Is there a universe where we never met? || Neteyam Sully
Summary: For those who have known you forever, there was never any division. It was that simple. You grew up side by side, learned about the world at the same pace, as if one were the natural extension of the other. A kind of security in knowing that wherever one was, the other would be too.
But when something breaks, it's not just the absence that weighs heavily. It's the strangeness of continuing to exist outside of what was always shared, a silent misalignment, as if destiny itself had been interrupted mid-way.
Warnings: Cute, established relationship (you and Neteyam are older than in the movie), tsaheylu already accomplished, tragic love? For sure, but I swear it's worth it, descriptions of death and blood. You two are the love of each other's lives, that's it. | Neteyam Sully x Na'vi!Reader - Word count: 15.8k (Sorry, but I swear it's worth it).
A/N: Remembering that my first language is not English, so there may be some errors due to the translation. I hope you like it!!
To his siblings, Neteyam had always been the perfect son. The first to learn, the first to protect, the first to carry too much responsibility for his age. He had an obvious future in front of him. Leadership. Honor. Strength.
But before all of that, there was you.
Lo’ak and Kiri saw the beginning. Back when it was still too small to be called love.
When you were children, he only wanted to be close. He ran after you along the trails, teased you awkwardly, grew absurdly proud whenever you laughed at something he did. You played until late beneath the trees, shared fruit, competed to see who could reach the highest branch. It was light. It was pure. It was almost invisible.
In adolescence, it became different.
There was no touch yet. There was no confession. Only something hanging in the air.
He got too serious whenever you came near. You took one second longer to look away. You walked side by side after training, in a silence too comfortable to be casual. Kiri noticed when your eyes changed. When you started looking at her brother not as a childhood friend, but as a possibility. Even then, it was platonic. Contained. Almost painfully contained.
You were cautious. Neteyam carried too much responsibility to allow himself distractions. You pretended not to notice how fast your heart raced when he came close.
Until one night in the clearing.
The forest was alive under the stars, colors breathing in the darkness. He took you to the river where you used to play when you were little. The place where nothing ever seemed complicated.
He slipped the bracelet he had worn since the beginning of training off his own arm, the one you had noticed so many times without ever saying anything. With his other hand, he revealed another one exactly like it, made with the same care, the same braided threads, the same discreet design that marked strength and promise.
Without theatrics, only with his heart too exposed for his age, he placed the bracelet on you. His fingers lingered on your skin one second longer than necessary, as if confirming that it was real.
Then he pressed his forehead to yours and, with a steady voice despite the obvious nerves, said what he had been keeping for years.
It wasn’t a long speech, and it didn’t sound rehearsed. It was honest. Young. Transparent in the way only someone who loves for the first time can be.
That night, something finally found its place.
After that night in the clearing, you didn’t have to pretend you weren’t paying attention anymore. What had once been contained now breathed freely. Neteyam didn’t look away when you came close; he held your gaze. And you held it back. There was a new steadiness there, a clear choice.
Lo’ak remembers the first time he saw you two flying after you admitted what you felt.
The ikrans cut through the sky in wide circles over the forest, the wind parting your hair. Neteyam flew ahead, but not far—always aware of your position, adjusting his pace so you stayed side by side. At one point, he leaned, and his ikran followed, nearly brushing yours in midair. You laughed out loud, a loose laugh that echoed through the treetops, and Lo’ak, watching while flying behind you, rolled his eyes like he was irritated, but smiled anyway.
It was different now. There was open pride in the way Neteyam landed near you, in the way he offered a hand to help you down—even though he knew you didn’t need it. There was ease in the way you fixed one of his braids after the flight, as if it were part of the routine.
And as time went on, you started slipping away together.
After training, while the others went home, you lingered. Sometimes you went to the river where everything began. At night, the water reflected the forest lights, turning the surface into an inverted sky.
Once, Lo’ak went after his brother, too curious to ignore the long disappearances, and found you both sitting on the bank, feet in the water, talking as if the entire world had slowed down.
Another time, Kiri saw you diving into the river, laughing as the current pulled, competing to see who could stay under the longest. When you surfaced, breathless, your eyes met as if you shared a secret no one else could touch.
You were young and intense. A little reckless in how often you sought each other out, but it was healthy.
Kiri watched in silence, with that deep understanding that seemed to come from somewhere beyond her own age. Neytiri noticed how Neteyam grew lighter around you. Jake noticed how his son, even if still a little rigid, learned to laugh more.
With time, passion stopped being something simple and started carrying other traits.
You began sharing responsibilities naturally. When the younger ones needed guidance, it was the two of you who showed up. When Lo’ak got into trouble, it was Neteyam who spoke firmly. You worked as balance.
That perception only solidified one night, during some ceremony led by Mo’at. The forest seemed especially awake. The connection to Eywa vibrated beneath bare feet, as if the roots were breathing along with everyone there.
After the ritual, when the voices quieted and the natural lights began to pulse more softly, Mo’at called you both. She watched you for a time that felt too long.
She said the Great Mother had shown your paths.She said that wherever one was, the other would be found. That your spirits walked intertwined like roots of the same tree.
In that moment, everyone understood it as a promise of the future. Of a long life built together. Neytiri remembers the way Neteyam looked at you. Not with teenage excitement or vanity, but with a serene certainty. As if it only confirmed something he had already known since the night in the clearing.
You seemed to complete each other in a way that needed no explanation. But maybe it was only fully understandable to those who had grown up beside you, to those who had watched the phases change almost in the same rhythm: the first responsibilities, the first hunts, the first serious arguments with the elders.
When the Sky People’s pursuit began again and the decision to leave the forest was made, you didn’t need to think twice before going with them.
Far from the tall trees and the soft, leaf-covered ground, toward the sea—Awa’atlu, as the Metkayina called that new home surrounded by water on all sides. The salt in the air was constant, the horizon too open for anyone used to the shelter of the canopy.
Not everyone there received you kindly. Some looks were curious, but others were openly hard.
The words thrown at Kiri and Lo’ak—“aberration,” “demon blood”—were said with the careless cruelty of those who don’t measure the weight of what they say.
Jake didn’t relax for a single day after you arrived. And as always, the heavier responsibility fell on Neteyam. Looking after Lo’ak. Making sure he didn’t react to provocation, didn’t confront Aonung, didn’t turn any sharp comment into open conflict with your hosts. You could see how much it tightened him. He was a brother before he was an example, but he had to act like a leader all the time.
Even so, there was something beautiful in the way he never truly left Lo’ak alone. Even after the arguments, even when he had to reprimand him, there was a stubborn loyalty there.
When the two of them got into a physical fight with Tsireya’s brothers, you heard the story first from Kiri, who told it with a mix of indignation and amusement, describing sand flying, clumsy shoves.
You laughed—it was impossible not to laugh at the way she told it—but the laugh came with a tightness in your stomach as you imagined Jake’s reaction. Because if anything was more constant than Lo’ak’s impulsiveness, it was the weight of expectations on Neteyam.
And with that thought still echoing, it felt like night finally settled in.
The sky had that deep-blue tone that comes before full darkness, and the ilu saddles swayed slowly with the calm tide. You found him sitting on the edge of the deck.
You didn’t arrive joking. You sat beside him, keeping your eyes on the horizon line.
“So?” you asked, with a calm that sounded more serious than it really was. “How did your father react?”
Neteyam let the air out through his nose, almost a contained laugh.
“Lo’ak is going to have to apologize to Tsireya’s brothers.”
You turned your face slightly. “Just him?”
“This time… yes.” The corner of his mouth lifted a little. “Dad saw it was Lo’ak’s impulsiveness. That he started it.”
There was a brief silence. Water lapped softly against the wooden structures. You braced your hands behind you and tilted your face toward the same point he was watching.
“Well…” you began, thoughtful. “I saw how Aonung reacted.”
Neteyam turned to you with that light smile and a confused expression, trying to understand where your comment was going.
You finally looked at him too, your smile forming slowly.
“I know it’s wrong to think like this,” you murmured, leaning in a little as if you were about to share something forbidden, “but he deserved it.”
You said it like a precious secret, almost whispered. His eyes brightened with contained amusement.
“I do.” You shrugged, pretending neutrality. “Don’t tell your father I said that.”
He laughed low, the kind of laugh that starts in the chest and becomes something lighter.
“Never. He already thinks I encourage Lo’ak too much.”
“And you do,” you replied softly.
“I just… don’t leave him alone.”
The answer was sincere, without irony. And that was what made you soften even more.
You leaned your shoulder against his.
“I know.” A small pause. “And… I’m a little proud of you.”
Neteyam turned his face slowly, as if he needed to confirm he had heard right.
“A little,” you repeated, emphasizing that it was a minimal amount.
He straightened subtly, his chin lifting just a bit more than necessary.
“Makes sense,” he said, with a fake modesty that convinced no one.
You let out a short laugh.
“Don’t get used to it. This is an exception.” Your eyes shone as you looked at him. “I know you would never start a fight without a reason. And if it was to protect Kiri…”
You didn’t finish the sentence. You didn’t have to.
He held your gaze for a moment longer than usual, something silent passing between you—recognition, maybe. Or the kind of understanding that doesn’t need to be said.
Then his gaze dropped, taking you in with more attention. Not invasively, but curiously. He frowned slightly.
“Your clothes… are different.”
You looked at yourself as if you had forgotten. The fabrics were lighter, braided differently, adorned with small shells and bluish beads.
“I spent the afternoon with Tsireya,” you explained, your smile growing. “She taught me how the women here make their own clothes and accessories. Since we’re staying longer, I need to learn to dress like them.”
You tilted your face, waiting for his reaction.
For a second, he only looked. As if he had forgotten he needed to answer.
“I…” he started, failing to sound casual. “I liked it.”
Just like that. No irony, no teasing. Only truth.
Your smile softened and you tipped your head, as if you expected more of his opinion. He blinked, realizing you were waiting.
“You look beautiful…” he corrected, hurried. “Very beautiful.”
The breeze lifted a few braids of your hair.
“Good that you liked it,” you murmured.
You laughed softly, moving close just enough for your head to rest on his shoulder, an attempt to calm your mind before going back to all the chaos in the house.
In the days that followed, that memory mixed with the growing worry you felt. And then, on one of those still-dark early mornings, you woke again while the house slept.
It wasn’t a jolt, but a slow realization that something inside you couldn’t find room. The air felt heavier than it should have, as if the woven walls had drawn closer during the night.
The sound of the sea, which had so often rocked you to sleep since you arrived, now sounded too wide, almost distant, as if reminding you there was a bigger world beyond that temporary shelter.
