──⋆°.•✦ carrying tomorrow
prompt: the last daughter of the snow, who found peace with neteyam, lives her life in hiding—keeping her true ancestry a secret from their children. What happens when curiosity and quiet questions do grow roots?
wc: 11.8k (sorry!).
pairings: neteyam x reader, fem!na’vi reader x neteyam, dad!neteyam x mom!reader, snow na’vi!reader x neteyam
warnings: takes place in the future, very non-explicit smut, fluff, angst/comfort, tsaheylu, pregnancy, mentions child birth, arguments, trauma, child birth, snow na’vi concept. children have names. use of Y/n!, breast massaging.
translations: kíreytsìl (dawn of hope), pa’liwll (direhorse pitcher plant), yawne (beloved), prrsmung (baby sash)
notes: i have been working on this for a while LOL. i hope you enjoy, i tried!!!
Two years after the battle at the cove of the ancestors, the world finally felt quiet again.
The waves no longer carried the scent of smoke. The sky was no longer torn apart by metal ships and vile ash raiders. For the first time in a long time, you could breathe.
You had been the last since before that battle—the last daughter of the snow, the last voice of the Kray’na People.
Your people once lived where the mountains cut into the sky, where frost clung to braids and breath turned silver in the air. They were whispered about more than they were known. The hidden ones—a myth to most.
And then the sky people came, fire against ice. Metal against bone. By the time the war reached the forest once more, you were already alone.
Neteyam never treated you like something fragile because of it, that’s why you chose him in the first place. By the will of Eywa, he found you along with his friends and siblings, alone—somehow thriving in a cave.
So, when your belly began to swell with life, with twins, something inside you both shifted. You would not let your children’s lives begin as ghosts. You chose the forest for their birth—the place Neteyam had once called home. His grandmother delivered them beneath the woven canopies of the People, while Neytiri stood at your side with proud, shining eyes. Jake, for once, was calm, grounded.
Your babies were communed with Eywa before the tree of souls—lifted and welcomed. Their adorable, tiny hands brushed sacred tendrils as they were introduced to the Great Mother. Their first breath carried into something eternal, ancient.
Your children would spend the first weeks of their lives in the same place that Neteyam did. It meant more than he could ever fully say, that you chose the forest, that you embraced his people, that you wanted your children to begin where he had begun. And for him to see Neytiri, who came along, overwhelmed with happiness, and Jake—disarmed, calm, and smiling.
When you returned to the reef, the celebration lasted for days, Lo’ak boasted like a proud uncle, Kiri held your babies as if they were spun from glass, Tuk refused to leave your side, even Tsireya travelled with you to witness the ceremony, wide eyed and reverent beneath the forest canopy. Your children's lives were honored twice, once by the roots of ancient trees, and once by the endless sea.
The years passed gently after that, eight of them to be exact.
The reef became your children’s world, they grew strong in saltwater currents and sunlit shallows. They learned to dive before they could properly argue. They swam before they could run.
And Neteyam, he grew into something formidable—stronger than the boy you fell in love with. Broader, sharper, quieter.
There were more attacks after the mangkwan, more avatars, more raids on Bridgehead. The war never truly ended, it only changed shape. Neteyam was never still. He trained, he fought alongside the people, he’d return home smelling of salt and forest leaves, shoulders heavy with responsibility—but soft whenever they found you.
In the family Marui, photos and woven keepsakes lined the wall, memories of you, Neteyam, and of your children. Blurry, captured smiles of you and Neteyam when you were younger, memories of forest births and reef festivals too.
You sit cross legged on the mat, a shallow bowl of natural oils beside you. Your son sits between your legs, squirming as your fingers work carefully through his thick curls.
“Mama! Are you almost finished? I want to go play.” He whines, squirming under your skilled hands.
“Moi’at,” you mutter, “let mommy focus, it is not my fault you decided to mess these up.” You tried not to smile.
“Okay…” He obeyed, sitting still—aware that perhaps that will make this go faster.
The textural sound of the delicate, woven doorway catches you and your son’s attention. It’s Neteyam, returning from a hunt, his head ducked down ever so slightly as he entered. His expressive hair swinging over his face before he moved it away, he stood up straight, his broad shoulders looming a shadow over you and your eight year old boy.
“Little warrior,” He smiled, leaning down and placing a kiss on Moi’at’s forehead. “What’s mommy doing with your hair?”
“Re-twisting it, I ruined them while playing with Ro’uk.”
“Ohh, Ro’uk…is he still coming tonight for your sleepover? He and Li’anu?”
“You did not tell me this,” You cut in, hands pausing their movements.
Neteyam stepped closer, moving behind you and leaning down. His large hands moved to your swollen belly. “It was sudden. I’m sorry. You won’t need to do anything. I’ll handle them. Lo’ak has a date — I made a deal with him.”
you exhale slowly, head dipping back onto his shoulder. “I am with child, they will need to be quiet.”
He nods immediately, rubbing gently against your growing tummy. “How do you feel?”
“Tired.” you admit, though your hands move over his.
“Momma!” Moi’at protests. “You stopped again!”
Neteyam laughs softly. “Okay, okay. Move.” helps you stand, guiding you carefully before taking your place behind your son. “Go rest.”
You watched for a moment—the way his large hands attempt delicate twists, the way his tongue presses slightly against his cheek in concentration.
Your chest tightens, then you move to the hammock woven specifically for the two of you. You don’t even remember closing your eyes.
As you drift off, Neteyam remains seated behind your son, twisting his hair as gently as possible. “Where is your twin sister, hm?”
