I’ve seen your eyes on someone else || Neteyam Sully
Summary: Some believe that love can heal, that if you nurture something long enough, it can be restored into something good again. But they forget that the same logic feeds demons as well. They slip in quietly and, once nourished, grow like weeds among the most beautiful flowers.
Some say that death carries eternal guilt, the weight of choices, the kind of regret that never truly fades. Perhaps. But sometimes, regret is not about what was done, but about what wasn’t. About failing to end something when there was still time.
Warnings: Sadness, betrayal, breaking beautiful hearts (sorry!), corruption. | Neteyam Sully x Recom!Reader - Word count: 12.6k (Sorry, I don't know how to write short things anymore).
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!!
You should not exist. At least, not in practice.
Not for the Sky People, who did not plan for you, nor for the Forest People, who would never truly accept you. Still, you existed — and that, in itself, was already a debt.
Your story was simple: you were the fruit of two reckless soldiers, a mistake that grew where it should not have, carrying a body that was no longer human enough to go back and would never be Na'vi enough to belong.
When you were left behind, during an RDA retreat too hurried to carry anything non-essential, you did not fight or beg. You just waited.
Jake Sully did not let them kill you.
Maybe it was because your age was so close to that of his children. Maybe because you did not try to run or attack. You just watched them with a quiet attention that did not suit someone so young. Or maybe he just recognized something in you that he could not name.
Either way, you were spared, and that was the beginning of another debt.
In the first days, no one came near.
The looks came from afar, heavy, suspicious, as if expecting you to reveal fangs they had not yet seen.
You learned quickly not to react. To keep your hands visible. To speak little. To listen more than anything else.
It was Neteyam who broke that distance.
At first, it was not kindness. It was responsibility. He was the oldest, the most prepared, the one who carried his father's weight on his shoulders with too much ease for someone his age. Teaching you was just another task, another duty among so many others. He showed you how to hold the bow, how to step without making noise, how to read the forest's movement without needing to look directly at it.
You made mistakes. Sometimes on purpose.
He would come closer to correct you, patient, his voice low, his firm hands guiding yours carefully.
You watched everything: the way he breathed before releasing the arrow, the way his eyes softened when he thought you understood, the small pride he did not hide when you got it right.
It wasn't long before he started smiling more. Nor before he began seeking you out even when there was nothing to teach.
And when he realized, it was already too late.
Neteyam fell in love with you in a whole way, as if no doubt were possible in the world. As if loving you were as natural as breathing in that place. As if it were a simple and ironic repetition of his parents' story orchestrated by Eywa.
You learned to reciprocate.
With him, your voice grew softer, more hesitant. Your eyes avoided his for a second longer than necessary, as if that were difficult for you. You would say, in moments almost carefully chosen, that you still felt the stares, that sometimes it seemed everyone there saw you as an intruder, a demon who had crossed the forest and decided to stay.
Neteyam always denied it.
He would say you were one of them. That you had fought, learned, chosen to be there. That that was what mattered.
He liked being close to you even when you were doing nothing. Lying beside you, shoulder touching yours, as if that were enough. Sometimes he talked about the future with a light naturalness, as if it were already decided and you were simply part of it. You listened, in silence, letting the words pass through you without really sticking.
Still, when he looked at you that way — open, trusting — you held his gaze long enough for him to feel the same.
You never connected with him.
At first, it wasn't really expected. It began with small evasions, light justifications, a "later" that never came. But as the months piled up and what was between you became more… established, tsaheylu stopped being a distant possibility and began to occupy the silences.
Neteyam did not pressure you. He was never the type to take what wasn't offered.
Still, there were moments — brief, almost imperceptible — when his gaze lingered a second longer on yours, as if expecting something you always seemed about to give, but never did.
You would smile, look away, touch his face, murmur something low enough to dissolve the moment before it could settle.
There was always a reason, and he accepted every one of them.
Over time, those moments stopped being rare. They began to appear in the simplest intervals — at the end of a flight, in the silence after a conversation, in the way he stayed nearby even when there was nothing left to say.
It was on one of those nights that Neytiri stopped to observe.
The forest breathed low around her, filled with continuous sounds that demanded no attention.
Moonlight cut through the canopy in soft streaks, spreading just enough clarity to outline the movement of things without ever fully revealing them. Jake stood beside Neytiri, looser than he usually was, his shoulders finally free of tension.
A wide, rhythmic beat of wings, cutting through the air above them. Jake looked up almost by reflex, following the movement until he found two silhouettes gliding across the sky.
The ikrans moved in wide circles, close enough that the flight was no longer just practice. In an instant, Neteyam dove, pulling you along in a clean curve, and the laugh that escaped you reached the ground diluted by distance, too light for that silence.
Jake let out a small laugh, low.
"I should have seen that coming."
The words came easily, almost distracted.
Neytiri kept her eyes upward but did not respond.
For a moment, she just followed the movement — the way the two of you aligned without effort, as if you already knew the next step before taking it. Jake tilted his head slightly, still watching, the smile lingering a second longer.
"He grew up too fast," he added, with a certain air of quiet surprise.
This time, Neytiri let out a low sound, almost a breath through her nose.
Jake turned his face slightly, as if about to say something, but ended up letting it pass. He looked back at the sky, letting the silence settle between them without weight.
Up above, you moved closer to Neteyam, leaning your body toward him. He responded easily, immediately, as if it were already too familiar to require attention.
Jake watched for another moment, then looked away, satisfied enough not to need to continue.
She remained where she was, her gaze fixed on the movement, as if there were still something to be understood there.
It wasn't what you were doing; there was something else.
Something in the rhythm, in the interval between one gesture and the next. Too small to be pointed out, but persistent enough not to be ignored. Like a note off-key, almost imperceptible.
Slowly, she let her gaze drop.
But the feeling did not truly go away. It remained, subtle, like something that demanded no attention but also refused to be ignored.
And so it was that, in the simplest moments, Neytiri began to notice you more carefully. Not to judge, but to understand.
In the meetings you attended, you spoke little.
Your gaze moved from one person to another, following every word, every decision. You did not interrupt or question. But you also did not get distracted.
When someone turned to you, your response came directly, sufficient, and without excess.
In family gatherings, the setting changed, but not enough.
You laughed when Lo'ak teased, when Kiri rolled her eyes, when some lighthearted story arose among them. The sound of your laugh came at the right time, low, adjusted to the moment.
Neytiri also began to notice that you rarely stayed near her. Never enough for a conversation to happen by chance between the two of you.
When your eyes met, you held for an instant — brief and controlled — but then looked away. Without hurry or hesitation.
Jake said it was just unnecessary annoyance on her part, that her discomfort had started when she learned of your ease with weapons.
Neytiri only grunted a frustrated sound, as if he weren't really listening to her, though he was partly right.
She observed closely the way you held a weapon. The firm grip, too natural in your hands. The way Neteyam watched, attentive, without backing away.
He still used the bow, but he did not refuse when you offered to teach him how to use a rifle.
And that was enough for her to look at you differently.
Over time, Neytiri began to store the small things about you.
