his shadow."
Your chest tightens.
"You are not a shadow," you say firmly. "You are yourself. Fully. Completely."
"Here, maybe." He looks at you, and there's something raw in his expression. "But out there? In the clan? I don't know who I am anymore. I don't know if I ever did."
You set down your grinding stone and reach for him, cupping his face in your hands the way you did when he was small. He's too big for it now, but he leans into the touch anyway, his eyes closing.
"You are Neteyam," you say quietly. "You are strong and kind and brave. You are a good brother, a good son, a good friend. You are more than your father's legacy. You are your own person, with your own heart, your own path."
His throat works. "I don't feel like it."
"I know. But it's true anyway."
He opens his eyes, and they're wet.
"I don't know what I'd do without you," he whispers.
"You'll never have to find out."
He nods, slow and careful, and you release him gently. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, embarrassed, but you pretend not to notice. Just return to your work, giving him space to collect himself.
After a while, he speaks again.
"Ka'ni's getting good with a bow," he says, his voice steadier now. "Really good. She hit three targets in a row yesterday. Dead center."
"She's been practicing."
"I know. She's—" He pauses, searching for words. "She's fearless. She doesn't second-guess herself the way I do. She just... does things. It's amazing."
You smile. "She learned that from you."
"From me?"
"You showed her what it looks like to be brave. To keep going even when you're afraid."
He's quiet for a long moment, turning that over.
"I'm not brave," he says finally. "I'm just... trying not to disappoint anyone."
"That's what bravery is, Neteyam. Doing what needs to be done even when you're terrified. Even when you don't feel strong enough."
He looks at you, something shifting in his expression. Understanding, maybe. Or hope.
"Thank you," he says softly.
"Always."
Ka'ni arrives as the light begins to fade, breathless and grinning. "Sorry I'm late. Grandmother wouldn't stop talking."
Neteyam's whole face transforms when he sees her—the weariness lifting, replaced by something lighter. "It's fine. I was just helping your sa'nok."
"Helping or hiding?"
"Both."
She laughs and drops down beside him, easy and comfortable. They fall into conversation—light, teasing, the kind of talk that requires no effort. You listen as you finish preparing the meal, watching the way they move around each other. Natural. Unforced.
Friends.
The best kind.
When the meal is ready, the three of you eat together, and Neteyam is more relaxed than he's been all day. He jokes with Ka'ni, helps you clean up without being asked, settles into the rhythm of your small family like he's always belonged here.
Because he has.
And when he finally leaves, the night deep and quiet around him, he pauses at the edge of the clearing.
"I'll come back," he says.
"I know," you reply.
He smiles—small and genuine—and then he's gone.
But you know the truth.
No matter how much he grows, no matter how much changes—
He will always come back.
Because this is his sanctuary.
His refuge.
His home.
And you—
You will always be here.
Waiting.
Ready.
Holding space for the boy who needs somewhere safe to land.
For as long as he needs it.
For as long as he comes back.
15
The morning of his Iknimaya, Neteyam arrives before dawn.
You're awake already—have been for hours, unable to sleep with the knowledge of what today means. What he's about to attempt. The youngest in the clan's history to face the climb, to claim an ikran, to prove himself worthy of the sky.
Fifteen years old.
Still so young.
He stands at the edge of the clearing, silhouetted against the pre-dawn gray, and even from here you can see the tension in his shoulders. The way he holds himself too still, too controlled, like he's afraid that if he moves wrong, something inside him will shatter.
"Neteyam," you say quietly.
He turns, and his face—
Eywa, his face.
He's terrified.
"I couldn't sleep," he says, his voice rough. "I tried, but I kept thinking about the climb, about what happens if I—" He stops, his jaw clenching. "My father says I'm ready. That I've trained harder than anyone. That I'll succeed."
"But you don't believe him."
"I don't know what I believe." He crosses to you, his movements jerky and uncertain. "What if I'm not ready? What if I fall? What if I choose wrong and the ikran—" His breath catches. "What if I fail him?"
You set aside the herbs you've been grinding and reach for him, pulling him down to sit beside you. He comes without resistance, folding himself onto the mat like a child seeking comfort. His hands are shaking.
"You won't fail," you say firmly.
"You don't know that."
"I know you." You cup his face in your hands, forcing him to meet your eyes. "I know your strength. Your courage. Your heart. You are ready for this, Neteyam. You have always been ready."
His throat works. "I'm scared."
"Good. Fear will keep you sharp. Keep you careful." You brush your thumb across his cheekbone, feeling the tension thrumming beneath his skin. "But don't let it control you. Trust yourself. Trust your training. And when you stand before your ikran, trust that Eywa has already chosen your path."
He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch. "What if it's not enough?"
"It will be."
"How do you know?"
"Because you are enough, Neteyam. Just as you are. Not because of your father's legacy. Not because of what the clan expects. Because of who you are—brave and strong and true. That is what your ikran will see. That is what will call them to you."
His breath shudders out, and for a moment he just sits there, letting you hold him. Letting himself be held.
Then Ka'ni's voice cuts through the quiet, bright and sleep-rough. "You're here early."
She emerges from the dwelling, rubbing her eyes, her hair wild from sleep. When she sees Neteyam, her expression softens immediately.
"Couldn't sleep?" she asks.
"No."
She crosses to him and drops down on his other side, close enough that their shoulders touch. "Me neither. Kept thinking about you up there on the rocks, trying not to fall."
"That's not helping," he mutters, but there's no heat in it.
"I'm not trying to help. I'm trying to distract you." She nudges him with her elbow. "Remember when we climbed to the waterfall last month and you slipped on that wet stone?"
"I didn't slip. I was testing my footing."
"You slipped," she says, grinning. "And you grabbed onto that vine so hard I thought you were going to pull the whole tree down."
"I was being cautious."
"You were panicking."
"I was not—"
"You absolutely were." She leans against him, easy and familiar. "But you didn't fall. You caught yourself, found your balance, and kept climbing. Just like you'll do today."
He's quiet for a moment, and you watch something shift in his expression. The fear doesn't disappear, but it settles—becomes something he can carry instead of something that carries him.
"Thank you," he says softly.
Ka'ni just smiles and rests her head on his shoulder.
The three of you sit together as the sky begins to lighten, and you prepare a small meal—nothing heavy, just enough to ground him. Neteyam eats mechanically, his mind clearly elsewhere, but Ka'ni keeps up a steady stream of chatter, pulling him back whenever he drifts too far into his own head.
You watch them together—the way she touches his arm when she speaks, the way he leans into her without seeming to realize it. The way they've grown around each other, roots intertwining, becoming something stronger than either could be alone.
Friends.
But something more, too.
Something neither of them has named yet.
When it's time for him to leave, he stands slowly, reluctance in every line of his body.
"I should go," he says. "My father will be waiting."
"You'll be magnificent," you tell him.
He nods, but his hands are shaking again.
Ka'ni steps forward and takes both his hands in hers, squeezing tight. "Don't die," she says, her voice fierce. "Because if you do, I'll be really mad at you."
He huffs a soft laugh. "I'll try not to."
"Good."
She holds his gaze for a long moment, something passing between them that you can't quite name. Then she releases his hands and steps back.
Neteyam looks at you one last time.
"I'll come back," he says.
"I know," you reply.
And then he's gone, disappearing into the forest as the sun breaks over the mountains.
The day stretches endless.
You try to work—gathering, weaving, preparing food—but your hands are restless and your mind won't settle. Ka'ni is worse, pacing the clearing like a caged palulukan, her anxiety a living thing.
"He's fine," you tell her for the tenth time.
"You don't know that."
"I know Neteyam."
"What if he's not fine? What if something went wrong? What if—"
"Ka'ni." You catch her hand, pulling her to a stop. "He is strong. He is ready. And he will return to us."
She nods, but her eyes are too bright.
You pull her close, and she buries her face in your shoulder, her breath coming quick and shallow.
"I can't lose him," she whispers.
"You won't."
"But what if—"
"You won't."
She clings to you, and you hold her, this daughter of yours who has grown to love the boy who found refuge in your home. Who has become his anchor just as you have. Who needs him just as much as he needs her.
The sun climbs higher.
And you wait.
He returns as the light begins to fade, and you hear the ululation before you see him—the clan's victory cry echoing through the trees.
Ka'ni's head snaps up. "Is that—"
"Yes."
She's running before you can say anything else, crashing through the undergrowth toward the sound. You follow more slowly, your heart pounding, and when you break through the tree line, you see him.
Neteyam.
Alive.
Triumphant.
Surrounded by warriors and clan members, his face flushed with exertion and joy, his eyes bright. There's a cut on his cheek, scrapes on his arms, dirt smudged across his chest—but he's whole. He's safe.
He's done it.
Ka'ni reaches him first, throwing herself at him with enough force that he staggers back, laughing. He catches her easily, his arms coming around her waist, lifting her off her feet as she clings to him.
"You did it," she says, her voice muffled against his shoulder. "You actually did it."
"I told you I would."
"You told me you'd try not to die. That's different."
He sets her down but doesn't let go, his hands lingering on her waist. She doesn't step back. Just looks up at him, her eyes shining, and something passes between them—something warm and unspoken and new.
Then his gaze finds you over her shoulder, and his whole face transforms.
He releases Ka'ni and crosses to you, and you open your arms without hesitation. He folds into your embrace, taller than you now, broader, but still fitting against you like he was made to be held this way.
"I did it," he whispers against your hair. "I really did it."
"I knew you would."
"I was so scared."
"I know."
"But I remembered what you said. About trusting myself. About being enough." His voice cracks. "And when I stood there, when I called to them—she came. My ikran. She chose me."
You pull back just enough to see his face, and your throat tightens at the wonder in his eyes.
"What's her name?" you ask.
"I haven't decided yet. But she's—" He stops, searching for words. "She's perfect. Wild and fierce and strong. When we flew together for the first time, I felt—" He shakes his head. "I felt free."
"You are free, Neteyam. You've earned it."
He nods, slow and careful, like he's trying to believe it.
The celebration continues around you—warriors clapping him on the back, younger children staring at him with awe, his father watching from a distance with something that might be pride. But Neteyam stays close to you, his hand finding yours, holding tight.
Ka'ni appears at his other side, and he reaches for her too, pulling her close. The three of you stand together as the clan celebrates, and you feel the rightness of it—this boy who found sanctuary in your home, this daughter who has grown to love him, this family you've built from quiet moments and shared meals and unconditional acceptance.
Later, when the celebration has died down and the clan begins to disperse, Neteyam walks with you back to your dwelling. Ka'ni trails behind, giving you space, but close enough that you can hear her humming softly to herself.
"My father wants me to complete my dream hunt within the next few months," Neteyam says quietly. "To finish my passage into adulthood."
"And then you'll be a man."
"Technically." He glances at you, something uncertain in his expression. "But I don't feel like one. I still feel like—" He stops. "Like I need this. Need you. Is that wrong?"
"No, Neteyam. It's not wrong to need sanctuary. It's not wrong to need somewhere safe to rest." You squeeze his hand. "You will always have a place here. Always. No matter how old you are, no matter what you've accomplished. This will always be your home."
His breath shudders out, relief and gratitude and something deeper flooding his expression.
"Thank you," he whispers.
"Always."
The months that follow are strange and wonderful.
Neteyam comes when he can, though his duties pull him away more often now. He's a full hunter, a warrior, someone the clan looks to with respect and expectation. But when he arrives at your dwelling, the weight of it falls away.
He and Ka'ni have grown closer—you see it in the way they move around each other, the way their touches linger just a moment too long. The way they find excuses to be near each other, to brush shoulders or tangle fingers or lean close when they speak.
They don't name it.
Neither of them seems ready to.
But it's there, simmering beneath the surface, growing stronger with each visit.
One evening, you're preparing the evening meal when they return from the forest, both of them flushed and laughing. Ka'ni's hair is full of leaves, and there's a smudge of dirt on Neteyam's jaw.
"What did you two do?" you ask, amused.
"Climbed the old tsyorina tree," Ka'ni says, grinning. "All the way to the top."
"It was her idea," Neteyam adds quickly.
"It was a good idea."
"It was a reckless idea."
"You loved it."
He doesn't argue, just shakes his head, smiling. But when Ka'ni reaches up to brush the leaves from his hair, his breath catches. His eyes track her movements, and for a moment, everything goes still.
She notices.
Her hand freezes, and she looks up at him, something shifting in her expression. Awareness. Recognition.
Then she drops her hand and steps back, her cheeks flushing.
"I should—I'll get water," she says quickly, and disappears toward the stream.
Neteyam watches her go, his expression dazed.
You say nothing.
Just return to your work, giving him space to process whatever just happened.
After a moment, he crosses to you and sits, his movements slow and uncertain.
"Karyu," he says quietly.
"Yes?"
"I—" He stops, his jaw working. "I think I—" He stops again, frustrated. "Ka'ni is—"
"I know," you say gently.
He looks at you, his eyes wide. "You do?"
"I've watched you grow together, Neteyam. I've seen the way you look at her. The way she looks at you." You rest your hand on his shoulder. "It's natural. It's good."
"But I don't—I'm not—" He scrubs a hand over his face. "I don't know what to do."
"You don't have to do anything. Not yet. Just let it be what it is. Let it grow in its own time."
He nods, but his hands are shaking.
"I'm scared," he admits.
"Of what?"
"Of losing her. Of ruining this. Of—" He stops, his throat working. "Of not being enough."
Your chest tightens.
"Neteyam," you say firmly. "You are enough. You have always been enough. And Ka'ni—she sees you. All of you. Not the warrior, not Toruk Makto's son. Just you. And she loves what she sees."
His breath catches. "You think so?"
"I know so."
He's quiet for a long moment, turning that over.
Then Ka'ni returns, and the moment passes. But something has shifted—something fragile and new and precious.
And you watch it grow.
His dream hunt comes on a cold morning, the sky heavy with clouds.
He arrives at your dwelling before dawn, his face set with determination but his eyes shadowed with exhaustion. He's been preparing for weeks—fasting, meditating, seeking guidance from the elders. But the weight of it shows in every line of his body.
"I'm ready," he says, but his voice wavers.
You pull him inside, and Ka'ni is already awake, waiting. She crosses to him immediately, taking his hands in hers.
"You'll be amazing," she says fiercely.
"I hope so."
"You will be." She squeezes his hands. "And when you come back, we'll celebrate. Just the three of us."
He nods, and something passes between them—something warm and unspoken.
Then he looks at you.
"Will you bless me?" he asks quietly.
You step forward and rest your hand on his chest, over his heart. It's racing beneath your palm, quick and desperate.
"May Eywa guide your path," you say softly. "May she show you what you need to see. May she bring you home safely to those who love you."
His eyes close, and he takes a shuddering breath.
"Thank you," he whispers.
And then he's gone.
He returns three days later, exhausted and triumphant.
The clan celebrates his second birth with ceremony and song, marking his passage into adulthood. He's painted with the symbols of a hunter, a warrior, a man. He stands tall and proud before the people, and when his father places a hand on his shoulder, there's genuine pride in Jake Sully's eyes.
But when the ceremony ends, when the celebration begins to wind down—
He comes to you.
You're waiting at the edge of the gathering, Ka'ni beside you, and when he sees you, his whole face transforms. He crosses to you without hesitation, and you open your arms.
He's too big for this now, too tall, too broad—but he folds into your embrace anyway, his head dropping to your shoulder, his breath shuddering out.
"I did it," he whispers.
"I'm so proud of you."
"I saw her. Eywa. I saw—" His voice breaks. "I saw everything. Who I am. Who I'm meant to be. And I—" He pulls back, his eyes wet. "I'm not my father. I'm not his shadow. I'm just—I'm just me."
"Yes," you say, your throat tight. "You are."
He nods, slow and careful, and then Ka'ni is there, wrapping her arms around him from the side. He turns to her, and she looks up at him with shining eyes.
"You're a man now," she says softly.
"Technically."
"Officially."
"I guess."
She smiles, and he smiles back, and the air between them is thick with something unspoken.
Then she rises on her toes and presses a kiss to his cheek—quick and light and innocent.
But his breath catches.
And when she pulls back, her cheeks are flushed.
"Congratulations," she whispers.
He just stares at her, dazed and wondering.
And you watch, your heart full, as something new begins to bloom.