“In the water.” Moi’at spoke wistfully, his arms crossed around his chest and his eyebrows pinching together.
“Almost done. Just a few more twists.” He finished with surprising patience. “You look like a warrior.” He chuckles, holding Moi’ats shoulders.
“Thank you papa. I’m going to the water now.”
Neteyam smiles, “Don’t get lost, stay close to your sister.”
His eyes immediately go to you when Moi’at leaves. He makes his way towards the hammock where you rest, brushing hair from your face, then lowering his hands to your belly. He leans down slightly, placing a soft kiss there.
Looking back, he cleans up the contents of hair products and stores them away for later use. He leaves the pod and heads to Lo’aks. “Pass me one of those.” He says, gesturing towards the crafted vessels filled with kava.
“How was the hunt? Y/n feeling good?” Lo’ak teases, handing him the cask.
“The hunt was long, tiring. She’s fine, she’s just stressed lately.” He says, quickly shaking his head and correcting himself, “but I have no right to think like that when she’s the one carrying the baby.” Neteyam crouches, a long sigh escaping his lips.
“You’re whipped.”
“Yeah. I've always been.”
“I remember when we found her in the cave, and when we took her back. You carried her here on the Ilu, you were the first one to reveal yourself to her.” Lo’ak satirized.
The children, Ni’alu, Moi’at, Li’anu, and Ro’uk listened secretly from outside, their curiosity getting the best of them. “What cave daddy?! Are you talking about mommy?!” Your daughter is the first to leap inside, a tiny hand grasping at her tail—trying to hold her back.
“Alright, all of you come out.” Neteyam rolls his eyes, picking your daughter up and holding her against his chest. “Haven’t I told you to stop eavesdropping my conversations with your aunties and uncles?”
“Yes…” She looks down.
“Look at me, it’s okay.” He smiles. “Daddy’s not angry at you babygirl.” He kisses her cheek softly.
“Then why won’t you tell me who you were talking about! What cave?”
“Maybe later, okay?”
“Okay…”
Neteyam puts her down, turning to face Lo’ak again, “Alright bro, I gotta get them ready for sleep.” He turns to face the children. “Come on kids, let’s go.”
Lo’ak and Tsireya’s children move to follow their uncle and cousins, skipping with excitement.
Neteyam watches as Ro’uk and Li’anu say goodbye to their parents—he carefully guides the children into your family marui, eclipse approaches and they relax, playing with their wooden toys made from your careful hands alongside Neteyam’s.
He makes sure that the children are properly settled and comfortable before going to check on you. “Baby?”
You sit awake, honing an arrowhead using a dense river stone. “Yes?” You respond without looking up, tongue poking out, focused.
“Come, I prepared some food for you.”
“What is it?”
“Roasted meer deer, coated in Pa’liwll. Your favorite.”
Your lips part slightly and you practically launch up. “It has been so long! I have craved this! Even before pregnancy.”
He giggles softly, reaching out for you. “I know, I know. Come.”
“Auntie Y/n!!” Ro’uk flings himself at you, his arms wrapping around your strong legs.
You laugh out loud, picking him up and carrying him on one hip. Neteyam brings the Pa’liwll smoked meer deer to the mat, setting it down and unfolding it. “Here baby.”
Your mate helps you sit down, adjusting Ro’uk on your lap gently. “Thank you.”
“Daddy! Can we hear a bedtime story?” Ni’alu stands, moving to where you are seated “I missed you today mommy. You slept all day.”
“Oh, Ni’alu” you whisper, kissing her soft white hair.
“Lay with us!” She drags you as soon as you’re finished eating. “Come on mama!”
“Mommy needs to clean up.” Neteyam says, standing before you and whispering quietly. “I left a couple bowls of river water there for you,” He points to the woven water carriers in the corner of the Marui. “Do you need my help?”
“I think I can manage,” you tease, arms crossing. “I love you.”
“I love you.” He smiles, big, soft.
You set Ro’uk down and walk away, moving behind the second set of curtains and taking care of yourself.
The children drift off, all except for Ni’alu. “Dad, I still haven’t forgotten about the cave. I want to know the story…”
Neteyam sighs, “Babygirl, I don’t know what to tell you, your uncle was just making stuff up.”
“No he wasn’t. You agreed.”
“Fine.” He lays in between the children, looking back to make sure that you were still bathing. “It was said to have all been a myth, the Kray’na, the snow people… they had never existed, they lived together in harmony; only away from everyone else, and so when the sky people came and they…”
“What did they look like daddy?!” Ni’alu inquires loudly, interrupting him and scooting closer into his embrace.
He looks at the doorway where you’re just inside. His Kray’na mate. Whom he made a promise to; to never tell the children, or anyone who does not already know of your true ancestry. “Nobody knows,” He faces his and Lo’ak’s children again, all of them awake and glaring up at him in wonder. “It is just a story anyway.” He tucks the children in.
The children are asleep. Moonlight slips across the marui, silvering the marui and catching in your daughter's pale hair—it glows. Neteyam stares at it again, he always does. You walk in silently, undoing your braids. You feel the weight of his gaze before he even speaks.
“She asked,” he says quietly.
You keep untying the beads from your braid. “About what?”
“About the cave—why Lo’ak said I carried you here from it.”
“That was many years ago.” You only hope that the conversation will end there, but it doesn’t.
“It was not nothing.”
You exhale slowly. “Then tell her it was a story.”
He turns fully to face you. “It is not just a story.”