The pause before your answers, the way your smile appeared without ever widening beyond necessity. The slight lift of your chin, almost imperceptible.
Fragments that, separately, meant nothing, yet still remained like a shadow of her gaze upon you.
Jake also carried traits that did not belong to that world, but with him… there was never any doubt. His intentions were evident from the start; Eywa showed that the moment she saw him.
With you, however, there was always a small interval, as if something stood between what was and what seemed to be.
That afternoon, though, you were not under her watchful eyes.
You were sitting by the river when Spider found you.
The water ran low, constant, carrying small reflections of light among the stones. In your hands, an unfinished arrow turned slowly, as your fingers adjusted something for the third time — and failed for the third time.
The wood did not fit as it should.
You let out a small sigh through your nose, almost imperceptible, before trying again.
The voice came light, familiar, but you did not look up immediately.
"I haven't seen her today."
Spider came closer anyway, stopping beside you before crouching slightly, his gaze falling on what you were doing.
He was silent for a second.
You looked up at him, one eyebrow slightly arched, and then turned your attention back to the arrow.
"I'm doing exactly as Neteyam said."
There was a low trace of irritation there, which made Spider let out a short laugh through his nose, sitting down beside you.
He picked up one of the pieces next to you, turning it between his fingers.
"Here," he said, simply, bringing his hands close to yours without touching. "You're trying too hard."
You watched. This time, with full attention.
He repeated the movement slowly, showing the correct fit, lighter, more precise. You followed, repeating it right after, adjusting the angle, the pressure.
For a second, you stayed still, looking with your eyebrows raised in slight surprise. Then you turned the arrow slightly in your hand, as if checking the result.
A small smile appeared on his face — brief, but more relaxed than usual.
"I still think taking apart and putting together a rifle is easier."
The sentence came out low, almost distracted. You wouldn't have said that to anyone else; another Na'vi would have taken it as an insult, probably.
Spider, however, let out a soft laugh.
The silence that followed wasn't strange. Just... quiet.
You went back to working on the arrow, repeating the movement more easily now. The sound of the water filled the space between you, constant, demanding no attention.
It was then that you noticed. You turned your face a little.
Spider was looking at you. Not directly, more at what you were doing.
But there was something there, a pause that didn't fit with the rest of him.
"Is everything okay?" you asked, simply.
He looked away too quickly.
"Really?" you insisted, lightly. "You seem tense."
Then, after a small pause of yours.
"Did you and Lo'ak do something stupid for Neteyam to fix?"
The tone came almost joking, with a subtle undertow of someone who already knew the answer.
Spider let out a low laugh, shaking his head.
The silence returned, but this time shorter.
You didn't say anything, just gave him space.
He ran his hand over the back of his neck, looking at the ground for a moment before speaking, more quietly:
"I just... never asked you this." — You tilted your head slightly, and he hesitated. — "I thought you might... I don't know. Think wrong of me."
You frowned slightly, not understanding, but still waiting.
Spider took a deep breath.
"Did you... know Colonel Quaritch?"
The name fell low between you, with more weight than it should have.
For a second, your look changed. Subtle, almost nothing.
Then you let out a small breath through your nose, like a laugh too low to be a laugh.
"You don't need to worry about that." — Your voice came softer now. — "There's nothing wrong with wanting to know."
You turned your gaze back to the arrow, adjusting the tip carefully.
You said it like someone speaking of something distant.
"My parents were in his squad. I probably would be too... if I hadn't been left behind."
A small laugh escaped you saying that, short, weightless.
Spider leaned in a little more, interested.
You took a second. This time, less controlled.
"Different," you replied, finally.
Your fingers kept working, but slower.
"I think we saw different sides of the same thing." — You lifted your gaze to him, this time more attentive. — "I wasn't close to him, even though my parents were."
"But he was... nice to me a few times."
The word came with strange precision.
"He would ask if I was training, because I was going to join the squad soon, so I had to be good."
Spider was watching you now.
He was more attentive. There was something in the way you said it — not in the words, but in the manner. As if they fit too well.
You noticed and adjusted immediately.
Your gaze returned to the arrow in your hands, your fingers resuming the movement with precision.
"But... I guess I didn't really know him, after all."
The sentence came out lower, accompanied by a light sigh and a smile that didn't fully hold.
Spider wasn't staring at you anymore. His eyes had fallen to the ground, as if he were reorganizing something he didn't exactly know where to place.
You softened your expression.
"Spider... it's normal to feel this way."
You shrugged, as if it were simple.
"Sometimes, someone can be good in one story... and the worst thing that can happen in another."
The sound of the water filled the space between you again.
Spider nodded slowly, still silent. He pressed his lips for a moment, then let the air out.
"Yeah..." he murmured, almost to himself. "I guess so."
As the sound of the river remained constant in the background while Spider went back to helping you with the arrows, far away, inside the house, the air was denser.
The smell of freshly cut meat still mixed with that of damp wood. Neteyam was kneeling beside his mother, finishing separating the last parts of the animal they had brought earlier. His hands moved with precision, repeating gestures he already knew well.
"You've been spending a lot of time with her," she said, finally.
The speech came low, almost casual. But Neteyam didn't stop cutting.
Simple and direct, as always.
The silence returned for a moment, filled only by the sound of the blade against the meat.
"You've been together for a long time," she continued, still in the same tone. "Longer than I expected."
Neteyam cleaned the blade with a quick motion, setting it aside.
He didn't seem bothered, but he also didn't seem interested in elaborating. He knew about her issues regarding you.
Neytiri let it pass for a moment. But soon she continued, insistent.
"And even so..." she said, adjusting one of the pieces carefully, "you still haven't connected to her."
Not abruptly. Just... stopped.
His eyes fell for a second to his own hands before he answered.
The answer came low. Contained.
Neytiri nodded, but not in agreement.
"Eywa shows what we are," she said, still not looking directly at him. "Not what we say. Not what we want to seem."
"When you connect to her, you will see her as she is."
"I already know her, Mother."
The answer came firm. But not loud.
Neytiri finally turned her face toward him.
"You know what she shows you."
There was no accusation there. Just a truth placed too carefully to be ignored.
Neteyam looked away first, breathing deeply.
"She just..." he began, stopping mid-thought, as if choosing his words better. "Isn't ready yet."
Neytiri watched him for a moment longer.
"How much more time does she need to be ready, exactly?"
He didn't answer. He just looked back at his hands, even though he had nothing left to do with them.
The tension didn't explode, but it grew there.
"You haven't mated yet, have you?" she asked then, more quietly.
Neteyam hesitated. Just a little, but it was enough.
"No," he answered, and added right after, almost in the same breath, "Of course not."
Neytiri looked up at him calmly, but there was no softness there. For a moment, she just stared at him, as if she had found the answer before he even finished speaking.
The name came in a low, firm tone, carrying something that wasn't doubt.
He held her gaze for a second, and the guilt passed too quickly to be completely hidden. Still, he didn't back down.
"Nothing happened," he insisted, more contained now, as if choosing each word carefully. "I wouldn't do that without it being the right way."
