Sully family x Eldest daughter reader
Part 54 > Part 55 < Part 56
Dawn crept slowly into the marui.
Neytiri woke to the soft grey light slipping through the woven walls and the weight of Tuk curled against her chest. For a moment she did not move. She only listened to her youngest breathe and felt the hollow place Neteyam had left inside the room.
Her eyes went straight to her eldest.
Jake was still where he had been when Neytiri fell asleep.
On the floor of the marui with (Y/n)’s head resting in his lap, one hand moving slowly through her hair. He looked as though he had not closed his eyes once. His shoulders were stiff, his face drawn with exhaustion, but it was the pain in his expression that held Neytiri’s attention.
He was looking down at their daughter like he was trying to memorise her.
And like he was trying to make himself let go.
Neytiri carefully lifted Tuk’s arm from around her waist and lowered their youngest into the hammock. Tuk stirred, face tightening for a moment, and Neytiri brushed a hand over her hair until she settled again.
Jake did not look up as she crossed the marui.
Neytiri knelt in front of them and looked down at (Y/n).
Her daughter’s breathing was still laboured. Each breath came too quickly and moved too little air, her chest rising in shallow, uneven pulls while a faint wet sound caught beneath some of them. Her lips were parted as if breathing through her nose was not enough, and every few breaths her brow tightened with pain. The dried traces of blood-streaked mucus remained near the corner of her mouth despite Jake having wiped her face clean during the night.
She was shivering beneath the blanket.
Her skin had lost some of its colour, her face pale beneath the blue, and exhaustion sat heavily over her even in sleep. One hand rested close to her chest, fingers curled weakly as though she had fallen asleep trying to protect her ribs.
Then a cough caught in her breathing.
Jake’s hand moved from her hair to her back without thought, rubbing between her shoulders until the sound eased and she settled again.
Neytiri’s heart clenched.
Yesterday her daughter had drowned.
For those terrible minutes when Jake surfaced without her, Neytiri had believed she had lost two children in one day.
The grief had not settled into something she could hold. It had hollowed her instead, carved out a space inside her chest where Neteyam’s presence had once lived, leaving behind an ache that never eased and a silence that rang louder than any cry. It felt wrong that the world still moved, that breath still came to her lungs when his no longer did.
And now that emptiness twisted with something sharper.
It coiled tight around her ribs as she looked at (Y/n), at the fragile rise and fall of her chest, at the way each breath seemed like it might falter if left unwatched.
Tears pricked Neytiri’s eyes. She reached out and brushed her fingertips lightly across (Y/n)’s cheek.
“She had another nightmare,” Jake said quietly.
His voice was hoarse from exhaustion.
“The RDA. Her capture,” he continued. His hand slowed in their daughter’s hair. “The drowning brought it all back.”
Neytiri’s thumb moved beneath (Y/n)’s eye, wiping away a tear that had dried there during the night.
The RDA had taken enough from her already. They had left wounds on her body and mind.
Neytiri leaned closer and rested her forehead briefly against her daughter’s temple.
The thought moved through Neytiri with such force that her breath caught. It felt as if an unseen hand had reached into her chest and closed around her heart, tightening slowly while she looked at the fragile rise of her daughter’s ribs.
If (Y/n) had been taken too—
Neytiri could not finish the thought.
Two pieces of herself gone in a single day, leaving her standing in a world that still expected her to live through losing her children.
She opened her eyes and found Jake watching their daughter.
There was something wrong in the way he held himself.
Not the fear. Neytiri knew his fear. She had seen it all night in the way he counted every breath and touched (Y/n)’s forehead, in the way his entire body tightened whenever she coughed.
He looked like a man preparing to cut something living from himself.
“Ma Jake?” Neytiri said softly.
His jaw tightened. He did not answer.
Then, with slow and careful movements, he slid one hand beneath the pillow and began easing himself out from under their daughter.
Neytiri’s ears flicked back.
(Y/n) shifted faintly as the warmth beneath her moved. A small crease appeared between her brows, but Jake paused and rested his hand against the side of her head until she settled again.
Then he lifted the pillow with her head still resting on it and transferred it gently into Neytiri’s lap.
Neytiri took her automatically, one arm coming around her shoulders, so she remained on her side and upright enough to breathe.
One at the back of (Y/n)’s head. The other hovering over her shoulder. His fingers twitched as though they wanted to return to her hair.
Then he pulled them away.
“I’m gonna scavenge the wreck for weapons,” he said quietly. “Take Lo’ak with me.”
The words did not make sense at first.
He would never willingly leave their eldest while her lungs still sounded like this, while blood still marked what she coughed up, while nightmares kept dragging her back into RDA hands, into their daughter's worst memories.
Now he was choosing to go.
“Jake,” she said, disbelief sharpening her voice. “What if she wakes afraid, looking for you?”
Neytiri knew her daughter.
Knew the way fear settled deepest in her when the world went quiet, when memories crept in without warning. Knew that when nightmares took hold, it was always her father she reached for first—the one who had pulled her from darkness before, who had taught her how to breathe through it, how to come back.
And (Y/n) would wake searching for him.
His face changed. Only slightly.
But Neytiri saw the words strike him.
His eyes dropped immediately to (Y/n), to the way her cheek rested in Neytiri’s lap. His mouth tightened and he bit down on his lower lip, looking like he had to physically stop himself from kneeling again.
For a moment Neytiri thought he would.
She thought he would take their daughter back into his arms, abandon whatever strange decision was tearing at him and remain exactly where every instinct clearly demanded he stay.
“Jake,” she said again, softer now. “She will be expecting you to be here..”
His eyes squeezed shut. A breath left him through his nose. "I know."
Neytiri studied him. “What is this?”