You stayed lying there for a few moments, looking at the curved ceiling above, following the calm breathing of the others spread throughout the house. The moon was still high, insistent, and the sky gave no sign that dawn was near. It was one of those hours when everything feels suspended, as if time itself had decided to wait.
You got up carefully, easing away from Neteyam little by little so you wouldn’t wake him, and crossed the space in silence. When you pushed aside the woven curtain, the cold wood of the deck met your bare feet, and the night wind wrapped your skin with the salty, damp smell of the open sea.
You walked to the deck where they kept the ilu saddles, farther from the house, quieter. The ropes creaked softly with the movement of the tide, and the dark water reflected the moon in unstable fragments. The shadows cast by the woven roof moved slowly over the wood, as if the place itself breathed.
You went to the edge and crossed your arms over your body, not because of the cold, but to hold back something you didn’t know how to name. At night, the sea seemed bigger, more honest.
As you watched the horizon, you didn’t realize you had been followed.
Neteyam always noticed when something in you shifted, and that night was no different. He stopped a few steps behind, watching you for a moment, as if deciding whether he should interrupt or simply stay there.
“Are you okay?” his voice came low, but attentive. “Why did you leave?”
You didn’t turn right away. Your eyes stayed on the dark horizon.
“I couldn’t sleep. I just needed air.”
He came closer slowly, each step measured. He stopped at your side, close enough that his body heat contrasted with the cold wind.
“The air here is the same,” he said, with a trace of lightness that gave away the attempt to ease whatever was weighing on you. “It just has more salt.”
You laughed softly, and the sound seemed small against the immensity of the sea. He noticed, and the corner of his mouth curved discreetly, satisfied to have pulled that out of you.
When you turned, your loose hair swayed down your back in waves. You always undid your braids before sleeping, an old forest habit you refused to abandon. He had already told you he liked it better that way, but never explained why.
His eyes traced your face one second longer than they should have.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
He tilted his head slightly, the gesture carrying a false innocence that convinced no one.
You didn’t answer, because it was unnecessary. The silence between you said more than any explanation, and his smile deepened slowly, sure, as if he had just confirmed something he already suspected.
“I’m just looking at you.”
The space between you closed almost without you noticing. It was a natural shift, as if your bodies remembered before you made the decision. You took the first step, maybe because that night you needed something solid, something that wasn’t vast and uncertain like the sea in front of you.
The kiss started soft, almost restrained, as if there were still an intention to keep it simple. His mouth took a moment to respond, as if measuring the limit, but his hands rose to your waist and held there, pulling you slowly closer with a familiarity built over years.
You fit together easily. There was no awkwardness, only the awareness that maybe it wasn’t the best place or the best moment. Even so, the kiss deepened slowly, carrying memories of everything you’d already lived together—the forest, the runs between the trees, the muffled laughter so you wouldn’t be discovered.
But this wasn’t the forest.
The ground was too firm, the space too open, and the sea seemed to watch in silence.
Even so, his hand slid along your back with more intent, as if he wanted to keep that feeling. Your breathing changed first, heavier, closer.
He tilted his face, deepening the kiss, and his hand rose to your face, guiding without forcing. Your body pressed to his, and he responded by leading you gently a few steps back until the wooden structure was close behind you.
There was something in the way he moved—attentive and respectful—that never excluded intensity. He always noticed your reactions, your small movements, the choices you made just to see whether he noticed.
The kiss slowed without losing intensity, until you separated only enough to breathe. His forehead rested against yours, and for a few seconds you stayed like that, eyes closed, air mingling, mouths still too close for it to be called distance.
His hand stayed firm on your waist, while yours slid to the back of his neck, feeling his still-uneven breathing.
“I miss you…” you murmured then, your lips brushing his as you spoke.
He pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes—sometimes greenish, sometimes yellow—caught the moonlight and something deeper.
“You do?” There was teasing, but also a silent acknowledgment of everything you were facing there.
You pushed at his chest lightly, even as you were already pulling him back.
“You’re so full of yourself.”
He laughed low, and the sound vibrated between you before he leaned in to kiss you again. But at the last second you turned your face, laughing, letting his lips catch the corner of your mouth.
When he kissed you again, there was no rush. It was deeper, but slower too, as if every movement had to be fully felt.
You almost forgot where you were.
The sound of quick footsteps on the wood cut through the moment like a blade through water. You pulled apart abruptly, breath still uneven. Lo’ak appeared around the curve of the deck and froze when he saw you.
His gaze moved over both of you quickly, but attentively. He was breathing hard too, though probably from the walk or from whatever restlessness had brought him there.
“Lo’ak? What are you doing here?” Neteyam asked, his expression already more closed.
Lo’ak hesitated. Jake had forbidden him from going after the tulkun he’d mentioned. The tension of that decision was still fresh, almost raw.
“I was looking for you,” he answered, but the sentence came out too quickly, as if it had been rehearsed on the way. He cleared his throat and added, trying to sound unconcerned, “I didn’t know where you’d gone.”
His eyes didn’t stay on you. They slipped toward the open sea for a second too long, as if something out there was calling him.
You realized it before he said anything.
“You were going to go out?”
Lo’ak went still for a moment. His jaw tightened. He looked away again, rubbing the back of his neck the way he did when cornered.
“No. I…” he started, but the denial lost strength halfway through. His eyes returned to the two of you, taking in how little space there was between your bodies, the hour, the breathing that still hadn’t fully settled. “I mean… I could ask you two the same thing.”
He crossed his arms, trying to regain ground. The tone was that provocation-with-a-suggestive-smile he always used when he was trying to defend himself.
Neteyam only rolled his eyes in silence, and you couldn’t hold back a smile, feeling the heat of the joke rise in your chest.
“Nete was just helping me with something,” you said, starting to walk along the deck while they followed you, the sound of your feet mixing with the distant crash of waves.
“Sure… helping with something,” Lo’ak muttered, lifting an eyebrow with that disbelieving smile. “Like the kind of things you used to do in the forest.”
“Skxawng!” you replied, laughing as you gave his shoulder a light shove. “If you tease me again, I’m telling Ao’nung about your crush on Tsireya.”
Neteyam let out a low laugh, looking at you with that glint in his eyes—a mix of amusement and pride. There was something in the way you handled his family that always made him admire you.
Lo’ak took a step back, feigning innocence, but the smile at the corners of his mouth couldn’t hide that he knew he’d been caught in his own trick—and that only added to the night’s lightness, with the salty sea breeze around you and the distant sound of waves laying down the perfect soundtrack for that moment.
It was easy to believe the days that followed would be the same.
First came the rumors. Then the strange movements of the tulkun. Then the elders’ worried silence. And, finally, the confirmation: the humans were using the tulkun as bait to draw Jake Sully out.
The lightness evaporated as if it had never existed.
The village seemed to hold its breath that night. After the meeting, after the confirmation that the humans were using the tulkun as bait to lure Jake Sully, no one raised their voice. Even the ocean sounded different — less alive, denser, as if it too understood that something was being prepared.
Kiri and Tuk were already asleep near each other, exhaustion winning out over anxiety. Outside, a few shadows still moved; the warriors discussed strategies in low voices. But inside there was only the sound of the waves and the steady rhythm of Neteyam's heart beneath her ear.
You were lying on top of him, your fingers distractedly tracing patterns on his warm skin, your braids spread like a dark curtain over his firm torso. His hand rested on your back, protective out of habit.
For a few minutes, neither of you spoke. He was the one who broke the silence.
"Lo’ak is going after Payakan."
There was no judgment in his voice. Only certainty.
You felt his body tense slightly as he said it. He knew his brother better than anyone.
"I know," you replied, because you knew it too.
The silence returned, but now heavy with implication.
Neteyam ran his hand through your braids, absentmindedly, the way he did when he was thinking. You slowly lifted your face to look at him.
"And you're going after him."
He held your gaze. He didn't deny it.
The answer was logical. It always was.
But logic wasn't what tightened your chest.
You propped yourself up on one elbow to hover above him, studying the face you knew so well. The low light highlighted the firm lines of his cheekbones, the concentrated set of his mouth. He was already preparing himself, even while lying down.
"I have a bad feeling about this," you said.
He touched your arm, trying to soften the moment.
"Everyone's scared after today."
You slowly shook your head.
You searched for the words, frustrated you couldn't explain what you felt.
"It's like… like something has already been decided. Like we're just waiting for it to happen."
For an instant, the responsible son, the one who always had a plan, looked too young for the weight he carried.
"You always feel things before they happen," he said, almost in confidence.
"And you almost always ignore it," you returned, without harshness.
A soft laugh escaped him, too brief to ease the tension. You stared at him, steady, as if the simple act of looking could keep him there.
"If he goes after Payakan… and if it gets out of control…"
He already knew. You didn't need to finish.
"Don't play the hero," you asked.
He raised an eyebrow, trying to make a joke to keep things light, even though there was no room for it in your mind.
His name in your voice made the lightness vanish.
You lowered your gaze to the bracelet on his arm — identical to yours — and ran your fingers over the tight weave. You remembered the night he made yours, his focused hands, the way he pretended to be calm while the world was already crumbling around them.
"Promise me you won't do anything stupid," you continued, more quietly. "Nothing alone. Nothing just because you think it's your responsibility to fix everything."
He swallowed hard. There it was — the conflict he never showed in front of others.
"I should make you promise the same thing," he said softly, trying to shift the focus onto you.
"Don't try to change the subject, Nete," you said, serious again.
He was silent for a second longer than usual, as if facing the situation head-on.
"I can't promise I won't help my brother," he said carefully.
You closed your eyes for a moment, absorbing the answer you already expected.
Neteyam raised his hand to your face, cupping your jaw with a gentleness that contrasted with the rest of his firmness.
"But I can promise I won't go looking for danger."
You kept your eyes on his.
"And if danger comes for you?"
The question hung between you, bare.
You felt the answer pierce your chest.
"That's not a promise," you whispered.
He brought his forehead to yours, his nose almost touching yours.
"I always come back to you."
The conviction in his voice wasn't bravado. It was belief.
You slid your hand back onto his chest, feeling his heart beat steadily beneath your palm.
"I don't want you to come back hurt," you confessed.
"I don't plan on coming back hurt."
You let out a trembling breath, half laugh, half despair.
"That's exactly the kind of thing someone says right before they do something dangerous."
He smiled, more visible this time, and pulled you back down to lie on top of him.
You closed your eyes against his chest. You did trust him.
But the feeling didn't go away.
It lingered, quiet, like the ocean before a storm. And while his heart kept beating steadily beneath your ear, you tried to memorize the rhythm — as if, somehow, you could keep it for yourself.
The morning began differently.