Neytiri tilted her head slightly, watching him as she did when he was a child trying to hide something too simple to fool her. There was no open anger in her expression, but there was a crack of disappointment and something deeper, harder to name.
Neteyam said nothing more, just stood up, wiping his hands with an automatic motion, as if he needed to occupy his body to not remain there.
"Father asked me to meet him," he said, avoiding looking directly at her. "I have to go."
He left without hurry, but also without looking back.
Neytiri remained where she was, still, her gaze low, but distant.
What was in front of her no longer mattered.
Later that day, somewhere above the canopies, almost out of reach, the night went differently.
The tree was high enough to push the rest of the world away.
Up there, the air felt different — colder, cleaner — crossed by soft currents that made the leaves whisper against each other. The night light spread in bluish tones, filtered through the canopies, drawing moving shadows on your skin.
Neteyam was sitting with his back against the thickest trunk, one leg relaxed along the branch, the other slightly bent to support his body. One of his hands rested there, distracted, following the rhythm of his own breathing.
Not enough to touch him yet.
But close enough to notice every small change in him — the way his breath caught for a second before continuing, how his gaze lingered longer when it fell on you, as if there was always something he didn't say.
And there was something in the way he looked at you now — longer, more open.
He spoke. The words came spaced out, still caught up in the conversation with his mother, as if they hadn't fully detached from the fright.
"She asked outright," he said, running a hand over the back of his neck. "About Eywa... about us."
You tilted your head slightly, watching him with attention that didn't seem like effort.
"Outright?" you repeated, letting out a low laugh. "I mean... was she specific about...?"
You didn't finish, but your gaze remained on him.
Neteyam let out a small smile, almost unwillingly.
"About us connecting," he answered, more directly now, though the edge of discomfort was still there. "And... other things."
You arched your eyebrows slightly, a playful glint crossing your gaze.
He let out a short laugh through his nose, shaking his head.
"Do I?" you teased, tilting your face a little more, as if you really wanted to hear.
Neteyam te looked at you for a second longer, as if he were trying to decide whether to step into the game… or step out of it.
But he never stepped out.
"You know," he repeated, quieter this time.
The silence that followed was light.
You let out a low laugh, looking away for a moment, as if it were simple.
Neteyam took a deep breath.
"That it would happen… just not now."
He looked at you again, not looking away this time.
Something passed there — fast, silent — as if you had considered another answer, another reaction, another way of being there.
You approached slowly, letting your body occupy the space between you as if it were inevitable. Your hand found his shoulder, firm, feeling the warmth beneath the skin, before sliding naturally.
You settled onto his lap, as you always did.
But this time, he reacted first.
His hand went automatically to your waist, adjusting you there with a care that was almost instinctive. His eyes stayed on yours, attentive, as if any movement of yours was still too important to miss.
"Hey…" you murmured, softer now.
Your thumb touched his face, lingering there, tracing the contour with an attention that didn’t need to exist.
Neteyam tilted his face slightly toward the touch.
"You're thinking too much," you said, closer now.
"I always think too much," he replied, low, a small smile appearing.
And for a moment, it was… easy. Real.
You stayed there a second longer than you needed to, looking at him as if you wanted to memorize something — the way the light caught his eyes, the shape of his smile, the way he looked at you as if nothing else mattered.
And then you leaned in. Pressed your forehead to his, breathing together for a brief moment before kissing him.
But this time… you didn't pull away so fast.
You smiled against his lips, and this time the kiss came back firmer, more present — but still light enough to carry that laugh that never completely disappeared.
When you pulled back, it wasn't far.
Your lips still close, the silence stretched between you, charged with something you didn't let grow.
"After the battle…" your voice came out lower, regaining control without rush. "…we can connect with Eywa."
Neteyam went completely still. His eyes fixed on yours, searching for any sign that this wasn't real.
The question came out more openly than he intended.
You held his gaze and smiled faintly.
He didn't answer immediately. He just looked at you, as if trying to save that, as if trying to save you.
Then the smile came, slow, open — lighter than before.
And he pulled you in again, kissing you this time without any interruption, without the light laugh that used to escape between you. Just whole, present. And you went with him, without resisting, without interrupting, letting yourself stay there for the exact amount of time that allowed it to be real.
When you climbed down from the tree later, the rest of the forest slowly returned.
The sounds closer, the constant movement, the voices in the distance — everything reclaiming space as if that higher place had never truly existed.
You walked back together.
Neteyam still carried something light in his body, noticeable in the way he moved beside you, looser, closer than usual. At times, his hand brushed yours — sometimes on purpose, sometimes not — and he didn't seem in a hurry to pull away.
You let it happen, but you didn't seek it out.
When you arrived, dinner was already being prepared. The smell of food mixed with the damp night air, and the movement around was familiar, organized in the natural chaos of the family.
Not abruptly, just enough to break the continuous line that had been between you until then. Neteyam still stayed a moment closer before going to help, as he always did.
Not the distancing, but the ease with which Neteyam still stayed close… and the ease with which you did not.
During the preparation, everything went on as usual. Familiar movements, tasks divided without need for direction. You helped where needed, silent, efficient, not getting lost in side conversations.
The way you moved without hesitation, as if you already knew where to be before even looking. The way your hands never faltered. And when someone said something light, you smiled — a smile that had something precisely recognizable to her.
When everyone gathered, the conversation started lightly — loose comments, small exchanges, the kind of normality that still persisted between one battle and the next.
Lo'ak was the first to speak louder, still chewing something, without much ceremony.
"Dad… do you think that Colonel is going to come with them?"
"Lo'ak," Neteyam murmured, low, an automatic warning that came more from habit than actual reproach.
"What?" Lo'ak shrugged, not caring much. "I'm just asking."
The name wasn't said completely, but it didn't need to be.
Your gaze went to Jake along with the others, as if waiting for his answer, as if it were just another question thrown into the conversation.
Nothing about you drew attention.
"He might be," Jake began, thoughtful, unhurried — "but—"
The sound came before he finished.
A contained growl that cut through the space more precisely than any speech.
Your gaze moved, following the others', and found Neytiri already raised slightly more than before, her body subtly tense.
"If that demon is there… I'll kill him again." Her voice came out firm, without rising in tone, but carrying something denser. "I'll do it as many times as it takes."
There was a small silence after that.
Not total — someone still moved, Lo'ak let out a snort through his nose, half uncomfortable, Spider looked away — but enough for it to linger in the air a second longer.
You were already looking at her, like everyone was.
When Jake started speaking again, Neytiri's gaze, already hardened by her own words, lingered a second longer on you.
She observed your face, how something seemed to have adjusted there without you being able to manipulate it in yourself — too small to be easily named, but present.
Your jaw tightened, even if only slightly more than before. Your eyes stayed on hers, steady, not in a hurry to look away. They were cold in a specific, contained way.
It was fast. Fast enough to go unnoticed by anyone not truly looking.
Not by clear association — it was just a very wrong feeling, like a detail out of place that shouldn't be there.
You blinked. And then you softened.