Yes yes yes!!! Separate Sa’nu universe with Spider!!! It would be so cute!!! Na’vi mama with a literally tiny child strapped to her back as she climbs trees or rides her ikran!! How Neytiri treats spider makes me sad ngl but seeing the sully kids play along side spider and include him makes up for it🥹🥹🥹 this is the same anon that sent the last ask about part two of Sa’nu❤️ love these fluffy works about the sully family, keep up the good work
I posted it! Spider get's a mom! I so appreciate all the love that the Sa'nu stories are getting!
You stay behind on Pandora when everyone else leaves. A four-year-old boy reaches for your hand, and you don't let go. Over the years, through pigment-stained fingers and midnight fevers, through questions about his father and the ordinary miracle of belonging, you become his mother—not through paperwork, but through presence. This is the story of how you build a family, one small act of love at a time. This is the story of choosing to stay.
Age 4
The mask fits this time.
You turn it over in your hands, checking the seals one more time even though you've already checked them twice. The previous masks were always borrowed—too big, straps sliding down Spider's small face, the seal never quite right. Makeshift solutions for a child who shouldn't exist here, who exists anyway. But this one was made for him. Specifically for him. Max spent three weeks in the workshop getting the measurements right, adjusting the filtration system for a four-year-old's lung capacity, making sure the weight distribution wouldn't hurt his neck.
Spider sits on the equipment room bench, unusually still. His legs dangle, not quite reaching the floor, and his hands are folded in his lap like he's trying to be good, trying to be patient. He's watching you with those wide dark eyes, serious in a way that makes your chest ache. He knows this matters. He's known for weeks, ever since you told him you were getting him his own mask, that you were going to take him outside.
Outside. The word has lived in his imagination for so long it's become mythical.
"Okay, baby," you say, kneeling in front of him so you're at eye level. "Let's try it on."
He nods, solemn as a judge.
You lift the mask carefully, showing him the inside. "See this part? This is where the air comes through. It's going to feel a little weird at first, but it's just the filter working. You're going to hear it—kind of a soft hiss. That's normal. That's good."
"Okay," Spider whispers.
"And these straps—" You touch them gently. "—they need to be snug, but not tight. If anything hurts, you tell me right away. Deal?"
"Deal."
You position the mask over his face, and he holds perfectly still, barely breathing. His trust is absolute and terrifying. You adjust the lower seal first, making sure it sits flush against his jaw, then the upper seal across his cheekbones. Your fingers are steady even though your heart is hammering. If this doesn't work—if the seal fails, if the filtration isn't right, if something goes wrong—
But you don't let yourself think that way. You focus on the task. Left strap, right strap, checking the tension. The back of his head is so small under your hands.
"How does that feel?" you ask. "Too tight anywhere?"
Spider shakes his head carefully, testing the range of motion. "It's okay."
"Can you breathe? Take a deep breath for me."
He inhales, and you watch the filter engage—that soft hiss he was expecting. His eyes widen slightly, but he doesn't panic. He breathes out. Breathes in again. The seal holds. The filter cycles. Everything is working exactly as it should.
"Good," you say, and your voice comes out rougher than you intended. "That's really good, Spider."
He reaches up to touch the mask, curious, and you catch his hands gently. "Try not to mess with it too much once we're outside, okay? If something feels wrong, you come to me and I'll fix it. But don't pull on the straps yourself."
"Okay." His voice is slightly muffled now, filtered through the mask, but clear enough. He sounds like himself. He sounds safe.
You stand, offering your hand. "Ready?"
He takes it immediately, sliding off the bench. His grip is tight, sweaty already even though you haven't left the equipment room. You can feel his pulse through his palm—quick, excited, nervous.
The walk to the airlock is short, but Spider's steps are careful, measured. He's hyperaware of the mask, the weight of it, the way it changes his breathing. You keep your pace slow, letting him adjust. A few people pass you in the corridor—scientists, mechanics, the usual Hell's Gate personnel—and they glance at Spider with his new mask, at you holding his hand, but no one stops you. Everyone knows where you're going. Everyone knows what this means.
The airlock door is massive, industrial, designed for equipment and vehicles. There's a smaller personnel door set into it, and that's the one you key open. The transition chamber beyond is small, just big enough for two people, all metal and rubber seals and warning labels.
Spider stops at the threshold.
"It's okay," you say quietly. "I'm right here."
He looks up at you, then back at the chamber, then up at you again. You can see the war in his expression—want and fear, courage and hesitation. He's four years old and he's about to step into an alien world that could kill him if his mask fails. He's four years old and he's been dreaming of this moment his entire short life.
You squeeze his hand. "We can wait. We can do this tomorrow, or next week, or whenever you're ready."
"No." His voice is small but firm. "I wanna go. I'm ready."
"Okay. Then let's go."
You step into the chamber together, and the door hisses shut behind you. The space is tight, close. Spider presses against your leg, and you rest your free hand on his shoulder, steady and sure. The pressurization sequence begins—that deep mechanical hum, the slight change in air density that makes your ears pop. Spider's grip on your hand becomes almost painful.
You kneel down, bringing yourself to his level again. "You're doing great. Just a few more seconds."
His eyes are locked on yours through both your masks—his new one, your familiar one. You've worn yours so many times it's like a second skin, but for him this is all new, all strange. You smile at him, even though he might not be able to see it clearly through the mask. You make your voice warm, certain.
"I've got you."
The outer door unlocks with a heavy clunk. The seal breaks. And then it slides open, and Pandora pours in.
Spider freezes.
You understand why. You remember your first time, years ago—the way the scale of everything hit you like a physical force. But you've had time to adjust, to acclimate. Spider has lived his entire life inside Hell's Gate's metal walls, in rooms with ceilings, in corridors with artificial light. The forest beyond the airlock is vast and alive and utterly overwhelming.
Golden light filters through a canopy so high it might as well be the sky. Massive trees—each one thick enough that it would take twenty people holding hands to circle the trunk—rise like pillars holding up the world. Vines cascade down in curtains of green. The ground is covered in moss, in ferns, in plants that have no Earth names. Everything is big. Everything is alive.
Spider doesn't move. He just stares, his small body rigid with sensory overload.
You don't rush him. You kneel beside him at the threshold, one hand still holding his, and you wait. You let him look. You let him process. This is his moment, his discovery, and he needs to take it at his own pace.
"It's so big," he whispers finally.
"Yeah," you agree. "It really is."
"And it's all... it's all real?"
"Every bit of it."
He takes one step forward. Then another. His feet touch Pandoran soil for the first time—real soil, not the packed earth of Hell's Gate's sad little garden plots, but actual forest floor, soft with moss and fallen leaves. He stops again, looking down at his feet like he can't quite believe they're holding him up.
Then he looks at you, and his face—what you can see of it around the mask—is transformed. Pure wonder. Pure joy.
"I'm outside," he says, like he's testing the words, making them real.
"You're outside."
And then he's running.
It's not graceful—he's four, and the mask is new, and the ground is uneven. He stumbles over roots, catches himself, keeps going. He touches everything. His hands fly out to brush against bark, to grab at hanging vines, to press into moss. He laughs, high and bright and utterly uninhibited, and the sound echoes through the forest like music.
You follow at a distance, close enough to catch him if he falls, far enough to let him explore. Your heart is so full it hurts. This child—this small, determined, beautiful child—has been living in a box, and you just opened the door. You just gave him the world.
He finds a tree with bark that's deeply textured, ridged and rough, and he stops to really feel it. Both hands pressed flat against the trunk, his head tilted back to try to see the top. It's impossible—the tree disappears into the canopy far above—but he tries anyway.
"It's warm," he calls back to you, delighted by this discovery.
"The sun's been on it all morning," you say, moving closer. "Feel how the other side is cooler?"
He runs around the trunk, testing, comparing. "Yeah! This side is cold!"
Not cold, you think. Cool. But you don't correct him. He's learning the world through touch, through direct experience, and that's worth more than precise vocabulary.
He moves on, drawn by color—a patch of purple flowers growing low to the ground. He crouches beside them, careful not to crush them, and reaches out one finger to touch a petal. It's soft. He pets it like it's alive, like it might respond to gentleness.
"Can I pick one?" he asks, looking back at you.
"Just one. And be gentle."
He is. He's so careful it makes your throat tight. He pinches the stem between his thumb and forefinger and pulls slowly until it separates. The flower comes away intact, perfect, and he holds it up to examine it in the light. Purple petals, yellow center, delicate as tissue paper.
"It's pretty," he says.
"It is."
He tucks it carefully into the pocket of his shorts—a treasure, a prize, proof that this is real.
The exploration continues. He finds a fallen log covered in moss and climbs on top of it, wobbling, arms out for balance. You stay close, ready to catch him, but he makes it across on his own and jumps down the other side with a triumphant shout. He finds a smooth stone and puts it in his other pocket. He discovers that some of the leaves are fuzzy and some are waxy and some are thin enough to see light through.
And then he finds the bioluminescent fungi.
They're growing in a shadowed hollow where a tree root has created a small cave. In the dimness, they glow—soft blue-green, pulsing gently like they're breathing. Spider goes very still when he sees them. He approaches slowly, almost reverent, and kneels in the dirt.
"What is it?" he whispers.
You kneel beside him. "Bioluminescent fungi. They make their own light."
"Magic," he breathes.
"Bioluminescence," you correct gently. "But yeah. It's pretty magical."
He reaches out, hesitates, looks at you for permission. You nod. He touches one with the tip of his finger, and it glows brighter under the pressure, the light spreading out in a ripple. His face—lit from below by that ethereal blue-green glow, his eyes wide with wonder, his mouth open in a small 'o' of amazement—is the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.
"Did you see?" he asks, turning to you urgently. "Did you see it glow?"
"I saw."
"Can I touch it again?"
"Gentle touches. Don't hurt it."
He touches it again, and again, watching the light pulse and spread. He's completely absorbed, completely present in this moment of discovery. You watch him, and you feel something settle in your chest—something that's been restless and uncertain for months now, maybe longer. This is right. This child, this moment, this choice to show him the world—it's all right.
Eventually, he sits back on his heels, satisfied. "I wish I could take it with me."
"It wouldn't glow inside Hell's Gate. It needs the forest."
He considers this seriously. "Then I'll just have to come back and visit it."
"Yeah," you say softly. "You will."
He stands, brushing dirt off his knees, and starts to wander again. But this time he's looking, really looking—not just at what's in front of him, but at everything. The way light moves through leaves. The patterns of shadow on the ground. The colors, the textures, the endless variety of life.
He stops beside a plant with broad, flat leaves—nothing special, nothing remarkable. Just a plant. But he studies it like it's precious, and then he carefully plucks one leaf from the stem. He turns it over in his hands, examining both sides, running his finger along the veins.
Then he walks back to you and holds it out.
"For you," he says simply.
Your breath catches. It's just a leaf. Green, oval-shaped, slightly waxy. Utterly ordinary. But the way he's offering it—both hands, like it's treasure, like it's the most valuable thing he's ever held—makes it sacred.
You take it carefully, cradling it in your palm. "Thank you, baby. I'll keep it safe."
He beams at you, and then he's off again, drawn by something else, some new discovery. But you stay where you are for a moment, looking down at the leaf in your hand. It's still alive, still green, the veins still carrying water. He gave you a piece of Pandora. He gave you a piece of his joy.
You tuck it carefully into your own pocket, next to your heart.
The exploration continues for another half hour, maybe forty-five minutes. You don't push him to go farther from Hell's Gate—this first trip is about acclimation, about building confidence, not about distance. He finds more stones, more leaves, a feather from some bird you can't identify. His pockets are bulging. His mask is still sealed perfectly. His breathing is steady and strong.
But you can see him starting to tire. The initial adrenaline is wearing off, and he's just a small child who's been running and climbing and experiencing more sensory input in an hour than he usually gets in a week. His steps are getting less sure. His laughter is quieter.
"Hey, Spider," you call gently. "You getting hungry?"
He stops, considers. "Maybe."
"Want to head back? We can come out again tomorrow."
You see the conflict on his face—he doesn't want to leave, doesn't want this to end. But he's also tired, and he trusts you when you say you can come back.
"Okay," he agrees finally. "But we're coming back tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," you promise. "And the day after that, and the day after that. As many times as you want."
He takes your hand again, and you walk back toward Hell's Gate together. He keeps turning around, looking back at the forest, like he's afraid it might disappear if he's not watching. You understand. You remember that feeling—the fear that Pandora was too beautiful to be real, too vast to be trusted.
The airlock cycle feels longer on the way back in. Spider is quiet, processing, his hand loose in yours now instead of tight with nerves. When the inner door opens and you step back into Hell's Gate's familiar corridors, the change is jarring. The air smells wrong—recycled, metallic, dead. The light is flat and artificial. The walls are close.
Spider pulls his mask off as soon as you're clear of the airlock, and you help him with the straps, careful and methodical. His hair is sweaty underneath, plastered to his forehead, and his face is flushed. But his eyes are bright, alive in a way you've never seen before.
"That was..." he starts, then stops, searching for words big enough. "That was the best day ever."
You smooth his hair back from his forehead, smiling. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." He's emphatic, certain. "Can we really go again tomorrow?"
"We really can."
"And I can bring Lo'ak? Can I show him the glowing mushrooms?"
"We'll see. Maybe in a few days, once you're more comfortable with the mask."
He accepts this, already planning, already imagining. You walk him back to your quarters, and he chatters the whole way—about the tree bark, about the purple flower, about the way the moss felt under his feet. He's processing out loud, cementing the memories, making them permanent.
By the time you get him cleaned up and fed, he's fading fast. The exhaustion is hitting him all at once. You tuck him into his small bed—the one you set up in the corner of your quarters months ago, when it became clear he was spending more nights here than in the children's dormitory—and he's asleep almost before his head hits the pillow.
But he's clutching something. You look closer and see it's the leaf—the one he gave you, the one you accepted like treasure. You must have given it back to him at some point, though you don't remember doing it. Or maybe he took it from your pocket while you weren't looking. Either way, he's holding it now, his fingers curled gently around the stem.
You watch him sleep for a moment, this small child who's claimed you as surely as you've claimed him. His face is peaceful, his breathing deep and even. He's dreaming, probably—dreaming of forests and light and endless green.
You turn off the light and leave him to his dreams.
In the morning, you wake before he does. You move quietly through your quarters, making coffee, checking the day's schedule. When you glance over at Spider's bed, you expect to see him still asleep, the leaf probably crushed in his fist or fallen to the floor.
But he's awake. Sitting up in bed, very still, very focused. And the leaf—the leaf is on the small table beside his bed, positioned carefully where he can see it first thing. Not crushed. Not forgotten. Placed with intention, with care.
He sees you watching and smiles, shy and pleased with himself.
You smile back, your heart full.
He's already building a collection, you realize. He doesn't know it yet—doesn't know that this is the first of hundreds of treasures he'll gather, doesn't know that his love language is gifts, is bringing you pieces of the world he loves. But you know. You see it beginning.
And you understand, with sudden clarity, that this is just the beginning. Yesterday you opened a door. Today, tomorrow, all the days after—you're going to keep opening doors. You're going to show him everything. You're going to give him the whole world, piece by piece, and he's going to give it back to you transformed into treasure.
This is what motherhood looks like, you think. Not biology. Not paperwork. Just this: presence, witness, care. Just showing up, day after day, and saying yes, you can explore and yes, I'll keep you safe and yes, that leaf is beautiful, thank you for sharing it with me.
Just love. Just choice. Just being here.
Spider catches you looking at the leaf and his smile widens. "I'm keeping it," he announces. "Forever."
"Good," you say. "That sounds like a good plan."
And you mean it. Keep it forever, baby. Keep all of it—the leaf, the purple flower, the smooth stone, every piece of wonder you find. Build your collection. Build your world. I'll be right here, watching, helping, keeping you safe while you discover everything.
I'll be right here.
I'm not going anywhere.
Age 5
Spider's hand is sweating in yours as you approach the Sully kelku, but he doesn't let go.
You can feel his pulse through his palm—quick, nervous, rabbit-fast. He's been to the village before, dozens of times over the past year, but always with you close by, always as an observer. Today is different. Today Jake invited him specifically, told you to bring Spider by in the afternoon, that Lo'ak had been asking about "the small human boy" nonstop for days.
Your own mask hisses softly with each breath, a sound so familiar you barely notice it anymore. Spider's does the same—the two of you moving through Pandora's air like fish in water, separate from it, dependent on the technology that keeps you alive. His mask is still relatively new, just over a year old, but he's completely comfortable with it now. Doesn't fidget with the straps, doesn't complain about the weight. It's just part of him, like his hands or his feet.