Jake opened his eyes but did not look at her. His gaze moved around the marui instead.
To Tuk To Kiri. To Spider resting in Neteyam’s place. Then to Lo’ak.
Something passed over Jake’s face, guilt so deep it looked almost like grief.
Neytiri saw it in the way his mouth opened, in the tension gathering around his eyes, in the way his hand lifted slightly as though he needed to explain what had been eating through him all night.
He looked down at (Y/n) one last time.
She gave another faint cough in her sleep, and his whole body leaned toward her before he caught himself.
That frightened Neytiri more than if he had simply walked away.
Jake was fighting the need to comfort his own daughter.
He straightened. “I’ll wake Lo’ak,” he said.
But he had already turned.
Neytiri watched him cross the marui and crouch beside Lo’ak’s sleeping place, waking their son with a hand on his shoulder. Lo’ak stirred, confused and heavy-eyed, but Jake spoke quietly to him.
He did not look back. Not until he reached the entrance. There he stopped. Only for a moment.
His shoulders rose with one slow breath, and his head turned enough for his eyes to find (Y/n) again.
Neytiri could see everything in that look.
The need to return. The fear that their daughter would wake coughing and call for him.
Then Jake faced forward and left with Lo’ak.
Neytiri remained kneeling on the floor with their daughter’s head in her lap, listening as their footsteps faded along the walkway.
She looked down at (Y/n).
Her breathing caught again.
Neytiri rubbed her back the way Jake had been doing, slow circles between her shoulders until the wet sound eased. She brushed the hair from her daughter’s face and wondered what had happened inside her mate's mind during the night.
Because Jake Sully did not leave his eldest when she was hurt.
Her fingers threaded slowly through her daughter's hair, untangling damp strands with a tenderness born from habit more than thought. She watched (Y/n)'s chest rise and fall, still too fast, still carrying that wet rasp beneath every breath, and another ache settled inside her.
The thought would not leave.
It sat inside her chest beside Neteyam's death, refusing to loosen its grip.
Yesterday she had watched one child disappear forever.
Yesterday she had believed she was about to lose another.
She had not even had time to grieve one before Eywa had threatened to take the other.
She wanted nothing more than to gather (Y/n) into her arms, hold her against her chest and never let go. To cry into her daughter's hair until every bit of fear left her body.
Ronal had said not to move her too much.
So Neytiri simply kept stroking her hair, trying to pour every ounce of a mother's love into that simple touch.
"My poor child," she whispered.
A small cough escaped her before her eyes slowly fluttered open.
For a moment they were unfocused.
Neytiri smiled through tears.
(Y/n) blinked slowly. "...Where's Dad?"
The question shattered what little composure Neytiri had left.
She had slipped an arm beneath her daughter and gently gathered her against her chest, careful of her ribs, careful of her lungs, careful of everything that had nearly been taken from her yesterday.
Tears rolled freely down Neytiri's face.
She held her daughter with desperate care, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other rubbed slowly between her shoulders exactly as Jake had done through the night.
(Y/n) melted into her without protest.
She was too tired to resist. Too exhausted to do anything except rest her forehead against her mother's shoulder.
Neytiri buried her face in her daughter's hair. Her whole body trembled. "I almost lost you," she whispered, the words barely surviving the sob that followed them. Another tear slipped down onto (Y/n)'s shoulder.
Her voice broke completely.
"My son..." She squeezed her eyes shut. "My beautiful son..."
Another sob escaped before she could stop it.
"And then... and then I watched your father come back without you." Her grip tightened ever so slightly. "My heart stopped."
She had never known terror like it.
"I thought..." Neytiri whispered.
She could not finish. She simply shook her head against (Y/n)'s hair. "I thought Eywa had taken both of my babies."
Her tears soaked into her daughter's hair now. She no longer cared. "I am not strong enough for that."
Her voice cracked so badly the words almost disappeared. "I would not survive that."
"I'm here mama..." (y/n) rasped quietly.
Those three words only made Neytiri cry harder.
"I know." She kissed the top of her daughter's head. "I know."
She pulled back just enough to cup (Y/n)'s face between both hands.
Her poor girl looked exhausted. Her eyes were swollen from crying. There were dark circles beneath them. She looked pale. Fragile.
Nothing like the warrior she had raised.
More like the little girl Neytiri had once carried on her hip through the forest.
"I am so thankful you are still with me," Neytiri whispered. "So very thankful."
(Y/n)'s eyes filled again.
"...Where's Dad?" she asked once more, quieter this time.
Neytiri's own expression faltered.
"He... has gone with Lo'ak."
She watched confusion flicker across her daughter's face. "He said he was scavenging the wreck."
(Y/n) frowned slightly. "...He left?"
Neytiri nodded slowly. She brushed another strand of hair behind her daughter's ear. She gently rubbed her daughter's back as another cough stirred in her chest. "I'm here now. Mama has got you."
She held her daughter a little longer. Unable to convince herself to let go. "And Mama will not let you go."
Because yesterday had taught her something she wished she had never learned.
You only realised how precious holding your child was...
When you thought you never would again.
And she would not lose her eldest.
“I’m sorry…” (y/n) whispered hoarsely. “I’m so sorry, mama… I’m sorry about Neteyam…”
Neytiri’s heart clenched painfully at the words. She shook her head immediately, pressing her daughter closer, one hand cradling the back of her head as she gently hushed her. “Shhh… no,” she murmured, her voice soft but firm. “Enough.”
She pressed a tender kiss to her temple. “Rest now.”
Her fingers resumed their slow, soothing strokes through (Y/n)’s hair.
Only a few hours passed before Neytiri felt it.
She had been gently combing her fingers through (Y/n)'s hair while her daughter drifted in and out of an exhausted sleep, waking only to cough or take a few sips of water before slipping away again.