You meet his eyes now. “It is enough.”
“For you,” he says.
The air shifts, you straighten up. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” he says carefully, “that it may be enough for you to bury it. It is not enough for them.”
Your jaw tightens. “They are children, Neteyam.”
“They are our children.”
“And that is exactly why they do not need to know.”
His brows pull together. “Do not speak as if this only belongs to you.”
“It is my clan,” you snap. “My people. My loss.”
“And they are my children,” he replies, voice firm. “You do not get to decide what parts of them exist.”
You step towards him. “Exist? You think I am erasing something?”
“I think you are pretending it never existed.”
Your breath catches subtly, “that is not fair.”
“What is not fair,” he counters, voice rising slightly, “is watching our daughter stare at her own reflection and not understanding why she looks different.”
“She is not different.”
“She is Kray’na.”
The word lands like a blade, like the gunfire and destruction you watched destroy your people. “You do not get to claim that so easily,” you whisper.
“I am not claiming it for me. I am claiming it for her.”
You shake your head. “And…what—you think speaking it makes it safe?”
“No,” he says sharply. “But silence does not.”
You fold your arms tightly over your chest. “You did not watch them die.” Your voice does not break, it just sharpens. . “You did not hear the ice crack beneath fire. You did not see what was left when the smoke cleared.”
His expression falters, but he doesn’t retreat. “I know I did not.”
“You think I am hiding out of shame?” Your voice trembles now. “I am hiding because I survived by being forgotten.”
“And you think that will protect them?” His voice rises despite himself. “By teaching them that parts of themselves are too dangerous to speak?”
“They are dangerous!”
Neteyam’s voice breaks free for the first time. “No!”
The word echoes louder than anything he has ever directed at you. You both freeze, but the dam has already cracked.
“They are not dangerous,” he continued, voice raised, emotion bleeding through. “The sky people are dangerous. War is dangerous. Ignorance is dangerous. But who you are? That is not something to bury.”
Your eyes burn with unshed tears, drifting to your daughter, then to your mate. “You think I do not know that?” You fire back despite the emotions. “You think I do not feel it every time someone looks at her hair too long?”
He runs a hand through his hair, pacing once before facing you again. “I am tired,” he says, voice still tight, “of watching you carry extinction like it is something shameful.”
“It is not shame,” you snap.
“Then why do you refuse to speak it?”
“Because it puts a target on them!”
“They already have one!” he shouts. The children stir faintly. Both of you glance over instinctively, chests heaving in tight rage. “You think I cannot protect them?”
“That is not what this is about neteyam.”
“It sounds like it.”
“It is about preventing the need for protection in the first place!” You frown, hand flying to your sweaty forehead.
“You cannot control the world!” he snaps. “You cannot out hide it!”
The force of his voice makes you physically step back. He sees it, he sees everything—but he saw the flinch. Something in him cracks. Silence crashes down over the both of you, his breathing slows down first.
“I am trying to keep them safe,” you whisper.
“I know.”
“No,” you say, shaking your head. “You know in theory. You do not know what it feels like to be the last.”
His anger disappears completely at that. He closes the distance slowly this time. Carefully. Like approaching something wounded.“You are not the last,” he says quietly.
“I am.”
“You are not,” he repeats, voice breaking softer now. His hand lifts but hesitates before touching you. “You are standing right here. And they are sleeping right there.” His hand settled at your waist. “You’re not alone anymore… I raised my voice,” he says quietly into your hair. “I should not have.”
“You were not wrong.”
“Neither were you.” He kisses your head gently, holding you tightly, as if you might disappear. Your hands finally lift, gripping his chest.
Your soft cries are muffled against him, he strokes your hair, whispering sweetly. “I’m sorry baby. I’m so sorry.”
He carries you to bed, laying over you—one hand draped lazily over your belly, the other wrapped around your shoulders.
Pregnancy had reshaped you in forms that Neteyam loved, your hips swelled, breasts grew for the purpose of feeding. He smiled softly, laying his head down against them.
Dawn filters gently through the woven seams of the marui, soft gold sliding across your skin. Neteyam is awake before you, his arm is still heavy over your belly, his body curved against yours protectively. For a moment, he just watches the slow rise and fall of your breathing. His hand brushes your cheek. “Yawne,” he murmurs instead, voice low and warm. “Wake up.”
You stir beneath him, before he can say anything else—the sound reaches him, faint splashing, distant laughter, entirely unsupervised.
He lifts his head slightly. The children are gone from the hammock, all of them. He exhales through his nose, a crackle hums through his comms.
Lo’ak’s voice cuts through, “big bro, before you get mad…”
Neteyam exhales through his nose. “You are not even here and I am already irritated.”
Tsireya’s soft laughter carries faintly in the background, along with distant surf that only means they’ve gone far. “We’re heading further out,” Loak continues, “just for today, maybe tonight. I wanted to ask if the kids could stay with you one more day.”
Neteyam glances toward the open weave of the doorway. Faint shrieks of laughter drift in from the shallows. Ni’alu’s sharp voice correcting someone, Moi’at arguing, Ro'uk's dramatic splashing, Li’anu trying to restore order. He rubs his jaw. “You owe us.”
“I know. Reef fruit. Smoked shellfish. And that sweet kelp wrap that Y/n likes.”
Neteyam glances down at the mention of you, you’re awake now, watching him through sleepy eyes.
“Is that Lo’ak?” You murmur.
He nods slightly, and Lo’ak’s voice lowers. “She okay?”