Your face returned to the same point as before, the same control, the same silent adjustment that made everything seem… normal in you.
"They're coming with force this time," Jake resumed, as if nothing had interrupted. "They won't back down easily."
The conversation continued.
Someone commented on that night's patrol, Spider said something about needing to wake up earlier, and Kiri murmured something that made Lo'ak roll his eyes.
You went along. Responded when necessary, nodded at the right times, let a smile appear when someone said something light.
But, like before, it left quickly.
On the other side, Neytiri remained silent, still attentive since the last time your gazes crossed.
She didn't look again immediately, but she also didn't forget the noise radiating from you.
When night fell completely and the village quieted under the rest that preceded the battle, Lo'ak and Spider slipped out unnoticed.
The idea had been simple: climb the tallest tree near the river and try to see beyond what others saw. If they couldn't fight, they could still be useful. Lo'ak had insisted until Spider gave in.
Now, they moved through the forest carefully, avoiding the most exposed roots, alert to any out-of-place sound.
"You think there might be any warriors around this hour?" Spider murmured, low, more to fill the silence than out of real doubt.
"No," Lo'ak answered, in the same tone, not slowing down. "Most are in the air. It's easier to see from above."
Spider nodded, even though he wasn't looking.
They continued for a few more steps, until the sound changed. It wasn't the flow of the river, nor the wind in the leaves.
It was rhythmic footsteps, too fast for someone just walking.
They both stopped at the same time.
Lo'ak turned his head first, his body already moving by instinct, pulling Spider with him into the denser brush to the side. They hid among the thickest leaves, holding their breath for a second.
A silhouette crossed the path.
Tall and agile. The bioluminescent points appearing gradually on the skin, tracing movement in the dark.
For a moment, Lo'ak thought of Neteyam.
But it wasn't. It was the length of the loose hair and the way of walking that gave it away.
You passed along the path of dry leaves without noticing either of them. Your pace didn't slow even when you got closer to the river. There was urgency there — not disordered, but precise.
You stopped only briefly, and your head lifted slightly, your eyes searching the sky between the canopies.
Then your voice broke the silence, low and controlled so your ikran would hear. The call came in the right rhythm, effortless, like something already familiar.
"I thought she didn't have patrol tonight…" Spider murmured, barely moving his lips.
Lo'ak frowned, his gaze still fixed on you.
The forest light reached your face in fragments, enough to show what was there.
Your eyes were focused, steady, as if everything around had ceased to exist for a moment. There was no fear or tension, just focus.
The sound of wings came after. Quieter than expected.
Your ikran descended almost silently, different from any other time they had seen. The dark scales — black, cut through with orange tones — absorbed the light instead of reflecting it, making the animal even harder to track with the eyes at night.
He was known to be skittish. Aggressive.
But there… there was no disorder, only control.
You ran your hand over the scales once, firm, before connecting your kuru and mounting with the same precision as your previous movements.
The beat of the wings came muffled by the river current beside them, and in the next instant, you were already rising fast.
Lo'ak and Spider came out of hiding almost at the same time, going to the bank where the view opened up better, without the trees blocking the sky.
For a moment, it seemed normal — you were heading in the direction where you usually patrolled.
But then the ikran spread its wings wider, and the turn came wide. Your trajectory changed.
You climbed higher, veering to the opposite side of the perimeter, as if avoiding a known route — or as if you didn't want to be seen.
"Where is she going?" Lo'ak asked in a low tone, more to himself than to Spider.
But his silhouette was lost among the highest canopies, swallowed by the darkness and the shapes of the forest.
Spider stared for a second longer, his eyes trying to follow something that was no longer there.
“…I don’t know,” he replied, quietly.
A silence fell between them, denser than before.
Spider frowned slightly, as if trying to fit a feeling that didn’t fully make sense. It wasn’t just the direction. Nor the fact that you had left without warning.
It was something else. There was something in your manner, in the rhythm, in the way you didn’t look back that didn’t quite fit the person he knew.
Dawn arrived diluted among the canopies, spreading a soft light that did not carry the lightness of other days.
The village awoke in silence, but it was not rest — it was preparation. There was a contained rhythm in the air, a shared attention that passed from one body to another without needing words.
Lo’ak noticed you without exactly realizing that he had started looking for you.
You were among the others, busy with your ikran, repeating the same gestures as the rest of the warriors.
From a distance, nothing was out of place. Your movements were firm, precise, without hesitation, like someone who had learned that ritual well enough not to have to think about it.
Still, there was something that didn’t quite fit.
Your ikran remained slightly apart from the others, as if it had no interest in sharing space.
When you ran your hand along the animal’s neck, it didn’t react the way others usually did — there was no agitation, no sound, just an almost imperceptible shift of its body, as a direct response to you.
Then, for a brief moment, its gaze lifted and met Lo’ak’s.
There was no hostility there, nor any clear trace of recognition. It was a look too calm for an animal like that, attentive in a way that seemed to measure more than simply observe.
When he looked back, you had already resumed what you were doing, as if nothing had happened, as if everything was exactly where it should be.
It was in that interval that Neteyam approached you.
He didn’t say anything immediately, just stood beside you for a moment, watching the care with which you adjusted the saddle straps.
There was something calm about his presence, even there, even on that day.
“You disappeared yesterday,” he commented finally, in a tone too light to be a demand, but attentive enough not to go unnoticed.
You lifted your gaze, meeting his easily. The smile came small, natural, almost automatic.
“I couldn’t sleep,” you replied, simply, turning your attention back to what you were doing. “I needed to fly for a while.”
Neteyam accepted it. Not because the answer was convincing, but because it came from you.
“I’m going with my father,” he said after a moment, his fingers busy with his own bow, adjusting something that was already right. “Further ahead this time.”
You slowed your movement for an instant, just long enough for him to notice.
“Stay close to him,” you said, now looking directly at him. “He always finds a way to come out in one piece.”
There was a trace of something more there, almost imperceptible, which made Neteyam let out a low laugh.
“My mother, too. Stay close to her.”
Your eyes remained on his for a second longer.
There was a brief pause, as if something was about to be said — by him, by you — but it didn’t find its form.
You turned completely then, closing the small distance between you slowly, naturally. Your hand rose to his face without haste, your fingers resting there as if that gesture were as common as breathing.
Neteyam looked at you more carefully now, as if there was something in you that he wanted to hold onto.
For an instant, something wavered inside you. Too fast to take shape.
But not fast enough not to exist.
Neteyam let out his breath in a half-laugh, his eyes lighting up in a way you knew well. He rested his forehead against yours, lingering a little longer this time, as if he were in no hurry to pull away.
You took a deep breath, your eyes closing for a brief moment — not long enough to get lost, but long enough to feel.
When you spoke, your voice came low, almost a whisper between you.
“Come back in one piece.”
He didn’t answer immediately.
He stayed there for a second, his eyes searching for yours, as if trying to understand what was behind it. Then you moved away from him without looking him in the eyes for too long, which Neteyam took for shyness or embarrassment.
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, lighter than the tension running through the moment.
“I know how to take care of myself.”
And for a moment, it seemed like you would say something more.