The village is settling into late afternoon, that golden hour when the light turns honey-thick and warm. Cooking fires are being started. Children's voices carry from different directions—playing, arguing, laughing. The whole place smells like wood smoke and growing things and life, so different from Hell's Gate's recycled air and metal corridors.
Spider's grip tightens as the Sully home comes into view.
It's larger than some of the other kelku, woven with care and decorated with small touches that speak of family—carved figures hanging near the entrance, colorful woven mats visible through the open doorway, the organized chaos of a household with multiple children. You can hear voices inside, movement, the sounds of people living together.
Jake emerges before you reach the entrance, ducking slightly through the doorway. He sees you and smiles, warm and genuine, then his gaze drops to Spider.
"Hey, little man," he says, his voice easy. "Glad you could make it."
Spider doesn't answer, just presses closer to your leg. You rest your free hand on his shoulder, steady and sure.
"Thanks for having us," you say.
Jake waves this off. "You know you're always welcome." He means it. There's history between you—you stayed when others left, fought beside him during those early uncertain years, proved yourself trustworthy in ways that mattered. His friendship isn't given lightly, but once given, it's solid. "Lo'ak's been driving us crazy asking when Spider was coming back."
"He has?" Spider's voice is small, muffled slightly by his mask, but you hear the hope in it.
"Non-stop," Jake confirms, grinning. "Kid doesn't shut up about wanting to show you his stuff." He gestures toward the kelku. "Come on in. Neytiri's inside with the girls."
You feel Spider hesitate, his hand going damp in yours. This is the threshold. This is the moment of real vulnerability—walking into someone else's home, someone else's family, and hoping they'll make space for you.
You squeeze his hand. "I'm right here," you murmur, quiet enough that only he can hear through the masks.
He nods, takes a breath, and steps forward.
The interior of the kelku is beautiful in its functionality. Woven walls in rich ochres and deep blues—you notice the dyes immediately, your artist's eye cataloging the colors, wondering about the plants used to create them. Sleeping mats are rolled neatly along one wall. A cooking area occupies one corner, where Neytiri kneels, her hands moving with practiced efficiency as she prepares something that smells savory and unfamiliar. Two girls sit nearby—Kiri, who's close to Spider's age, and baby Tuk, who's playing with a carved wooden toy.
Neytiri looks up when you enter, and her expression is carefully neutral.
You've met her before, of course. Multiple times. But there's a difference between polite acknowledgment in passing and welcoming someone into your home. She's cordial, always, but reserved. You're human. Spider is human. Her father died because of humans, her home was destroyed by humans, and no amount of time can erase that history completely.
But Jake vouched for you. Jake trusts you. And Neytiri trusts Jake.
"Welcome," she says, her voice musical even in its formality. Her gaze moves from you to Spider, assessing. Not hostile, but not warm either. Cautious.
"Thank you for having us," you say, keeping your tone respectful. You don't try to prove anything, don't try to win her over with charm or excessive friendliness. You just exist, honest and present.
Spider is frozen beside you, his hand still locked in yours.
Kiri looks up from where she's been weaving something small and intricate. "Hi, Spider," she says, her voice gentle. "I remember you. You came to the gathering last month."
Spider nods but doesn't speak.
Before the silence can stretch too long, there's a commotion outside—running feet, something crashing, a yelp of laughter. Then Lo'ak barrels through the entrance, skidding to a stop so abruptly he nearly falls over. He's all energy and enthusiasm, his eyes bright, his grin wide.
He sees Spider and his whole face lights up.
"You came!" Lo'ak exclaims, like this is the best news he's heard all week. Then, without preamble, without any of the careful social negotiation adults require: "Wanna see my stuff?"
Spider looks up at you, uncertain. His eyes are wide behind his mask, asking permission, asking if it's okay to let go, to follow this Na'vi boy who's offering friendship like it's the simplest thing in the world.
You nod. "Go ahead, baby."
His hand loosens in yours. Slowly, carefully, he releases your fingers. The absence of his grip feels strange, your hand suddenly empty and light. He takes one step toward Lo'ak, then another, and then Lo'ak is already moving, talking rapid-fire about the bow he's making and the cool rock he found and did Spider want to see the baby viperwolf pups that were born last week?
Spider follows, his steps gaining confidence, and just like that, he's across the kelku, kneeling beside Lo'ak as the younger yet bigger boy pulls out a woven basket full of treasures.
You stand there, hand still slightly raised from where Spider released it, and feel something in your chest pull tight. He doesn't need you right now. He's okay without you. That's good. That's what you want. But it still aches a little, watching him find his footing in a world that doesn't include you at its center.
"Sit," Neytiri says, not unkindly. She gestures to a woven mat near the cooking area. "You will eat with us."
It's not quite an invitation—more like a statement of fact. But you'll take it.
You settle onto the mat, careful and respectful of the space. From here, you can see Spider and Lo'ak, heads bent together over Lo'ak's collection. Kiri has moved closer to them, curious, and she's asking Spider something you can't quite hear. Spider answers, his voice still quiet but less hesitant than before.
Neytiri returns to her work, and you watch her hands—strong, competent, moving with the kind of efficiency that comes from years of practice. She's preparing some kind of root vegetable, slicing it thin, adding it to a pot over the fire. The smell is earthy and rich.
"Can I help?" you ask.
She glances at you, surprised. Then she hands you a second knife and a root. "Cut like this," she demonstrates. "Thin."
You take the knife and the root and begin cutting. Your slices aren't as perfect as hers, but they're adequate. You work in silence for a while, the only sounds the soft thunk of knives on cutting boards, the crackle of the fire, and the children's voices across the kelku.
"He is small," Neytiri says eventually, not looking at you. "Spider."
"He is," you agree. "But he's strong."
"He will always be small. Compared to Na'vi children."
"Yes." There's no point denying it. Spider will always be different, always be other. "But Lo'ak doesn't seem to care."
Neytiri's mouth quirks, almost a smile. "Lo'ak does not care about many things he should care about." But there's affection in her voice, warm and maternal. She loves her son's wild enthusiasm even when it exasperates her.
You keep cutting, and she keeps cooking, and the silence between you becomes less stilted, more comfortable.
Across the kelku, Lo'ak is showing Spider how to string a small bow. Spider's hands are clumsy at first, too small for the task, but he's trying. Lo'ak is patient in the way children can be when they're genuinely interested in teaching something, adjusting Spider's grip, demonstrating again.
Kiri sits beside them, watching. "Do you have dreams?" she asks Spider suddenly.
Spider considers this seriously. "Flying, sometimes. And the forest. And..." He trails off, shy.
"And what?" Kiri prompts gently.
"And being big," Spider admits quietly. "Like you."
Kiri tilts her head, studying him. "You don't need to be big. You're fine the way you are."
It's such a simple statement, delivered with such matter-of-fact certainty, that Spider just blinks at her. Like he's never considered that being small might be acceptable, might be enough.
You feel your throat tighten, watching this. Kiri's casual acceptance, her complete lack of judgment—it's a gift. She doesn't know how much it matters, but you do.
Neytiri is watching too. You see her gaze on her daughter, on Spider, on the way Kiri has made space for him without hesitation. Something in her expression shifts, softens incrementally.
"He is careful with them," Neytiri observes, her voice quiet. "With my children."
"He knows how important they are," you say.
"And you—you watch him closely."
"Always."
She nods, like this is the right answer. Like maybe you've passed some test you didn't know you were taking.
Jake returns from wherever he'd gone, ducking back into the kelku with an armful of something wrapped in leaves. "Got the good stuff," he announces, grinning. "Neytiri, your favorite."
Neytiri's face transforms when she looks at him—still reserved, still dignified, but warm. Deeply warm. "You went all the way to the grove?"
"For you? Always."
It's such a small moment, such a casual exchange, but it speaks of years of partnership, of love built on daily choices and small kindnesses. You look away, giving them privacy even in this communal space, and find yourself watching Spider again.
He's laughing now. Actually laughing. Lo'ak said something ridiculous—you didn't catch what—and Spider is giggling, his shoulders shaking, his mask fogging slightly with his breath. Lo'ak looks delighted by this reaction and immediately tries to make him laugh again.
The evening settles in around you. The light outside shifts from gold to amber to the first hints of bioluminescent blue. Neytiri finishes cooking, and the smell of food fills the kelku—roasted meat, the roots you helped prepare, something sweet and unfamiliar. Jake sets out woven plates, and Kiri helps distribute food while Lo'ak continues talking, his voice a constant stream of enthusiasm and ideas.
"Spider, sit here," Lo'ak commands, patting the mat between himself and Kiri. "You're with us."
Spider glances at you, checking in, and you nod. He settles between the Sully children, his small human frame dwarfed by their taller, leaner Na'vi builds, but he doesn't look out of place. He looks like he belongs.
Neytiri hands you a plate, then serves Spider, her movements careful. She gives him smaller portions, appropriate for his size, and includes a bit of everything. "Try all of it," she tells him. "If you do not like something, that is okay. But try."
"Okay," Spider says, his voice small but earnest.
You watch him navigate the meal, lifting his mask just enough to take quick bites, the motion practiced now after a year of eating outside Hell's Gate. The food is unfamiliar—textures and flavors he's never experienced—but he tries everything, just like Neytiri asked. Some things he likes. Some things make him wrinkle his nose. But he doesn't complain, doesn't refuse anything.
Lo'ak barely pauses eating to keep talking. "—and then the viperwolf pup tried to climb the tree, but it was too small, so it just hung there yelling until its mother came and got it, and it was so funny, Spider, you should have seen it—"
"Can I see them?" Spider asks. "The pups?"
"Yeah! Tomorrow! We'll go tomorrow, okay? I'll show you where they den, and maybe if we're really quiet, the mother will let us get close—"
"Lo'ak," Neytiri interjects gently. "Spider may not be able to come tomorrow."
Lo'ak's face falls. He turns to you, imploring. "But he can come back, right? Soon?"
You glance at Jake, at Neytiri. Jake is smiling, relaxed. Neytiri's expression is still reserved, but not closed. Not rejecting.
"Whenever he wants," you say carefully. "If that's okay with your parents."
Neytiri doesn't contradict this. She just nods, once, and returns to her food.
Lo'ak whoops, triumphant, and Spider's face breaks into the widest smile you've seen all evening. Kiri grins too, pleased, and reaches over to pat Spider's shoulder in a gesture of casual affection.
The meal continues, conversation flowing around you. You don't talk much—just listen, observe, exist in this space that's been opened to you and Spider. Jake asks you about work at Hell's Gate, about some equipment that needs repair. You answer, but your attention is split, most of your focus on Spider.
He's relaxed now. Really relaxed. His shoulders aren't hunched anymore. He's leaning slightly toward Lo'ak, mimicking the older boy's posture without realizing it. When Kiri asks him another question—something about what games human children play—he answers with more confidence, his voice stronger.
He's finding his place. Right here, right now, between these two Na'vi children who have decided he's worth knowing. Worth keeping.
After the meal, the children play while the adults clean up. Lo'ak and Spider and Kiri tumble outside, their voices carrying back through the entrance—laughter and mock arguments and the sounds of a game you don't recognize. You help Neytiri gather plates, scrape remnants into a compost container, wipe down surfaces.
"Thank you," you say quietly. "For this. For letting him—"
"He is a child," Neytiri interrupts, her voice firm but not unkind. "Children need other children. Lo'ak needs a brother who will follow him into trouble." Her mouth quirks. "And Kiri needs someone who will listen to her questions."
"Spider's good at both those things," you say, smiling despite yourself.
"Yes." She pauses, then adds, "You are good with him. Patient."
It's not effusive praise. But coming from Neytiri, it feels significant. Like another test passed, another small measure of acceptance earned.
Jake catches your eye from across the kelku and grins, like he knows exactly what just happened.
The evening deepens. Bioluminescence begins to glow outside—plants and insects and the freckles on Na'vi skin all lighting up in that ethereal blue-green. It's beautiful, magical, and you see Spider stop mid-game to stare at Kiri's freckles as they illuminate in the dimming light.
"You're glowing," he says, awed.
Kiri laughs. "So are you. Look." She points at the plants around them, at the way everything is coming alive with light.
Spider looks down at his own arms—human, unadorned, not bioluminescent—and for a moment you see disappointment cross his face. But then Lo'ak shoves him playfully, and the moment passes, and they're running again, chasing each other through the village paths.
You watch from the kelku entrance, Neytiri beside you. She's watching too, her gaze on her children, on Spider running with them.
"He will always be different," she says quietly. "Human among Na'vi."
"I know."
"But Lo'ak has claimed him. And what Lo'ak claims, he keeps."
You look at her, and she looks back, and there's understanding in her eyes. She knows what it is to be protective, to be fierce in defense of your children. She recognizes that same fierceness in you.
"Thank you," you say again, and this time she accepts it with a small nod.
When it's finally time to leave, Lo'ak protests loudly. "But we didn't even get to the good part of the game!"
"Tomorrow," Jake says firmly. "Spider will come back tomorrow if he wants to."
"I want to," Spider says immediately, looking at you for confirmation.
"We'll see," you say, which is parent-speak for probably yes but I'm not committing right now. "Maybe in a few days."
Lo'ak groans dramatically, but he's already planning. "Okay, but when you come back, we're going to see the viperwolf pups first thing, and then I'll show you the good climbing trees, and then—"
"Lo'ak," Neytiri says, patient but firm. "Let them go."
He subsides, but he grabs Spider's hand and squeezes it. "You're my brother now," he announces, casual and certain, like he's just stating a fact. "Okay?"
Spider stares at him, speechless.
"Okay?" Lo'ak repeats, insistent.
"Okay," Spider whispers.
Kiri hugs Spider too, gentler than Lo'ak's enthusiasm but just as genuine. "I'm glad you came," she says. "Come back soon."
Jake walks you to the edge of the village, his presence a quiet escort, a signal to anyone watching that you're under his protection. Spider's hand finds yours again, but it's different now—not desperate and sweaty, but comfortable. Secure.
"He did good," Jake says as you reach the forest path that leads back to Hell's Gate.
"He did," you agree.
"Lo'ak really does think of him as a brother, you know. It's not just kid talk."
"I know." You can hear it in Lo'ak's voice, see it in the way he includes Spider without hesitation.
Jake nods, satisfied. "Then we'll see you both soon."
The walk back to Hell's Gate is quiet at first. Spider is processing, his steps automatic, his mind clearly elsewhere. You don't push him to talk. You just walk beside him, your hand in his, letting him take his time.
The forest at night is alive with sound—creatures calling, leaves rustling, the distant sound of water. Your masks hiss softly with each breath, a rhythm you're both so used to it's like silence. The bioluminescence lights your path, blue-green and magical, and Spider keeps looking around like he's seeing it all for the first time.
Finally, as Hell's Gate comes into view—ugly and industrial and home—Spider speaks.
"Lo'ak said I'm his brother."
You squeeze his hand. "I heard."
"He really meant it. Didn't he?"
"Yeah, baby. I think he really did."
Spider is quiet for a few more steps. Then: "How does that work? We're not... I mean, he's Na'vi and I'm human."
"Family isn't always about biology," you say carefully. "Sometimes it's about choice. About who you choose to love, and who chooses to love you back."
He thinks about this. "Like you and me."
Your throat goes tight. "Yeah. Like you and me."
"So Lo'ak chose me?"
"He did."
"And Kiri too?"
"Her too."
Spider's grip on your hand tightens, and when you glance down, you see his face is scrunched up like he's trying not to cry. Not sad tears—overwhelmed tears. Too much feeling, too much joy, too much belonging all at once.
You stop walking and kneel down, bringing yourself to his level. "Hey. You okay?"
He nods, but a tear escapes anyway, sliding down his cheek inside his mask. "I just... I didn't think..."
"I know."
"They really like me."
"They really do."
He throws his arms around your neck, and you hold him there in the middle of the path, this small boy who's been so hungry for acceptance, for family, for proof that he's worth keeping. You hold him and let him cry, let him feel everything he needs to feel.
When he finally pulls back, he's smiling through the tears. "Can we really go back in a few days?"
"We really can."
"And I can see the viperwolf pups?"
"If Lo'ak's mother says it's okay, yes."