Neytiri frowned. She laid her palm against (Y/n)'s forehead.
"(Y/n)," Neytiri whispered.
No answer. Her daughter only shifted weakly, a quiet whimper escaping before another wet cough folded her forward.
The coughing sounded worse.
When the fit finally eased, (Y/n) sagged limply back against the pillows, breathing fast through parted lips.
Neytiri pressed the back of her hand to her forehead again.
Her stomach dropped. "Fever..." she breathed.
(Y/n) whimpered and gasped, her breath catching unevenly in her throat as her chest struggled to rise, each inhale shallow and strained.
Her hands tightened instinctively around (Y/n), pulling her closer as if she could force breath back into her lungs through sheer will alone.
Eywa, she knew it too well.
Her mind fractured, dragged violently between past and present—between the daughter trembling in her arms now and the son who had done the same.
The same sound. The same helpless, choking struggle.
Her heart slammed painfully against her ribs. Eywa please, not my daughter too. Her breath hitched, panic clawing up her throat as her vision blurred.
She could not lose another. She could not hold another child as life slipped through her fingers while she did nothing—could do nothing.
Her grip on (Y/n) tightened, almost desperate, as if she could stop the will of greater powers. "Not you," she whispered, voice trembling, breaking apart. "Please… not you too… great mother please not my daughter."
Terror unlike anything she had ever known consumed her completely. Because she had lived this once. She could not do it again. "Please great mother, not my daughter."
She could still hear it. That terrible, choking sound. The way his chest had struggled to rise.
The way her daughter struggled to pull in breath through her coughing.
She had watched him fight, held him then too. Helpless.
Not another child. Not her daughter. Please. Please. Don't take my child.
"Kiri!" Her voice cracked. "Kiri!"
Kiri appeared almost immediately, alarm already written across her face. "What is it?"
"Fetch the Tsahik." Neytiri scarcely recognized her own voice. "Now."
Kiri took one look at her sister. One look at the flush spreading across (Y/n)'s face. The rapid rise and fall of her chest. Then she ran.
Neytiri turned back. "My daughter."
She cupped (Y/n)'s burning face. "No... no..." Her hands trembled now. The fever had come.
(Y/n) stirred weakly. "...Mama..."
"I'm here." Neytiri brushed damp hair from her forehead, though her fingers shook. Her skin was becoming slick with sweat despite the fever burning through her. Her breathing remained shallow, every few breaths ending in another wet cough that seemed to shake her entire body.
The sound tore at Neytiri.
Every cough echoed that memory—her son gasping, choking, fighting for air.
Her chest tightened painfully. "Help is coming," she whispered, voice breaking. "Do not leave mama."
Within moments Ronal hurried into the mauri with Tsireya close behind.
The Tsahìk was calm. She knelt immediately beside (Y/n). "Move aside."
Neytiri obeyed without argument.
Ronal rested one hand against (Y/n)'s forehead. Then another against the side of her neck. She watched her breathing in silence, counting each rise of her chest. Then placed her ear lightly against (Y/n)'s upper chest, listening.
(Y/n) coughed again. The wet sound echoed.
The Tsahìk frowned. She gently pressed along her ribs.
"Deep breath," Ronal instructed softly.
(Y/n) tried. The attempt ended in another violent coughing fit.
Ronal supported her upright while the mucus came up, waiting until she had finished before helping her settle again on her side.
Her expression remained unreadable. But Neytiri saw the concern in her eyes. "The fever has begun," Ronal said quietly.
"The water has inflamed her lungs."
She looked toward Tsireya. "We must take her to my mauri."
Neytiri nodded immediately. "What does she need?"
"She must be watched constantly." Ronal's voice remained measured. "The fever may climb."
Ronal glanced toward Kiri. "Kiri, you will come with your mother. Stay beside her and keep her steady."
Kiri blinked, startled for only a moment, then nodded firmly. "Yes, Tsahìk."
Neytiri shifted closer, already preparing.
Ronal moved quickly, guiding them. “Keep her on her side as much as possible. Do not let her lie flat. Support her head—her breathing must stay clear.”
Tsireya moved to (Y/n)’s other side without hesitation, slipping an arm carefully beneath her shoulders.
“I have her,” she said softly.
Kiri positioned herself at her sister’s legs, then moved closer to Neytiri, one hand hovering near her mother’s arm as if ready to catch her if she faltered.
Neytiri gathered (Y/n) against her chest, helping hold her upper body.
“Easy,” Ronal instructed. Together, they lifted.
(Y/n) let out a weak, broken sound as she was moved, her body limp between them.
Another cough tore through her.
Ronal stepped in immediately, steadying her, guiding her head just enough to keep her airway clear as the coughing fit wracked her body.
“Let it pass,” Ronal murmured.
Neytiri held her tighter, panic clawing at her throat as the sound echoed again—too much like before.
“It’s alright… I'm here…” she whispered, though her voice shook.
Kiri pressed closer to her mother’s side, steadying her as Neytiri’s grip tightened almost painfully around (Y/n).
When the coughing eased, Ronal nodded. “Now. We go.”
They moved together, slow and careful.
Tsireya adjusted her grip whenever (Y/n) shifted, keeping her supported without jostling her too much.
Kiri stayed close to Neytiri, one hand lightly braced against her arm, the other ready beneath (Y/n)’s legs, watching every breath, every flicker of movement.
Neytiri bore most of her weight without complaint, her arms tightening whenever (Y/n) stirred or whimpered.
The path to Ronal’s mauri felt longer than it ever had.
No one spoke. Only the sound of labored breathing and quiet, strained effort filled the air.
And in Neytiri’s mind—another sound layered over it.
