Tags: Fluff. Emotional. Light-hearted. No use of Y/N. Gender Neutral. No NSFW.
Note: Please let me know if I wrote anything insensitive, as I donât mean to cause any harm if I do. I wanted to give a different perspective and show how the beauty in Eywa and its inhabitants don't just stem from its beautiful sights, but also the beauty within. Please also comment if youâd like to join a taglist for my future âAvatar x Readerâ fics.
Word Count: 2,402.
The world was not in darkness.
It was a symphony of pressure. It was a cool, velvet kiss of humidity against your skin as you passed from sunlight into the forestâs shade. It was a map of soundâ the chattering gossip of viperwolf pups a hundred yards to the east, the rustle of a hexapede browsing in the ferns, the distant, everlasting sigh of Hometreeâs remnants. You could feel the path under your bare feet, not just its texture, but also its history.
Your hands knew the shape of things. Your basket, woven from sturdy vines, had a ridge on the third coil where youâd mended it. The leaves of the herb you were harvesting were smooth on top, but veined and slightly rough underneath. You didnât need to see to know when the gathering was good. You felt it in the weight of the basket, the resinous scent that bloomed in the air as your fingers brushed the stems.
You were humming to yourself, a low tune your mother had sung, when a new pressure entered your symphony.
Footsteps. Not the balanced tread of a hunter, nor the shuffle of an elder. These were quick, slightly off-rhythm, kicking up small sprays of pebbles. They came to an abrupt halt a few paces away.
âYou always know itâs me, donât you?â
Loâakâs voice was a texture all its own. It was brash and warm, like sunlight on river stones, with an undercurrent of something restless, always vibrating just beneath the surface.
You smiled, not turning your head. âYour right foot lands heavier than your left. And you breathe like youâre about to speak, even when youâre silent.â
A huff, amused. âOkay, okay. What are you up to?â
âGathering herbs. The patch by the stream is strong this season.â
âNeed help?â
It wasnât the offer that was unusual, but the tone. Not pity. It was pure, unadulterated curiosity.Â
Heâd been hovering at the edges of your world for weeks, Youâd often feel his presence watching you, his energy like a sudden warm breeze. And youâd heard the stories, of course. The second son, the storm-chaser, the one with the too big of a heart that kept leading him into trouble.
âThe basket is almost full,â you said.
âNot with that. I mean⊠Come with me. I want to show you something.â
That gave you pause. âShow me?â
âYeah! The sky today⊠It's insane. The clouds over the Floating Mountains look like a herd of fleeing sturmbeests, all pink and orange. And I found this new flower that just bloomed near the old training grounds! Itâs this crazy blue that almost glows, even during the day.â
His descriptions were like splashes of paint, vivid and chaotic. You couldnât picture the fleeing sturmbeests, but you could feel the vastness he implied, could hear the earnest wonder in his voice. It was⊠charming.
âAnd how do you propose to âshowâ me these things, Loâak?â
âIâll tell you! Iâll describe it. Iâm good at that.â He said it with a confidence that was both endearing and entirely unearned.
Your smile widened. âAlright then. Lead on, guide.â
---
It became a strange, delightful ritual. Loâak would be your self-appointed herald of the visible world. Heâd come find you, and his voice would become your brush, painting landscapes you would never witness.
âOkay, so weâre at the lookout,â heâd say, his arm probably sweeping in a grand gesture. âThe valley is all⊠deep green, like a pool of moss, and the rivers are these silver threads. And way, way out there, the mist from the waterfalls looks like smoke from a thousand campfires.â
Youâd listen, head tilted as you broke down his descriptions. Silver threads meant fast moving water over rocks. Deep green implied a dense, healthy canopy. Youâd file it away, building your own internal map made of sound, scent, and Loâakâs impressionistic poetry.
But he was terrible at practical guidance. âWatch out for that root!â heâd cry, a second after your toes had already expertly identified it. âTurn left here!â heâd instruct, when the acoustics of the clearing clearly indicated a path straight ahead.