He nods, satisfied, and takes your hand again. You walk the rest of the way to Hell's Gate together, and Spider talks the whole time—about Lo'ak's bow, about Kiri's questions, about the food and the kelku and the way the village sounds at night. He's processing out loud, cementing the memories, making them permanent.
By the time you get him back to your quarters, cleaned up and ready for bed, he's still talking. You tuck him in, and he's mid-sentence about something Lo'ak said when his eyes start to drift closed. He fights it for a moment, trying to finish his thought, but exhaustion wins.
He's asleep in seconds, his face peaceful, his breathing deep and even.
You sit beside his bed for a while, watching him sleep. His mask is on the small table beside him, cleaned and ready for tomorrow. His clothes are folded neatly—you'll wash them in the morning. Everything is as it should be.
But something has shifted. Something fundamental.
He's not just yours anymore. He's theirs too—Lo'ak's brother, Kiri's friend, part of the Sully family in a way that's real and recognized. And that's exactly what he needs. You can't be everything to him. You can't be his whole world. He needs peers, siblings, a community that claims him.
And now he has it.
You lean over and press a kiss to his forehead, careful not to wake him. "Sleep well, baby," you whisper. "Dream about your brother."
In the morning, he'll ask to go back. You'll tell him maybe in a few days—you don't want to overstay the welcome, don't want to take advantage of the Sullys' generosity. He'll accept this, but he'll spend the next few days talking about Lo'ak and Kiri and the village and all the things they're going to do together.
And you'll watch him bloom, watch him grow into this new identity—not just your son, but Lo'ak's brother, Kiri's friend, part of something bigger than just the two of you.
It's exactly what he needs.
It's exactly what you wanted for him.
And it's just the beginning.
Age 6
The shelf was nearly empty two years ago.
You remember that—the stark metal surface, the utilitarian edge of Hell's Gate quarters that no amount of wishing could soften. Just another storage space in another recycled room, all angles and function and nothing warm.
Now it's full.
You're standing in front of it, rearranging Spider's gifts, and the transformation makes your chest tight with something you can't quite name. The leaf is here—the very first one, from his first day outside, carefully preserved between two thin pieces of clear material you'd salvaged from the lab. It's brittle and brown now, but still whole, still recognizable. Still precious.
Beside it: a smooth river stone, dark gray with flecks of mica that catch the light. He'd brought that to you three months after the leaf, solemn and proud, telling you he thought it would make good pigment. He was right—you'd ground a small portion of it, mixed it with binding agent, and the resulting paint had a subtle shimmer that made everything you touched with it seem to glow from within.
A blue-black feather, long and perfect, not a barb out of place. A smaller one, soft gray with white spots, downy enough to use for detail work. Two shells from the stream, their spirals catching afternoon light from your window. A piece of bark with deep ridges, the texture so compelling you'd used it to make prints last month. Seeds in a small glass jar—he'd been so excited about those, explaining that you'd mentioned this plant was good for dye.
Each item placed with care. Each one a gift he'd brought to you directly, eyes bright, hands outstretched: Look what I found. I thought you'd like it.
You pick up one of the shells, turn it in your palm. The spiral is mathematically perfect, each chamber slightly larger than the last, the whole thing fitting together with an elegance that makes you want to paint it, to capture that progression somehow. You'd told Spider about spirals in nature once—how they appear everywhere, in shells and plants and the way water moves. Two days later, he'd brought you this.
He'd been listening. He's always listening.
You set the shell down carefully and reach for the iridescent stone he'd given you last week. It's your favorite, maybe—small enough to fit in your closed fist, but when you turn it in the light, colors shift across its surface like oil on water. Pinks and greens and golds, all moving, all alive. He'd been so proud of this one. Lo'ak helped me find it, he'd said, breathless. We had to dive really deep, but I saw it underwater and I knew you'd love it.
You did love it. You do.
The pattern is so clear now, standing here with two years of gifts arranged in front of you. He's not just bringing you random pretty things. He's learning to see what you value. Color. Texture. Light. The way materials can be transformed into art, into beauty, into something permanent. He's teaching himself your language, piece by piece, gift by gift.
He's learning to see the world through an artist's eyes.
Through your eyes.
The realization makes you smile even as your vision blurs slightly. You blink hard, set the iridescent stone back in its place, and step back to look at the whole collection.
It's beautiful. Genuinely beautiful. Not because the individual items are precious—though some of them are—but because of what they represent. Two years of a six-year-old boy paying attention to what his mother loves, then going out into the world and bringing pieces of it back to her.
Two years of I thought of you. I wanted to share this with you. I want to give you something beautiful.
You're still standing there, throat tight and heart full, when you hear footsteps in the corridor outside. Quick and light, but doubled—two sets of feet, one heavier than the other.
The door opens without knocking. It never does anymore.
"—and I told him that's not how you do it, you have to wait for the right moment, but he just—oh!" Spider stops mid-sentence, his whole face lighting up when he sees you. "You're here!"
Lo'ak is right behind him, taller and blue and grinning. "She lives here, skxawng. Where else would she be?"
Spider ignores this, already moving toward you, his hands cupped carefully in front of him like he's carrying something fragile. His exopack is still on from outside, the mask slightly fogged from running, his hair wild and his clothes dusty. Lo'ak's the same—both of them clearly fresh from some adventure, still buzzing with the energy of it.
"I found things," Spider announces, breathless and proud. "Really good things. You're going to love them."
Your heart does something complicated in your chest. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." He's in front of you now, practically vibrating with excitement. "Look—"
He opens his hands carefully.
Three stones, each one different. The first is pale green, smooth and cool-looking, with darker green veins running through it like rivers on a map. The second is deep red, rough-textured, the kind of stone that would grind into a pigment so rich it would stain your hands for days. The third is small and black, but when you look closer, you can see tiny crystals embedded in its surface, catching light like stars.
"Where did you find these?" you ask, already reaching out.
"The green one was by the big waterfall," Spider says, watching your face carefully. "You know, the one we went to last month? It was just sitting there in the shallows, and the sun was hitting it, and it looked exactly like that green paint you made from the moss. Remember?"
You remember. You'd shown him that paint, explained how you'd extracted the color from living moss without killing the plant, how you had to be patient and careful. He'd watched the whole process, fascinated.
"And the red one?" You pick it up, feel its weight, its rough texture against your palm.
"Lo'ak found that one," Spider admits. "But I saw it first! We were climbing, and I saw this red color in the rocks, and I thought—" He stops, suddenly shy. "I thought it would make really good paint. Like, really red. The kind you can't get from plants."
"Iron oxide," you murmur, turning the stone. "You're absolutely right. This would make a beautiful red."
Spider beams. Lo'ak looks pleased too, in his casual way, like he's not entirely sure what iron oxide is but he's glad his contribution matters.
"What about this one?" You hold up the black stone, tilt it so the tiny crystals catch the light.
"That one's my favorite," Spider says immediately. "It doesn't look like much at first, but then when the light hits it—see? See the sparkles? I thought maybe you could grind it really fine and mix it with something, and it would make paint that shines. Like the night sky."
Your throat goes tight again. "Spider. Baby. These are perfect."
"Really?" He's trying to play it cool, but you can see how much your approval means. How carefully he's watching your face, looking for genuine delight and not just politeness.
"Really," you say firmly. "These are some of the best stones you've brought me. You have such a good eye."
Lo'ak snorts. "He made me look at like fifty rocks before he picked those three. I thought we were going to be there all day."
"It has to be right," Spider protests. "I can't just bring her any rock."
"I know, I know." Lo'ak's teasing is gentle, affectionate. "You're very serious about your rock collecting."
"It's not collecting," Spider says, with the dignity of a six-year-old who knows exactly what he's about. "It's finding things she'll like."
And there it is. The whole thing, stated plainly. He's not collecting for himself. He's gathering for you. Every stone, every feather, every shell—all of it chosen with you in mind, brought home as an offering, a gift, a way of saying I love you in the only language he's sure of.
You kneel down so you're at his level, the three stones still in your hands. "Thank you," you say quietly. "For thinking of me. For paying attention to what I like. For bringing me pieces of the world."
Spider's smile is so bright it could light the whole room. "I always think of you," he says simply. "When I see something pretty, I think, 'Mom would like that.' So I bring it home."
Lo'ak makes a gagging sound. "You two are so sappy."
"Shut up," Spider says without heat, still looking at you.
You reach out and ruffle his hair, then stand, the stones carefully cradled in one hand. "Come here. Let's add these to the collection."
Both boys follow you to the shelf. Lo'ak's eyes widen slightly when he sees the display—he's been here before, but maybe he's never really looked at it, never understood what it represents.
"Whoa," he says. "You kept everything?"
"Of course I kept everything," you say, surprised he'd even question it. "Why wouldn't I?"
"I don't know. I just thought..." Lo'ak trails off, looking at Spider. "You really bring her a lot of stuff, huh?"
"She likes it," Spider says defensively.
"I love it," you correct gently. "Every single thing."
You make space on the shelf, moving a few items slightly to accommodate the new stones. Spider watches intently, making sure you're placing them where they'll catch the light, where their colors will be visible. When you set the black stone down, he reaches out and adjusts it slightly, turning it so the crystals face the window.
"There," he says, satisfied.
The three of you stand there for a moment, looking at the collection. It's fuller now, richer. The green stone next to the iridescent one, the red stone beside the gray river rock, the black stone catching light like a tiny piece of night sky.
"It's really pretty," Lo'ak says eventually, and he sounds genuine. "Like... I don't know. Like a treasure."
"It is a treasure," you say quietly.
Spider looks up at you, his expression soft and open. "Do you really like them? The new ones?"
"I really, really like them," you tell him honestly. "The green one is going to make such a beautiful pigment. And the red—Spider, this red is going to be incredible. Deep and rich and permanent. And the black one..." You pick it up again, turn it in the light. "This one I might not grind at all. It's too perfect as it is."
"You can grind it if you want," Spider says quickly. "That's what it's for. For your paints."
"Maybe," you say. "Or maybe I'll just keep it like this, so I can look at it and remember the day you brought it to me."
Spider considers this, then nods. "Okay. That's good too."
Lo'ak shifts his weight, suddenly restless in the way of children who've been still too long. "Can we go back outside? I want to show Spider the thing I found."
Spider looks at you, asking permission without words.
"Go," you say, smiling. "Just be back before dark."
"We will!" Spider's already moving toward the door, then stops, runs back, and wraps his arms around your waist in a quick, fierce hug. "Thank you for liking them."
"Thank you for bringing them to me," you say, hugging him back.
Then he's gone, Lo'ak right behind him, their voices fading down the corridor as they argue about whatever mysterious thing Lo'ak found by the big tree.
You turn back to the shelf.
The collection has grown again. Three more stones, three more pieces of Pandora, three more small perfect offerings that say I thought of you. I wanted to share this with you. I love you.
You pick up the green stone, feel its smoothness, its coolness. Tomorrow, maybe, you'll grind a small portion of it. You'll mix it with binding agent, test the color, see if it's as beautiful as you think it will be. Spider will want to watch—he always wants to watch the transformation, the moment when raw material becomes art.
But right now, you just hold it. You just stand here in your quarters, surrounded by two years of gifts, and let yourself feel the full weight of what this means.
Spider is six years old. He's learning to read and write, learning to climb and swim, learning the difference between Na'vi words and English ones. He's learning to be Lo'ak's brother, Kiri's friend, part of a community that's slowly, carefully making space for him.
But he's also learning this: how to see beauty. How to notice what matters. How to take something from the world and transform it into a gift, into an offering, into a tangible expression of love.
You taught him that. Not explicitly, not through lessons or lectures, but through your own way of moving through the world. Through the way you stop to examine interesting stones, the way you point out colors in the forest, the way you talk about texture and light and the potential hidden in raw materials.
He's been watching. Learning. Making it his own.
And now he's teaching it back to you, gift by gift, stone by stone, piece by piece.
You set the green stone back on the shelf, arranging it carefully next to the others. The afternoon light catches the iridescent stone, makes the colors dance. The black stone sparkles like stars. The red stone sits heavy and rich, full of potential.
Everything between you is shared now. His gifts are your treasures. Your love is his language.
And it's enough.
It's more than enough.
It's everything.
That evening, after dinner, Spider sits at your work table while you prepare the red stone for grinding. He watches intently as you set up your tools—the grinding stone, the palette, the small amount of water you'll need.
"Can I help?" he asks.
"You can watch," you say. "And next time, when you're a little older, I'll teach you how to do it yourself."
He accepts this, settling in to observe. You begin the slow, meditative work of grinding stone into powder, and Spider watches every movement, every transformation.
"It's getting redder," he observes after a few minutes.
"It is," you agree. "The finer the powder, the richer the color."
"Lo'ak didn't think it would work," Spider says. "He thought it was just a rock."
"It is just a rock," you say, smiling. "But rocks can become paint. Shells can become tools. Feathers can become brushes. Everything has potential if you know how to look at it."
Spider nods seriously, like you've said something profound. Maybe you have.
You grind in silence for a while, the only sound the soft scrape of stone on stone. Spider's presence is comfortable beside you—he doesn't need to fill the quiet with chatter, doesn't need constant entertainment. He's content just to be here, watching you work, learning through observation.
When you finally have enough powder, you mix it carefully with binding agent. The color that emerges is exactly what you hoped for—deep, rich red, the color of earth and clay and permanence.
"Wow," Spider breathes.
"Yeah," you agree. "Wow."
You dip a brush in the paint, test it on a scrap of material. The color is stunning—vibrant but not garish, deep but not muddy. Perfect.
"That's from the rock I found," Spider says, awed.
"That's from the rock you found," you confirm. "You have a really good eye, Spider. This is beautiful."
He glows under the praise, and you realize—not for the first time—how much your opinion matters to him. How carefully he watches for your approval, how much he values your recognition of his efforts.
You're not just teaching him to see beauty. You're teaching him that he's capable of finding it, of recognizing it, of bringing it into the world and sharing it with others.
You're teaching him that his gifts matter. That he matters.
Later, after Spider's gone to bed, you sit at your work table and look at the shelf of gifts. The leaf, the stones, the feathers, the shells. Two years of love made tangible. Two years of a little boy learning to see the world through your eyes and bringing pieces of it home to share with you.
Tomorrow there will be more. Next week, next month, next year—he'll keep finding things, keep bringing them to you, keep building this collection of beauty and love and shared understanding.
And you'll keep accepting them. Keep treasuring them. Keep recognizing them for what they are: not just pretty objects, but a language. A conversation. A way of saying I see what you value. I see who you are. And I want to give you the world.
You pick up the black stone one more time, hold it up to the light, watch the tiny crystals sparkle like stars.
This is how Spider loves you.
Through gifts. Through gathering. Through the simple, profound act of noticing beauty and wanting to share it.
And you love him back the same way—by receiving each offering with genuine delight, by recognizing the thought and care behind each choice, by understanding that every stone and feather and shell is really him saying: I love you. I love you. I love you.
You set the stone down gently, turn off the light, and head to bed.
The shelf remains, full and beautiful, a testament to two years of love expressed through the language you taught him.
And tomorrow, he'll bring you more.
He always does.
Age 7
The question comes on an ordinary evening, in that soft time when the day is winding down and his courage is finally up.
You've noticed Spider's been quiet all day. Not withdrawn—he still played with Lo'ak this afternoon, still helped you organize your pigments after dinner, still chattered about the new climbing route they found near the big tree. But there's been something underneath it all. A weight. A hesitation in the spaces between his words.
You know this feeling. You've learned to read it in the set of his shoulders, the way he keeps glancing at you and then away, the way his hands fidget with whatever's nearby. He's building up to something. Working up the nerve.
So you wait.
Your quarters are warm tonight. The lamp in the corner casts soft golden light across the room, and the bioluminescent samples you collected last week glow faintly in their jars on the shelf—pale blue and soft green, like captured starlight. Spider is sitting cross-legged on your bed, supposedly looking at one of the picture books Max brought back from a supply run, but he hasn't turned a page in ten minutes.
You're at your work table, grinding a small amount of ochre, the repetitive motion soothing. The sound fills the quiet—stone on stone, steady and rhythmic. You're not really focused on the work. You're focused on Spider, on the tension radiating from his small frame, on the question you can feel forming in the air between you.
Finally, he speaks.
"Can I ask you something?"
His voice is smaller than usual. Careful.
You set down your grinding stone and turn to face him fully. "Always."