A fine, persistent rain fell, dulling the usual sparkle of the water and leaving the air colder than it should have been for that season. The warmth that usually wrapped around the village didn't appear. The sky remained closed, too heavy.
Neteyam noticed something was wrong before you did. He tried to hide it. He made light comments as you walked. Nudged you with his shoulder. Tried to coax at least one real smile from you.
But you only laughed halfway. There was a restlessness that had no name.
You sat beside Neytiri under the shelter of the main structure, helping her prepare arrows. The scent of freshly carved wood mixed with the rain. Neytiri's hands were firm, precise. Yours followed.
Your relationship with her had always been natural. She never needed to ask what was between you and her son to welcome you. Even before any touch was exchanged, you were already part of the family.
Then the communicator shattered the steady sound of the rain.
Lo’ak's voice came through, uneven, carried by the wind and urgency. They were in danger, and the world seemed to tilt slightly.
Neytiri lifted her gaze to you instantly.
You were already gathering the arrows, even the ones that hadn't finished drying. The bow found its way into your hands as if it had always been there. Neytiri stepped closer.
The rain was letting up when you reached the shore. The sky was beginning to lighten, but uncertainly, as if it hadn't yet decided whether to allow the sun. The sea reflected that indecision, darker than usual.
You called for your ikran, the same way you had in the forest. The call echoed over the open water. You mastered the skies better than the depths; the ilus still didn't respond to you with the same ease. But in the air, you were quick, useful.
When the ikran landed, you were already running. The moment you connected with it, the tightness in your chest sharpened.
The chase dissolved into a blur — you dove and climbed, dodged gunfire, tried to clear a path from the sky as helicopters closed in, until it was just about survival and watching, helpless, as Lo’ak, Tuk, and Tsireya were captured. Time seemed to bend until the moment Jake and the Metkayina gathered before the ship; he even considered surrender, willing to trade his own freedom for his children, but in the last second something shifted — and the decision set the sea ablaze, turning tension into open battle.
The ship was still standing. Though it looked like a wounded animal trying to stay upright out of pride.
From high in the air, you saw Lo’ak, Tuk, and Tsireya tied to the railing of the main deck.
And almost as a natural consequence, your eyes swept across the sea until you saw Neteyam on an ilu, just meters from the hull. He lifted his gaze once, assessing the height, the distance, the time he had before soldiers reappeared.
An almost imperceptible smile touched your face, despite the tension in your chest.
The ilu surged forward in a straight line. At the exact moment, Neteyam pushed off, using the creature's back as leverage and launching himself toward the deck above.
The jump was clean. Precise.
You were already tilting your ikran in the same direction, calculating height and distance in a single glance. When you let go, the descent was fast, minimally controlled — the wind tossing your braids before your feet touched the deck.
Neteyam didn't need to look twice at you, only registered that you were there. You both needed to be quick.
Tsireya was closest to him, her wrists bound to the railing. He knelt, the knife already firm in his hand, and cut the tie with one direct motion.
You moved close enough for her to hear your voice over the wind and the groaning of the hull.
Tsireya nodded without arguing. As soon as her wrists were free, she ran to the edge and dove into the sea, disappearing into the water in a clean plunge.
You were already in front of Tuk. Even with her wrists tied, she smiled when she saw you and her brother there.
"Of course I came," you replied as you cut the binding that held her.
As soon as she was free, Tuk clung to you tightly. You lifted her into your arms, adjusting her weight against your body so you wouldn't slip on the wet metal.
On the other side, Neteyam was already freeing Lo’ak. The blade sliced through the binding quickly.
"Who's the great warrior now, huh? Say it."
You were late, and time had run out. The deck vibrated harder. The tilt was becoming noticeable, and you were moving toward your ikran while Neteyam approached the edge to jump back into the sea.
"Come on, bro," he said urgently to Lo’ak.
Lo’ak rolled his eyes, even while still bound.
"Did you rehearse that line on the way here?"
Neteyam let out a short laugh as the second binding snapped. Lo’ak stood almost instantly, steady again.
Without prolonging the moment, Neteyam put away his knife and assessed the deck's edge. The tilt was becoming more pronounced, subtle but perceptible. The water struck the hull with more force, and the time to get out was shrinking.
You moved toward your ikran, holding Tuk carefully, mindful of your balance with each step. Neteyam was already positioning himself near the edge, ready to jump back into the sea.
He looked at his brother.
The urgency needed no explanation.
When Neteyam called for Lo’ak, you were already moving toward your ikran with Tuk in your arms. The deck vibrated beneath your feet, and the tilt was now more evident, as if the ship were slowly giving up on staying upright.
You and Neteyam looked back almost at the same time.
Lo’ak had crouched down. His hand closed around a weapon fallen on the wet floor. He lifted it, still breathing fast, his gaze fixed on the dark entrance of the ship.
You felt the chill before the words.
"Spider is still inside."
It wasn't shouted. It was said with urgency — and conviction. The sea struck the hull with more force. The sound reverberated through your feet.
"No," you replied immediately.
Your voice came out firm, but the arm holding Tuk tightened a little more. Lo’ak looked at you as if he didn't understand how this could even be questioned.
"He's with his own kind," you argued, now looking at Neteyam. "He's not in danger with the humans."
You wanted him to hear the logic. You wanted him to hold onto it.
Neteyam's gaze met yours. It was brief. But it was too deep.
There was calculation there, yes. But there was also something you had always known: that need of his to leave no one behind. That thing that made him turn back when everyone else would already be running. An unreasonable heroism, in your opinion.
"The ship is sinking!" Lo’ak insisted, pointing toward the interior, which was already starting to take on water.
You didn't look away from Neteyam.
"He can take care of himself."
The words came out dry, almost harsh, as if you didn't care about the human boy who grew up with you — you always got along with Spider, truly. But that wasn't the issue now.
You swallowed hard before speaking, more quietly:
Lo’ak was already motioning with his head, anxious, almost begging for his brother to make a decision.
And there, between the sound of the rising water and the groan of yielding metal, Neteyam was caught for a second between two worlds. You saw when he gave in.
Not to Lo’ak, but to who he was. A low groan escaped his throat, almost annoyed with himself, as if he were forcing himself to do something that part of him wanted to avoid.
He approached quickly, but when he stopped in front of you, the world seemed to slow for an instant. The ship continued to vibrate beneath your feet, the water rising, Lo’ak calling in the background — but none of it penetrated that small space between the two of you.
Neteyam tilted his head and pressed his forehead to yours, as he always did before throwing himself into something dangerous.
He felt your uneven breathing even before he opened his eyes. When he did, it was your face he found, just inches from his.
There was a deep crease between your brows, marked by a tension you weren't even trying to hide. Your eyes were fixed on him, too wide, shining with a contained fear.
And that was exactly what made it harder to walk away. So he pulled back to speak to you, but didn't let go of your face.
"Get Tuk out of here," he said, low.
You sighed, a sound that carried frustration, fear, and an inexplicable sense of anticipated loss.
"Quick, bro! This thing is sinking!" Lo’ak urged.
Neteyam still hadn't moved away.
For a second that felt longer than it should have, he just looked at you. There was something there that you two never needed to say out loud. He ran his hand over Tuk's head when he finally turned, and then he ran.
You watched him cross the deck and disappear into the dark entrance of the ship, alongside Lo’ak. The shadow swallowed him too quickly.
"Hold on tight," you murmured to Tuk as you turned toward your ikran behind you.
You mounted the ikran with Tuk in your arms, connecting almost automatically. Your heart beat too loudly to keep pace with the world.
The air cut your face like icy blades as the ikran gained altitude, its wings beating against the smoke-filled sky. You looked one last time at the ship's opening and felt your stomach clench as if a wild animal were nesting there, hungry and frantic.
You circled over the sea once, twice, three times. The water below was a mosaic of dark patches and orange reflections from the fire consuming the ship. Your heart beat a staccato against your ribs. Tuk gripped your waist so tightly you barely felt the contact, but you couldn't afford to comfort her now — your gaze needed to sweep every wave and shadow.
On the third turn, you saw: Kiri emerged on an ilu beside Ao’nung, their heads like small living islands. The decision came even before the thought was complete, an instinct older than words.
You dove through the air.
The sea rushed up to meet you like a clenched fist, and when the ikran leveled off just above the waves, you felt Tuk slip from your arms into Kiri's. You didn't need to explain where you were going. Kiri's look, brief and heavy with understanding, was enough. You were already pulling the reins upward.
The ship was still there, slowly sinking.
An explosion shook its structure, vomiting embers and smoke. The sound reached you like a punch to the chest, stealing all the air you had. The fear, until then a taut thread, snapped. Despair took its place, coursing through your veins like lava.
You flew over, circled, searched. Your eyes burned, but not just from the smoke. The ship below was a labyrinth of iron, the sea around it a dark canvas dotted with debris. Nothing. No sign. No head emerging. No arm waving. Nothing.
Time began to stretch. Each passing second was a silent confirmation of what you refused to name. Gunfire echoed, dry reports that the wind scrambled, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.
And if they had already gotten out? What if you were there, circling, while he was already safe somewhere? The possibility was a thread of light in the darkness — fragile, but enough to hold onto. You headed for the nearby reefs. If they had fled, they would have gone there. To the rocks, to the shadows, to anywhere that could hide them.
You pulled the reins, the ikran tilting its wings in a curve that cut through the wind.
Tsireya watched you descend from the sky as if plummeting — not a landing, but a fall. The ikran barely had time to stabilize before you threw yourself from the saddle, scrambling up the wet rock.
Neteyam had just been placed there.
Lo'ak trembled from head to toe, his hands stained with his brother's blood, his fingers still dirty as if he had tried to hold onto his life and it had slipped through them. Spider supported Neteyam's head with extreme care, his hands too steady for someone his age, his face pale.
Jake remained kneeling beside him, pressing on the wound with force, but the blood kept escaping, spreading across the stone in a dark red that violently contrasted with the grey of the reef.
You fell to your knees beside him, pushing Spider aside with an urgent but not aggressive gesture — just inevitable. Your hands slid under Neteyam's head and brought him into your lap. His shoulder resting against you. His whole weight trusted to you.
The blood found your legs immediately. It ran down your thighs in red lines that gleamed in the sun before dripping onto the stone and mingling with the sea water.
"No… no…" you murmured, your voice broken, almost childlike in its attempt to deny what your eyes already knew. "Please, no…"
Tsireya saw the exact moment his eyes focused on your face.
Your body went still for a second — as if every muscle had stopped responding. The blood continued to flow, marking the stone with an uneven trail the tide couldn't erase.