But you moved away before that. Not abruptly — just at the exact moment when it could have deepened.
A smile still crossed your face, light, familiar, the same as always… but it didn’t last.
Your name was called, and you turned without hesitating.
Neteyam watched you go, his hand still half-raised for a second before falling to his side. He didn’t say anything more — not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t find the space.
The calls began to echo through the village, organizing the groups, pulling each one to their place.
You answered yours immediately. Your ikran was already moving before you finished adjusting yourself; it opened its wings with contained force and pulled away from the tree in a single firm impulse.
Neytiri, already further ahead, ran her eyes over you. Attentive, silent, capturing more than your movements.
The ikran gained altitude, and you followed with the others, dissolving into the morning sky. But Neytiri didn’t look away, and for the first time, that didn’t seem like just an impression.
It seemed like a warning.
The sky was no longer so blue when the first formation met.
The sound came before the image — the heavy beating of rotors cutting through the air, displacing the forest’s silence like a threat that didn’t need to hide.
When they appeared among the canopies, the RDA’s helicopters were already coming in a line, low enough to sweep, high enough not to be easily reached.
The ikrans responded before any commands were given.
You rose with the others, your body aligned with your ikran as if you were one thing, the wind pulling your hair back as the altitude increased too fast for any thought to last long.
The first shots came sharp.
They cut through the air violently, forcing the flights to break in different directions, shattering formations, dissolving any order into instinct.
You dove beneath one of the helicopters, feeling the displacement of air above your head, and twisted your body at the exact moment to draw your bow. The arrow flew clean, crossing the space between you and finding the vulnerable point with enough precision to force the pilot to correct course.
It wasn’t a kill, but it was enough.
You were already moving before confirming it.
Around you, the sky was fragmented into short scenes — an ikran being hit and plummeting, another climbing sharply to gain altitude, shouts that didn’t complete because the sound was swallowed by the rest.
And yet, there was a pattern known and anticipated by you.
In the distance, one of the helicopters changed formation.
You noticed before the others, but you didn’t go to it. You turned in the opposite direction.
Meanwhile, Neytiri was flying lower. Not by choice, but by necessity.
One of the shots had forced her down, and now she moved close to the trees, using the tight space as an advantage, even if it limited her range.
The sound of the rotors was different down there. Further away, but still heavy.
One of the helicopters descended behind her.
Before it could fully align, before it could open fire, your body had already reacted — the bow already drawn, the angle perfect, the distance favorable.
It would be a clean shot. Direct.
You held for a second longer as time passed and it got closer.
Neytiri drew her bow and fired first. The arrow hit the side of the aircraft, slightly deflecting its course, but it still wasn’t enough, as uninterrupted shots still came her way in response.
Only then did you release the arrow.
Even though it was delayed, the impact happened.
The force of the shot forced Neytiri to throw herself to the side, her ikran losing stability for a critical moment before recovering its flight among the trees.
The helicopter tried to correct, but you were already descending.
Without hesitation this time, the second arrow pierced the front glass with precision, and the machine gave way, losing control and being swallowed by the vegetation in a violent crash.
Silence did not return, because there was still a battle going on. But something changed there.
Neytiri stabilized her flight a few meters ahead, her body still tense, her bow firm in her hands.
She turned her face to find you, and you were already close now, descending enough to align with her level.
For an instant, the world seemed to narrow. Just the space between you two. Her eyes passed over you quickly — assessing, registering your delayed reaction.
You held her gaze long enough not to seem like evasion or confrontation, and then you looked away, as if there was nothing there, as if that were just one more movement among many.
Neytiri said nothing, but she didn’t follow as before either.
Another helicopter passed high above, and you rose again, following the flow of the other warriors.
The duration of a battle was always uncertain; this one, for example, was beginning to show signs of its end. Shots crossed too close. You dodged, spun, returned fire.
In one moment, you pulled a Na’vi out of the line of fire. In another, you let the target escape.
The Na’vis’ retreat didn’t come as a command. It imposed itself gradually.
First in small deviations — an ikran that didn’t return to formation, another that climbed too high, someone who disappeared among the canopies and didn’t reappear.
Then, in something clearer, harder to ignore. The calls began to change in tone, less coordinated, more urgent, and what was once an advance became containment, then withdrawal.
And yet, the RDA continued.
The helicopters maintained pressure as if they hadn’t been affected at all, repositioning with an uncomfortable ease, crossing routes they shouldn’t have known. Where there was cover, they found an angle. Where there was distance, they shortened it.
It was as if they were always one step ahead.
And that was reflected in the sky.
The ikrans no longer dominated the space as before. Many had been forced down, others simply weren’t there anymore. The few that remained flew in more open, less secure trajectories, reacting instead of anticipating.
You weren’t following any of them.
Your ikran maintained a higher altitude, flying in wide, stable circles, as if the chaos below weren’t enough to fully pull your attention.
Your eyes passed over the crashes, the clashes, the fragmented movements — they registered everything, but didn’t fixate. There was something you were looking for, something apparently more important than any other conflict present there.
You shifted your body slightly, and the ikran responded, opening its flight arc toward the Hallelujah Mountains. The rock formations loomed ahead like cutouts against the sky, creating pockets of shadow where sound behaved differently, where the fighting didn’t spread — it concentrated.
As you approached, the noise changed.
The open roar of gunfire in the sky faded, giving way to something more enclosed, closer, as if it were being contained among the trees and the stone.
There were still shots, but not in constant sequence; these came at irregular intervals, heavier and more defined.
The canopies began to rise toward you, narrowing the field of vision into fragments of green and shadow. For a moment, there was nothing but diffuse movement, until something stood out.
An ikran. Too low. Alone.
It wasn’t moving away from there. It was flying in short, repeated circles, as if trapped at a point it couldn’t abandon.
You didn’t need more than that.
The sound came soon after. A dry shot, closer now.
And then the different echo of something that didn’t come from a firearm — the taut sound of a bow being drawn and released in quick succession.
There was a short cry, and you leaned your body further.
Your ikran responded immediately, descending a little more, just enough for the space between the trees to begin opening into viable paths, trajectories that could be used.
The distance was short, the angle clear, time still existed. You just had to descend a little more, cross the treeline, and you would be there before it ended.
But you didn’t descend. The sound of another shot came from below. This time closer and more urgent.
Then, as if that possibility had never really existed, you pulled the reins, and the ikran responded immediately, carving a clean curve in the air, pulling you away from that point with speed.
The sound of the shots fell behind.
Not all at once — it still echoed among the rocks, still marked its presence — but it ceased to be the center.
You opened the flight again, leaving behind the point where the shots still echoed among the rocks, and regained space above the forest.
The field stretched below, fragmented into motion — few ikrans still in the air, shadows running among the trees, isolated pockets of fighting that no longer held any line.
Lo’ak was too exposed not to be seen.
Lower than the rest, out of any formation, stopped long enough to draw attention even in the midst of chaos. His body leaned forward, too alert, like someone still looking for an opening to get in where he shouldn’t be.
He wasn’t supposed to be there, but he was. And that was enough.