He doesn't look up from the book. His fingers trace the edge of the page, over and over, a nervous gesture. "It's... it's about my father."
Your heart does something complicated in your chest—a squeeze of protectiveness, of sorrow, of love. You've been waiting for this question for three years. Since the day you first took his hand and led him outside. Since the day you became the person he comes to with his questions, his fears, his need for truth.
"Okay," you say quietly. You stand, cross the small space, and sit on the bed beside him. Not touching yet, but close. Present. "What do you want to know?"
Spider's quiet for a long moment. His jaw works like he's trying out different versions of the question, testing which one feels right. Finally: "What was he like?"
Simple. Direct. Devastating.
You take a slow breath, buying yourself a moment to choose your words carefully. This matters. How you answer this will shape how Spider understands himself, his origins, the complicated legacy he carries. You can't lie to him. You won't. But you can be kind.
"Your father's name was Miles Quaritch," you begin, your voice steady. "He was a colonel in the RDA military. A soldier."
Spider nods. He knows this much already—picked it up from overheard conversations, from the careful way people don't talk about Quaritch around him.
"He was..." You pause, searching for the right words. "He was very good at what he did. Strong. Determined. He didn't give up easily."
"Was he a good person?"
The question is so earnest, so hopeful, that it breaks your heart a little.
"No," you say gently. "He wasn't."
Spider's face crumples slightly, and you reach out instinctively, your hand covering his smaller one where it rests on the book.
"But that doesn't mean he didn't love you," you continue quickly, squeezing his fingers. "Those two things can both be true at the same time. He loved you very much, Spider. That part was real."
Spider looks up at you finally, his eyes searching your face. "How do you know?"
"Because I saw it," you tell him honestly. "I wasn't close to your father—we didn't know each other well. But I saw him with you when you were a baby. Before... before everything happened. And I saw how he looked at you. Like you were the most important thing in the world."
This is true. You remember it clearly—Quaritch holding infant Spider with a tenderness that seemed at odds with everything else about him. The way his whole face would soften when he looked at his son. The way he'd talk to Spider in a low, gentle voice, making promises about the future.
Promises he'd never get to keep.
"Then why wasn't he good?" Spider asks, his voice wavering slightly. "If he loved me, why was he bad?"
You're quiet for a moment, considering. This is the heart of it—the thing Spider needs to understand, even if it's complicated. Even if it hurts.
"People are complicated," you say finally. "Your father loved you. That was real. But he also did terrible things. He hurt people. He hurt the Na'vi. He was part of a war that destroyed lives and families and homes."
Spider's hand tightens under yours. "Did he hurt you?"
"Not directly," you say. "But he hurt people I care about. He hurt this world. He believed things that were wrong—that humans had the right to take whatever they wanted from Pandora, no matter who it hurt. And he acted on those beliefs."
"Even though he had me?" Spider's voice is very small now. "Even though I'm part Na'vi?"
"You're not part Na'vi, baby," you correct gently. "You're human. But yes—even though you were born here. Even though this is your home. Your father... he couldn't see past what he believed. He couldn't change, even when maybe he should have."
Spider is quiet, processing. You can see him working through it, trying to fit these pieces together—a father who loved him but did terrible things. A legacy that's both gift and burden.
"Do you think he would have been different?" Spider asks eventually. "If he'd lived? Do you think he would have... I don't know. Been better?"
You consider this carefully. "I don't know," you admit. "Maybe. People can change. But it's hard. And your father was very set in his ways."
"Jake says he was dangerous."
"Jake's right. He was."
Spider looks down at your joined hands. His fingers are so small compared to yours, still round with childhood, not yet showing the lean strength they'll develop as he grows. "Is it bad that I wish I knew him? Even if he was bad?"
"No," you say immediately, fiercely. "It's not bad at all. He was your father. It's natural to want to know him, to wish you'd had the chance. That doesn't mean you agree with what he did. It just means you're human. You're allowed to have complicated feelings about complicated things."
"Do you think he'd be proud of me?" The question comes out barely above a whisper. "If he could see me now?"
Your throat goes tight. You pull Spider closer, wrapping your arm around his shoulders, and he leans into you immediately, seeking comfort.
"I think," you say carefully, "that any father would be proud to have a son like you. You're kind. You're brave. You're curious and smart and you care about people. You're learning two languages, two cultures. You're building bridges between worlds. That's extraordinary, Spider."
"But would he be proud?" Spider presses. "Would he like who I am?"
This is harder. Because the truth is, you don't know. Quaritch loved his son, but would he have loved the boy Spider is becoming? A boy who speaks Na'vi, who has Na'vi brothers, who belongs to this world in ways Quaritch never could?
"I think he'd love you," you say finally. "Because you're his son. But I don't know if he'd understand you. I don't know if he'd understand the life you're building here, the person you're becoming. And that's okay. Because the people who matter—the people who are actually here, actually in your life—we understand. We see you. And we're so proud of who you are."
Spider is quiet against your side. You can feel him breathing, can feel the slight tremor in his small frame that means he's trying not to cry.
"I'm glad I have you," he says eventually, his voice muffled against your shoulder. "I'm glad you're my mom."
The words hit you like a physical thing—warm and overwhelming and precious. He's never said it quite like that before. Never used that word so directly.
"I'm glad I have you too," you whisper, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "You're my son, Spider. Not because of biology or paperwork or any official thing. But because I choose you. Every single day, I choose you. And I always will."
"Even though I'm his son?" Spider asks, and there's something fragile in the question. "Even though my father did bad things?"
"Especially because you're his son," you say firmly. "Because you get to decide who you are. You get to take the good parts—the strength, the determination, the love he had for you—and leave the rest behind. You're not responsible for what he did. You're only responsible for who you choose to be."
Spider pulls back slightly to look up at you. His eyes are red-rimmed but not crying. "Who do you think I'll be?"
"I think you'll be exactly who you already are," you tell him, smoothing his hair back from his face. "Someone who loves fiercely. Someone who belongs to two worlds and makes them both better. Someone who asks hard questions and isn't afraid of complicated answers. Someone who brings me stones and feathers and makes me laugh every single day."
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "I found a really good feather today. I was going to give it to you tomorrow."
"Yeah?" You smile back. "What kind?"
"It's blue. Really, really blue. Lo'ak said it's from a forest banshee, but I think he's lying because we weren't anywhere near where they nest."
"Well, I can't wait to see it," you say. "Blue is my favorite."
"I know," Spider says, and there's pride in his voice. "That's why I kept it."
You pull him close again, and this time he settles against you completely, his head on your chest, his small body curled into yours. You can feel his heartbeat gradually slowing, the tension draining out of him as the conversation settles into something he can carry.
"Can I ask you one more thing?" he murmurs after a while.
"Anything."
"Do you think... do you think it's okay that I don't really miss him? I mean, I never knew him. So I can't miss him, exactly. But sometimes I feel like I should. Like I should be sad that he's gone."
"You're allowed to feel however you feel," you tell him gently. "You can be curious about him without missing him. You can wish you'd known him without being sad that you didn't. There's no right way to feel about this, Spider. It's all okay."
"Okay," he says quietly. Then, even quieter: "I'm glad I have you instead."
Your eyes burn. You blink hard, holding him tighter. "Me too, baby. Me too."
The room falls into comfortable silence. The bioluminescent samples glow softly in their jars. The lamp casts warm shadows on the walls. Outside, you can hear the distant hum of Hell's Gate—the generators, the air filtration systems, the mechanical heartbeat of the human compound. But in here, it's just the two of you. Just this moment. Just this love.
Spider's breathing is evening out, getting slower and deeper. You can feel the weight of him growing heavier as he relaxes completely, trusting you to hold him, to keep him safe, to carry the weight of these hard truths so he doesn't have to carry them alone.
"I love you," you whisper into his hair.
"Love you too," he mumbles, already half-asleep.
You stay like that for a long time. Long after Spider's breathing shifts into the deep, steady rhythm of sleep. Long after your arm starts to go numb from his weight. You stay because this is what matters. This is what motherhood is—not the easy moments, not the joyful discoveries or the proud achievements, but this. The hard conversations. The complicated truths. The willingness to sit with a child's pain and confusion and help them make sense of it.
You think about Quaritch. About the man you barely knew, who loved his son but couldn't see past his own convictions. About the legacy he left behind—not just in Spider's DNA, but in the questions Spider will carry his whole life. Questions about belonging, about identity, about what it means to be the son of a man who did terrible things.
But you also think about the boy in your arms. About his kindness, his curiosity, his fierce love for the people and world around him. About the way he's building something new—a life that honors both his human heritage and his deep connection to Pandora. A life that's entirely his own.
Quaritch gave Spider life. But you're giving him something else. Something more. You're giving him the tools to understand that life, to navigate its complexities, to build an identity that's whole and true and his.
You're giving him love. Unconditional, unwavering, present-every-single-day love.
And that, you think, is what makes you his mother. Not biology. Not paperwork. Not any official recognition. Just this. Just showing up. Just choosing him, over and over, in the big moments and the small ones.
Age 8
Spider doesn't hold your hand anymore when you arrive at the village.
He used to. Even a year ago, he'd keep his fingers wrapped around yours until you were well past the tree line, until he could see Lo'ak or Kiri, until he was absolutely certain he was welcome. But now—now he barely waits for you to step out of the forest before he's running ahead, his exopack bouncing against his back, his voice already calling out in Na'vi.
"Lo'ak! Mom said we could go to the stream today!"
You watch him go, your hand still half-raised from where he let go, and something in your chest does that complicated thing it's been doing more and more lately. Pride and bittersweetness tangled together. He doesn't need you to walk him in anymore. He doesn't need you to smooth the way, to make introductions, to stand between him and uncertainty.
He just runs.
And the village opens for him like he's always belonged there.
Lo'ak appears from behind one of the woven structures, already grinning, already moving toward Spider with that loose-limbed energy that eight-year-old boys seem to generate out of thin air. They collide in a tangle of limbs and laughter, Lo'ak's hand coming up to shove at Spider's shoulder, Spider shoving back, both of them talking over each other in a rapid mix of Na'vi and English that you can barely follow.
"—saw the yerik tracks near the big—"
"—no, that was yesterday, I'm talking about the new ones—"
"—think we can get close enough to—"
They're already moving away, already absorbed in their own world. Spider glances back once, just once, and waves. You wave back. He grins—quick and bright and utterly confident—and then he's gone, disappearing into the village with Lo'ak, their voices fading into the general hum of morning activity.
You stand there for a moment, just watching the space where he was.
Eight years old. When did that happen?
The village is fully awake now, the morning sun filtering through the canopy in shafts of golden light that catch on the woven structures, the carefully tended gardens, the Na'vi moving through their daily routines. Smoke rises from cooking fires. Somewhere, a baby is crying. Somewhere else, someone is singing—a low, rhythmic melody that blends with the forest sounds until you can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
You've been coming here for four years now. Long enough that people nod to you when you pass. Long enough that you know where to sit, where to wait, how to move through the space without disrupting the flow of life around you. You're not Na'vi. You never will be. But you're not a stranger anymore either.
You're Spider's mother. And that gives you a place here.
You make your way toward the central area, where several women are working on preparing food for the day. Neytiri is among them, her hands moving with practiced efficiency as she strips leaves from stems, sorts roots, directs the younger women with quiet authority. She sees you coming and nods, a small smile touching her lips.
"Kaltxì," she says, her voice warm.
"Kaltxì," you reply, settling onto a woven mat nearby. Not joining the work—you're not skilled enough for that, not yet—but present. Observing. Learning.
"Spider has already found Lo'ak," Neytiri says, switching to English for your benefit. Her accent is thick but her words are clear. "They will be gone all day, I think."
"Probably," you agree, smiling. "They were talking about yerik tracks."
Neytiri's expression shifts into something fond and exasperated all at once. "Lo'ak is teaching him to track. Or Spider is teaching Lo'ak. I am not sure which." She pauses, her hands stilling for a moment. "Your son is good in the forest. Quick. Quiet when he needs to be."
Your son.
She says it so casually. Like it's just fact. Like there was never any question.
"He loves it out there," you say, your throat suddenly tight. "He loves learning from Lo'ak. From all of you."
"He is a good student," Neytiri says. She returns to her work, but there's something softer in her expression now. "And a good brother to my children. Lo'ak is... better when Spider is with him. More careful. More thoughtful."
You're not sure what to say to that. The idea that Spider—your Spider, the human child who was so desperate to belong—is making Lo'ak better feels almost too big to hold.
"Thank you," you manage finally. "For letting him be part of this. Part of your family."
Neytiri looks up, her golden eyes meeting yours directly. "He is part of this family because he chooses to be. Because he shows up. Because he loves my children and they love him." She pauses. "That is how family works. Yes?"
"Yes," you whisper.
She nods, satisfied, and returns to her work. The conversation is over. The truth has been spoken. Spider belongs here, and everyone knows it.
You sit with the women for a while longer, listening to their conversation—half in Na'vi, half in English for your benefit—and watching the village wake fully into the day. Children run past, chasing each other. Hunters return from an early morning expedition, their voices low and satisfied. Someone is repairing a bow nearby, the scrape of stone on wood a steady rhythm beneath everything else.
This is Spider's world. One of them, anyway.
And he moves through it like he was born to it.
You find them mid-morning, deep in the forest.
You weren't looking for them, exactly—you were just walking, enjoying the quiet, the green-gold light, the way the forest breathes around you. But you hear their voices before you see them, and you follow the sound until you spot them crouched low near a fallen log, their attention fixed on something in the undergrowth.
Spider is in front, his body language completely transformed from the boy who runs through Hell's Gate. Here, he's all coiled energy and focus. His feet are bare and he moves across the forest floor like he's reading it, like every root and stone and patch of moss is a word in a language he's learned to speak.
Lo'ak is beside him, equally focused, but it's Spider who's pointing now, Spider who's whispering in rapid Na'vi, Spider who's teaching.
You stay back, not wanting to interrupt, and just watch.
"There," Spider says, his voice barely audible. "See the broken stem? And the way the moss is pressed down?"
Lo'ak leans closer, squinting. "I see it."
"Something came through here this morning. Small. Maybe a hexapede." Spider shifts his weight, moving forward in a crouch that's pure Na'vi—low, balanced, silent. "The tracks go this way."
They move together, reading the forest, and you're struck by how completely Spider has absorbed this knowledge. How naturally it sits on him. He's not pretending. He's not imitating. He's just... doing it. Being it.
A branch cracks under your foot, and both boys whip around, their eyes wide.
Then Spider sees it's you and his whole face lights up.
"Did you see?" he asks, switching to English without even seeming to notice. "We've been tracking it for like an hour. Lo'ak thinks it's a hexapede but I think it might be a tetrapteron because of the way the—"
"It's definitely a hexapede," Lo'ak interrupts, also in English now, his tone mock-offended. "The spacing is all wrong for a tetrapteron."
"The spacing is perfect for a tetrapteron if it was moving fast—"
"You don't know what you're talking about—"
"You don't know what you're talking about—"
They're grinning at each other, the argument completely without heat, and you can't help but smile.
"Sounds like you two have it all figured out," you say.
"We do," Spider says confidently. Then, to Lo'ak: "Come on, let's keep going. We're gonna lose the trail."
And just like that, they're off again, moving deeper into the forest, their voices fading into the green.
You follow at a distance, content to watch. Content to see Spider in his element—confident, capable, completely at home.
Lunch is back at the village, and by the time you return, Spider and Lo'ak are already there, sprawled in the shade near Neytiri's fire, eating with the single-minded focus of children who've spent all morning running wild.
Neytiri hands you a woven plate with roasted teylu and some kind of root vegetable you've never learned the name for, and you settle nearby, close enough to hear the boys' conversation but not intruding on it.
"—and then the hexapede just ran," Lo'ak is saying, his hands gesturing wildly. "Like, so fast. We almost had it."
"We weren't trying to catch it," Spider points out, his mouth full. "We were just tracking it."
"We could have caught it if we wanted to."
"Sure, Lo'ak."
"We could have."
Neytiri makes a sound that might be a laugh, and when you glance over, she's watching the boys with that same fond exasperation from this morning.
"Lo'ak," she says, her voice dry, "you could not catch a hexapede if it was sleeping."
Lo'ak looks offended. "I totally could."
"You could not."
"Spider, tell her I could."
Spider grins, clearly enjoying this. "I mean... you're pretty loud when you run."
"I am not—"
"You are," Spider says, laughing now. "You sound like a thanator crashing through the trees."