Neteyam looks at you properly now — the calm in your face, the softness that settled after last night’s hard truths. “She’s resting,” he says. “She’s good.”
“Tell her thank you, really.” The line clicks off at that.
Neteyam removes the comm slowly.
“Well?” you ask.
“They want another day.”
You close your eyes briefly—not in frustration, just calculating your energy. Outside, a splash sounds far too large for comfort.
“Are they close?” you ask immediately.
“Yes.”
You sit up carefully. Neteyam is already shifting to help you, one hand steady at your waist. “Then they can stay,” you say after a moment. “But you are managing them.”
“Yes Ma’am.”
The children stay with your family for one more day, their excitement is palpable once their parents return. Everyone goes back to their marui, your family remains—happy, growing.
Ni’alu is curious, protective, and proud. Qualities which came straight from you. She has felt that there is something being kept from her—something about mountains, about caves, about snow. Children build whole worlds out of fragments.
Two days later, Lo’ak, Tsireya, You, and Neteyam are on the sand, watching your children play and laugh. You sit close by your mate, beneath the curved stretch of woven shade, Tsireya and Lo’ak are nearby, their shoulders brushing.
Ni’alu is racing her brother along the reef edge, Ro’uk and Li’anu trailing behind, arguing about who started last. They are loud, alive, happy.
A group of older reef boys and girls wander down the shoreline, fresh from spear practice, taller, on the edge of adolescence. Old enough to notice differences. Young enough to comment on them without thought.
One of them slows when Nialu pushes her hair back from her face. Her pale braids catch the sun, almost silver. He nudges the girl beside him. “Whys her hair so light?”
Your daughter hears loud and clear, but pretends she doesn’t.
A girl shrugs, “looks like sea foam.”
A girl bumps into Moi’at, purposely, not subtly. He hisses instinctively, fangs bared, tail bristling. Your son has always looked more like Neteyam, his hair, and skin darker. Only when he is angry—then he mirrors you.
The group of teenagers freeze for a second, then laugh aloud. “Whoa! Look at those teeth! What are you? a predator?”
Another girl giggles, covering her mouth. “They’re huge! You could eat a fish whole!” Ni’alu glances at him, then takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself.
You rise from Neteyam’s arms, standing with measured grace. Your skirts brush the sand, but your voice is steady, warm, and carries across the shallow. “Enough.”
The group turns, startled by the calm authority in your tone. You kneel beside Ni’alu, brushing damp strands of hair from her face. “Your hair is beautiful,” you murmur. “It is yours.”
Then you glance at Moi’at, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. “And your teeth, they are strong. They are you.”
“From where?”
Your hand stills for a second, Neteyam is behind you now. Hands firm on your shoulders, stomach pressed against your head. “From family.” You hesitate.
Your children only nod slowly, but you can feel it—the question did not disappear. It just went quiet, but quiet questions are the ones that grow roots.
Tsireya comes quietly, facing the group. “If you are done with spear training, perhaps you should help your parents mend nets before eclipse.”
She dismisses the group, polite, and final. They disperse, chastened, not ashamed—muttering under their breath.
And that is why, weeks later, the reef was quiet before dawn, the soft gold of early light not yet brushing the waves. You shifted slightly on the hammock, feeling the weight of your third child in your belly, you listened to the gentle rhythm of the water—drifting into deep sleep as Neteyam was already asleep beside you.
But the children were already awake. Ni’alu had slipped out first, a whisper of movement across the marui floor. Moi’at followed, tail flicking nervously as he trailed behind his sister. Li’anu and Ro’uk, eager to be part of the adventure, joined from their home without hesitation. The four of them moved like shadows over the sand, careful to avoid making a sound.
Ni’alu whispered instructions under her breath. “Keep low… stay close… don’t wake anyone.”
Moi’at hissed softly when Ro’uk stumbled on a rock, but they pressed on. Their goal was clear; the mountains. Ni’alu wanted to see the peaks, the icy cliffs, and the snow she had only heard about in fragments from Neteyam’s quiet stories which he refused to tell fully.
Ni’alu has always been observant. Too observant. She notices the way your voice shifts when snow is mentioned. The way Neteyam stares north when the wind turns sharp. The way the elders glance at her hair and then look away quickly.
She remembers the argument you and Neteyam had, she was not fully asleep—curiosity grows teeth. “We are going to see it,” she whispers.
“The snow?” Moi’at asks, eyes wide.
“Yes.”
“That is far,” Li’anu says nervously.
Ni’alu lifts her chin. “So was the forest.” They take supplies quietly. Food wrapped in woven leaves, small blades from Neteyam’s box of weapons. and water pods.
Ni’alu knows the old flight paths. She has listened when Neteyam thought she wasn’t. The children go on the ilu.
By the time the sun began to climb above the horizon, finally casting long, golden streaks over the reef, the children were already halfway along the path toward the mountains. You stirred, stretching, and glanced around, but the hammock beside you was empty of the little ones—Neteyam still asleep, your senses lulled by the pre dawn calm.
Hours passed. You went about your morning slowly, checking on the reef, preparing a few things for later, but a faint unease began to grow in your chest.
When Neteyam noticed the children were gone, his eyes narrowed instantly, voice low but urgent as he roused you. “They’re not here. Where did they go?”
He left the pod then, searching—long minutes of searching. You prayed silently in your home, clutching your belly protectively, eyes closed, begging for any sign of the twins.
He returned with nothing, no children, nothing. Neteyam already had his comms ready. “Lo’ak,” he barked, “any sign of them?”