A memory she could not silence.
Her son gasping. Her son slipping away.
Her grip tightened instinctively around (Y/n).
They reached the mauri at last.
“Here,” Ronal instructed, already clearing space on a low bedding of layered mats. “Lay her down.”
Neytiri lowered (Y/n) first, careful and slow, easing her daughter onto the prepared surface while Tsireya supported her shoulders and Kiri steadied her legs.
(Y/n) whimpered faintly as she was set down, her body curling instinctively.
“On her side,” Ronal reminded firmly.
She knelt beside them, already gathering thick, folded woven mats. She slid one behind (Y/n)’s back, propping her gently so she would not roll flat. Another was tucked beneath her head and neck, lifting her just enough to keep her airway open.
She added another folded hide beneath her chest, ensuring her upper body remained slightly elevated.
(Y/n)’s breathing hitched, then steadied just slightly in the new position.
“Good,” Ronal said quietly.
She checked her alignment once more, pressing lightly against her shoulder to ensure she would remain supported.
Ronal glanced briefly at Neytiri and then at Kiri still holding her steady.
Another cough shook (Y/n), but this time her body remained supported, her airway clear as the sound rattled through her chest.
Ronal nodded once, satisfied. Then she reached for her herbs. She reached into a woven pouch beside her and removed a bundle of fresh medicinal leaves. She crushed them between smooth stones, releasing their oils before mixing them with cool water into a damp compress. The cloth was laid carefully across (Y/n)'s forehead and the sides of her neck.
She handed Tsireya another bowl. "Fresh water."
Ronal mixed another preparation from finely ground herbs into a small amount of warm water. She lifted (Y/n)'s head slightly. "Very small sips."
(Y/n) swallowed with difficulty.
She was given only enough to wet her mouth before Ronal lowered her again.
"We replace what the fever takes," she explained quietly. "Slowly."
She adjusted (Y/n) higher onto her side again, ensuring her head remained elevated.
Another cough shook her. Ronal waited patiently for it to finish before rubbing firmly between her shoulder blades to help loosen the fluid trapped inside her lungs. "Breathe."
(Y/n) obeyed as best she could.
Every breath looked painful.
Ronal looked back to Neytiri. "Help me."
Without hesitation Neytiri slid one arm beneath her daughter's shoulders while Tsireya returned with the water.
Kiri remained close, one hand still bracing her mother’s arm
Even unconscious she whimpered. The sound almost broke her. Neytiri looked as if she were seconds from crumbling. "I have you." Her voice shook. "I have you, my daughter."
Another sound broke through the air. A sharp, wet gasp.
(Y/n)’s body jerked suddenly in Neytiri’s arms, her chest hitching violently as if her lungs had forgotten how to draw breath at all.
Her mouth opened, but no air seemed to come. Only a strained, choking sound.
(Y/n)’s fingers twitched weakly, her body tensing as another desperate attempt at breath failed to fully come through.Her chest stuttered.A harsh, rattling inhale tore free, followed immediately by a violent coughing fit that wracked her entire body. It was getting worse.
The sound was deeper now—thicker—like something was blocking the air itself.
Ronal moved instantly. “Sit her up—now.”
Neytiri obeyed without hesitation, pulling (Y/n) upright as Ronal moved behind her, pressing firmly between her shoulder blades.
“Again,” Ronal instructed sharply.
(Y/n) coughed, choking on the breath, her body trembling violently as more fluid came up. Her breathing remained uneven.
Ronal’s expression hardened. She leaned forward, listening again—closer this time—her hand pressing firmly against (Y/n)’s chest as she counted each strained breath.
Then she pulled back. “She is worsening.”
Neytiri’s grip tightened instinctively. “No—”
Ronal turned sharply. “Tsireya—more water. Kiri—fresh cloths. Quickly.”
They scattered without question.
Ronal turned back to Neytiri, her gaze firm now.
“I must work.” Her tone left no room for argument. “I need space.”
Neytiri froze. Her eyes never left her daughter.
“I know,” Ronal’s voice softened, her gaze meeting Neytiri’s—not as Tsahìk, but as a mother making a promise to another mother. “I promise I will do all I can for your daughter.”
Neytiri looked at (Y/n). Her eldest looked impossibly small lying there. Burning with fever. Breathing too fast. Still coughing.
Only yesterday she had almost drowned. Now her body fought another battle. And all Neytiri could see—Was another child slipping away from her. She bent down, kissed her daughter's forehead despite the heat, and brushed trembling fingers through her hair one last time.
"Fight," she whispered, tears slipping silently down her face. "My strong girl. You have survived so much. Come back to me again. Do not give in now."
Kiri stepped beside her, gently taking her arm. “Come, mother,” she murmured softly, steadying her.
Reluctantly, Neytiri allowed herself to be guided away. For the second time in two days, she found herself powerless to save her child. And there was nothing the mother in her hated more.
The walk back to her own mauri felt unreal.
Her legs carried her, but she did not remember moving.
Kiri stayed at her side the entire way, her hand never leaving Neytiri’s arm.
The sounds of the village blurred around her—voices, waves, distant movement—none of it reaching her fully.
All she could hear was that sound. That choking, broken struggle for breath.
She stepped inside her mauri and the quiet swallowed her whole.
For a moment, she simply stood there.
Neteyam’s things still rested where she had left them. Untouched. Unmoved. As if he might return at any moment to claim them again.
Her chest tightened painfully.
Slowly, as if drawn by something she could not resist, Neytiri stepped forward. Her fingers trembled as she reached out. She picked up one of his pieces of clothing—still carrying the faint scent that had once been so familiar.
She brought the fabric to her face.