Youâd gently correct him. âThe root here, itâs soft. And this left turn leads to a sinkhole, Loâak. The good path is ahead. Listen to the echo.â
Heâd grumble, but without heat. More with fascination. âHow do you do that?â
âYou just have to listen past your own voice,â youâd say softly.
His descriptions were his gift, flawed and beautiful. And you accepted them, not as a window to a world you lacked, but as a key to understanding him.
The way his voice softened when describing the delicate veining of a leaf told you more about his heart than any hunt ever could.
---
The day it all changed began like any other. His energy was different, though. A nervous, thrumming excitement vibrated from him, tinged with a solemnity youâd never felt in him before.
âTodayâs different,â he announced, his voice tight. âIâm taking you to my place. My real place. No one else knows about it. Not even Neteyam.â
This was a serious offering. For Loâak, a secret shared was the highest currency.
The journey was longer, through terrain that grew unfamiliar. This time you relied on him completely, your hand resting lightly on his shoulder as he navigated narrow passes and down steep, leafy inclines. You heard the world change first. There was a resonant hum of falling water growing louder, the air chilling and carrying the clean, electric scent of ozone and wet stone.
âWeâre here,â he whispered, his voice full of awe.
He led you forward a few more steps. The symphony was breathtaking.
The waterfall was a deep, thunderous percussion, shaking the air. The mist was a constant, cool kiss on your face. The bioluminescence here was a living blanket, where you could feel its faint, warm energy on your skin. It was like a tapestry of light you could only sense as a gentle, pulsing warmth.
âOkayâŠâ Loâak breathed, the guide preparing for his greatest performance. âOkay, youâre standing in it. Itâs a glade, a perfect circle. The walls are all smooth, black rock, covered in yovo vines that are glowing⊠every color. Like someone spilled the stars. And in the center, thereâs this pool, so clear you can see every pebble at the bottom, and the waterfall comes down on the far side, all white and foamy, and when the mist hits the light from the vines, it makes these little rainbows that danceâŠâ
He was trying. Eywa, he was trying so hard. But his words, usually so fluid, began to clot and stumble. The pressure of itâ the need to make you see this sacred beautyâ was strangling his gift.
âItâs just⊠itâs the most beautiful thing. The colors, the way the light moves⊠Iâve never seen anything like it. I wanted you to⊠I mean, you have to be able toâŠâ His voice cracked, not with sadness, but with the sheer, desperate frustration of inarticulate love.
The frustration turned to distress. You could hear it in his ragged breath, in the way his shoulder tensed under your hand. This was his test, his offering to you, and he was failing.
You could feel the old, familiar demon of his. The fear of never being enough, of always falling short. Rising up to choke him here, in his own sanctuary.
He fell silent. The glorious symphony of the glade was now underscored by the quiet, ragged sound of his defeat.
It was enough.
You lifted your hand from his shoulder and reached out, finding his arm. Your fingers closed around his wrist, stilling his restless fidget. The connection was solid, an anchor in his storm.
âLoâak.â
He flinched.
You tightened your grip, just a little. A firm, grounding pressure. âStop.â
A beat of silence, filled only by the waterfallâs roar.
You turned your face toward him, though your gaze, as always, was turned inward, listening. Your voice, when you spoke, was calm, a clear stream cutting through his turmoil.
âDo not tell me what it looks like.â
You paused, feeling his pulse hammering against your fingertips.
âTell me what it feels like.â
Your words hung in the mist, a simple command that seemed to stop the very air between you. Loâakâs breathing hitched, his frantic energy draining into confusion. You felt his arm tense, then slowly relax under your touch.
âWhat⊠what do you mean?â he asked, his voice smaller than youâd ever heard before.
You didnât answer with words. Gently, you guided his hand downward, away from the empty space heâd been trying to paint, and pressed his palm flat against the rock face beside you. It was cool and slick, humming with the waterfallâs vibration.
âStart here,â you said softly. âIs the rock smooth or sharp? Is it wet from the mist or dry? Does it feel alive?â
A long pause. You could almost hear the frantic scrambling in his mind cease, replaced by a new, focused attention.