Tsireya noticed how your eyes were overtaken by raw, exposed fear, without any attempt at strength.
Your crying wasn't contained. Tears fell uncontrollably, one after another, sliding down your face and dripping onto his skin, mixing with the blood that still stained your hands. Your body trembled, not from cold, but from something greater, something that seemed to be tearing you apart from the inside.
"I'm here…" your voice faltered, ripping mid-sentence. "I'm here, can you hear me? Stay with me…"
Tsireya watched your shoulders shake as you tried to hold his head steady in your lap, as if stability could mean permanence.
She didn't run to her son — she collapsed beside him, as if her body itself had given way under the weight of what she already knew. Her hands sought Neteyam before they even found support on the rock, sliding over his face, his hair, as if she needed to confirm he was still there.
Neteyam drew a ragged breath. It was a small sound, too fragile for the size of the silence that settled around them.
The word was enough to stop everything.
Jake leaned in immediately, his hand closing around his son's. Lo'ak held his breath. Even the sea seemed to pause for one impossible second.
Neteyam's eyes found his father with effort.
There was no strength in the words. No fear. Just a tiredness that hurt more than any scream.
And then his breath didn't return, his eyes lost their life, and his expression relaxed.
Neytiri's wail tore through the air — but Tsireya focused on you at that moment.
Still holding Neteyam. Still waiting.
For a second that seemed too cruel to exist, you didn't react. Your eyes were fixed on his face, as if searching for the next movement of his chest, the next breath, any tiny sign that this was just a pause.
But he didn't breathe. And that's when the despair returned — not as fear, but as rupture.
Tsireya saw your face transform. The crease between your brows deepened, your mouth trembled, and something inside you seemed to shatter audibly, even without sound. Your body slumped over him, as if you'd taken a direct hit to the chest, as if an invisible blade had pierced you in the same spot where he bled.
"Neteyam…" his name came out broken, almost unrecognizable between sobs.
Your shoulders now trembled without any attempt at control. The crying was no longer silent; it became open, raw despair, the kind of pain that doesn't care who's watching.
"My love…" you whispered, vulnerable in a way you had never shown before. "No… come back to me… please… come back…"
You bent further, almost enveloping his entire body, as if the world had become too large and too hostile to leave him exposed.
Tsireya felt tears streaming down her own face without realizing when they started. Because there was something devastating in the way you called to him. Like someone who had lost half of their own air.
And even when the silence was final, you held him against yourself with desperation, your hands pressing him as if there were still enough warmth to hold onto. His blood marked your legs, darkening under the wind and salt water, a physical testament to what your arms already knew.
Beside you, Neytiri was also breaking.
Her lament was not lesser. It was not distant. It was deep, ancestral, a sound that seemed to pierce time and echo beyond that rock. She held her son's face, calling to him, her voice undone in pain.
Tsireya saw the two of you — mother and you — bent over the same body, united by the same loss, but struck in different and equally devastating ways.
And between you, Neteyam remained still, while the sea continued to beat against the rock, indifferent to what, for everyone there, was the end of everything as it once was.
You didn't hear when Jake started talking about Kiri and Tuk still trapped on the sinking ship. You didn't hear Spider respond, or the urgency in Lo'ak's voice trying to argue. Their words existed, but they didn't reach you. It was as if a veil had been placed between your ears and the world, as if all sound had been muffled by something stronger and more final.
You were there, but you weren't there anymore.
Your eyes did not lift from Neteyam's face. They remained fixed, attentive, as if still waiting for a delayed sign, a breath that had hidden itself, a minimal movement that would justify continuing to wait. The world around seemed too distant to demand any reaction from you.
The blood no longer flowed as before, but it continued to mark you. It dried slowly on your legs, adhering to your skin like a memory that couldn't be washed away. Still, you didn't seem to feel the cold wind or the water splashing on the rock. Your entire body was concentrated only on the weight you supported.
At some point, without you noticing, the voices drifted away. Hasty footsteps on the rock. A dive into the water. The sound of the sea reclaiming the space.
When silence finally settled, only three remained. You. Tsireya. Lo'ak.
From Lo'ak's perspective, the world felt wrong. Too silent.
He stood still for a few seconds, unable to approach, unable to leave. His brother's body was in your arms, and you held him with a tenderness that hurt to see, as if he could still feel each gesture.
You slowly adjusted Neteyam's position, propping his head better against your arm, aligning his body as if he were just sleeping uncomfortably. Your movements were careful, almost domestic, too intimate for that scene of destruction.
Lo'ak felt something tighten in his chest. Your expression was broken, your features hardened by pain, but there was something deeply tender in that moment.
As if you were still taking care. As if he still needed it.
You pulled him closer after that, wrapping your arms around him, holding him against your body as if he might feel cold. As if night were about to fall and you were the only barrier between him and the world.
Lo'ak began to feel guilt creeping in, slow and suffocating. Each second of that image seemed to accuse him without words. He realized your eyes never turned to him. Not for a single instant.
Your world was restricted to the body you supported.
In an almost instinctive movement, you reached out and pulled your bow closer, settling it at your side, within reach of your fingers, as if you could still protect him.
Lo'ak swallowed hard, but the gesture didn't ease anything. The air seemed too heavy to enter his lungs, as if each breath demanded more than he had to give.
He couldn't stay there. He approached Tsireya, his voice almost failing.
It was a simple request, loaded with everything he couldn't say. Tsireya nodded.
Lo'ak cast one last look at you, but again couldn't meet your eyes. Then he turned and dove into the sea. The water enveloped him immediately, cold, salty, mixing with the tears that already flowed without him noticing. As he swam, memories surfaced in flashes.
And the last phrase echoed endlessly in his mind, because, in the end, he also wanted to go home.
After Lo'ak left, Tsireya remained by your side. She didn't try to move you from there, nor did she say anything beyond what was necessary; she just stayed. And you stayed too.
At no point did you consider leaving. The open crying had exhausted itself. What remained was a thick, almost palpable silence, while your eyes remained fixed on a point that didn't exist. Sometimes, a tear would fall, slow, as if even your body was too tired to continue.
The battle echoed in the distance, but you no longer reacted to the sounds. You waited. You waited until the gunfire ceased, until the sea could breathe again without startlement, until dawn fell over everything and the world became an absolute void.
It was in that silence that Jake arrived.
When Neteyam's body was lifted, the dried blood on his skin became evident. It had run down his arms, his legs, now hardened against his skin. The uneven rocks had left small cuts on the backs of your legs, marks you hadn't even felt. Nothing hurt more than what already hurt.
Everything happened without words.
You followed Jake mounted on your ikran, landing on the beach behind him. There was a crowd there — Metkayina and Omatikaya gathered — but the silence was deep, reverent. When Jake took his son in his arms again, the weight of that image pierced everyone.
Spider saw you before he even realized he was looking. He saw the dried blood marking your arms, running down your legs, hardened against your skin. But it was your gaze that truly struck him — empty, distant, as if part of you had remained in that sea.
You passed by him without seeing him.
Tsireya hung back when Jake continued on with the body, and you followed him to the tsahìk's marui — where Ronal waited. It was there they would prepare him for the return to Eywa.
And only then, for the first time since the rock, reality began to become final.
The following hours were silent.
When they called you for the ceremony, you were already clean. The blood had been washed away, the cuts treated. You wore more formal clothes of the Sea People, light fabrics that moved with the dawn wind. Your hair was tied up simply.
There was something different about you, not just in appearance, but in your posture — upright, contained, as if you were holding your own weight through sheer discipline. Some noticed the bracelets: yours, and his. One on each arm. No one commented, but everyone understood.
When the body was brought forward, wrapped with care, the sea seemed quieter than ever. The entire village was gathered, forming a respectful circle. The chant began low, deep, vibrating in the chest more than in the ears.
Jake held his son. Neytiri stood beside him, even though the world inside her was in ruins.
You walked until you positioned yourself beside Neytiri — not in front, not taking space that wasn't yours. Just present.
When they entered the water, the cold rose up your legs, but you did not retreat.
Lo'ak was the first to approach the body. His fingers touched his brother's forehead in a quick, almost childlike gesture, as if he wanted to memorize the contour one last time.
Then, as the body began to descend, your hand moved too — not to interrupt, not to hold onto him for yourself — but to gently adjust a loose strand near his face, a gesture so everyday that it hurt more than any dramatic farewell could.
As if you were just taking care.
When Jake and Neytiri began to guide him into the depths, you dove with them. You placed your hand beneath the cloth that wrapped the body, helping to support the weight for a few seconds, until a certain point, until you realized, silently and inevitably, that that last stretch belonged to his parents. Your fingers opened slowly, allowing the water to take what could no longer be held.
You stayed there for a moment longer, watching the cloth ripple as he disappeared into the deep sea, until the need for air brought you back to the surface.
The following days were not marked by outbursts or screams, but by a constant absence that seeped into every detail of the routine. No one spoke about what had happened. Not directly. Conversations were limited to the necessary, to the day's tasks, to short instructions that kept the village functioning as if life could simply continue.
You also restricted yourself to the essential. You answered when asked, did what needed to be done, helped where you were useful. But there was something automatic in your movements, as if your body knew the way while your mind remained elsewhere.
The mornings were the worst. Waking up without feeling his presence beside you made it seem like you hadn't even slept. Rest didn't come — only a temporary interruption of the pain.
A few days later, you returned to that rock.
The sea had already taken the blood, and the salt had erased almost all visible marks of what had happened there. Still, you knew exactly where you had knelt, where your hands had pressed the wound, where hope had begun to slip away. It was there you helped Jake and Lo'ak recover the weapons that had sunk with the ship. You worked in silence, efficient, without hesitating.
Kiri started accompanying you more often. She didn't force conversation, just stayed close, like someone who understands that presence is also a form of care. You didn't want to talk, and she respected that.
Lo'ak, on the other hand, avoided looking at anyone for too long — but especially at you. There was something between you that didn't need to be spoken: you had tried to stop Neteyam from going, but it was he who had insisted his brother come with him. The guilt moved between the two like an invisible tide, receding and advancing without ever disappearing.
Tsireya was the first to notice another pattern.
The frequency with which you went to the Tree of Souls — the place where memories could be touched — began to stand out. At first, it was natural; all the Sullys went. Jake, Neytiri, the siblings. The connection brought comfort, a way of feeling that he still existed in some invisible current.
But while the others spaced out their visits, you did not.
Almost every late afternoon, when the sun began to set and the water took on deeper tones, you would slip away alone. You stayed there too long.
Tsireya didn't say anything right away.
But she began to watch. Yet, there you go again.