And breathed in. Memories flooded her—his laughter, his voice, the way he had stood tall, proud, always watching over his siblings.
A broken sound tore from her throat. Her knees gave out beneath her. She collapsed to the floor, clutching the fabric tightly against her chest as if she could hold onto him, as if she could pull him back through sheer desperation.
Tears came violently now, unstoppable. “My son…” she choked, her voice cracking apart. Her body shook with the force of it. “I could not save you…” Her grip tightened, knuckles whitening as she pressed the cloth to her face again, breathing him in like it was the only thing keeping her from breaking completely.
“And now—” Her voice shattered. “My daughter…” a sob ripped through her, broken. “Not again… Ma Eywa, please… not again…”
Kiri knelt beside her immediately, wrapping her arms around her mother, holding her as tightly as she could. “You will not lose her,” she whispered, though her own voice trembled. “She is strong. She will fight.”
Neytiri curled in on herself, rocking slightly as grief consumed her entirely.
First her son. Now her daughter fighting for her life.
The fear was unbearable. The pain—endless.
“I cannot lose another,” she whispered hoarsely into the fabric, her tears soaking into it.
Her shoulders shook as she broke completely, clutching what remained of her son while praying desperately that she would not soon be mourning her daughter the same way.
(Y/n) floated somewhere between dreaming and waking, her thoughts slipping away before she could catch them. Heat wrapped around her body, oppressive and strange, leaving sweat clinging to her skin while cold shivers still chased beneath it.
Everything hurt. Her chest. Her throat. Her head.
She tried to swallow. Even that hurt.
Another cough caught in her lungs.
It tore through her all at once, wrenching her body forward before she could stop it. She coughed until tears gathered in the corners of her eyes, until she couldn't tell whether she had managed to breathe in between them.
Her eyelids fluttered open.
The woven ceiling above her shifted in and out of focus.
She couldn't remember where she was.
Everything blurred together
"Dad...?" Her voice was barely a whisper.
Nothing answered. She waited. Surely, he would answer.
Her heart beat a little faster. "...Mom?" Still nothing. No familiar voice.
Confusion settled over her. Where are they?
She frowned weakly, trying to push herself up. Pain immediately forced her back down.
Her lungs protested with another wet cough.
She reached blindly. Searching. Looking for someone's hand. Anyone.
She blinked hard, trying to force the haze from her mind.
Had they stepped outside?
Were they only across the room?
Everything looked unfamiliar through the fever.
Another cough wracked her body. Her chest burned. She couldn't catch enough air afterwards.
She reached farther this time, fingers shaking. "Dad...?"
Nothing. Her throat tightened.
She looked toward the doorway. Nobody.
Her breathing became faster. Shallower.
The fever made every shadow seem deeper.
Every corner seemed farther away.
Another cough came. Longer. Harder.
By the time it stopped she was gasping, unable to fill her lungs properly.
"Dad..." It came out broken. Almost childlike.
Her eyes darted around the room. Nobody answered.
The silence became unbearable.
The edges of the room blurred again.
The woven walls seemed to narrow into metal
The air suddenly felt too thin.
Her pulse hammered. She couldn't tell what was real anymore.
She reached out once more. Nothing.
Her chest seized. She coughed violently again, mucus catching in her throat until she almost gagged.
Tears blurred her vision. She curled weakly onto her side.
"...Please..." The word escaped without her meaning it to. "...Don't leave me..."
She squeezed her eyes shut.
Trying to remember. Trying to remember Jake's voice. Trying to remember her mother's arms. Trying to feel they were still somewhere close.
Maybe they really had left her too.
A quiet sob escaped between ragged breaths.
She hugged herself weakly, too exhausted to cry properly, her fevered mind unable to separate nightmare from waking life.
Something cold bit into hrt back.
Her eyes snapped open—but the ceiling above her wasn’t woven anymore.
Steel. Dim lights flickered overhead, casting everything in a sickly, sterile glow.
Her chest tightened as something pressed down on her, pinning her arms to her sides. She twisted, panic surging instantly, violently.
She tried to inhale— Nothing.
The air felt too thin, too heavy all at once, like it wouldn’t go in no matter how hard she tried.
Her body jerked, thrashing against the restraints, heels scraping uselessly against the cold floor beneath her.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
Her voice crackedShe twisted harder, wrists burning where the restraints dug in.
The walls felt too close. Closing in.
Her voice broke into a desperate cry
Her chest heaved, but it wasn’t enough—never enough—each breath shallow, useless, like she was drowning without water.
Her vision blurred, panic clawing up her throat.
"Mom—" It came out as a whimper this time, small and terrified.
Her body jerked violently, desperation turning frantic, wild. She couldn’t get free. She couldn’t breathe.
Her lungs burned, screaming for air that wouldn’t come.
Tears spilled down her temples into her hair as she shook her head, gasping, choking on nothing. "No—no—please—!"
Her chest hitched, a broken sob tearing free as panic swallowed everything else whole.
Tsireya struggling to keep her from rolling onto her back. (Y/n) thrashed against her. Harder than Tsireya expected.
Her body twisted violently, far stronger than someone so sick should have been. One arm lashed out, striking Tsireya’s shoulder with enough force to make her wince, while the other clawed at the mats as if trying to tear it apart. Her heels dug into the woven mats, pushing, dragging, trying to force herself away from something only she could see.
The cry tore from her raw throat and broke immediately into a cough. Her whole body folded with it.
Tsireya lunged forward, catching her shoulders before she could slam onto her back—but (Y/n) fought her even then. Her muscles tensed, twisting, trying to wrench free as the coughing became violent, wrenching through her chest again and again until her face tightened with pain.
“Easy,” Tsireya pleaded, breath catching as she struggled to keep hold of her. “Please—you must stay on your side—”
Her eyes were open, but they did not see the mauri.