âItâs⊠smooth,â he said, wonder seeping into his tone. His fingers began to move, exploring. âBut not like glass. There are tiny grooves, like old scars. And itâs cold. Really cold, right here, but just a few inches overâŠâ he shifted his hand, âitâs warmer. Where the vines are touching it.â
âGood,â you murmured. You led him a few steps forward, to where the mist fell like a constant, fine rain. âNow, the air. Is it cold or warm? Does it move in one direction, or does it swirl?â
He was silent, his face turned upward. âItâs⊠both,â he said, astonished. âThe mist is cold, just like the rock. But under it, the air is warm, rising from the pool. It dances on my skin.â He was no longer describing for you; he was discovering for himself.
You knelt, pulling him down with you before your hands found the moss at the waterâs edge. You took his hand and buried his fingers in it. âDescribe this.â
âItâs⊠so deep,â he breathed. âSofter than the finest sleeping mat. Itâs springy. And it smells⊠green. Like life itself, but quieter than the forest. Richer.â
âAnd the water. Not its color. Its sound. Its touch.â
You guided his hand to break the surface of the pool. He gasped, a short, sharp intake.
âItâs not cold! Itâs⊠itâs the same as the warm air under the mist. Itâs like liquid sunlight.â He cupped some in his hand, let it trickle through his fingers. âThe sound⊠itâs not just the crash up there. Here, where it meets the pool, itâs a gurgle, a laugh. And over there, by those other rocks, itâs a deep, hollow chuckle.â
He was talking faster now, a river of sensation breaking its banks. You simply listened, a smile gracing your lips. He had found the language.
âClose your eyes, Loâak,â you suggested gently.
He did. And with his own sight voluntarily gone, his other senses bloomed. He described the symphony you lived in every day. The layered percussion of the falls, the high, sweet chime of dripping water from a specific fern, the way the bioluminescence wasnât just light but a faint, tickling warmth on the left side of his face where the densest cluster of vines hung.
He was quiet for a long moment, his eyes still shut, a look of profound peace on his face you could hear in his steady breath. âIâve never⊠I just always looked at it,â he whispered, raw with revelation. âI never just⊠felt it before.â
The frustrated guide was gone. In his place was a fellow explorer, humbled and awed by a world he thought he knew.
You both sat in the moss, the silence between you now comfortable, filled with the shared understanding of the gladeâs true essence.
It was he who broke the silence, his voice so low it was nearly swallowed by the waterâs roar.
âI justâŠâ he began, the words stumbling out with the last of his guarded fear. âI wanted you to have something of mine. Something beautiful that no one else knows. I wanted to put it in your hands. And I thought⊠if I could make you see it, then it would be real for you, too. And I couldnât even do that.â
The confession hung in the humid air. This was the heart of him, the boy who fought so hard to be worthy, to share his soul and terrified he had nothing of value to give.
Your heart ached with a fierce tenderness. You reached out, your movements sure in this space you now both knew intimately. You found his hand where it rested in the moss and brought it up, not to your eyes, but to your chest. You placed his palm flat over your heart, letting him feel its steady rhythm against his skin.
âYou did not give me a place, Loâak,â you said, your voice clear and sure as the waterâs song. âYou gave me your way of feeling it. The cold of the rock, the dance of the air, the laugh of the water⊠ is your gift. That is a piece of your spirit. And it is far more beautiful than any color.â
You felt his breath catch.
âI have never seen anyone,â you continued, the truth of it shining in your sightless, focused gaze, âthe way I see you right now.â
A shudder went through him. Then, his hand shifted under yours. He didnât pull away. Instead, his fingers curled, his grip tightening gently on the tunic over your heart, as if holding onto the words youâd just spoken.
âI see you.â
The final wall crumbled. He let out a long, slow breathâ not of defeat, but of release. Of being seen, in a way he never imagined possible. He didnât try to describe the moment. He simply shifted closer in the moss, until his shoulder pressed warmly against yours.
After a moment, you felt the gentle, tentative weight of his tail as it sought and curled softly around your own. You sat like that, in the heart of his secret glade.
You built your shared understanding not from pictures, but from the quiet synchronicity of your breaths, the solid warmth of his presence beside you, and the profound peace that came from knowing you had, together, learned a new way to see.