The connection with the Tree of Souls solidifies, and the world around you dissolves until the humid scent of the forest takes the place of the sea's salt. The night is warm, insects sing softly, and the river flows lazily beside you.
Neteyam has his back against a wide log, legs stretched out. You are between them, leaning against his chest, feeling his steady breath rise and fall against your back. His arms rest around your waist, and for an instant everything is simple.
He is saying something trivial, telling you how Lo'ak almost fell from a branch earlier, trying to impress someone.
"I told him that branch wouldn't hold," his voice vibrates lightly against your back. "But he made that face like 'I know what I'm doing'… and the next second, crack."
You laugh before he even finishes.
"Yeah." He lets out a low, warm laugh, that laugh that always started contained and then escaped completely. "And tried to pretend it was part of the plan."
You laugh along, feeling his sound echo in your chest. For a few seconds, you allow yourself to just exist there, grateful — deeply grateful — to hear that laugh again.
His arms tighten a little more around you, and he tilts his face to kiss your cheek. The touch is there… but not completely. It's like feeling through water — close, but not solid.
The difference is minimal, but devastating. Your smile fades. Your body goes still.
"What is it?" his voice changes, lower now, more attentive.
You shake your head too quickly.
He doesn't press immediately. Just slides his thumb along your arm, like he always did when he knew you didn't want to talk.
The silence between you isn't uncomfortable — but it has weight. After a few seconds, he sighs.
He still has his chin resting on top of your head when you take a deep breath, as if about to cross something invisible. Your voice comes out low. Almost a secret.
His arms loosen just enough for him to sit up straighter, and you do the same, turning to face him. The forest around seems sharper now, as if the memory knows it's being tested.
He holds your face in both hands, his thumbs resting just below your eyes. His gaze is whole. Tender. Too alive.
"I know," he says, with a half-smile that isn't quite sad. "But this isn't your place."
You frown slightly, as if you're about to argue. He shakes his head before you can even find the words.
His thumb glides along your cheek, exactly as he did when he wanted you to pay attention.
The connection begins to weaken, not because he pushes it away, but because something inside you understands.
And before the memory dissolves completely, he still murmurs:
"I love you. But you… you belong out there. Where there's still real wind. Where things hurt, but they're real."
The forest dissolves into light and the sea returns.
Your body reacts before your mind. Air suddenly lacks, violently, as if you had forgotten you needed it. Your lungs contract, the water feels denser around you, and for a second you don't know if it's grief or lack of oxygen that burns more.
You rise slowly. Not in panic. Not in haste. But like someone who needs to decide to come back.
When you break the surface, the air enters harsh, uneven, and you stay there for a few moments, just breathing. The sky was already beginning to darken when you swam back to the village, the sun descending in deep tones of blue and burnt orange.
On the sand, a small group was talking in low voices: Lo'ak, Kiri, Spider, Tsireya, and Aonung. The conversation dims almost imperceptibly as you pass them, still wet, your steps slow, your gaze distant.
You don't look at any of them. You just keep going.
The silence remains until you are far enough away. Tsireya is the first to speak, her voice low but steady:
"She stayed too long again."
Lo'ak keeps his gaze fixed on the sea.
"The frequency hasn't decreased," Tsireya sighs, worried. "Actually… it's only been increasing."
Kiri watches you move away, the way your steps seem disconnected from your own body. She lost someone too. She understands the emptiness. But this is different.
It's like you left something of yours behind. Like a part too large of you went with him — and what's left is trying to reach what can no longer be touched. Spider watches, more uneasy.
"She hardly talks to me anymore."
There was a hint of guilt there, and he felt it from both you and Neytiri. Aonung, who had until then just been observing, frowns.
"Why did she come with you all?" he asks, direct but not cruel. "She's not your family."
Lo'ak takes a moment to answer. His jaw tightens before the words come out. "We grew up together," his voice is too controlled. "And her and Neteyam… It was always like that. Since we were little. Everyone knew. They were kind of… destined."
He swallows hard before continuing.
"When we started being hunted… her family became targets too. So she came with us. There was no other option."
Lo'ak finally lifts his gaze, but doesn't meet anyone's for long. The silence that follows isn't uncomfortable. It's understanding.
The days didn't change perceptibly, but you began to occupy small spaces within them. You needed to try.
The first time, it was almost by accident. At mealtime, you simply sat down there. No one commented. The conversation continued, the fish was passed from hand to hand, the wind moved through the open structure of the marui as it always did. You ate in silence, listening more than talking, but you stayed until the end.
The next day, you sat down again.
As the days passed, Tuk began to approach you again without ceremony. One afternoon, she brought handfuls of shells, strands of dried seaweed, and small smooth stones she'd found at the reef's edge for you to decorate her hair.
She would sit on the ground in front of you and tilt her head with mute expectation, while you sorted the best pieces, ran your fingers through her hair carefully, and re-did her braids, weaving the shells in.
You also started spending more time beside Kiri again. Sometimes she talked about what she had seen in the deeper waters, about the way light passed through the schools of fish, about something she had felt when touching the bottom of the reef.
You responded with simple observations, added a detail, disagreed mildly. The conversations weren't long, but they repeated with growing naturalness, until they no longer seemed like resumptions — just continuous.
Without realizing it, you began to stay when others stayed. You remained after meals, after scattered stories, after the comfortable silence that came when no one had anything urgent left to say.
Tuk started orbiting you and Kiri again like she always had, dividing her time between the two, pulling one by the hand, then the other.
You were trying, although you knew that tense aura from the others around you still existed. You noticed it when conversations were cut short just before approaching anything related to Neteyam.
The sun was already beginning to descend when you moved away from the village. The more distant rocks were less crowded, smoothed by constant contact with the tide, warmed by the heat that hadn't yet faded. The sea struck there with a deeper sound, constant, almost like a deep breath.
You settled in without much organization — Tuk sitting near the edge, Spider lying back propped on his elbows, Kiri watching the horizon as if she were always listening to something beyond what could be heard. Lo'ak and Tsireya stayed too close to be casual and too distant to be assumed.
The conversation flowed lightly until Lo'ak, pretending to be distracted, let slip:
"You still haven't flown on an ikran."
Tsireya slowly turned her face, as if struck by something invisible.
"And why would I do that?"
The challenge was there, but without venom. Just curiosity and that pleasant discomfort of being provoked by someone specific.
"'Cause you don't know what you're missing," he replied, holding her gaze a moment too long.
You watched them both with quiet attention. It wasn't the kind of thing that needed explaining. It was that awkward beginning, where no one knows exactly what to do with what they're feeling, so they turn everything into a contest.
Tsireya looked at the open sky above you. The blue seemed infinite from there.
Lo'ak opened his mouth to retort, but you spoke first, without theatrics.
She stared at you. You smiled lightly, simply.
"It's easier than it looks," you said, unhurried, like someone talking about something they've been through many times. "The ikran feels when you hesitate… and it feels when you trust. If you trust, it holds you." The wind passed between you, carrying the salty smell of the sea. For a moment, no one spoke. "And Lo'ak will go with you. You won't be alone."
Tsireya took a deep breath, her chest expanding slowly, as if testing that possibility inside before accepting it out loud.
Lo'ak looked at you in that moment. It wasn't a long look. But there was recognition there — and a contained surprise. After so long avoiding truly facing each other, hearing you say his name naturally had a quiet weight.
Lo'ak was already on his feet before she even finished. His call cut through the air and echoed off the rocks. When the ikran appeared in the sky, descending in a wide curve, Tuk let out an impressed sound and Spider sat up straight to watch better.
The landing was firm, the wings stirring up wind and splashes of salt water. Lo'ak held the animal with familiarity, but the way he helped Tsireya climb up was different from how he would with anyone else. Too careful to seem careless.
"Put your foot here," he murmured, his hands steady on her waist.
She laughed when she almost slipped, and he laughed with her, more nervous than he wanted to admit.
When the ikran took flight, Tsireya let out a short scream that turned into laughter in the air. Lo'ak leaned his body confidently, guiding the ascent.
Up there, Lo'ak risked a wider turn than necessary. The ikran dove too fast before climbing again, and Tsireya's cry echoed over the rocks, carried through the wind like laughter too free to be contained.
The sound hung in the air for a moment.
Kiri followed the movement with attentive eyes, her chin slightly lifted. The sky's reflection illuminated her face, and there was something there — not envy, but curiosity. As if she were trying to imagine the sensation before even experiencing it.
Spider was also watching, but differently. He reacted to the noise, the maneuvers, the adrenaline. Kiri seemed to hear something else in the air.
Another turn in the sky. More laughter.
"It must be different up there," she murmured, almost to herself.
The wind lifted a few strands of her hair.
A second later, she added, more clearly:
It wasn't a request. It was an observation.
You didn't answer immediately. Your eyes were still up high, following Lo'ak's silhouette against the sun that was already beginning to descend. The sky was open, wide, inviting.
Then you turned your face to her.
Kiri blinked, as if unsure she had heard correctly.
You held her gaze calmly and smiled softly.
"He's been needing to stretch his wings."
It wasn't entirely true. But it also wasn't a lie.
There was a small pause. An internal adjustment. As if you had decided something deeper than just lending an ikran.
Kiri looked automatically at Spider.
He tried to appear neutral for half a second — and failed completely.
You stood up to call him.
When he descended, you felt the familiar vibration in your chest even before he touched the ground. You approached, ran your hand along his neck, feeling the familiar texture beneath your fingers. There was a tranquility there that you didn't need to explain.
Kiri mounted with ease, Spider right behind, laughing softly when the ikran propelled into the initial leap.
The sky was full of movement now. Lo'ak risked bolder turns just to hear Tsireya laugh loudly. Kiri leaned her body with surprising confidence, and Spider shouted something the wind stole before it reached you.
"Can you take me flying too?"
You smiled, still looking up.
"I'm sorry, Tuk. My ikran is busy." You looked back at her with a reassuring smile. "Maybe later, who knows."
She looked at you, too deeply for a child her age.
You didn't ask which. You just felt the air enter your lungs slowly.
Maybe it wasn't a bad idea.
The call came out almost automatic, the exact sequence your mind remembered better than you expected.
The time between the sound and the response seemed longer than it actually was, and for a second, almost, it seemed he wouldn't come.
Fast and precise, as always. When he landed before you, the creature's eyes fixed on yours without hesitation.
You approached, sliding your hand along his neck, feeling his warm breath beneath your fingers.
Something inside you clicked.
"Let's go," you said to Tuk.
You placed her on first, carefully adjusting her hands.
She nodded, buzzing with excitement.
You climbed up behind her, connected your queue. The bond was immediate — a mutual recognition that required no effort.