They stared through Tsireya as though she were something else entirely.
“Dad?” The desperate cry made Tsireya’s ears flatten. (Y/n) always seemed unapproachable, as mighty as towering mountains, but now she was reduced to this.
(Y/n) surged again, stronger this time, nearly tearing free of Tsireya’s grip. Her elbow struck the bowl beside them, sending water spilling across the floor.
Tsireya gasped, tightening her hold instinctively—but even then, she could barely keep her from rolling onto her back.
Footsteps struck the walkway outside. Si’riya rushed.
(Y/n) twisted again, nearly dragging Tsireya with her. “I cannot hold her!” Tsireya cried.
Si’riya dropped beside them immediately, sliding in behind (Y/n) to help brace her weight. She wrapped her arms around (Y/n)’s upper body—not pinning her limbs, but anchoring her enough to keep her from rolling.
“I have her,” Si’riya said, breath quick but steady. “Together.”
(Y/n) fought them both. Her body strained, muscles trembling with effort as she tried to wrench free, her head tossing from side to side. “Mother—!”
Tsireya’s hands had slipped down in the struggle, instinctively catching (Y/n)’s wrists to keep her from striking out again. The moment her fingers closed around them, (Y/n) reacted—her entire body jolting as if burned. “No—don’t—!”
She twisted harder, not just trying to roll away now, but to tear her arms free. Her breathing hitched, turning more frantic, more uneven, each inhale scraping as though something inside her chest tightened further.
Tsireya froze, startled by the sudden escalation. “I—she will hurt herself—” she tried, tightening her grip without thinking.
(Y/n) cried out again, a terrified sound that made Si’riya flinch behind her.
Ronal saw the way her panic sharpened the moment her wrists were held. "Release her.”
Tsireya hesitated—fear and instinct warring in her chest. “She will strike—”
“Release her,” Ronal repeated, firmer now.
The moment her grip loosened, (Y/n)’s arms jerked free—but instead of striking, they faltered, trembling in the air before falling weakly against her own chest. Her breathing remained fast, but the sharp edge of panic dulled slightly, her body no longer fighting against an unseen restraint.
Ronal’s gaze softened, though her voice remained steady. “She believes she is trapped,” she said quietly. “If you hold her like that, you become part of what she fears.”
Tsireya swallowed, guilt tightening in her chest as she shifted her hold higher, supporting (Y/n)’s shoulders instead.
“I know,” Ronal said. “But she does not.”
Si’riya adjusted with her, tightening her hold around (Y/n)’s torso instead, keeping her anchored without trapping her arms.
Ronal, helping Tsireya, stepped in closer, bracing (Y/n) beneath the shoulders instead, guiding her weight rather than pinning her limbs. Together, the three of them shifted her body back onto her side, though it took effort—far more than it should have.
“She is strong,” Tsireya said, breathless, struggling to keep her steady.
“Fear gives strength,” Ronal replied calmly. “If she feels restrained, she will fight harder.”
"Actually she's this strong when she isn't ill," Si'riya mentioned.
Another ragged cough tore through (Y/n).
Her breath caught afterwards. For one terrible moment, nothing followed. Her mouth opened. Her chest lifted only slightly. Then a thin, harsh inhale scraped into her lungs.
Tsireya stared, still holding her, muscles trembling from the effort. She had seen fever before. She had helped her mother tend wounds, infections and difficult births. She had watched warriors cry out beneath Ronal’s hands and children tremble through sickness.
She had never struggled to hold someone like this.
Never felt someone so weak fight with such desperate strength.
(Y/n)’s eyes darted wildly around the mauri. “No… no, please…”
Tears streamed into her hair. “Dad—”
Tsireya looked helplessly at Ronal. “She does not know where she is.”
“No,” Ronal said quietly. She placed one hand against the side of (Y/n)’s face, not forcing her to look, only giving her something warm and steady to feel. “She has a troubled mind.”
(Y/n) jerked violently away from the touch, nearly pulling free again.
Ronal did not take offence.
She waited until the next cough passed before checking her breathing again, watching how deeply her ribs moved and whether the skin around her throat pulled inward with every inhale.
“When the body is at its weakest,” Ronal continued, “the worst of the past may rise to consume us.”
Tsireya’s gaze returned to (Y/n).
Her chest rose too quickly. Sweat covered her face and throat, dampening the hair along her temples. Yet tremors still moved through her body, making her teeth knock together between broken pleas.
And still—she fought. Even now, her muscles tensed in sudden bursts, trying to twist free of both their holds. "Mama..." she whimpered.
“Should I get Neytiri?” Tsireya asked, breath uneven from the effort. “She is calling for her.”
Ronal’s expression tightened. For a moment, the mother beneath the Tsahìk showed. She heard the way (Y/n) cried for Neytiri. Heard the terror beneath it.
But she also heard the wet rattle in her lungs and saw how little air each breath seemed to give her. Ronal knew how hard it would be to watch a child suffering and being powerless... and there was still a change (y/n) could slip away, this was perhaps a small mercy for Neytiri, not a comfort.
“We must get her stable first,” Ronal said. “Otherwise, I fear we may lose her.”
Tsireya went still. The words seemed to empty all the air from the mauri. “Lose her?”
She had already turned back to her patient.
(Y/n) tried to arch away again, stronger than before, nearly dragging both girls with her. The movement triggered another coughing fit, her breath becoming trapped between coughs, each one following too quickly for her to inhale properly.
Ronal slid an arm behind her shoulders. “Lift her.”
Together, Tsireya and Si’riya obeyed.
(Y/n) resisted even that—her body tensing, pushing back—but between them they forced her into a supported sitting position, keeping her leaning slightly forward rather than flat.