Lo’ak’s voice came through shortly after, calm but sharp. “Not yet. I’ll check along the usual paths. Stay put.”
Your mate kneeled beside you, held you against his chest. “Shh, it’s okay. We will find them.”
The sun rose higher, the reef glowing in warm light, but there was no sign of Ni’alu, Moi’at, Li’anu, or Ro’uk. Neteyam, Lo’ak, Aonung, Tonowari, Rotxo, and Jake scoured the edges of the reef, searching the shallow coves and tidal pools, calling out for the children.
Every footstep and every shout brought worry closer to panic. Then they left, all six of them on the ikran—soaring through the sky.
The children do not stop, the journey longer than they expected, by the time the whites begin to gather at the edges of stone, their voices are gone, laughter faded into quiet awe.
Ni’alu steps onto it first, it crunches under her feet—the others hesitate but she does not, walking slowly, kneeling to press her hands onto it. “This is ours, I think…” She whispers to her brother.
They go farther than they should have, noticing the blackened rock where fire once touched ice, half collapsed structures frozen into landscape. It is beautiful and wounded.
The children begin to shiver, “Look over there,” Ni’alu whispers, pointing toward a hollowed tree marked with strange carvings. Moi’at steps closer, fascinated, not noticing how close he is to the edge.
Ro’uk follows, holding a stick like a staff, scanning the ridge. Li’anu clutches her curls, uneasy, but stays behind everyone. Ni’alu leans toward the carvings, but a loose patch of snow shifts under her foot. “Careful!” she cries.
But it’s too late. Moi’at slips. His foot slides on the ice covered rock, and for a heart stopping second, he teeters over the edge of a shallow drop.
“Moi’at!” Ni’alu screams, lunging toward him, arms outstretched.
He grabs onto a tree branch at the last flailing moment. Snow spraying everywhere. He cries, the tree bark slitting his tiny hand open. He dangles, frozen in terror.
Ni’alu’s hands grip his arm, trying to pull him up, but she’s small. Her own balance is precarious. Ro’uk drops to his knees, gripping a nearby root, trying to help. Li’anu screams, voice breaking, backing away in panic.
The moment stretches, every second feeling like an eternity. The cold bites, the wind whistles, the shadows of the mountains loom. Moi’at finally steadies himself, hands trembling as he pulls himself onto solid ground. “I…I want to go home!” He shouts.
Neteyam soared high on his ikran, Aonung behind him. Lo’ak and Rotxo followed closely. From above, they spotted them—Ni’alu, Ro’uk, Li’anu, and Moi’at, huddled near the snow-dusted rocks.
Neteyam’s heart leapt. “There!” he shouted, pointing—redirecting the ikran towards the kids. The moment their ikran touched down, Neteyam leapt from the saddle, rushing to the children. Moi’at’s small hand was smeared with blood from where he had grabbed bark and ice, trembling as he tried to staunch it with his other hand.
“Moi’at!” Neteyam cried, crouching beside him. “Show me.”
Ni'alu knelt next to her brother, panic flashing in her silver eyes. “I tried to help! Daddy I’m sorry!” she stammered.
“Shh, it’s okay.” He whispers, kissing their heads.
Lo’ak landed beside Ro’uk and Li’anu, steadying them. Rotxo helped gather their scattered supplies. “Careful, please” Lo’ak said, voice firm but relieved. “You’ve given us all a heart attack.” He pulls his children close.
Ni’alu’s gaze flicked toward the edge again, whispering, “I just wanted to see the snow…”
Neteyam looked at her, voice low but firm. “And you did. But not like this. Not risking your life, not alone.” He lifted her into his arms.
With everyone accounted for, Jake and Tonowari arrived overhead, circling as Neteyam gave them a nod. The group began the careful trek back down, each step deliberate, Neteyam supporting Ni’alu while Aonung kept an eye on the others.
Neteyam returned with your children past eclipse, you paced heavily in your marui. The snow has melted from Ni’alus braids, but it lingers in her clothes. She trudges into the marui, eyes wide. Moi’at follows behind her.
“Where were you?” your voice is low, carrying an edge of ice. The sight of snow on her clothes snapped something inside of you.
“The mountains…” She whispers.
“The mountains?” You gasp, louder, hands clenching. Neteyam stands aside, organizing the marui and pretending not to listen. “You deliberately disobeyed us! You went alone! Put your cousins in danger!”
“I just wanted to see…” her voice cracks.
“You just wanted to see?” The words are sharp, slicing. “Do you even understand what you were doing? Do you have any idea what could have happened?”
Moi’at shrinks back, trying his best to hide his injury.
“You could have died!” you shout, pacing toward her. “You could have fallen into the ice, lost yourself in the wind! There are things there you cannot fight, things you cannot even imagine!”
“How would you know?! You’ve never even been there!”
You hesitate for a beat, her words cut deeper than she’d intended. Your chest tightened, the past surged forward—the jagged cliffs, the frozen hollows, the blackened ruins where fire had melted ice. The snow was home once, long before the world you now knew. Long before your people were gone.
Ni’alu’s eyes searched yours, silver and questioning, unaware of the storm behind them. "You have been there?” she whispered.
Your lips parted, then closed again. You hesitated, unable to speak—not out of fear of Ni’alu, but because the memory was too close, too raw. The ache of loss pressed into your ribs, mocking, heavy and relentless.
Ni’alus voice edged with frustration, “say something!”
You flinched, and almost without thinking, your voice came sharp and trembling. “Yes! I have been there, Ni’alu. And it is not a place for children to wander alone!”