The leap came and the world grew smaller below you. Tuk screamed with joy, the sound cutting through the wind, and you laughed with her — a laugh that wasn't forced, that didn't need to be measured.
The sensation returned fully. Your body remembered. The air cutting across your face, the precise balance, the way the ikran responded even before you finished thinking.
You climbed higher, reaching the group.
It was Kiri who noticed first.
"Look," she said, turning her face.
Spider followed her gaze and broke into a wide smile when he saw you approaching with increasing speed. Lo'ak noticed too — and for a moment, he lost the rhythm of his own maneuver.
Tsireya was the first to react. Her eyes widened as you appeared from the side of their field of vision, leaning your body into a quick, precise turn.
You let out a Na'vi cry — loud, clear, vibrant — that spread across the sky as if it had been held in for too long. It wasn't a challenge, nor a provocation. It was pure impulse. Tuk repeating the sound, broken by the wind.
You passed them in a swift arc, so close the displaced air sent Tsireya's and Kiri's hair flying back. Spider let out a surprised exclamation, half laugh, half disbelief.
Lo'ak, for a second, just watched. Partly because of the maneuver — he knew that, but not from you. Partly because of the way you laughed.
Without slowing, you pulled lightly on the natural reins and climbed a bit more before letting the ikran smooth out the flight. The speed gave way to a long glide, the beating of wings slowing until it became almost silence.
The world below opened in shades of blue and green. The rocks where you had been before seemed small. The village was just an arrangement of organic forms floating on the sea.
Tuk leaned forward, completely distracted by the landscape.
"Look!" she pointed, delighted by some coral formation down below.
You smiled, but this time it was a quiet smile.
You let your body follow the ikran's movement, allowing it to choose the most stable current. The wind was no longer an impact; it was a constant presence, gliding over your skin, entering and leaving your lungs in a rhythm that was beginning to align with the beating of wings.
You closed your eyes for a moment.
The air smelled of salt and warm sun. The distant sound of waves rising against the rocks came muffled from that height. Tuk was still murmuring something excitedly up front, but it seemed far away, as if the world had softened its edges.
After a while like that, you leaned your body and the ikran began to descend in wide circles. Tuk protested softly when she realized.
"We'll go up again another day," you replied, smiling.
The landing was firm and smooth. As soon as her feet touched the rock, Tuk was already talking nonstop, reenacting the moment you had passed the others. You laughed with her, listening, correcting a detail here and there, letting her exaggerate the rest.
The others approached slowly, commenting on their own maneuvers, discussing who had gone higher, who had almost lost their balance. You joined the conversation without thinking much, still carrying the calm from the flight.
The walk back was noisy and easy.
Later, already seated for a meal, Kiri noticed one small thing: you didn't go to the Tree of Souls that night.
She kept that to herself, like someone holding onto a small proof that things could get better.
But it didn't mean a true change.
In the days that followed, you returned to the Tree of Souls with the same quiet constancy as before. Sometimes at dusk, sometimes when the village was almost asleep. It wasn't isolation — you were still present at meals, at training, in the short conversations throughout the day.
Only, there were invisible limits.
You didn't broach the subject. You didn't allow anyone else to, either. When a memory threatened to take shape in someone's words, you would gently deflect, change the direction of the conversation, offer another story.
But some mornings were still particularly harder, like that one. The rain began even before dawn.
It wasn't a storm. It was constant. Fine enough not to frighten, but too persistent to ignore. The sound of water hitting the village structures mixed with the sea in a way that made everything feel more enclosed, closer.
You woke before the others.
The air was colder. Heavier.
For a second, still lying down, you couldn't tell what had changed. Then it came — not as a clear memory, but as a sensation. The same pressure in your chest.
The same fine rain that had fallen on the morning of that day.
Your body recognized it before your mind allowed it.
You sat up slowly, your feet touching the ground carefully, as if your balance were slightly off. That day hadn't started well back then. And it didn't seem inclined to start better now.
In the village, the mood seemed to match the sky. Conversations were quieter. The tasks continued, but with less energy. Lo'ak barely spoke during the morning. There was something withdrawn in him, a tension he carried in his shoulders like someone waiting to be called to answer for something he no longer knew how to fix.
Neytiri's distance was more noticeable on days like this. Jake tried to maintain normalcy, but the silence between them was thick. And Lo'ak felt it — absorbed it all and translated it as guilt.
You noticed, though you said nothing.
The rain diminished throughout the afternoon, making way for a timid brightness. The sun didn't return fully; it only hinted at its presence, breaking through the clouds just enough to illuminate the sea in silver streaks.
Without telling anyone, you walked to the distant rocks.
The air was still humid. The rocks, slippery.
But the place wasn't empty like other times. Lo'ak was there.
Sitting on the same formation where days before you had laughed at the sky and teased Tsireya.
Elbows resting on his knees, gaze fixed on the horizon as if trying to find some answer at the exact point where the sea met the sky.
You slowed your step as you noticed.
The wind blew in a stronger gust before he noticed your presence. And when he did, he didn't seem surprised.
You stopped a few steps behind.
He knew it was you before he even turned.
Lo'ak shook his head, still looking at the horizon.
You sat down slowly. The rock was cold beneath your skin. A cold that wasn't just from the weather.
The silence between you wasn't comfortable. But it also wasn't hostile. It was that kind of silence that exists when two people are trying to decide if they can bear to say what's really there.
The sea advanced and receded.
After a time too long to be casual, Lo'ak spoke:
It wasn't loud. It was almost a leak.
You turned your face slowly.
You didn't ask "for what," because you knew.
The guilt in him wasn't new. It was an animal he fed every day. It was in his tense shoulders, in the way he avoided facing his own thoughts.
"You have nothing to apologize for."
He let out a short laugh. Without humor. Just exhaustion.
"Yes, I do." His jaw tightened. "It should have been me."
That was where something inside you clenched.
Not anger at him, but anger at the idea.
"You tried to stop him." He continued, now looking at his own hands. "You saw what was going to happen. I didn't listen. I always think I know more. I always have to prove something."
The wind passed between you, lifting your hair against your face.
"If I hadn't insisted…" his voice faltered, "he wouldn't have had to."
You felt the unspoken name between you.
You breathed in deeply. The air burned.
"I understand that you think that."
Lo'ak slowly turned his face.
There was something almost childlike there. As if he were preparing to hear that you agreed. That, deep down, he was right.
You paused, let the words settle.
"He made his choice. Like he always did."
Your eyes hardened slightly there, not from coldness, but from clarity.
"You couldn't stop him. Neither could I."
The sea crashed against the rocks below.
That part you let out whole and emphatic.
Lo'ak blinked slowly. Something gave way in his face — not enough to free him, but enough to interrupt the sentence he had been repeating for weeks.
He looked back at the horizon.
"I should have acted like him, acted like the older one even though I'm not."
You felt the weight of that phrase.
"He wasn't older because he was better." You spoke quietly.
Lo'ak let out a weak breath through his nose.
"He always seemed better."
"He always seemed right."
A memory passed through you: that steady gaze, that secure silence, that way of taking responsibility as if it were natural.
"He was too loyal." Your voice softened. "Do you really think he would have let any of us go alone?"
Lo'ak closed his eyes for a second.
The wind changed direction.
"Remember when I almost drowned trying to prove I could dive deeper than you?" he murmured.
You felt the memory before the image.
"Yes." You let out a weak laugh. "You almost drowned and he jumped in without thinking."
"I thought the only thing that could take him from me was time." You spoke without realizing you were speaking. "Decades. Wrinkles. Tiredness. Stupid arguments about my stubbornness."
"I thought we were going to grow old together."
The silence after that wasn't light, but it was real.
"And my biggest worry was going to be dying before him and leaving Silpey free to try something."
That made Lo'ak laugh — really laugh this time. A brief sound, but alive.
You shook your head, feigning offense.
"I hate her for having the same good taste as me."
"If you had gone first…" he teased, but his voice carried another layer now. "She certainly would have waited very little time."
You both laughed, though that laugh didn't erase the pain.
The wind brought the smell of the sea stronger.
After a while, Lo'ak spoke again.
"I'm glad you're coming back."
You didn't respond immediately.
"Sitting with us. Laughing." He continued. "Staying."
You let a small smile appear, but didn't look at him.
"But you still go to the Tree of Souls a lot."
There your chest tightened. Not because there was accusation, but observation.
You didn't turn your face, didn't look at him.
Lo'ak watched you in silence. He didn't try to correct. Didn't try to console too quickly.
"I know," he said, and this time his own voice was rougher. "I see it."
"When I'm there…" your hands closed slightly on the cold rock, "it feels like he still exists in some way I can reach."
You closed your eyes and the sea crashed hard below.
"I know they're memories. I know it's not real." The word "real" came out heavy, like a confession. "But when I'm there, the pain doesn't swallow me whole. Things get less hard."
You opened your eyes, hoping the wind would dry the tears threatening to fall.
The sun was already beginning to break through the clouds when silence settled between you again.
You were still looking at the sea.
"I just don't know who I am without him."
The phrase hung there, suspended. Lo'ak didn't respond immediately.
"I don't know who I am without him either," he admitted.
You turned your face, surprised by the raw honesty. He wasn't looking at you.
"He was always one step ahead." His voice was less defensive now. "If I did something wrong, he'd already thought about the consequence. If I fought with someone, he'd already decided how to get me out of it. I always…" he took a deep breath, "I was always the one who needed saving."
The wind moved through his braids.
"And in the end…" he swallowed, "he did what he always did."
You felt the air escape slowly.
"I don't know how to be the older brother," he continued. "That was his thing. He was the responsible one, the example, the protector. I'm none of those things, and I don't even know if I want to be."
He let out a half-laugh, without humor.
"But I know he wouldn't want you trying to disappear along with him."
That made you finally look directly at Lo'ak.
He held your gaze this time.
"He loved you," he said simply. Without dramatic weight. Just truth. "He would want you to be present. Here. With us."
You felt the lump rise again, but different.
It wasn't despair. It was recognition.
The impact was silent. Your eyes burned and you blinked quickly, trying to contain the shine that was beginning to form. There was pain there, but also something more solid — a kind of emotional inheritance you didn't yet know how to carry.
It was then that the voice arrived on the wind.
You both turned your faces almost at the same time. Tsireya approached with light steps, her smile already open before she reached you. Her presence brought movement to the scene that had until then seemed suspended.
Instinctively, you looked away back to the sea and passed the back of your hand under your eyes, quickly enough to seem casual. When you turned again, the smile was already in place.
"Is everything okay?" she asked, noticing the quietness between you.
Lo'ak confirmed with a slight movement of his head.