Si’riya braced her from behind while Tsireya steadied her from the side, both working together to keep her upright as she struggled.
“Do not strike her back,” Ronal instructed. “Firm pressure only.”
She rubbed slowly between (Y/n)’s shoulder blades, encouraging her to cough without exhausting her further.
“Come,” Ronal murmured near her ear. “Let your body clear it.”
(Y/n) coughed again. Thick mucus spilled from her mouth, streaked faintly with blood.
Tsireya’s stomach turned—but she did not loosen her hold, even as (Y/n) jerked violently between them.
Ronal caught it in a folded cloth and examined it only briefly before discarding it into a separate bowl.
“Her air moves,” she said, more to herself than anyone else. “But poorly.”
(Y/n)’s head rolled back against Si’riya’s shoulder.
Her eyes fluttered. “Dad…”
Si’riya's face twisted painfully. “She wants her parents,” she whispered, glancing down at (Y/n)’s tear-streaked face.
Another tremor shook through her. Ronal pressed her fingers against the side of (Y/n)’s neck, counting the frantic pulse beneath the skin. Then she laid her palm against her chest and watched each rapid rise.
“Too fast,” she murmured.
Si’riya swallowed, adjusting her hold as (Y/n) shifted weakly. “What can I do?”
Ronal responded immediately. “Fresh cool water. Not cold.”
Si’riya nodded, easing (Y/n) carefully back into Tsireya’s hold before moving quickly to the bowls.
“Wet the cloths and bring them here. Then prepare more drinking water.”
Tsireya adjusted her grip again as (Y/n) twisted, trying to pull away.
“I cannot hold her still,” she admitted, strained.
“You do not need to hold her still,” Ronal said. “Only keep her from harming herself.”
Tsireya nodded, shifting her hold.
Si’riya returned quickly, pressing a damp cloth into Ronal’s hand before moving back to help steady (Y/n) again.
Slowly, the struggle eased. Not gone. But less violent.
Enough for them to continue.
And for now— Enough to keep her breathing.
Eventually, the fight began to leave her.
It drained from (Y/n) slowly, each frantic movement weaker than the one before it, until her body no longer had the strength to battle the hands helping her.
The herbs Ronal had given her had begun to take effect.
They had not broken the fever. Heat still radiated from her skin, and sweat continued to gather along her brow and dampen the hair at her temples. Her breathing remained laboured, each inhale shallow and faintly rattling, but the panic that had driven it into a frantic rhythm had eased.
Her muscles gradually loosened. Her fingers, which had been clawing desperately at the woven mats, finally uncurled.
Tsireya remained beside her, one hand held close to (Y/n)’s shoulder in case she began to roll onto her back again. Si’riya sat on the other side, replacing the cloth against her forehead whenever it warmed.
They were afraid that even the smallest sound might disturb the fragile calm that had finally settled over her.
(Y/n)’s lips moved. No words came this time. Only a faint breath. Her head turned weakly against the folded mat, as though she were still searching for someone in her sleep, but she no longer thrashed or tried to escape.
Ronal watched her closely.
She counted each rise of her chest, fingers resting against the pulse at her throat. She listened to the wet movement of air through her lungs, then carefully adjusted the supports beneath her shoulders so her upper body remained elevated.
For several long moments, the only sounds inside the mauri were (Y/n)’s strained breathing and the distant movement of the sea.
At last, Ronal sat back. “That is enough for now,” she said quietly. “Si’riya. Tsireya.”
Both girls looked toward her.
Tsireya glanced down at the hand she still held near (Y/n)’s shoulder. “Will she be all right?”
Ronal did not offer the easy reassurance Tsireya wanted. “She is calmer,” she said. “Her body is no longer wasting its strength fighting us.”
Her gaze moved to the rapid rise and fall of (Y/n)’s ribs. “But the danger has not passed.”
Ronal reached out and checked the compress against (Y/n)’s forehead once more. “I will remain with her. Go.”
Neither girl moved immediately.
Si’riya looked down at (Y/n), her expression troubled. It was difficult to reconcile the person lying before her now with the the (y/n) she knew.
(Y/n), who had seemed too strong to ever be reduced to this... even though she had arrived like this. It was strange seeing someone so strong become so weakened.
Now she lay fevered and barely conscious, her body struggling for every breath.
Ronal looked between her daughters. “You have both done what was needed,” she said. “Now leave her to sleep.”
Tsireya finally nodded. She rose carefully, her legs stiff from kneeling so long. Si’riya followed, collecting the empty bowls and bloodied cloths before Ronal stopped her with a small movement of her hand.
The sisters stepped outside together.
For a while, neither spoke.
They walked side by side along the woven pathways, the sea moving gently beneath them and the morning light spreading over the village.
Tsireya kept glancing back toward her mother’s mauri.
Si’riya did not. Her gaze remained fixed ahead, though her steps were slower than usual.
“What herbs are best for wounds?” Si’riya asked suddenly.
Tsireya turned toward her. The question seemed strange after everything they had just witnessed. “For wounds?”
“Well...” Si’riya hesitated. “I have been helping treat Tisoha while (Y/n) is... ill.”
Her voice caught slightly on the last word.
Tsireya’s expression softened. “You should have asked Mother.”
Si’riya glanced back toward the healer’s mauri. “It did not look as though she had time.”
“No,” Tsireya admitted. “It did not.”
Then Tsireya changed direction. “Come.”
Si’riya looked at her. “Where?”
“I will help you gather what you need. Then I am going to help Lo’ak at Three Brothers Rock.”
“Thank you,” Si’riya said.
Tsireya nodded, but as Si’riya moved to follow, she caught sight of the dark bruising spread across her sister’s side.