Ni’alu recoiled, confused and hurt. “But it’s just mountains, just snow—”
“Just snow?” you snapped, finally letting the fear and fury spill over. “Do you think it’s just snow when it can cut you, when ice can make you fall, when fire can leave ruins frozen forever? Do you have any idea what it means to lose everything like that?!”
“I didn’t mean—” she stepped forward, reaching for you, but you only moved back.
“No! You need to understand! You can’t just go wandering into a place like that thinking it’s a game! That is not how you survive!”
Neteyam placed a light hand on your shoulder. “Y/n…Stop.”
You jerked away instinctively, spinning to face Ni’alu again, you went too far. Your anger, fear, and grief collided, spilling over the child before you.
She swallows hard. “I was careful—”
“Careful?” Your voice crescendos, trembling with fear.. “Careful does not save you from history! Careful does not bring back the lost! Do you think these mountains are safe?”
“I… I just wanted to know where I come from!” Ni’alu shouts. Her voice cracks, the fear finally spilling over.
“You come from here!” you scream. “From this reef, from this blood, from your family! And yet you chase after shadows!”
She stumbles back, tears streaking her face. “You never tell us anything! You act like it doesn’t matter!”
“It doesn’t matter?!” The words escape before you can stop them. “There is nothing left! Nothing of the people! Everything is burned and broken, and you think you can waltz in and claim it?!” Her small shoulders shake with sobs.
Neteyam’s jaw tightened. His eyes darkened, and he stepped forward, tone clipped with barely controlled anger. “Y/n. Enough.”
You spin toward him. “No! You don’t get it! She could have—”
“She went because you hid it!” he interrupts, voice rising for the first time since your last argument. “This is on you! You think keeping it secret protects her? You think pretending there’s nothing left keeps her safe? Do you hear yourself?”
“I—” You stumble, words caught in your throat. “I was trying to keep her alive!”
“And instead you taught her to hide, to go alone, to take risks she shouldn’t take! You pushed her to do this yourself!” His voice is harsh, crackling with anger. “Do you understand that? You pushed her!”
The marui feels smaller, the walls pressing in. Ni’alu cries openly now, curling in on herself, shaking. Moi’at shrinks.
“She’s a child!” Neteyam continues, stepping close enough to tower over you. “And you are treating her like she was nothing, like curiosity is a crime!”
You feel your chest tighten, tears stinging, but your anger hasn’t cooled. “She was—she could have been killed!”
“And she was almost killed because she needed to know what you refused to teach her, baby!” His voice breaks. “You let secrecy and fear dictate everything, and now look at the mess it caused!”
Ni’alu sobs, rocking slightly. You realize she isn’t just afraid of the mountains. she’s afraid of you now.
Neteyam softens slightly toward the children but not toward you. “Go sit with your brother, my love,” he instructs Ni’alu firmly. She obeys, trembling. “You will not speak of this again tonight.”
Then he turns fully to you. “You think scaring her with your fear keeps her safe?” he asks, voice lower now, seething. “No. It almost destroyed her. Do you understand? This is on you!”
Ni’alu shrank back, blinking between the two of you, her eyes wide and uncertain. The tension in the marui was suffocating, the echo of what could have been a tragedy still hanging in the air.
You close your eyes, chest heaving. “I… I was trying to..”
“To protect her?!” He interrupts again, louder. “Yes. But you did it wrong. You let your fear become cruelty!”
The room goes silent, the children still watching, trembling.
“I did not mean it, stop raising your voice at me.” you whisper, voice small now, glancing at your feet.
“Intent does not erase damage,” he says. His hands drop to your shoulders. “You need to understand this. You cannot protect by hiding. Not from them. Not from themselves.”
You swallow hard. “I just want to keep them safe.”
“I know,” he says, finally softening. “But they are alive because they are brave. Not because you scared them into obedience.”
You nod, tears slipping down, realizing the truth in his words.
Neteyam’s gaze softened slightly as he looked at you, but his words were still firm. “Y/n, I know. You’re scared, you’ve been through more than anyone could imagine. But that does not give you the right to terrify her. Calm down. Breathe. We fix this together. without shouting, without fear taking control.”
You nod, leaning against him. His hands wrap around your belly, placing soft kisses on your cheeks and down your neck. “I’m sorry.” He breathed, one hand reaching up and cupping your jaw. “Okay? I’m sorry..”
You glanced at your daughter—guilty, regretting. You nod again. Neteyam’s anger has not gone entirely—it lingers like heat in the air—but his hands on you are steady, grounding.
He stays up that night, he tries not to be so much like his father—he sometimes fails, letting anger flair too quickly. You can feel his stress, even in the quiet space between you both. “Y/n,” he whispers.
You stir, eyes half open, and meet his gaze. “Hmm?”
“I want to see you baby,” he says, quietly. “Come on.”
You hesitate, chest tightening, unsure if you can face the vulnerability yet. His hand brushes your arm, gentle, patient, an invitation rather than a demand. The warmth of him seeps through the space between you.
“Where…?” you murmur.
“Somewhere private,” he replies, voice softening, “just us. No distractions, no walls, just you and me.”
The tension on your shoulder unknots, slowly, you nod. He helps you out of the hammock, the night air cool against your skin.
He takes you out to the cove, kneeling before you on a rock, bringing you down with him.
You meet him halfway, your kuru lifted in your hands, letting tsaheylu form. It hums through you and you gasp—the connection is grounding, carrying with it a sense of understanding that words could never reach. For a long moment, you simply exist in the bond.