Tsireya seemed to accept the answer. She tilted her face toward the village.
"They're calling for you. It's starting now."
There was life in her voice.
You walked alongside Lo'ak and Tsireya as the village returned to its rhythm. Voices, footsteps, the smell of night arriving with the sea salt. Someone laughed near the fire. Children ran between the tents. Life continued with an almost offensive naturalness.
Tried to be present. But inside there was an echo.
Lo'ak's last sentence no longer hurt like a blade. It hurt like absence.
You realized, there, between one breath and another, that you had been confusing two things. Holding on and loving. Staying and resisting.
Maybe truly trying wasn't to keep living as if he were still there, hidden at the edges of everything. Maybe trying was to allow that he wasn't.
The realization didn't come with tears. It came with a deep silence. A tiredness that finally settled.
Not to beg him to stay or fall apart again.
But to say what hadn't been said without urgency and without blood.
Night fell slowly. The sky darkened in blue tones that seemed infinite. You waited until the movement subsided, until the conversations became distant murmurs. When you left, no one noticed. Or maybe they noticed and didn't call out.
The path to the Tree of Souls seemed more alive than ever. The plants pulsed in soft bioluminescence beneath the surface, as if breathing along with the ocean itself. The light came from below, diffuse, filtered by the water that undulated above like a living ceiling. You advanced slowly, feeling the temperature change as you dove.
The sound of the world grew distant. Submerged. All that remained was the deep murmur of the sea around, the echo of your own blood in your ears.
Down below, the roots of the Tree of Souls spread like inverted constellations, long and luminous, dancing with the current. Each filament glowed in soft shades of blue and violet.
For a moment, you floated before them.
The entire ocean seemed to hold its breath.
Then you reached out your hand.
The fibers touched your skin like gentle currents, and you connected your queues unhurriedly, like someone pressing their forehead to something sacred.
Or perhaps it stayed too far away to matter.
The first thing that returned was the sound of the wind.
The wind moved slowly across the meadow, making the tips of the grass brush against your skin. The sky was wide, too blue, as if the world had been made only for that moment.
He was lying beside you, one arm folded beneath his head. You propped yourself on your elbow to look at him better. The light drew soft contours on his face — the arch of his brows, the firm line of his nose, the quiet curve of his mouth.
His hand slid slowly along your back, in a distracted, protective gesture. Too familiar to be conscious.
"You're happy," he said, watching you attentively.
And you were. There was a new lightness in your chest.
Your fingers began to trace invisible lines on his arm, feeling the texture of his sun-warmed skin.
"I missed you," you said.
He frowned slightly, not in pain — in curiosity.
"What do you mean?" his voice came out almost too soft. "I was here the whole time."
There was no provocation. Just a gentle puzzlement, as if the phrase had come from a place he couldn't reach.
Instead, you tilted your head slightly, studying his face as if seeing him for the first time.
"Your eyes get lighter when you're lying like this," you murmured, naturally shifting the direction of the conversation. "I never noticed that before."
He blinked, surprised by the change.
You brought your face closer to his, just enough to study him better.
"They're beautiful," you said, with quiet sincerity. "Very."
He laughed softly, almost shy — a rarity.
"You're acting strange today."
"You are…" he lifted his face a little, propping himself on his elbows to be closer. "Like you're seeing everything for the first time."
There was nothing to clarify.
Your fingers traced up to his jaw, slowly contouring it. He closed his eyes for a second under your touch — absolute trust, without tension.
"I like your face," you said, almost distracted. "I like how you look serious… but you never are with me."
He opened his eyes again, his gaze softening.
The wind blew stronger, lifting a few strands of your hair. He brought his hand to your face and carefully tucked them behind your ear. The gesture was so delicate it made your chest tighten — not from pain, but from recognition.
You just leaned in and pressed your lips to his.
The kiss wasn't hurried. It wasn't urgent. It was soft. Lingering. As if it were merely a continuation of breathing.
He responded the same way — calm, present, his fingers still resting on the back of your neck, holding you there.
When you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.
"You're different," he repeated, but now smiling. "Quieter."
You let out a light laugh.
"Maybe I'm just paying more attention."
You ran your thumb over his eyebrow, then along the curve of his cheek.
He didn't answer with words this time. He just stayed there. Looking. As if that were enough.
He was still resting his forehead against yours when he gave a crooked smile.
"You're analyzing me too much today," he said, pretending to be serious. "I'm starting to get suspicious."
"That you're planning something."
You let out a light laugh, the one that always made his eyes narrow. But you'd barely finished the sentence before he was leaning in to kiss you again, as if to prove he was in control of the situation.
The kiss started soft again. Slow. Familiar.
But you laughed against his lips, and he laughed too, and in the middle of the laughter he tried to say something that got lost because you pulled him, making him lose his balance.
He fell sideways onto the grass, and you ended up on top, bracing your hands on either side of his face.
"I knew it," he murmured, between laughs.
You didn't answer. You just kissed him again.
Now there was more warmth. Not urgency, but life. Your arms wrapped around his neck, and he held your waist firmly, spinning you both until he reversed your positions again. You laughed in between kisses, foreheads bumping lightly.
It was light and youthful. It was the kind of happiness that only exists when no one imagines it can end.
A different sound passed through the air. A muffled noise, distant. As if something were… deeper.
You frowned slightly, but he kissed the corner of your mouth and the thought dissolved.
The wind blew again — stronger now. Your hair spread across his face.
There was something rhythmic. A subtle pressure in the chest.
Very distant, almost imperceptible, a low sound. Like water moving.
For a second — just a second — you felt the air leave you.
He held your face between his hands.
"Hey," he said, smiling. "What is it?"
The meadow was there. The blue sky. The warmth of his body beneath yours.
He brushed his nose against yours, drawing another laugh from you. The muffled sound seemed to fade as you kissed him again.
The pressure in your chest increased slightly. As if something were tightening from the inside out. As if your body were trying to call you.
And mixed within it, very faintly in the distance, came a distant crack. A liquid echo. A hollow sound.
Your lungs constricted slightly.
Because he was smiling that way.
Because his hands were warm on your skin.
Because his laughter vibrated against your lips.
He pulled you closer, the two of you rolling on the grass once more, laughter mingling. The world seemed to spin softly, golden.
The sound of water grew clearer.
A bubbling. A silent invasion.
You tried to pull in air — and you could.
There, in the meadow, the air was sweet.
But in the other place, very far from there, your body was beginning to thrash in reflex.
Your fingers gripped his shoulder tighter.
He interpreted it as intensity.
"I should be worried about the family's reputation now," he murmured, almost amused.
But your hearing began to fail.
The wind became a roar. The water became a muffled boom.
The meadow trembled for a second. Or maybe it was you.
The air left you again — stronger now.
Somewhere very far away, your body arched beneath the water. Involuntary spasm. Your mouth opening. The salt invading.
He was laughing. His lips were on yours. His fingers were on the back of your neck.
The last thing you heard clearly was his laugh, mingled with the wind.
Then, the sounds began to fade. The blue of the sky became too vast, too luminous. The sensation of weight in your chest ceased to be pain and became distance.
The body, somewhere deep beneath the sea, still fought by instinct.
But you were no longer bound to it. You were there.
Laughing. And then everything became silently light.
Deep in the sea, your body began to release what it still held.
The tension in your shoulders gave way first, almost imperceptibly. Then your arms, which ceased to maintain any intention. Your hands opened slowly, fingers relaxing until they no longer responded to the water around.
Your legs lost what little impulse remained.
The tide took you with an indifferent delicacy, moving your body in a slow, steady sway. Your hair floated around your face, sometimes partially covering your features, sometimes revealing them under the bluish light of the Tree of Souls.
Your expression carried no tension.
Your brow was smooth. Your jaw, slack. Your lips rested slightly parted simply because there was no longer strength to close them.
It was a deep neutrality. Like someone who fell asleep without knowing they wouldn't wake.
The luminous roots were still connected to you. The water cradled you. And there, in the thick silence of the ocean, you ceased to sustain any movement.
The sea was too calm for that hour.
There was no wind cutting across the surface, no heavy clouds in the sky. Only the constant sound of waves breaking and receding, as if the night had taken nothing with it. As if the world hadn't been rearranged just hours before.
Neytiri watched from the sand with a feeling she didn't want to acknowledge. A cruel déjà vu, too recent. Jake's silhouette emerging from the water brought back a memory that was still raw — the way he had already walked like this before, carrying what remained of a son.
But this time it was you.
Jake approached the ilu first. He made no sudden movements. He touched your body with care, as if there were a risk of waking you if he were too careless. He slid one arm under your knees, the other around your torso, and lifted you firmly.
Your body yielded to the hold of his arms without any involuntary adjustment. Your head fell back as he lifted you, your neck exposed, your hair dripping in wet strands over his forearm. Your kuru swung loose, heavy with water, seeking no connection. Your tail hung suspended for a moment before also falling, dangling without direction.
Jake tried to better adjust the weight, but there was no way to support it all. He did what he could. And what he could do seemed far too insufficient now.
He walked toward the dry sand calmly.
Neytiri walked too. Closing the distance step by step, as if each step confirmed something she was still trying to deny.
Lo'ak arrived in time to witness the scene. He stayed further back, his feet firm in the sand, his jaw clenched. There was frustration in his eyes — a silent rebellion against the cruel swiftness of things. The night before, you had seemed ready to breathe again, to exist without drowning in memories. He had allowed a small hope to grow.
And now you returned like this.
Jake stopped when he felt he didn't need to take another step.
Water ran from your body and dripped onto the sand, forming dark patches that were soon absorbed. Your head still hung. Your arm was relaxed at your side, fingers slightly parted.
Neytiri moved close enough to see your face.
There was no pain there. Nor tension. Just a serenity that didn't match the heavy silence around.
A tear slid down her face without her noticing, at the same time as she slowly raised her hand and rested her fingers under your head for a moment, offering the support Jake hadn't been able to give. It wasn't to change your position, but just to look at you.
Her eyes traveled down to your arms. Both with the bracelets.
Neytiri's fingers touched the familiar weave, and for an instant something like pride pierced through the pain. The loyalty between you and Neteyam had been complete. True. Without hesitation.
But soon the thought formed into doubt — perhaps it was that same loyalty that had led you to this moment.
Kiri arrived slowly, keeping some distance, like Lo'ak. She looked at you and something inside her recoiled, as if she had sensed an absence that wasn't visible.
"No…" was all she could manage.
Tuk came running shortly after. As a child, she didn't carry the weight of tacit understanding. She saw you in her father's arms and broke into a smile that seemed to light up the entire beach.