His ikran was already descending when the decision fully closed in, and Lo’ak saw you almost immediately.
His body reacted before any question, adjusting his posture on his ikran, attentive and alert, as if he already expected to be called at any moment.
You didn’t slow down much, nor did you land.
"Lo’ak." Your voice came out firm, direct enough to cut through the sound of the wind and the distant rotors. "Your mother."
The effect was immediate, as if the name had pulled everything else along with it.
"With soldiers," you answered, without slowing down. "Near the formations. Come."
There was no hesitation in your voice. Lo’ak didn’t even try to look on his own; he just nodded and adjusted his flight to follow you.
You turned together. The movement was fast, direct, no need to signal the route. You didn’t look back to make sure he was following — you knew he was.
The sound of gunfire grew again as you approached, but unlike before, it didn’t dominate everything; in fact, it seemed closer to the end.
Neytiri’s ikran was still circling. Still in the same restless pattern, flying low.
Lo’ak saw it. You noticed by the slight adjustment in his flight, by the way his body tilted in that direction.
"It’s her," he said, more to himself than to you.
"Come, I know a way," you said and veered to the side, and he followed you at the same pace.
The canopies slowly opened beneath you, revealing fragments of what was happening. The quick movement among the trees, the sound of footsteps, the echo of a single gunshot.
You landed near the clearing from where the noises echoed.
Without fanfare, the ground absorbed the impact. Lo’ak was already dismounting before you had fully moved.
"This way," you said, low, already advancing among the trees.
He followed without questioning.
The ground gave way under your steps in near-total silence, absorbing the weight as the forest closed in around you. The light no longer came through whole — it came broken, in irregular strips between branches and leaves.
You went ahead in contained haste.
Lo’ak came right behind. A step slower.
The first sign was a body.
Fallen on its side, partially covered by vegetation, as if it had tried to crawl before losing strength.
The arrow had a thin yellow feather and pierced the chest with a cleanliness too precise to be chance — the perfect angle, the exact depth.
Lo’ak saw it at the same time you did.
His step faltered for one short second in recognition before moving again.
You approached the body and crouched down unhurriedly.
Your fingers found the holster first, pulling firmly as your gaze quickly ran over the body, confirming what was already obvious. You took the pistol right after, checked it in a quick, almost automatic motion, before securing it to your body.
You unbuckled the soldier’s bandolier and then raised the rifle, extending it to Lo’ak.
Lo’ak took it without hesitation, his eyes forward when another short sound of someone walking through the forest echoed low.
You raised your gaze, meeting his for a brief instant.
You made a slight gesture with your head.
"You go first. The rifle fires faster."
Lo’ak, like a young boy eager to prove himself to others, didn’t even question it.
And you knew that before even instructing him.
He advanced. The rifle already higher, his body leaning forward, ready to react to anything that appeared.
From a certain point on the trail you were following, the sound changed.
There were no more gunshots. Only the sound of a male voice, easily recognizable even from that spot.
Low, carrying something that didn’t match the situation — a sarcasm almost too light for someone who seemed cornered.
"Come on, Mrs. Sully, show yourself... I thought you wanted to kill me."
The answer came with another arrow, closer.
The sound of the impact against stone echoed briefly, followed by a heavy displacement — someone retreating, forced back.
Lo’ak quickened his pace, and so did you. But not in the same way.
The clearing began to form ahead, opening space among the trees, letting the light enter more strongly, revealing silhouettes even before faces.
It wasn’t an abrupt or urgent gesture. It was natural, continuous, like a movement your body already knew before you even thought of it — a memory that fit precisely into the present.
The weight adjusted in your hand, firm, stable.
Directly at the line of whoever was there, without hesitation, without correction, as if there were no need to find a target — as if it were already defined even before being fully seen.
His attention was entirely ahead, fixed on the sound of the familiar voice echoing among the trees and on what he believed he would find as he crossed that last stretch.
He took one more step. And with it, the clearing opened completely before you.
The leaves gave way under his step, the dry sound cutting through the space and announcing your presence before any word.
Quaritch’s ears moved first, catching the sound with instinctive precision, and his head turned right after, fast, sharp, like someone who never left any angle uncovered.
His eyes found Lo’ak, then passed over you. And stopped.
You came right behind, emerging from the forest at the same pace, your weapon still aligned in the same direction as before, your body firm, too controlled for someone who had just entered a confrontation.
On the other side, almost at the same instant, Neytiri appeared among the trees.
Her bow already fully drawn with the arrow steady, aimed at Quaritch, yet her gaze crossed the space, going straight to her son.
Her voice was not just a call; it was a cut, a raw reprimand, crossed by something more urgent, almost an invisible pull trying to bring him close.
However, Lo’ak didn’t even take his eyes off his own target.
His breathing was heavy, his chest rising too fast, his eyes locked on Quaritch as if everything had finally aligned at that point.
"Don’t even try," his voice came out loud, crossed with anger.
He advanced another step, the rifle rising more forcefully in his hands.
"I’ll kill you if I have to."
Lo’ak’s tail tensed behind his body, his ears low, his jaw clenched in a way that hid nothing.
You saw the ever-denser change emanating from him.
Quaritch didn’t move, however.
Even cornered, even with his body supported unevenly by his injured leg, an arrow embedded there, he just... observed.
His gaze ran over Lo’ak with too much calm.
And found yours again, and the smile came slowly. Wrong, almost amused.
"Is that so?" His gaze dropped to the rifle in Lo’ak’s hands. A second, maybe less, and then it returned. "And you plan to do that with an unloaded weapon, kid?" He tilted his head slightly, as if genuinely curious.
The silence grew heavy enough.
Lo’ak frowned, his grip on the rifle changing slightly, his body still ready, still firm — but now with a crack.
"Shut up," he retorted quickly, more on impulse than certainty.
Even so, Lo’ak’s gaze dropped to the rifle.
The difference had been there from the start — in the weight, the fit, the way the weapon responded in his hands — but Lo’ak never had enough experience to truly notice that. Not at that level. Not under pressure.
And for a second, the world slowed down. Not because anything around stopped, but because something inside him finally clicked.
His gaze didn’t return to you, but it didn’t need to.
The understanding came whole, dry. And for a second too short to fix anything, trust turned to doubt.
And doubt... turned to space.
A space that you took advantage of, your fingers finding Lo’ak’s kuru firmly, closing near the base with a precision that left no room for error.
There was no impulse, no unnecessary violence — just an exact, learned, almost automatic control.
His reaction came before consciousness.
His body didn’t quite move, just locked up, like someone whose movement was interrupted from within. His breath faltered for an irregular second, and tension rose through his shoulders like a reflex he couldn’t contain.
Your weapon pressed against his back right after, firm, cold against his skin, aligned with the same precision as the previous gesture.
There was no harshness in your voice, no haste, no trace of conflict. It was the same tone you had used all the other times — simple instructions, corrections made with patience.
Lo’ak didn’t obey immediately, as was expected from him.
His gaze dropped to the rifle still held between his fingers. The question came without enough force to sustain any reaction.