"I do not—"
"You kind of do," you offer, unable to resist.
Lo'ak turns his offended look on you, and Neytiri actually laughs—a real laugh, warm and genuine.
"See?" she says to Lo'ak. "Even Spider's mother agrees. You are loud."
The words land softly, without ceremony, and for a moment, everything goes still inside you.
Spider's mother.
She said it like it's just true. Like it's been true for so long that it doesn't even need to be remarked upon.
Spider doesn't react. He just keeps eating, completely unbothered, like of course that's who you are. Of course.
Lo'ak is already moving on, already arguing about something else, and the moment passes. But you hold it close, this casual recognition, this simple truth spoken aloud in the middle of an ordinary day.
You're Spider's mother.
Everyone knows it.
Even you.
The afternoon is slower, quieter. The heat of the day settles over the village like a blanket, and most of the adults retreat to the shade to work on quieter tasks—weaving, tool repair, food preparation. The children, though, are irrepressible.
Spider has gathered a small group of them—younger kids, maybe five or six years old—and he's leading them on what he's calling an "expedition" to the forest edge. You watch from a distance as he crouches down to their level, his voice animated, his hands gesturing.
"Okay, so we're looking for colors," he's saying in Na'vi, his accent nearly perfect now. "Different colors. And different textures. Like... see this leaf? It's smooth. But this bark? It's rough. Feel it."
The children crowd around, their small hands reaching out to touch, to explore. One of them—a little girl with huge eyes—looks up at Spider like he's the most fascinating thing in the world.
"What do we do with the colors?" she asks.
"We collect them," Spider says. "And then we can make paint. Or just... I don't know. Look at them. See how many different kinds there are."
He's teaching them what you taught him. Passing it forward. The way you showed him how to see the world—not just as a place to move through, but as a place full of beauty and variation and wonder—he's showing them now.
Your chest aches with pride.
One of the boys finds a piece of bark with purple sap oozing from a crack, and he brings it to Spider with both hands, like it's precious.
"Is this a color?" he asks.
Spider's face lights up. "Yes! That's perfect. That's—wait, let me see—" He takes the bark carefully, examining it. "This is really good. The purple is really bright. My mom's gonna love this."
He glances around, spots you watching, and waves the bark at you excitedly.
"Look!" he calls in English. "Purple sap! I'm gonna mark a tree for you so you can find it later!"
You wave back, smiling so hard your face hurts.
He returns to the children, already explaining how to look for more, how to tell which trees might have sap and which won't, and you just... watch. Watch him be exactly who he is. Watch him belong.
You don't hear Max arrive.
One moment, you're sitting alone on a woven mat near the edge of the village, watching Spider and his little expedition group examine a fallen log. The next moment, there's a presence beside you—quiet, familiar, expected without being announced.
Max settles onto the mat next to you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours, and sets down the supply pack he's been carrying.
"Hey," he says, his voice low and warm.
"Hey," you reply, not looking away from Spider.
Max follows your gaze, watching Spider crouch down to show one of the younger children how to peel bark carefully without damaging the tree. He's patient with them, gentle, encouraging. The little girl from earlier is holding his hand now, trusting him completely.
"He's good with them," Max observes.
"He is," you agree. Your throat is tight again. "He's teaching them what I taught him. About colors. About textures. About paying attention."
Max is quiet for a moment, just watching. Then: "He's happy."
It's not a question. It's an observation. A truth.
"Yeah," you whisper. "He is."
Max's hand finds yours where it rests on your knee, his fingers curling around yours in a touch that's casual and comfortable and utterly familiar. You've been together for over a year now—quietly, without fanfare, building something steady and real in the spaces between your devotion to Spider. He's never asked you to choose. He's never made you feel like loving Spider means there's less of you for him.
He just shows up. Brings supplies. Sits beside you. Watches your son play.
And loves you both in his quiet, steady way.
"Neytiri called him my son today," you say softly. "Just... casually. Like it's been true forever."
Max squeezes your hand. "It has been."
"I know. But hearing her say it..." You trail off, not sure how to explain the weight of it. The relief. The recognition.
"It matters," Max says simply. "Being seen. Being recognized."
"Yeah."
You sit together in comfortable silence, watching Spider lead his little group back toward the village, all of them chattering excitedly about their finds. Spider is in the middle of them, his face animated, his hands full of bark and leaves and stones. He's covered in dirt and sap and his exopack is slightly crooked, but he's never looked more himself.
"He doesn't have to choose," you say quietly. "Between here and Hell's Gate. Between Na'vi and human. He just... is. Both. All of it."
"That's good," Max says. "That's how it should be."
Spider spots you then—spots both of you—and his grin gets even wider. He says something to the children, and they scatter toward their parents, showing off their treasures. Spider jogs over, slightly out of breath, his eyes bright.
"Did you see?" he asks, switching to English automatically. "We found so much stuff. And I marked the tree with the purple sap for you—it's near the big boulder, you know the one? You can get there easy."
"I saw," you say, smiling up at him. "You're a good teacher, Spider."
He ducks his head, pleased. Then he notices Max properly, and his expression shifts into something casual and warm. "Oh, hey Max. Did you bring the new filters?"
"In the pack," Max confirms. "And some of those protein bars you like."
"The chocolate ones?"
"The chocolate ones."
"Yes!" Spider pumps his fist, then immediately looks a little embarrassed by his own enthusiasm. "I mean. Cool. Thanks."
Max's mouth twitches in a smile. "No problem, kid."
Spider lingers for a moment, shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly torn between staying and going back to play. The pull of the village wins.
"I'm gonna go find Lo'ak," he announces. "We're gonna practice climbing before dinner. Is that okay?"
"That's fine," you say. "Just be careful."
"I'm always careful," Spider says, which is absolutely a lie, and then he's off again, running toward the central area where Lo'ak is visible near one of the larger trees.
You watch him go, and Max watches you watch him, and the afternoon stretches out warm and golden around you.
"You're good at this," Max says after a while.
"At what?"
"Letting him go. Letting him be himself."
You consider this. "I don't really have a choice. He's always been himself. I'm just... trying to keep up."
Max's thumb strokes across your knuckles, a small, grounding touch. "You're doing more than keeping up."
You lean into him slightly, letting yourself take comfort in his solid presence. In the fact that he's here, that he chose to be here, that he sees what you're building with Spider and wants to be part of it.
"Thank you," you say quietly. "For coming. For... all of it."
"Nowhere else I'd rather be," Max says simply.
And you believe him.
The walk back to Hell's Gate happens in that soft twilight time when the forest is shifting from day to night. The bioluminescent plants are just starting to glow, faint and tentative, and the air is cooling, carrying the scent of evening flowers and damp earth.
Spider is between you and Max, holding your hand on one side—casual now, comfortable, not the desperate grip of a younger child but the easy touch of someone who knows you're not going anywhere. He's talking a mile a minute, recounting every detail of the day, switching between English and Na'vi without seeming to notice.
"—and then Lo'ak said I couldn't climb as high as him but I totally could, I just didn't want to because Neytiri said we had to be careful, and then we saw this huge spider—not me-Spider, like an actual spider, it was this big—" He spreads his hands wide, exaggerating. "—and Lo'ak screamed like a baby—"
"I bet he did," you say, smiling.
"He did! It was so funny. And then—oh, and I found the purple sap tree, did I tell you? I marked it really good so you can find it. The sap is like... really purple. Like, the most purple I've ever seen."
"I can't wait to see it," you tell him.
Max is carrying the supply pack and a few other things Spider accumulated during the day—a particularly interesting rock, a bundle of feathers, a piece of wood Lo'ak said he could have. He doesn't complain about the extra weight. He just carries it, steady and uncomplaining, his free hand occasionally reaching out to steady Spider when the boy stumbles over a root in his excitement.
It feels like family. The three of you moving through the forest together, Spider's voice filling the spaces between the trees, Max's quiet presence anchoring you both.
By the time you reach Hell's Gate, Spider is starting to flag. His steps are slower, his voice softer, and when you cycle through the airlock, he leans against you while the pressure equalizes, his eyes half-closed.
"Tired?" you ask, running your hand through his hair.
"No," he lies, then yawns hugely.
Max catches your eye over Spider's head, his expression amused and fond.
Inside, the base is quiet. Most people are in the mess hall or their quarters, winding down for the evening. You guide Spider toward your rooms, Max following with the supplies, and by the time you get there, Spider is practically asleep on his feet.
"Bath first," you say gently. "Then bed."
Spider groans but doesn't argue. He's too tired to argue.
The bath is quick—just enough to wash off the day's dirt and sweat—and by the time you get him into clean clothes, he's swaying where he stands. You guide him to his bed, and he collapses onto it with a satisfied sigh.
"Today was good," he mumbles, his eyes already closing.
"Yeah?" You sit on the edge of the bed, smoothing the blanket over him. "What was your favorite part?"
He's quiet for a moment, thinking. "All of it. I like... I like that I can be everywhere. You know? Like, I can be in the village with Lo'ak and then come back here with you and Max and it's all... it's all just me. I don't have to be different. I'm just me everywhere."
Your throat goes tight. "You are," you say softly. "You're whole, Spider. You don't have to split yourself into pieces. You're just you, and that's enough. That's everything."
"Yeah," he whispers, already drifting. "That's good."
You stay until his breathing evens out, until you're sure he's deeply asleep. Then you lean down and press a kiss to his forehead, breathing in the clean, warm scent of him.
"Sweet dreams, baby," you whisper.
He doesn't answer. He's already gone, lost in whatever dreams eight-year-olds have after perfect days.
You stand slowly, carefully, and turn to find Max in the doorway, watching. His expression is soft, open in a way it rarely is around other people.
"He's right, you know," Max says quietly as you cross to him. "About being whole. You've given him that."
"We've given him that," you correct, reaching for his hand. "All of us. The village. You. Me. Everyone who's shown him he doesn't have to choose."
Max pulls you close, his arms coming around you, and you let yourself lean into him. Let yourself take a moment to just breathe, to let the day settle into your bones.
"Good day?" he asks, his voice rumbling against your ear.
"Really good day," you confirm.
And it was. It really, really was.
Outside, Pandora's night is coming alive—the forest singing its evening song, the bioluminescence painting the world in shades of blue and green and purple. Inside, Spider is sleeping, safe and loved and whole. And you're here, held by someone who chose you, who chose this life, who shows up day after day without fanfare or expectation.
You've built something here. Something real and good and true.
A family.
Not the way you expected. Not the way anyone would have predicted.
But a family nonetheless.
And tomorrow, you'll do it all again. You'll watch Spider run into the village without looking back. You'll see him teach younger children about colors and textures. You'll sit with Max and watch your son belong to two worlds completely.
You'll choose Spider, and he'll choose you, and that will be enough.
It will always be enough.
Author's Note: A little love for Max! Every time I see him I just can't help but think of how sweet Max is. Like, what a sweetie.
Inspired by requests/comments from Lo'ak's Sa'nu
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Part two of Sa’nu was so cute and wholesome and heart wrenching. I especially loved th memory with Lo’ak and spider :,) def got me a little teary eyed. Ngl I have a soft spot for kids that don’t quite belong and spider is for sure part of it in the story. Not sure if you’ll make a part three but maybe, pretty please, perhaps a spinoff with spider??? No pressure since Sa’nu focuses on reader with Lo’ak but the moment with spider was so sweet🥹🥹🥹🥹❤️❤️❤️
Oh, thank you! I dont have any kids but I would like some, so it'll is kind of fun for me to write these! Plus, they seem so different to what is out there!! I am so happy you liked it!!
Maybe I just do a separate one for Spider where he gets his own mamma??
EDITED POST: The new story for Spider is up! Here it is!!
You and Tarsem are a week away from your mating ceremony. You go about your day, the excitement difficult to contain when all you can do is think about your Tarsem.
Part 1 | Masterlist
You wake to the sound of the forest coming alive—the distant calls of ikran, the rustle of leaves in the morning breeze, the soft murmur of voices as the clan begins to stir. For a moment, you lie still in your hammock, watching the early light filter through the woven walls of your family's kelku, painting everything in shades of gold and green.
One more week.
One more week until you and Tarsem stand before the clan and Eywa, until you make your bond permanent and sacred. One more week until you're no longer just courting, but mated—bound together in a way that goes beyond words or promises.
One more week until you can finally stop sleeping in separate kelku.
The thought makes you smile, even as a flutter of nervous anticipation moves through your chest. Tarsem has been asking—well, not asking exactly, more like suggesting with increasing frequency—that you move into his kelku now, before the ceremony. "We're going to be mated anyway," he'd said just two nights ago, his voice low and persuasive as you'd lingered outside your doorway, reluctant to say goodnight. "Why wait? Why keep pretending we need this distance between us?"
You'd kissed him to stop the words, then pulled back with a smile. "Because I have some self-control, even if you don't."
"I have plenty of self-control," he'd protested, even as his hands had tightened on your waist, pulling you closer. "I just don't see the point of using it when we're already—"
"One week," you'd interrupted firmly, pressing a finger to his lips. "We can wait one week. It'll make the ceremony that much sweeter."
He'd groaned, dropping his forehead to yours. "You're going to be the death of me, you know that?"
"Probably," you'd agreed cheerfully. "But what a way to go."
The memory makes you grin as you swing out of your hammock, your feet finding the smooth wood of the kelku floor. You can hear your mother moving around in the main area, preparing the morning meal, and the familiar sounds of home settle around you like a comfortable blanket.
But even as you go through the motions of washing your face and braiding back your hair, your mind is elsewhere. Today is a raid day. Jake Sully is leading a strike against one of the sky people's trains—those metal beasts that tear through the forest, carrying supplies and weapons and destruction. It's dangerous work, the kind that makes your stomach clench with worry even though you know Tarsem is one of the clan's finest warriors.
He'll be fine, you tell yourself as you dress, fastening your top and adjusting your belt. He's always fine. He's careful and skilled and he has too much to live for to be reckless.
But the worry doesn't quite go away.
You're just finishing when you hear a familiar pattern of footsteps on the branch outside—steady and purposeful, the gait you'd recognize anywhere. Your heart does a little flip, the same way it has every time you've heard him approach for the past few months, and you can't help the smile that spreads across your face.
Before he can knock, you pull aside the entrance covering and step out to meet him.
Tarsem is standing there, one hand raised as if he was about to announce himself, and the sight of him makes your breath catch the way it always does. He's beautiful in the morning light—all lean muscle and azure skin, his braids neat and his expression soft in a way he only ever is with you. He's wearing his everyday gear, not yet dressed for the raid, and there's something endearing about seeing him like this, casual and unguarded.
"Good morning," he says, and his voice is warm, intimate in a way that makes you very aware that you're alone on this section of branch, hidden from view by the curve of the trunk.
"Good morning," you reply, stepping closer. "You're early."
"I wanted to see you before things get busy." His eyes travel over you, taking in every detail, and there's appreciation in his gaze that makes heat rise in your cheeks. "You look beautiful."
"I look the same as I always do," you say, but you're pleased anyway.
"Exactly." He reaches out, his fingers brushing against the necklace at your throat—the one he made for you, the one you've worn every day since he gave it to you. "Did you sleep well?"
"Well enough. You?"
"I would have slept better if you'd been there," he says, and there's that suggestion again, subtle but unmistakable.
You raise an eyebrow at him. "Tarsem."
"I am just saying." He grins, unrepentant. "My kelku is bigger than yours. More comfortable. Better view. And you would not have to wake up alone."
"I don't wake up alone. My family is right there." You gesture back toward the kelku, where you can hear your mother humming as she works.
"You know what I mean." His hand slides from the necklace to your waist, pulling you closer. "One week feels like a very long time."
"It will pass quickly," you assure him, even as you lean into his touch. "And then you'll be stuck with me every morning for the rest of your life. You might get tired of it."
"Never," he says with such conviction that it makes your heart squeeze. "I could never become tired of you."
You reach up to cup his face, running your thumb along his cheekbone. "Sweet talker."
"Only with you." He turns his head to press a kiss to your palm, and the gesture is so tender it makes you ache. "Come on. Let's get breakfast before all the good food is gone."
You let him take your hand, lacing your fingers through his, and together you make your way along the branch-paths toward the communal eating area. The village is waking up around you—children running past with shrieks of laughter, hunters checking their weapons, weavers already settling into their work. Several people call out greetings as you pass, and you notice the knowing smiles, the way eyes linger on your joined hands and the necklace at your throat.