"You're back!" She approached without fear, without hesitation. "Wake up."
It was in that moment that your arm slipped further, escaping the partial support of your torso. It fell limp, your hand swaying slightly with the movement.
For Tuk, that was a sign that you were there.
She wrapped her own arm around yours, hugging it with her whole body, her cheek pressing against your skin, still damp from the sea. Her little legs bent in the sand to steady herself better, as if she were determined not to leave until you responded.
She waited for an answer for long seconds. But when it didn't come, she frowned. She pulled your hand harder, trying to provoke a reaction.
"Come on…" her voice no longer held the same brightness.
Lo'ak moved before the gesture could become rough.
He reached Tuk and held her shoulders carefully, but firmly.
"Stop… Tuk," his voice came out low, almost hoarse. "She's not… She's not going to wake up."
He didn't explain. He didn't elaborate. He just finished, trying to hold together what remained for his sister:
But even he didn't fully believe his own words.
Tuk looked at him, her eyes beginning to glisten with confusion and fear. The adults' silence finally reached her. The smile faded slowly. The air became too heavy.
Not a loud cry — first a tremor, then broken breathing.
Lo'ak picked her up instinctively, holding her against his chest. Kiri moved closer to them, seeking proximity as well, as if physical contact were the only stable thing in that moment.
It was then that Lo'ak truly looked at you.
He let his gaze slowly travel over your face, absorbing details that before would have gone unnoticed: the motionless serenity of your mouth, too soft for the violence this represented; your skin already losing the vibrant glow he recognized; the strands of hair plastered to your temple, heavy with water, tracing a contour he knew by heart.
He searched, even without admitting it to himself, for any minimal trace of tension, any delayed micro-expression that would betray that this was still reversible. But your face was entirely in stillness.
And a harsh understanding took hold of him.
He stood there, holding Tuk while Jake continued holding you with arms too firm, as if loosening his grip would allow reality to fully set in. Neytiri remained close, her hand still supporting your head, refusing to let it hang again.
The sea continued to break behind them, with its usual rhythm.
Your ceremony came with a calm that hurt more than any despair.
There wasn't the raw shock of the first time. There wasn't the sensation of something abruptly torn away. Grief now settled like a familiar tide, advancing slowly, filling spaces that were already fragile. It was different — not lesser, but different. There was, in the depths of each one's eyes, a shadow of recognition, as if part of them had already feared you wouldn't remain long after him.
Your body was prepared with the same care, the same respect. The hands that touched you knew what to do, but that didn't make the gesture lighter. On the contrary, it made it heavier, because each repeated movement carried the memory of the previous one.
When they took you to the reef, the same where Neteyam rested, the silence was almost absolute. The water was clear, transparent enough for light to pass through and draw soft contours around the coral formations. It was a place of rest, they said. A return.
There, in the same space where his body had been given to the sea, you were placed as well.
Not as someone lost adrift, but as an inevitable reunion.
The gentle current enveloped your hair, your tail, your kuru, moving them delicately, as if the ocean recognized what it was receiving. And, for the first time since the beach, the weight seemed to distribute differently.
Grief, this time, was not only rupture, but also a certain confirmation.
As if the love that had united them in life had traced a path that no one there could, or perhaps wanted, to prevent.
And as the sea slowly closed the space around your body, the sound of the waves on the surface continued the same, indifferent and eternal, carrying with it two absences that now rested side by side.
The sea was still dark when Lo'ak entered the water on the night of that day.
There was no ceremony in that gesture; he just walked until the tide reached his chest, then his neck, then the submerged silence took over everything.
The ilu glided beside him when he noticed, but this time there was no urgency in the mount, only purpose.
The surface light dissolved above, replaced by the soft, pulsating glow of the roots that grew on the seafloor, intertwined like ancient veins sustaining the world.
The Tree of Souls didn't stand there as it did in the forest; it expanded. Its luminous filaments undulated with the current, alive, serene, indifferent to what the hearts above were enduring.
Lo'ak dismounted from the ilu and dove down to the roots.
There was something almost cruel in the beauty of that place.
He hovered for a moment before the glowing tendrils, feeling the weight of the choice. He couldn't simply ask to see them. He needed to remember. He needed to choose a moment that had been his as well.
And, without exactly knowing why, he chose that day.
The water sparkled under the afternoon sun as you emerged again, frustrated, your brow furrowed and your pride even more so. The ilu had escaped for the third time, gliding away as if taunting your persistence. You ran a hand through your wet hair, took a deep breath, and began walking toward the sand with steps too determined for someone who would claim not to be irritated.
Neteyam was sitting a few meters ahead on the sand, his forearms resting on his knees, watching you try and fail as if it were a private performance. He laughed when you finally gave up.
It was the kind that rises in the chest and escapes involuntarily, because he knew you'd try again tomorrow.
And without a word, you smiled and bent down, grabbed a handful of fine sand, and threw it at him.
The sand stuck to his damp skin.
He stood up in a theatrical burst of indignation, and you were already running before he even took his first step.
Lo'ak remembered seeing that for the first time with an almost automatic eye-roll. He had gone to call them — Jake wanted them both.
That afternoon, he thought you were too dramatic.
Now, in the memory, he notices something else.
He notices that Neteyam doesn't run to catch you quickly; he prolongs it. He wants you to laugh a little more.
You look back mid-run, not to escape — but to confirm he's coming.
Neteyam catches you by the waist, and the momentum of both of you is clumsy enough that you both lose your balance together. The sand gives way under the shared weight, soft, warm from the sun. The impact isn't harsh; it's absorbed by the laughter that had already been building in both of you.
Lying on your backs in the sand, still breathless from the run, the open sky above as if placed there just for that frame. Neteyam's arm remains trapped under you, not because he can't pull it out — but because he doesn't want to break the natural fit that formed. Your leg, carelessly, has fallen across his, as if your body decided on its own where it was comfortable.
There's no urgency to rearrange anything.
Neteyam turns his face slightly toward you and says something inaudible to Lo'ak, while smiling.
And you laugh loudly, without trying to hold back, that laugh that starts in the chest and explodes freely, as if the world were safe enough for it.
You get up laughing, brushing the stuck sand from your shoulders and hair.
Then you see him. And the change is almost imperceptible.
The laugh doesn't die. It just transforms.
You notice first. Your smile softens, your eyes become more attentive, and you take a step toward him, noting something different in his expression.
The question pierces him.
Inside the memory, Lo'ak feels his own body as strange. As if he were occupying two places at once: the one who lived it and the one who knows how it ends.
He hesitates, because he wants to say.
He wants to say he's not just there because Jake called.
That he's there because he needed to see you together one more time.
That he needed to confirm it wasn't his imagination — that you really loved each other that completely.
He wants to say that you chose each other until the end.
Until after the end.
He wants to say he doesn't know how to be what Neteyam was. That the responsibility feels too heavy on his shoulders. That he doesn't know how to talk to his sisters the way you talked to them, always noticing first, always staying.
He wants to say that you will be missed on a level he still can't measure.
But the Lo'ak of that afternoon didn't know these things.
The Lo'ak of that afternoon just shrugs.
Neteyam watches him for a second longer than usual. As if he's not convinced. As if he always saw cracks that others ignored.
And that's when Lo'ak realizes something he'd never understood: you weren't just part of Neteyam. You were part of his balance. And, in some quiet way, part of the balance of the entire family.
He feels strange inside his own memory. As if he's too heavy for that light scene. As if he carries information that the past can't contain.
You still belong to a timeline where tomorrow is guaranteed.
You approach him unhurriedly, sand sticking to your backs, hair, hands. Neteyam reaches him first, as he always did when he noticed Lo'ak was too quiet. He doesn't ask immediately. He touches.
His hand slides around the back of his brother's neck and squeezes lightly, jostling him like an old tease, a gesture repeated since childhood, accompanied by that crooked smile that mixed challenge and affection.
"You're acting weird, bro."
The phrase is simple. But the touch lingers a second longer.
Lo'ak feels the warmth of his hand as if it were real. As if he could turn his face and rest his forehead on his brother's shoulder. As if there were still time to admit he was afraid of not being enough. That he'd spent his whole life competing with his shadow and, now, would give anything to keep competing.
Because any word spoken there would break the delicacy of the memory. So he just watches.
Watches the way Neteyam waits for an answer that doesn't come, but doesn't insist. Watches how you position yourself beside him, naturally, as if the trio had its own way of recomposing whenever they gathered.
And then something happens that he only notices now.
Back then, he would have called it calm. Now he understands it was something else.
It was a kind of inevitability.
You didn't seem like two people who had met by chance. You seemed like two lines that had been heading in the same direction long before they crossed. There was something almost silently definitive in the way Neteyam looked at you — not like someone discovering, but like someone recognizing.
He never saw effort between you. There was no hidden tension, no discreet insecurity of someone afraid of losing.
You moved with the naturalness of two things belonging to the same space. Minimal adjustments, breaths that synchronized without noticing, silences that didn't ask to be filled.
And he understands, with a weight the memory can't ease, that this kind of harmony doesn't know how to survive rupture.
Some people continue after losing someone.
He'd never thought about that regarding you two. He'd never imagined the world could separate something that seemed so fixed.
Now, watching, he almost feels it was written — not the end itself, but the quiet intensity of the bond. As if a love so whole wasn't meant to dilute with time.
What hurts isn't imagining fights that didn't happen or words left unsaid. What hurts is remembering how everything seemed too stable to end. How the world had allowed a harmony that he now knows it never intended to keep for long.
In the memory, you continue side by side, walking with that proximity that doesn't draw attention, but also doesn't allow distance. He realizes he was never able to imagine one of you without the other. Not even now.
The memory begins to blur at the edges, as if time itself were taking back what it lent. The afternoon light dissolves first, too golden to last. Then the sound of the water becomes distant, muffled, as if coming from another body. Finally, the warmth of the sand beneath his feet fades, taking with it the shared weight of the three walking side by side.
He doesn't try to stop it.
He stays until the last fragment — until the silhouette of you two merges with the horizon's glow, until the laughter turns to pure memory, until only the certainty remains that it was real.
When the connection breaks, the light disappears without ceremony. The sea is just sea again.
Lo'ak remains motionless for a second, as if his body still expects to see you two walking side by side. But there's no image, no laughter — just the silent pressure of the water around.
He rises to the surface with that certainty, heavy and clean at the same time. What comes isn't the old shock of loss. It's something else. A firm, almost hard understanding.
Your souls were destined to cross; somehow, you would always end up together.
He just didn't expect it to be so soon.
A/N: I know I'm random, but just leave me with my temporary obsessions and have fun.
xoxo, bee 💋
