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 don’t 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 you’d like to join a taglist for my future “Avatar x Reader” 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 forest’s shade. It was a map of sound— 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 Hometree’s 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 you’d mended it. The leaves of the herb you were harvesting were smooth on top, but veined and slightly rough underneath. You didn’t 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.
“You always know it’s me, don’t you?”
Lo’ak’s 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. “Your right foot lands heavier than your left. And you breathe like you’re about to speak, even when you’re silent.”
A huff, amused. “Okay, okay. What are you up to?”
“Gathering herbs. The patch by the stream is strong this season.”
“Need help?”
It wasn’t the offer that was unusual, but the tone. Not pity. It was pure, unadulterated curiosity.
He’d been hovering at the edges of your world for weeks, You’d often feel his presence watching you, his energy like a sudden warm breeze. And you’d 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.
“The basket is almost full,” you said.
“Not with that. I mean… Come with me. I want to show you something.”
That gave you pause. “Show me?”
“Yeah! 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! It’s this crazy blue that almost glows, even during the day.”
His descriptions were like splashes of paint, vivid and chaotic. You couldn’t picture the fleeing sturmbeests, but you could feel the vastness he implied, could hear the earnest wonder in his voice. It was… charming.
“And how do you propose to ‘show’ me these things, Lo’ak?”
“I’ll tell you! I’ll describe it. I’m good at that.” He said it with a confidence that was both endearing and entirely unearned.
Your smile widened. “Alright then. Lead on, guide.”
---
It became a strange, delightful ritual. Lo’ak would be your self-appointed herald of the visible world. He’d come find you, and his voice would become your brush, painting landscapes you would never witness.
“Okay, so we’re at the lookout,” he’d say, his arm probably sweeping in a grand gesture. “The 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.”
You’d listen, head tilted as you broke down his descriptions. Silver threads meant fast moving water over rocks. Deep green implied a dense, healthy canopy. You’d file it away, building your own internal map made of sound, scent, and Lo’ak’s impressionistic poetry.
But he was terrible at practical guidance. “Watch out for that root!” he’d cry, a second after your toes had already expertly identified it. “Turn left here!” he’d instruct, when the acoustics of the clearing clearly indicated a path straight ahead.
You’d gently correct him. “The root here, it’s soft. And this left turn leads to a sinkhole, Lo’ak. The good path is ahead. Listen to the echo.”
He’d grumble, but without heat. More with fascination. “How do you do that?”
“You just have to listen past your own voice,” you’d 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 you’d never felt in him before.
“Today’s different,” he announced, his voice tight. “I’m taking you to my place. My real place. No one else knows about it. Not even Neteyam.”
This was a serious offering. For Lo’ak, 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.
“We’re here,” 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.
“Okay…” Lo’ak breathed, the guide preparing for his greatest performance. “Okay, you’re standing in it. It’s 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, there’s 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 dance…”
He was trying. Eywa, he was trying so hard. But his words, usually so fluid, began to clot and stumble. The pressure of it— the need to make you see this sacred beauty— was strangling his gift.
“It’s just… it’s the most beautiful thing. The colors, the way the light moves… I’ve never seen anything like it. I wanted you to… I mean, you have to be able to…” 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.
“Lo’ak.”
He flinched.
You tightened your grip, just a little. A firm, grounding pressure. “Stop.”
A beat of silence, filled only by the waterfall’s 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.
“Do not tell me what it looks like.”
You paused, feeling his pulse hammering against your fingertips.
“Tell me what it feels like.”
Your words hung in the mist, a simple command that seemed to stop the very air between you. Lo’ak’s breathing hitched, his frantic energy draining into confusion. You felt his arm tense, then slowly relax under your touch.
“What… what do you mean?” he asked, his voice smaller than you’d ever heard before.
You didn’t answer with words. Gently, you guided his hand downward, away from the empty space he’d been trying to paint, and pressed his palm flat against the rock face beside you. It was cool and slick, humming with the waterfall’s vibration.
“Start here,” you said softly. “Is the rock smooth or sharp? Is it wet from the mist or dry? Does it feel alive?”
A long pause. You could almost hear the frantic scrambling in his mind cease, replaced by a new, focused attention.
“It’s… smooth,” he said, wonder seeping into his tone. His fingers began to move, exploring. “But not like glass. There are tiny grooves, like old scars. And it’s cold. Really cold, right here, but just a few inches over…” he shifted his hand, “it’s warmer. Where the vines are touching it.”
“Good,” you murmured. You led him a few steps forward, to where the mist fell like a constant, fine rain. “Now, the air. Is it cold or warm? Does it move in one direction, or does it swirl?”
He was silent, his face turned upward. “It’s… both,” he said, astonished. “The mist is cold, just like the rock. But under it, the air is warm, rising from the pool. It dances on my skin.” 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 water’s edge. You took his hand and buried his fingers in it. “Describe this.”
“It’s… so deep,” he breathed. “Softer than the finest sleeping mat. It’s springy. And it smells… green. Like life itself, but quieter than the forest. Richer.”
“And the water. Not its color. Its sound. Its touch.”
You guided his hand to break the surface of the pool. He gasped, a short, sharp intake.
“It’s not cold! It’s… it’s the same as the warm air under the mist. It’s like liquid sunlight.” He cupped some in his hand, let it trickle through his fingers. “The sound… it’s not just the crash up there. Here, where it meets the pool, it’s a gurgle, a laugh. And over there, by those other rocks, it’s a deep, hollow chuckle.”
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.
“Close your eyes, Lo’ak,” 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 wasn’t 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. “I’ve never… I just always looked at it,” he whispered, raw with revelation. “I never just… felt it before.”
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 glade’s true essence.
It was he who broke the silence, his voice so low it was nearly swallowed by the water’s roar.
“I just…” he began, the words stumbling out with the last of his guarded fear. “I 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 couldn’t even do that.”
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.
“You did not give me a place, Lo’ak,” you said, your voice clear and sure as the water’s song. “You 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.”
You felt his breath catch.
“I have never seen anyone,” you continued, the truth of it shining in your sightless, focused gaze, “the way I see you right now.”
A shudder went through him. Then, his hand shifted under yours. He didn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers curled, his grip tightening gently on the tunic over your heart, as if holding onto the words you’d just spoken.
“I see you.”
The final wall crumbled. He let out a long, slow breath— not of defeat, but of release. Of being seen, in a way he never imagined possible. He didn’t 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.