"What... what are you doing?"
His name was spoken with the same naturalness, almost soft, and that made it worse.
It was then that the rifle slipped from his hands and fell to the ground with a low, insignificant sound, as if it no longer mattered.
You waited a second longer than necessary. But then your hand left the pistol in the holster just long enough to reach for the cuff attached to the holster on your leg. Your movement was clean, direct, with no apparent haste, but with no room for reaction. You brought Lo’ak’s wrist back with precision, the material closing around his wrist with a dry click, firm enough to eliminate any doubt about the control you still maintained.
Your fingers returned to the pistol right after, bringing it to his back again, as if they had never left.
Then you spoke again, in the same tone:
There was no rough shove, just a constant pressure, enough to direct each step, correcting deviations before they even happened.
When you approached, Neytiri saw.
In the first instant, it was the whole — the position of the bodies, the weapon, the wrong proximity between you.
But that wasn’t what made her move.
It was the detail. The way you guided him, the absence of hesitation in your gesture, the disturbing familiarity in that form of control.
Her bow was still aimed at Quaritch when her eyes found the scene.
And everything remained like that for a second.
Long enough for something inside her to reorganize.
Then, without loss of firmness, the bow changed direction. The movement was continuous, almost silent.
The arrow found you in its sights.
The word didn’t come out whole at first; it came first as a growl, low, vibrating in the back of Neytiri’s throat before taking shape. Her ears pressed against her head, and her tail whipped behind her body, betraying a tension that no longer fit inside her.
Her eyes didn’t leave you.
"I brought you into my home."
Now there was weight in her voice, not just anger, but something deeper, more personal, running through each word.
"You walked among us... ate at my table..."
The bow drew tighter, and the last sentence came through gritted teeth, carrying her fury projected onto you.
Then a brief silence followed, but in the heaviest way possible. Because, as she spoke, Neytiri was no longer just reacting to what she saw. She was piecing together what she had felt for months.
All your little failures, the moments you were out of place, your lingering glances that lasted a second too long, the persistent feeling that there was something about you that didn’t fit.
And now it fit. In the worst way possible.
Her gaze ran over your face unhurriedly, as if seeking the final confirmation there — and found it.
In the almost imperceptible way you held your posture, in the subtle angle of your chin, in the absolute absence of hesitation in your eyes.
It wasn’t just what you did. It was how.
And that... she had seen before.
Her fingers tightened on the bow with more force, her whole body aligned for the shot that didn’t come.
Quaritch watched the two of you for a short instant, his gaze moving from one to the other like someone measuring a distance that was no longer just physical, and then let out a low, contained laugh — more air than sound.
"I see you already know my daughter, Mrs. Sully."
His voice came out unhurried, almost too light for what it carried.
He moved then, already sure that Neytiri wouldn’t dare shoot while one of her children had a weapon aimed at him.
Quaritch crossed the short distance to a nearby rock, where he leaned with his weight shifted to the side that still responded better. He brought his hand to the arrow. His fingers closed around the shaft that still stuck out, and even with little force, the wood gave way with a dry snap.
A short groan escaped between his teeth, more a body reflex than any real display of pain.
He let the air out slowly, tossed the piece of wood to the ground without looking where it fell, and when he lifted his face again, the discomfort was no longer there.
His gaze found you first.
There was something different in him now — not just recognition, but a subtle hint of pride underneath, sustained with too much naturalness to be denied.
"Hard not to notice the resemblance... is it?"
Neytiri’s growl came in response, low and charged, without word form, but full of intent.
In front of you, Lo’ak reacted differently—his body tensing under your control, his eyes narrowing with something that was still trying to follow what was being said, as if the pieces were fitting together too quickly.
You felt his impulse to turn, to look, to search in you for some denial that did not come. But your grip adjusted on the kuru, firm enough to restrain, without ever exceeding what was necessary.
And only then did you speak.
“Lower the bow, Neytiri.”
Nothing in you changed after the order. Your voice did not rise, nor harden. As if that were enough.
But Neytiri did not yield.
The bow remained raised, the arrow steady, her arm aligned with a precision that did not tremble, did not waver. Her gaze never left you, locked, intense, charged with a fury that no longer tried to hide.
The words came low, torn by a growl that vibrated deep in her throat, more felt than spoken. Her ears pinned flat against her head, her tail whipping again behind her in a short, contained movement, just enough not to break her stance.
She did not lower the bow, nor did she take a single step back.
If anything changed, it was the opposite. Her body leaning in even more, as if a decision were forming, calculating a route, a gap or minimal possibility of not letting you leave there alive.
You did not repeat what you said.
The silence that opened between you was not long, but it was dense enough to weigh in the air, to make every small reaction impossible to ignore. Lo’ak felt it before he understood it, his body caught between the impulse to react and the inability to do so.
It was in that space that your fingers adjusted. The pressure on his kuru changed, not abruptly, but precisely, finding the exact point where control ceased to be presence and became imposition.
The effect was immediate.
Lo’ak’s body responded by locking up in an involuntary reflex, his breath faltering for an instant as the tension ran through him entirely. A short sound escaped, too contained to be a scream, impossible to ignore.
This time, her gaze wavered. Not enough to lower the bow, but enough to break the line of thought that still believed there was another way out.
Her eyes looked different now—no less furious, but crossed by something else.
Something that recognized exactly what you were willing to do.
Only then did the bow lower slowly, centimeter by centimeter, as if every fraction of that gesture had to be ripped from her by force. Her gaze never left you, burning, steady, refusing to yield more than absolutely necessary.
When the arrow was no longer aligned for the shot, her chin lifted in automatic response, pride reacting before anything else. There was anger there, alive, pulsing beneath the surface, contained only by what was still at stake.
You held her gaze and then spoke, in the same tone as before, unhurried, unchanged.
“Throw it on the ground.”
For a moment, it seemed she would not do it.
Air came out heavy through her nose, her chest expanding in a movement too controlled not to betray the effort behind it. Her face remained impassive, but it was a stillness built on tension, not calm.
The bow fell first, the wood hitting the earth with a dry thud. The arrows came right after, one by one, without carelessness, as if even in that gesture there was intention. The knife followed the same path, removed with precision and dropped without looking.
Each movement slow, charged.
You watched everything. And at no point did you need to repeat yourself.
A little further back, Quaritch still watched in silence.
His gaze fixed on you, attentive not only to what you were doing, but to how you were doing it. There was no haste in him, no interference, as if any movement now would be merely… unnecessary.
He was watching. Measuring you. Waiting to see how far you would go.
Your voice cut through the space again, with the same steadiness.
Neytiri did not respond, but she moved.
She took a step back, then another, her eyes still locked on you, her hands rising slowly, not in submission, but in calculation. Every centimeter seemed chosen, controlled, as if she were still searching for a gap that did not come.
You followed her movement by adjusting your own.
Lo’ak came along. Guided by your control, by the small impulses you applied without apparent effort, steering him in the same direction, not to bring him closer to her, but to reposition everything—you staying between Neytiri and the weapons she had left on the ground.
Between her… and any chance.