He leans his forehead against yours, laying you down gently, balancing your head and your stomach. The argument, the anger, the fear—they all still exist, but in this moment, they are shared, softened by understanding.
You tilt your head slightly, brushing against him in the gentlest way, and he mirrors you, careful not to overwhelm or hurt you. “Breathe,” he whispers. “Just breathe with me.”
His lips press against yours, fingers working on your clothes, and his. Time stretches, slow and deliberate. The only sound being your soft mewls and the velvety noise of skin against skin. “Do you feel that?” He whispers.
The night hums around you, you stay pressed to him, tense, a knot deep in you. You come down simultaneously, his head falls onto your shoulder, kissing you there. yours falls onto the rock behind you, gently. “You’re so beautiful.” He smiles softly, stroking your braids, kissing your forehead.
You stay together for a moment before remembering you must get back to your children. The two of you rise quietly, brushing sand from your skin. Your movements are wobbly, so he steadies you. You place soft kisses upon his chest once more, and he catches your chin, pulling you into a gentle kiss.
He tastes of fresh yovo fruit and seawater, your tongues explore each other's mouths, hands steady, clasping one another carefully.
None of you speak much on the way back, but the silence is comfortable, full of unspoken understanding.
When you slip inside, you see the faint outlines of the children, curled up together, asleep. Their breathing is steady, and the soft glow of the lantern casts a gentle halo around their forms.
You pause at the doorway, watching them for a long moment. The weight of the evening’s tension lingers, but seeing them peaceful, you feel a warmth settle into your chest. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close, and you rest your head against his shoulder.
“they’re out cold,” he murmurs softly, his voice just above a whisper.
You nod, adjusting the blankets around the children with care. “They’re safe,” you reply, more to yourself than to him.
Neteyam climbs into your hammock that night, drawing you gently against his chest and holding you there until your breathing evens out.
The following morning, you notice the way Moi’at winces when he moves. Guilt coils in your stomach as you uncover the injury he tried so hard to hide. You take him straight to Ronal for proper bandaging, murmuring reassurances the entire walk.
Not long after, Neteyam leaves on a hunting trip with his brother and a few of the others, promising it will only be for a handful of days—though only Eywa herself knows how long it truly feels.
With him gone, the marui feels quieter… and heavier. The tension between you and Ni’alu stretches thin but unbroken. Some days she cannot even meet your eyes. Other days, she speaks only to ask, flatly, without warmth—if she may sleep over with Li’anu again.
“No, Ni’alu. You’ve already stayed there twice. Tsireya has her own children to care for, and your uncle Lo’ak is away hunting. She needs rest—not more little ones to manage.”
“Then let me stay with Grandpa!” she snaps, writhing in frustration, a hiss slipping through her teeth.
“Excuse me?” You rise slowly, hands pulling away from the food you’d been preparing. Your voice isn’t loud—but it is firm. “Ni’alu, that is not an option. You are staying here tonight. End of discussion.”
Her small frame stiffens, arms crossed, jaw set tight. “You never listen!” she snaps, her voice breaking between anger and frustration.
“I am listening,” you say, stepping closer, softening your tone but keeping the firmness. “I heard you, and I understand that you’re upset. But throwing tantrums or running off isn’t going to make things fair or safe.”
She cries, burying herself in the blankets of her hammock. You wipe your hands, finishing up the food and calling Moi’at to eat.
Once he finishes, you guide him towards the exit, directing him to play with his cousins at the shoreline.
You pause by Ni’alu’s hammock once back inside, watching her curl up under the blankets, small and tense. The soft glow from the sun made her look even more fragile than she did in the marui earlier.
You kneel beside her, brushing a loose braid from her face. “Ni’alu…” your voice is low, gentle, carrying no anger this time. She stiffens but doesn’t pull away.
“I was wrong,” you whisper, voice trembling. “I scared you. I let my fear take over, and it hurt you. I’m so sorry. I should have been there to guide you, to show you safely… instead of letting my fear control me.”
Ni’alu blinks, tears brimming but not falling yet. She whispers, “You mean it?”
“Yes,” you say softly, pulling her closer. “I mean it. Daddy is away hunting with uncle Lo’ak, Aonung, and Rotxo for a few days, so it’s just us right now—but I want you to know something important. I love you. I want to protect you, but I also want to trust you. Can we try that together?”
Ni’alu hesitates, then slowly leans into you. You wrap your arms around her, holding her close. The two of you lie together on the hammock, bodies pressed softly, hearts slowing as the tension of the evening starts to melt.
You close your eyes for a moment, and the memory comes unbidden—the day Ni’alu was born. The marui smells faintly of the same salt and warm herbs that filled the air that morning. You were exhausted, body trembling with pain and awe, hands slick and trembling as you held her for the first time.
Her tiny body pressed against yours, fragile and perfect, and the moment you touched her forehead with yours, the world fell away. Tsaheylu sparked between you—tendrils of warmth and life that you had never felt so intensely. Through that bond, you could feel her heartbeat, her breath, the tiny rise and fall of her chest. You could feel her confusion, her fear, her wonder, and you could wrap her in your calm, your love.
“I love you so much,” you whisper gently, stroking her hair.
“I love you too mama” she finally smiles, turning to hold you tightly.
The days pass carefully, too carefully. Neteyam is still away, still hunting with Lo’ak, Aonung, and Rotxo—a longer hunt, deeper into the forest territory. Three days, he promised. Maybe four. It’s been three.