Everyone knows. The whole clan has been watching your courtship unfold, and now they're all eagerly anticipating the mating ceremony. You've lost count of how many people have offered congratulations or asked if you need help with preparations.
"I heard Takuk asking about you yesterday," Tarsem says casually, but there's an edge to his voice that makes you glance at him.
"Oh?" You keep your tone light, amused. "What did he want?"
"He wanted to know if you were really going through with the mating ceremony, or if you might reconsider." Tarsem's jaw tightens slightly. "I told him you were very much going through with it."
"Did you now?" You can't help but grin at the possessive note in his voice. "And what did he say to that?"
"He said he'd wait and see." Tarsem's tail lashes once, betraying his irritation. "I told him he'd be waiting a very long time."
You laugh, squeezing his hand. "You know I only have eyes for you, right? Takuk could offer me all the yovo fruit in the forest and I wouldn't be interested."
"I know." He relaxes slightly, glancing at you with a sheepish expression. "I just... I don't like the idea of anyone else thinking they have a chance."
"They don't," you say firmly. "I chose you. I'm choosing you. One week from now, I'll be bound to you in front of Eywa and everyone. There's no reconsidering, no changing my mind. You're stuck with me."
"Good," he says, and the satisfaction in his voice makes you smile. "That is exactly how I want it."
The communal eating area is already bustling with activity when you arrive. Long woven mats are spread across the platforms, laden with food—fresh fruit, roasted meat from yesterday's hunt, grain cakes still warm from the fire. The clan gathers in clusters, families and friends sharing the morning meal, and the air is filled with conversation and laughter.
But there's an undercurrent of tension too. You can see it in the way the warriors sit together, their expressions serious as they talk in low voices. In the way Jake Sully stands at the edge of the platform, his arms crossed as he surveys the group, already mentally preparing for the raid ahead.
Neytiri is beside him, her armor already strapped in place, her weapons close at hand. She's checking something on her bow with the focused intensity of a warrior preparing for battle. Even from a distance, you can see the determination in her eyes—the same fierce readiness that comes before a dangerous mission. She's fought the sky people countless times, and she'll do it again today, alongside her mate.
You've never fought in a raid yourself, but you know that feeling—the weight of watching someone you love prepare to walk into danger. It settles in your chest like a stone.
Tarsem guides you to a spot near the edge of the platform, and you settle down together, your shoulders touching as you reach for food. He hands you a piece of fruit before taking one for himself, and the simple domesticity of the gesture makes you smile.
This is what you want. This easy companionship, this comfortable silence, this sense of being exactly where you're supposed to be.
"There you are!" A familiar voice breaks through your thoughts, and you look up to see Neteyam bounding over, his face bright with excitement. He's grown so much in the past few months—taller, stronger, more confident—but he's still got that youthful energy that makes him endearing.
"Good morning, Neteyam," you greet him warmly. "Ready for a busy day?"
"So ready!" He drops down beside Tarsem, already reaching for food. "Dad's letting me help with all the prep work. I get to check the weapons, make sure the ikran are ready, everything!"
"That is a big responsibility," Tarsem says, and there is pride in his voice. He's been training Neteyam for over a year now, and the bond between them is strong. "Are you up for it?"
"Of course I am!" Neteyam puffs up slightly. "I've been practicing everything you taught me. I won't let you down."
"I know you won't." Tarsem reaches over to ruffle the boy's braids affectionately. "Just remember—"
"Check everything twice, trust my instincts, and don't rush," Neteyam recites dutifully. "I know, I know. You've told me a hundred times."
"And I will tell you a hundred more," Tarsem says with a grin. "That is what teachers do."
You watch them together, warmth spreading through your chest. Tarsem is so good with Neteyam—patient and encouraging, pushing him to be better while never making him feel inadequate. It's one of the things you love most about him, this gentle strength, this ability to guide without dominating.
He's going to be an amazing father someday.
The thought catches you off guard, and you feel heat rise in your cheeks. You're not mated yet—you shouldn't be thinking about children—but the image is there anyway, clear and vivid. Tarsem with a child in his arms, teaching them to shoot a bow or track a hexapede, looking at them with that same pride and affection he shows Neteyam.
You want that. You want it so much it makes your chest ache.
"You okay?" Tarsem's voice is soft, concerned, and you realize you've been staring at him.
"Fine," you say quickly, looking away. "Just thinking."
"About what?"
"Nothing important." You take a bite of fruit to avoid answering, and he gives you a look that says he knows you're deflecting, but he doesn't push.
"Hey!" Another voice joins the group, and you look up to see Lo'ak sliding into the space beside you, his grin wide and mischievous. "What's everyone talking about?"
"The raid," Neteyam says importantly. "I'm helping with prep."
"Lucky," Lo'ak grumbles. "I wanted to help too, but Dad said I'm too young."
"You are too young," Neteyam points out. "You're younger than me."
"Only by a year!" Lo'ak protests. "That's not that much."
"It's enough." Neteyam's tone is superior in the way only an older brother can manage, and Lo'ak makes a face at him.
You can't help but laugh at their bickering. You've always had a soft spot for Lo'ak—he's wild and reckless and sometimes too clever for his own good, but there's something endearing about his determination to prove himself. He reminds you a bit of yourself at that age, always pushing boundaries, always wanting to be included.
"Don't worry, Lo'ak," you say, reaching over to nudge his shoulder. "Your time will come. And when it does, you'll be ready."
He looks at you with such gratitude that it makes your heart squeeze. "You really think so?"
"I know so. You're smart and quick and brave. You just need a little more time to grow into it."
"See?" Lo'ak turns to his brother triumphantly. "She thinks I'm ready."
"That's not what she said," Neteyam argues, but he's grinning.
Tarsem catches your eye, and there's amusement in his expression, mixed with something softer. He likes that you're good with the boys, you realize. Likes that they trust you, come to you for reassurance and guidance.
The thought makes you feel warm all over.
The meal continues, conversation flowing easily around you. Jake eventually makes his way over, clasping Tarsem's shoulder in greeting and nodding to you with a smile. "Morning. Everyone ready for today?"
"Ready," Tarsem confirms, his voice steady and sure.
Jake's eyes flick to you, and there's understanding in them. "Don't worry. I'll bring him back in one piece."
"You better," you say, trying to keep your tone light even though your stomach is clenching with anxiety. "We have a ceremony in a week. I'd hate to have to postpone it because he got himself hurt."
"I'll do my best," Jake says with a grin, then turns back to Tarsem. "Prep starts in an hour. Warrior platform."
"I'll be there," Tarsem promises.
Jake nods and moves on, stopping to talk to other warriors, and you feel Tarsem's hand find yours under the cover of the mat, his fingers lacing through yours and squeezing gently.
"It'll be fine," he murmurs, low enough that only you can hear. "I promise."
"I know," you say, squeezing back. "I just... I always worry."
"I know you do." He lifts your joined hands, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "But I'm always careful. And I always come back to you."
"You better," you say, echoing your earlier words. "Because if you don't, I'll drag you back from the other side myself."
He laughs, the sound warm and genuine. "I believe you would."
The rest of breakfast passes too quickly. Before you know it, the warriors are standing, gathering their things, preparing to head to the warrior platform for the real preparations. Tarsem stands with them, reluctant to let go of your hand, and you rise with him, not ready to say goodbye yet.
"I'll walk with you," you say, and he nods, grateful.
Together you make your way through the village, following the flow of warriors toward the preparation area. Neteyam trails along, chattering excitedly about his tasks for the day, while Lo'ak has already run off to find his friends, his disappointment at being left behind temporarily forgotten.
The warrior platform is a wide, open space high in the trees, with racks for weapons and armor, areas for applying paint and checking gear. It's already busy with activity—warriors stripping down to loincloths, others mixing paint, still others sharpening blades and checking bowstrings.
The air is thick with focus and determination, the kind of energy that comes before a dangerous mission.
Tarsem leads you to a quieter corner of the platform, where his gear is already laid out—his bow, his knife, his riding harness, and several small pots of paint in different colors. He starts checking his weapons with practiced efficiency, running his hands along the bowstring, testing the balance of his knife.
You watch him work, your heart in your throat. He looks so capable, so confident, and yet you can't shake the fear that something might go wrong. That he might not come back. That you might lose him before you ever really get to have him.
"Stop," he says softly, not looking up from his bow.
"Stop what?"
"Worrying. I can feel it from here." He sets down the bow and turns to you, his expression gentle. "I am going to be fine. This is not my first raid."
"I know. I just..." You trail off, not sure how to put the feeling into words.
He steps closer, his hands coming up to cup your face. "I know," he says quietly. "I worry about you too, every time I leave. But I have too much to come back to. I am not going to take unnecessary risks."
"Promise?"
"Promise." He leans down to press a soft kiss to your forehead. "One week from now, we are going to stand before the clan and make our bond. Nothing is going to stop that from happening."
You nod, trying to believe him, and he smiles before turning back to his gear.
That's when you notice the paint pots, and an idea forms in your mind. War paint is usually applied by the warrior themselves, or sometimes by close family. But mates—mates often paint each other, a final intimate gesture before battle, a way of saying I see you, I'm with you, come back to me.
You and Tarsem aren't mated yet. Not officially. But you're close enough that maybe...
"Tarsem," you say, your voice coming out softer than you intended.
He looks up, and something in your expression makes him go still. "Yes?"
"Can I..." You gesture to the paint pots. "Can I apply your war paint?"
His eyes widen, and for a moment he just stares at you, his lips parted in surprise. "You want to paint me?"
"If you'll let me." You step closer, your heart pounding. "I know it's usually only done by mates, but we're so close to the ceremony, and I just... I want to. If that's okay."
He's quiet for a long moment, and you start to worry that you've overstepped, that it's too intimate a gesture for where you are in your relationship. But then his expression softens into something so tender it makes your breath catch.
"I would be honored," he says quietly. "I was going to ask you, actually, but I was not sure if you would want to. If you would think it was too soon."
Relief floods through you. "Not too soon. Just right."
He nods, then starts removing his chest piece and arm guards, stripping down until he's wearing only his loincloth. Your mouth goes dry at the sight of him—all lean muscle and golden skin, the evidence of years of training and fighting written across his body in scars and strength.
He's beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. And in one week, he's going to be yours.
"Where do you want me?" he asks, and there's a slight tremor in his voice that tells you he's not as calm as he's pretending to be.
"Sit," you say, gesturing to a low bench. "And try to stay still."
He sits, and you kneel in front of him, reaching for the first pot of paint—a deep blue-black that will form the base of the design. You dip your fingers into the cool paste, feeling the texture of it, and then you reach out to touch his chest.
He inhales sharply at the contact, his muscles tensing under your hand.
"Relax," you murmur, spreading the paint across his collarbone in a smooth line. "I can't paint you if you're all tense."
"Sorry," he says, but his voice is strained. "It's just... your hands on me..."
"I know." You smile, understanding completely. Every touch feels electric, charged with the awareness of what's coming, of how close you are to being bound together. "But you asked me to do this, so you're going to have to deal with it."
He huffs out a laugh, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "Fair enough."
You work slowly, carefully, your fingers tracing patterns across his skin. The traditional warrior designs—lines that follow the curve of his muscles, symbols of strength and protection, marks that identify him as Omaticaya. You've seen these patterns a hundred times, but applying them yourself is different. Intimate. Each stroke of your fingers is a prayer, a plea for him to come back safe.
"You're very good at this," Tarsem says after a while, his voice low and warm.
"I am just following the traditional patterns," you reply, dipping your fingers into a lighter blue for the accent lines.
"No, I mean... you have a steady hand. An artist's touch." He's watching you work, his eyes tracking the movement of your fingers across his skin. "It's beautiful."
"You're beautiful," you say without thinking, then feel heat rise in your cheeks. "I mean—the paint is beautiful. On you. Because you're—" You stop, flustered, and he grins.
"Because I'm what?"
"You know what," you mutter, focusing intently on the line you're drawing across his ribs.
"I want to hear you say it."
You look up at him, meeting his eyes, and the playfulness there gives you courage. "Because you're gorgeous. Strong. Perfect." You let your hand rest flat against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. "Look at you. Look at these muscles."
His ears twitch, a faint flush darkening his cheeks. "I'm just... I train. That's all."
"You're being modest." You run your hand down his arm, feeling the hard curve of his bicep, the strength in his forearm. "You're one of the finest warriors in the clan, Tarsem. Strong enough to protect, skilled enough to provide. Any woman would be lucky to have you."
"I only want one woman," he says quietly, his hand coming up to cover yours where it rests on his chest. "And somehow, impossibly, she wants me too."
"Not somehow," you correct gently. "I want you because of who you are. Because you're kind and patient and brave. Because you make me laugh and you challenge me and you see me—really see me—in a way no one else does."
His eyes are intense on yours, dark and full of emotion. "Yawne," he breathes, and the endearment makes your heart flutter. "You're going to make it very hard for me to focus on this raid if you keep talking like that."
"Then I'll stop talking," you say, but you're smiling as you return to your work.
You paint in comfortable silence for a while, adding layers and details, building up the design until it covers his chest, his shoulders, his arms. Your fingers trace the scars on his skin—a long one across his ribs from a thanator's claw, a smaller one on his shoulder from a training accident, countless tiny marks from years of living in the forest.
Each one is a story, a moment in his life, and you want to know all of them.
"This one," you say, touching the scar on his ribs. "Tell me about this one."
"Thanator," he says simply. "About six months ago. It got too close to the village, and Jake asked for volunteers to drive it off. I was the closest when it charged."
Your hand stills on his skin. "You could have been killed."
"But I wasn't." He covers your hand with his, pressing it against the scar. "I'm here. I'm fine. And I'm going to stay fine, because I have you to come back to."
You nod, swallowing hard, and return to painting. The design is nearly complete now—just a few more accent lines, a few more symbols. You add them carefully, making sure every line is perfect, every curve precise.
When you finally sit back to admire your work, your breath catches.
He looks magnificent. The paint transforms him from the gentle, careful man you know into something fierce and powerful—a warrior in truth, ready for battle. The designs emphasize the breadth of his shoulders, the strength in his arms, the lean power of his body. He looks dangerous. Deadly.
And completely, utterly yours.
"How do I look?" he asks, and there's a hint of nervousness in his voice, like he actually cares about your opinion.
"Like a warrior," you say, your voice coming out husky. "Like someone who could take on the world and win."
He stands, moving to a polished piece of metal that serves as a mirror, and studies his reflection. You watch his expression shift from curiosity to surprise to something like awe.
"You did this?" he asks, turning back to you.
"I did."
"It's..." He trails off, seeming at a loss for words. "It's perfect. You're perfect."
Before you can respond, he's crossing the distance between you, his hands cupping your face, and then he's kissing you. It's not gentle or tentative—it's fierce and claiming, full of all the emotion he can't put into words.
You kiss him back just as fiercely, your hands sliding up his painted chest, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the cool paste. He makes a low sound in his throat, pulling you closer, and you can feel the rapid beat of his heart, the tension in his muscles.
When you finally break apart, both breathing hard, his forehead rests against yours.
"I need to go soon," he says, but he doesn't move.
"I know."
"But I don't want to."
"I know that too." You pull back slightly to look at him, taking in the paint on his skin, the intensity in his eyes. "But you have to. Jake is counting on you. The clan is counting on you."
"What about what you're counting on?" he asks quietly.
"I'm counting on you to come back," you say firmly. "That's all. Just come back to me."
"Always," he promises, and then he's kissing you again, urgent and desperate, like he's trying to memorize the taste of you.
You lose yourself in it, in the feel of his hands on your waist, his lips on yours, the solid warmth of him against you. Around you, the warrior platform continues its preparations, but you're barely aware of it. All that matters is this moment, this man, this feeling of rightness that settles in your chest whenever he's near.
But eventually, inevitably, you hear Jake's voice calling out, "Warriors! Time to move!"
Tarsem pulls back with a groan, his hands tightening on your waist for just a moment before he releases you. "I have to go."
"I know." You smooth your hands over his chest one more time, checking the paint. "Be careful. Be smart. Come back to me."
"I will." He catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. "Wait for me?"
"Always."
He starts to turn away, then stops, looking back at you with something vulnerable in his expression. "I love you," he says quietly. "I know we've said it before, but I need you to hear it again. I love you. You're everything to me."