For a second, your hand with the pistol lowered, not enough to release.
Just enough for you to grab the cuff attached to your waist and toss it in her direction. The orange material cut through the air and fell near the trunk beside her with a dull thud, heavy enough not to be ignored.
Without raising your tone.
Her gaze dropped for an instant, finding the object, then returned to you.
Neytiri’s stare remained on you for another moment, hard, sustained, as if she were still looking for a flaw, any gap that would justify not doing it.
Air came out heavy through her nose once more before she moved.
She crouched just enough to pick up the cuff, the gesture firm, without visible hesitation, although every movement carried a silent resistance.
She slipped one loop around her right wrist and leaned against the tree. Her free arm went around the trunk and was likewise encircled by the material.
When she straightened again, her chin rose by reflex, her body aligned, her hands still tense, her eyes on you—not submissive, never—merely contained by something greater than her own will.
You watched just enough to know it was done.
You guided Lo’ak in the opposite direction, circling the space with calculated steps, repositioning everything as if arranging a scene already known.
He did not resist, but neither did he make it easy; his body still reacted in small impulses, tensions that came and went, as if he were constantly on the verge of doing something he could not complete.
The tree you chose was not far, but it was enough to create distance.
You turned him with precision, pulling his arm back once more, tearing off the previous cuff with a firm motion of a knife. The new cuff closed around his wrist, his back hitting the trunk as you pulled his other arm to secure him completely there.
It was only when you fully released his kuru that he truly felt the control leave.
His breath came heavier, uneven for a second, and he turned his face toward you, his eyes carrying something that was no longer just confusion.
His voice came low, but firm, crossed by something sharper than before. There was no room for doubt left.
He let out a short, humorless laugh.
“You…”—the word caught for an instant, as if he needed to choose which one to use—“you were just playing with us?”
It was not a scream. It was worse, because there was something there still searching for an answer.
Yet you only looked at him.
Unhurried, without defense, without any effort to soften what was being said.
The gaze held for exactly the right amount of time—long enough for him to understand that no explanation would come from you.
And then you stood up, as if that required nothing more from you.
The movement came continuously, as if that decision had already been made long before that moment, and the call came along with it—low, rhythmic, the specific sound you used to summon your ikran.
The sound escaped effortlessly, almost too discreet for those who did not know how to listen, but precise enough to cut through the forest and disappear among the trees without dissolving.
Quaritch was already watching you as you approached, his body propped against the rock, his posture adjusted to the limit of his own pain without ever truly yielding to it. There was blood darkening the fabric on his leg, the arrow still embedded, but nothing in his expression suggested urgency. His gaze, instead, was attentive—more interested than worried, tracking you with a calm that bordered on calculation.
You stopped before him for the exact amount of time, holding the distance without turning it into a pause.
Quaritch let out a soft laugh through his nose, short, shifting his weight with minimal care.
Still, he did not stay focused on you. His gaze had already passed over your shoulder before the sound even became a presence.
The wings cut the air first, in beats too contained for the animal’s size, and the ikran emerged between the trees as if it had already been there longer than it should have. Its dark colors absorbed the forest light, while the orange markings appeared only when it moved, like an unstable reflection among the shadows.
It came in slowly and landed beside you with enough precision not to disturb what was already tense.
Your father’s gaze narrowed slightly, not in reaction to the animal, but to the way it behaved around you, as if trying to understand where that fit. Your hand found the ikran naturally, and the connection between the two of you came immediately. Clean. Instant.
The animal’s response was almost instantaneous as you mounted it, its body adjusting, yielding to your command before it was even fully visible. It crouched lower than necessary, as if anticipating what was coming, facilitating without being asked.
“Can you climb… or do you need help?”
Quaritch let out another half laugh, adjusting his body with a care he clearly would not acknowledge aloud.
His movement was not clean, not entirely—his leg required adjustment, required strength where it would not have before. He climbed efficiently, supporting his own weight as if any help there were obviously unnecessary.
You did not interfere, only kept your hand on the ikran, feeling the animal beneath your fingers, maintaining control without needing to demonstrate, as he settled behind you.
It was only then that the moment seemed to reach those who were there.
Lo’ak said nothing. But his silence was no longer the same.
His gaze followed everything—the call, the response, the way the ikran had come without resistance, how it had adjusted to you without conflict. And when his eyes met the animal’s, there was an instant when everything else lost its force.
That feeling returned. The same one from that morning.
Wrong, as if the animal had already shown everything in a single glance.
The sky opened when you left behind the formations of the Hallelujah Mountains, the space finally free of the floating rocks that had until then cut across the flight and hidden trajectories. Your ikran did not slow when exiting the cover—on the contrary, it gained even more speed, holding a direct, clean line, as if there were no longer any need to veer around anything.
Further below, Neteyam still flew close to the ground, following Jake between tall trees and rock formations, his eyes restless, always searching for something that did not appear.
Lo’ak’s lack of response was no longer just concern—it was beginning to gnaw at him in a deeper way, harder to ignore.
“Hold the course,” Jake said, firm, without looking back.
Neteyam nodded, but could not sustain his attention for long. It was a movement above that pulled his gaze, something too fast to ignore, a dark silhouette crossing the sky above the formations.
He hesitated a second. Then recognized it.
His body reacted before his thoughts organized themselves, the ikran already responding to the command as he gained altitude, veering off course without asking permission.
“Neteyam!” Jake’s voice came right behind him, but he was already climbing.
As he gained height, the figure ahead became clearer, and there was no doubt in the way the ikran moved, in its speed. It was you.
But something was out of place.
You were flying too high, too fast. And when he pushed a little more, trying to get closer, he realized you were not alone.
The silhouette behind you was not yet clear, cut off by the floating rocks that were again closing the path between you, but it was enough to tighten something in his chest.
“Hey!” he called, but his voice was carried away by the wind as he tried to catch up.
Instead, your ikran banked and slipped between two narrow formations, disappearing at a difficult angle, forcing Neteyam to adjust his own trajectory too quickly to avoid losing your trail completely.
He followed, but the rocks broke the view, cut the path, and for an instant you simply ceased to be there.
He emerged on the other side a second later, already searching. He found you, now unobstructed.
But you were already much further ahead, in open sky, flying in a straight line.
And then he saw the helicopters, and his body reacted instantly, his breath catching for a second as he waited for what would come next: the attack, the gunfire, any sign of a confrontation heading your way.
No shots. No sudden changes.
The aircraft simply adjusted course, following your movement, keeping the same direction as you, the same speed.
Neteyam slowed without realizing it, his gaze locked on the scene that made no sense.
Was someone forcing you to do this?
Jake appeared beside him at that moment, climbing quickly enough to keep up, his gaze following the same line, finding you, the helicopters, the alignment between it all.
Jake did not say anything immediately. But he also did not need to search for an explanation.
Neteyam turned his face, not understanding, the urgency still whole in his body.
But Jake did not look at him. His eyes remained on the sky ahead.
“No… she’s already decided.”
Neteyam did not understand what that meant, because what he saw was still searching for some meaning within him.
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