A bruise along Si’riya’s shoulder. A shallow cut near her ribs. Scrapes across her arms from the ship.
Tsireya frowned. “I thought it was very brave.”
Si’riya looked back at her. “What was?”
Her eyes moved over the bruises. “On the ship.”
Si’riya’s expression changed. Only slightly.
“It was also foolish,” Tsireya added.
One of Si’riya’s brows lifted.
“You should be resting,” Tsireya continued. “You are hurt too.”
“Do not worry about me, little sister.”
“How can I not?” Tsireya stepped closer, lowering her voice as though speaking too loudly might turn concern into anger. “You can barely move without wincing.”
“I can move well enough.”
“That does not mean you are well.”
Si’riya exhaled through her nose and turned away
Tsireya followed. “But why did you do it?” she asked.
“You and (Y/n).” Tsireya thought of the bruises across her sister’s body. Then of (Y/n) burning with fever inside their mother’s mauri.
“You both jumped onto the ship with no regard if either of you lived or died.”
Tsireya’s voice softened. “You must have known you could have died.”
Si’riya went still.Of course she had known.
Perhaps some part of them had even expected to. But their younger siblings had still been captured.
Si’riya looked at Tsireya. “How could we not have done it?”
Tsireya’s ears tilted back.
Si’riya straightened despite the pain the movement sent through her bruised side. “You were in trouble.” Her voice carried no pride. “Our younger siblings were in trouble.”
“What else were we meant to do?”
“You could have waited for help.”
“You could have died,” Tsireya repeated.
The answer came so simply that Tsireya looked up again.
Si’riya held her gaze. “But you did not.”
“You are here because perhaps our involvement ensured you'd live.”
Tsireya’s throat tightened.
Si’riya reached out and briefly touched her little sister’s shoulder.
“(Y/n) did not stop to decide whether her life mattered more than yours.”
Inside Ronal’s mauri, (Y/n) was fighting for her life because she had refused to leave the younger children behind. Si’riya stood before her bruised and hurting for the same reason.
Tsireya wanted to tell her it had been wrong. That no one should love them enough to die for them. That an older sister should not have to trade her life for a younger one.
But she could not find the words.
Si’riya turned away. “Come,” she said. “Tisoha still needs treatment.”
She began walking, one hand briefly pressing against her injured side when she thought Tsireya could not see.
And as she stepped up and walked beside her, something twisted painfully in Tsireya’s chest.
Knowing that her big sister would throw herself into danger without hesitation—would choose her life over her own—made something warm bloom inside her. It made her love Si’riya more than she thought possible, deeper and fiercer than before.
But it also made her afraid. Because if Si’riya could choose to sacrifice herself so easily… then one day, she might not come back.
And Tsireya did not know how she was meant to live in a world without her big sister.
Ronal had just finished replacing the cool cloth across (Y/n)'s forehead when she sensed someone lingering outside the doorway.
She looked up. Two wide amber eyes stared back at her.
The little girl stood clutching the woven edge of the doorway with both hands, peering inside. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying, though she seemed to be trying very hard not to do it again.
She knew Neteyam was gone. She understood that much.
Death was not something hidden from Na'vi children. She had watched the mourning. She had watched her mother sing. She knew her eldest brother would never come home.
But what she did not fully understand...was why her eldest sister still had not woken up.
She knew something was wrong. She simply did not understand how wrong.
Ronal's expression softened. "Come."
Tuk hesitated. "Will I get in the way?"
The little girl slipped quietly inside. She stopped when she reached the bedding.
(Y/n) looked different. Her face was flushed with fever. Her hair stuck damply to her forehead. Her breathing sounded... wrong.
Like every breath seemed to take work.
She looked up at Ronal. "...Is she going to wake up?"
The question was so small. So hopeful.
Ronal looked from the child, then to o the young woman lying before her. "Your sister is strong."
Tuk looked back at (Y/n). The sister who carried her when she was tired. Who always let her braid flowers into her hair. Who had jumped into ttrouble whenever one of them was in trouble.
(Y/n) had always been strong.
Then why...why wouldn't she wake up?
Slowly, Tuk reached toward the bedding. Her tiny hand slipped into (Y/n)'s much larger one.
Tuk frowned. "You're hot."
She wrapped both of her little hands around her sister's fingers. Holding them as tightly as she could.
Her lip trembled. At first she tried very hard not to cry. She really did.
Then one tear escaped. Followed by another. "Get up..." Her voice cracked. "You have to get up."
She squeezed (Y/n)'s hand harder. "Please..."
Another tear splashed onto the blanket. "(Y/n)..." The little girl bowed her head until her forehead rested gently against their joined hands. "I miss you."
Her shoulders began to shake."You've been asleep forever."
"You promised we'd go swimming again." Another sob escaped her. "You promised..."
Tuk sniffled loudly. "Neteyam is gone." The words came out in a whisper. "You can't go too."
Ronal's heart tightened. Children often understood more than adults believed. An little Tuk knew enough to know that people sometimes went away and did not come back.
Ronal knelt beside her. She rested a gentle hand upon Tuk's shoulder. "She will wake."
Tuk looked up immediately. Searching Ronal's face to see whether she truly believed those words. "She will?"
Ronal nodded once. "She is a fighter." Her eyes returned to (Y/n). "I have seen warriors surrender with smaller wounds."
A faint smile touched Ronal's face.
"Your sister is stubborn. She will get up."
Tuk looked back at her sister. She nodded solemnly. "As soon as you wake up..." she whispered to (Y/n), "...I'm gonna hug you really, really tight."
"And then we have to go swimming like you promised."
With all the unwavering faith only an eight-year-old could possess, Tuk wanted her big sister to get back up.
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