Your throat tightens with emotion. "I love you too. So much. That's why you need to come back—because I can't do this without you."
"You won't have to," he promises, and then he's moving away, joining the other warriors as they gather their weapons and prepare to mount their ikran.
You watch him go, your hand pressed against your chest where your heart is racing, and you can still feel the ghost of his touch on your skin, the taste of him on your lips.
Säla'ite appears at your side, slipping her arm through yours. "He'll be fine," she says softly. "He always is."
"I know," you say, but your voice wavers slightly.
"Come on. Let's go find something to do. The waiting is always the hardest part."
She's right. The waiting is torture.
You spend the morning helping with various tasks around the village—weaving baskets, preparing food, checking supplies. Säla'ite stays close, chattering about the upcoming mating ceremony, asking about your plans, trying to distract you from the worry that sits heavy in your stomach.
"Have you decided what you're going to wear?" she asks as you work on repairing a fishing net, your fingers moving automatically through the familiar motions.
"Not yet," you admit. "I've been so focused on everything else, I haven't really thought about it."
"Well, you should think about it. You want to look beautiful for him." She grins. "Not that you need to try very hard. He already looks at you like you hung the stars."
You can't help but smile at that. "He does, doesn't he?"
"Absolutely. It's almost disgusting how in love you two are." But her tone is affectionate, teasing. "I'm happy for you, you know. Tarsem is a good man. He'll take care of you."
"I know he will." You pause in your work, looking out toward the forest where the warriors disappeared hours ago. "I just wish he was here now."
"He will be soon," Säla'ite assures you. "And then you can fuss over him and make sure he's okay, and he'll probably love every second of it."
You laugh despite yourself. "Probably."
The day drags on. You help Mo'at organize medicinal supplies, assist with preparing the evening meal, play with some of the younger children to keep them entertained. But through it all, your mind is elsewhere, tracking the position of the sun, calculating how long the raid should take, wondering if everything is going according to plan.
Every time you hear a sound in the distance, your heart jumps, hoping it's the warriors returning. But it's always just the forest, just the normal sounds of life in the trees.
By late afternoon, you're wound so tight with anxiety that you can barely sit still. You've positioned yourself near the edge of the village, where you'll have a clear view of the sky, and you're pretending to work on a weaving project while actually just staring at the horizon.
Säla'ite has given up trying to distract you and is sitting beside you in companionable silence, her own work forgotten in her lap.
"They'll be back soon," she says for the hundredth time.
"I know," you reply for the hundredth time.
And then—finally, blessedly—you hear it.
The sound of horns in the distance, the victory call that means the raid was successful, the warriors are returning. Your heart leaps into your throat, and you're on your feet before you even realize you're moving, the weaving falling forgotten to the platform.
"They're back!" someone shouts, and suddenly the whole village is in motion, people rushing toward the ikran landing area, eager to see their loved ones return.
You run, your feet flying over the branch-paths, your heart pounding so hard it feels like it might burst from your chest. You can see the ikran now, dark shapes against the sky, growing larger as they approach. You count them frantically, trying to make sure they're all there, that no one was lost.
Neteyam appears beside you, running just as fast, his face bright with excitement. "They're back! They're all back!"
Lo'ak is on your other side, whooping with joy, and together the three of you race toward the landing area.
The ikran touch down one by one, their riders dismounting with practiced ease. You scan the group frantically, looking for Tarsem, your eyes passing over Jake, over other warriors you recognize—
And then you see him.
He's climbing down from his ikran, his movements a little slower than usual, like he's tired or sore, but he's whole. He's safe. He's here.
Relief crashes over you so powerfully that your knees nearly buckle, but you don't stop running. You push through the crowd of people, dodging around families reuniting, warriors being welcomed home, and you don't stop until you reach him.
"Tarsem!"
He turns at the sound of your voice, and his face lights up in a way that makes your heart soar. He barely has time to brace himself before you're throwing yourself at him, your arms wrapping around his neck, and he catches you easily, lifting you off your feet as he holds you close.
"Hey," he says, his voice rough and warm in your ear. "I'm here. I'm okay."
"I was so worried," you say into his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him—sweat and forest and the faint metallic tang of the paint that's still on his skin. "I know you said you'd be fine, but I couldn't help it."
"I know." His arms tighten around you. "But I told you I'd come back. I always come back to you."
You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands coming up to frame his face, checking for injuries. There's a small cut on his cheek, a bruise forming on his shoulder, but otherwise he seems unharmed. "Are you hurt?"
"Just a few scratches. Nothing serious." He's smiling at you, his eyes soft and full of affection. "You should see the other guy."
You want to scold him for making jokes, but you're too relieved to care. Instead, you pull him down and kiss him, right there in front of everyone, pouring all your worry and relief and love into the contact.
He makes a surprised sound, then melts into the kiss, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. Around you, you can hear people laughing, making teasing comments, but you don't care. All that matters is that he's here, he's safe, he's yours.
When you finally pull back, he's looking at you with something like wonder in his eyes. "I missed you too," he says softly.
"You were only gone for a day," you point out, but your voice is shaky.
"Felt like longer." He sets you down gently, but keeps his arms around you, like he's not quite ready to let go. "Every time I'm away from you, it feels too long."
"Then stop going away," you say, only half-joking.
"Can't. Duty calls." But he's smiling as he says it, and you know he's as happy to be back as you are to have him here.
"Tarsem!" Jake's voice cuts through the moment, and you both turn to see the Olo'eyktan approaching, a grin on his face. "Good work out there. That was some impressive flying."
"Thank you, sir." Tarsem straightens slightly, falling into the formal posture of a warrior addressing his leader, but his arm stays around your waist.
Jake's eyes flick to you, and his grin widens. "I see you've got a welcoming committee."
"The best kind," Tarsem agrees, and you feel heat rise in your cheeks.
"Well, don't let me keep you. Go get cleaned up, get some food. You've earned it." Jake claps Tarsem on the shoulder, then moves on to greet the other returning warriors.
Tarsem turns back to you, and there's a question in his eyes. "I need to help put away the gear, make sure the ikran are settled. It'll take maybe an hour. Will you wait for me?"
"Of course," you say immediately. "I'll be at the evening meal. Take your time."
He nods, then leans down to press one more quick kiss to your lips. "I'll find you as soon as I'm done."
"You better."
He grins, then reluctantly releases you and heads off to join the other warriors in their post-raid tasks. You watch him go, your heart still racing, and you can't stop smiling.
He's back. He's safe. Everything is okay.
Säla'ite appears at your side, grinning widely. "Well, that was quite the reunion."
"Shut up," you say, but you're laughing.
"I'm just saying, you two are adorable. Disgustingly, sickeningly adorable." She links her arm through yours. "Come on. Let's go help set up for the evening meal. He'll be hungry when he gets back."
The next hour passes in a blur of activity. You help arrange the food, set out the mats, make sure everything is ready for the clan's evening gathering. But your eyes keep drifting toward the area where the warriors are working, looking for glimpses of Tarsem.
Finally, as the sun is beginning to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, you see him emerge from the direction of the bathing pools. He's cleaned up, the war paint washed away, his braids damp and neat. He's changed into a fresh loincloth, and he looks relaxed in a way he didn't this morning, the tension of the raid finally leaving his shoulders.
He scans the gathering crowd, and when his eyes find you, his whole face lights up.
You can't help the smile that spreads across your face as he makes his way over to you, weaving through the crowd with single-minded purpose. When he reaches you, he doesn't hesitate—just pulls you into his arms and holds you close, like he needs the contact as much as you do.
"Hi," he says softly, his lips brushing against your temple.
"Hi yourself." You pull back to look at him, taking in the clean lines of his face, the warmth in his eyes. "Feel better?"
"Much better. Especially now that I'm with you." He takes your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "Come on. Let's eat. I'm starving."
You settle together on one of the mats, and Tarsem immediately starts loading a leaf plate with food—roasted meat, vegetables, fruit, grain cakes. He hands it to you first, making sure you have plenty, before filling his own plate.
It's such a simple gesture, but it makes your heart warm. He always does this—makes sure you're taken care of before he worries about himself. It's one of the many things you love about him.
"So," you say as you both start eating, "how did it go? Was the raid successful?"
"Very successful." He takes a bite of meat, chewing thoughtfully. "We hit three supply trains, destroyed a lot of their equipment. Jake says it'll set them back weeks, maybe months."
"And everyone made it back okay?"
"A few minor injuries, but nothing serious. We were lucky." He glances at you, his expression softening. "I was careful, like I promised."
"I know you were." You lean against his shoulder, and he shifts to accommodate you, his arm coming around your waist. "I still worried though."
"I know. I'm sorry." He presses a kiss to the top of your head. "But I'm here now. Safe and sound."
"And you're not going anywhere for a while, right?"
"Not if I can help it." He grins. "Although knowing Jake, there'll probably be another mission in a few days."
You groan, and he laughs, the sound warm and genuine. "I'm kidding. Mostly. But even if there is, I'll come back. I always do."
"You better," you say, echoing the words from this morning. "Because in one week, you're going to be stuck with me permanently. No more going off on dangerous missions without me worrying."
"You'll worry anyway," he points out.
"True. But at least I'll have the right to worry as your mate, not just your... whatever we are now."
"My everything," he says simply, and the sincerity in his voice makes your breath catch. "That's what you are. My everything."
You look up at him, and the expression on his face—open and vulnerable and full of love—makes your eyes sting with tears. "Tarsem..."
"I mean it." He sets down his food, turning to face you fully. "I know we're not mated yet, not officially, but you're already my mate in every way that matters. You're the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing I think about before I sleep. You're the reason I'm careful on raids, the reason I always come back. You're my home, paskalin. My heart."
Your throat is tight with emotion, and you have to blink back tears. "You can't just say things like that," you manage. "Not when we're surrounded by people."
"Why not?" He reaches up to cup your face, his thumb brushing away a tear that's escaped. "I want everyone to know how I feel about you. I want the whole world to know."
"The whole world already knows," you say with a watery laugh. "You're not exactly subtle."
"Good." He leans down to kiss you, soft and sweet, and you can feel him smiling against your lips. "I don't want to be subtle. I want to shout it from the top of the canopy."
"Please don't," you say, but you're smiling too. "That would be embarrassing."
"For you, maybe. I'd be proud."
You shake your head, but you can't stop smiling. This man—this wonderful, ridiculous, perfect man—is going to be yours. In one week, you'll stand before Eywa and the clan and bind yourselves together, and then nothing will ever separate you.
The thought fills you with such joy that you feel like you might burst with it.
The evening meal continues around you, the clan gathering in clusters, sharing food and stories and laughter. You and Tarsem stay close together, your shoulders touching, your hands intertwined. He tells you more about the raid—the strategy they used, the close calls they had, the moment when Jake pulled off an impossible maneuver that had everyone cheering.
You listen, asking questions, laughing at the right moments, but mostly you just enjoy being near him. Feeling the warmth of his body, hearing the rumble of his voice, knowing that he's safe and whole and here.
At one point, Neteyam and Lo'ak join you, both boys talking excitedly about the raid preparations, about what they did while the warriors were gone. Tarsem listens patiently, praising Neteyam's work and reassuring Lo'ak that his time will come.
You watch him with the boys, and that image from this morning returns—Tarsem with a child of his own, patient and kind and loving. Your child.
The thought makes your cheeks heat, and you quickly look away before anyone can notice.
As the evening wears on, people begin to drift away, heading to their kelku for the night. The fires are banked to embers, the platforms cleared of food, and the village settles into the quiet rhythm of night.
You notice Tarsem trying to stifle a yawn, and you realize how tired he must be. He's been up since before dawn, spent the whole day on a dangerous raid, and now he's been sitting here with you, refusing to show any sign of exhaustion.
"Come on," you say softly, standing and offering him your hand. "Let's get you to bed."
He looks up at you, and there's something hopeful in his expression. "Your kelku or mine?"
You give him a look. "Nice try. Yours. Alone."
He groans, but he's smiling as he takes your hand and lets you pull him to his feet. "Can't blame a man for trying."
"I can and I will." You start walking, leading him through the quiet village toward his kelku. "One week, remember? We agreed."
"I know, I know." He falls into step beside you, his hand warm in yours. "But you can't blame me for wanting you close. Especially after a day like today."
"I want you close too," you admit. "But we've waited this long. We can wait a little longer."
"I suppose." He's quiet for a moment, then adds, "But once we're mated, you're not leaving my side. Ever."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
His kelku is on the far side of the village, tucked into a quiet corner with a good view of the forest. It's larger than yours, as he'd pointed out this morning, with more space and better ventilation. You've been here a few times over the past months, but never overnight. Never in a way that would be improper.
Soon, though. Soon this will be your home too.
At the entrance, you both pause, reluctant to say goodnight. Tarsem turns to face you, his hands coming up to rest on your waist, and you step closer, your arms sliding around his neck.
"Thank you," he says softly. "For today. For the paint, for waiting for me, for being here when I got back. For everything."
"You don't have to thank me," you say. "I wanted to do all of it. I'll always want to."
"I know. But I'm thanking you anyway." He leans down, resting his forehead against yours. "I love you. So much. Sometimes I can't believe you're real, that you chose me."
"I'm real," you assure him, your fingers playing with the braids at the nape of his neck. "And I chose you because you're wonderful. Because you're kind and brave and you make me happier than I ever thought possible."
He makes a soft sound, something between a laugh and a sigh, and then he's kissing you. It's slow and deep, full of all the emotion of the day—the fear and relief and love and anticipation. You kiss him back with everything you have, trying to pour all your feelings into the contact.
When you finally pull apart, you're both breathing hard, and his eyes are dark with desire.
"One week," he says, his voice rough.
"One week," you agree.
"It's going to be the longest week of my life."
"Mine too." You smile, reaching up to cup his face. "But it'll be worth it. I promise."
"I know it will." He turns his head to press a kiss to your palm, then reluctantly releases you. "I should let you go. Before I lose what little self-control I have left."
"Probably a good idea." But you don't move, not yet. You're not quite ready to leave him.
He seems to feel the same way, because he pulls you back in for another kiss, this one quick but no less intense. And then another. And another.
"Okay," you say, laughing against his lips. "Now I really need to go."
"Just one more," he pleads, and you can't resist.
One more turns into three more, and by the time you finally manage to pull away, you're both grinning like fools.
"Goodnight, Tarsem," you say, backing away slowly.
"Goodnight, yawne." He leans against the entrance to his kelku, watching you with such open affection that it makes your heart ache. "I'll see you in the morning?"
"First thing," you promise. "I'll come find you as soon as I wake up."
"I'll be waiting."
You force yourself to turn and walk away, even though every instinct is screaming at you to stay. You can feel his eyes on you as you go, and when you glance back, he's still standing there, watching you with that soft smile on his face.
You wave, and he waves back, and then you're turning the corner and he's out of sight.
The walk back to your own kelku feels longer than usual, and when you finally slip inside, your mother looks up from where she's preparing for bed.
"He made it back safe?" she asks, even though she already knows the answer.
"He did." You can't keep the smile off your face. "He's fine. Everything's fine."
"Good." She studies you for a moment, then smiles. "One more week, and then you'll be with him every night. Are you ready for that?"
"More than ready," you say honestly. "I've been ready for months."
She laughs softly. "I can tell. You've been walking around with your head in the clouds ever since he started courting you."
"Can you blame me?" You settle into your hammock, staring up at the woven ceiling. "He's... he's everything, Mom. Everything I ever wanted."
"I know, sweetheart. I can see it." She moves to her own hammock, settling in with a contented sigh. "Your father and I are very happy for you. Tarsem is a good man. He'll take care of you."
"I know he will." You touch the necklace at your throat, the one he made for you all those months ago. "I can't wait to be his mate. To start our life together."
"Soon," your mother says gently. "Very soon. Now get some sleep. You'll want to be well-rested for tomorrow."
"Why? What's tomorrow?"
"Another day with Tarsem," she says simply. "Isn't that reason enough?"
You smile, warmth spreading through your chest. "Yeah. It is."
You close your eyes, and even though you're in your own kelku, alone in your hammock, you can still feel the ghost of Tarsem's touch on your skin, the taste of his kisses on your lips. You can still hear his voice saying I love you, still see the way he looked at you when you ran to him after the raid.
One more week.
One more week, and then you'll never have to say goodnight and walk away. One more week, and then you'll fall asleep in his arms every night and wake up beside him every morning.