Moi’at remains at the Tsahìk’s marui while Ronal monitors his hand. The bark tore deeper than he admitted, and infection in the cold had settled into the cut. He pretends to be brave when you visit, but he winces when he flexes his fingers. Ronal insists he stay another few nights.
So the marui is quiet, just you and Ni’alu. at first she moves around you cautiously, as if a loud noise might break something fragile between you again. But you make an effort. You sit with her while she weaves. You answer her small questions. You don’t avoid the word snow when it comes up.
You do not offer everything, but you offer something. And she notices. One evening, she lays her head in your lap without asking. It feels like forgiveness. Your belly tightens more often those days. You tell yourself it is normal. It’s the third pregnancy. Your body is preparing.
But sometimes the tightening steals your breath in a way the others never did. Sometimes the baby shifts too sharply, too low.
On the fourth night without Neteyam, you wake from shallow sleep with a strange pressure in your spine.You sit up slowly, it passes. You say nothing.
Later that afternoon, you walk to the Tsahiks marui with your daughter to pick up Moi’at. He is proud when Ronal unwraps his hand one final time. “He may return,” she says, tying fresh wrapping securely around the healing skin. “But he must not climb, not fight, not test it.” Moi’at nods solemnly.
“Thank you, Ronal.” You smile, holding your son's hand.
As you turn to leave, a sharp tightening pulls low across your abdomen. You pause, just briefly—one hand pressing instinctively to your belly. Ronal notices, her eyes narrowing.
“You are well?” she asks, eyes soft with concern; a motherly instinct.
“Yes,” you answer quickly, too quickly. “Just tired.”
She studies you for a beat longer than comfortable, then she nods. The walk back is slower. Moi’at chatters beside you, proud of his brave healing, his newly wrapped hand swinging at his side. Ni’alu runs ahead to show Li’anu a shell she found.
That night, the children are home, you cook, you braid Ni’alu’s hair. You help Moi’at settle carefully into his hammock so he does not jostle his hand. But you move slower than usual, you tell yourself it is nothing.
Before sleep, Ni’alu hugs you tightly. “I’m glad you’re not mad anymore,” she whispers.
You smooth her braids. “I was never mad. Only afraid.”
She smiles, and when the children finally drift to sleep, you sit alone for a long moment in the quiet marui, hand resting on your belly. The baby shifts low, way too low.
Before dawn,the pain wakes you. And this time, it does not fade. It is not gradual, it rips through you. You bolt upright in the hammock, a strangled sound escaping before you can swallow it down. Your hand flies to your belly. The baby moves, sharply, frantically.
Another contraction hits before you can even breathe though the first, you slide from the hammock, knees barely catching you on the woven floor. “Okay, okay.” you whisper to yourself—but it is not okay.
The pressure is crushing, your spine feeling as if it might split at any given time. You try to stand, try to reach for your comm, but your body is too heavy. A broken gasp tears from your throat.
That is what wakes the children, Ni’alu is first to sit up. “Mama?”
You try to answer, but another wave crashes through you, stronger than anything before. “I- Go get grandma and Grandpa!” You gasp, panting desperately.
She doesn’t hesitate, Moi’at, careful of his bandaged hand, follows her. You continue to cry out on the floor of your marui, just wishing your mate were here.
Jake appears first, moving fast but careful, Neytiri close behind. Their eyes are immediately on you, in that moment, nothing else really exists.
“Y/n,” Jake says, voice low, firm, wrapping his hands around yours. “We’re here sweetheart. You’re not alone.”
He flips you onto your stomach carefully, more cries breaking from you.
Neytiri kneels beside you, her fingers brushing your hair from your damp forehead. “Sweet one… my precious,” she murmurs, her voice calm, anchoring. You clutch at her hand, drawing strength from the familiar warmth.
The children hover nearby, anxious but obedient, while Tuk and Kiri slip in behind them, curious and wide-eyed but silent, sensing the gravity of the moment. Moi’at is at your side, quietly murmuring comfort, a steady presence against the chaos of pain. Kiri prays silently at your ankles, holding them carefully.
Your breaths come fast. Contractions hit harder than before, but surrounded by those who love you—by Jake’s steady strength, Neytiri’s calm touch, your children’s small, worried faces—you feel a thread of control in the storm.
Jake’s hand hovers over the comm, hesitation flashing in his eyes. He swallows the lump in his throat and presses the page.
“Neteyam,” he calls, voice steady but urgent. “It’s… Y/n. She’s in labor. It’s early, complicated.”
Far across the forest, high over the canopy, Neteyam feels the vibration of the page through his ikran’s saddle. Aonung stiffens behind him, Neteyam’s heart jumps, his ikran responds to their bond, wings catching a therm. Lo’ak glances at him, alert, and Rotxo stiffens as well.
“Neteyam,” Jake’s voice repeats, clearer now, carrying across the comm. “I need you home, boy. Now.”
Neteyam’s jaw tightens. Three days of tracking, hunting… and now this. His mind snaps from the hunt to his family. He looks down at the forest far below.
He looks back at Aonung, riding with him, and then toward Lo’ak and Rotxo not far behind. “What is it?” Lo’ak calls over the wind, sensing the sudden shift in urgency.
“It’s Y/n,” Neteyam says, voice tight, “she’s in labor. We need to head back. Now”
He grips the ikran saddle so tightly that his knuckles hurt. The wind begins to sound like your voice, his determination spikes—he needs to get home now.
He redirects them, flying back to the village urgently.
The day drags. The forest moves in slow, endless ribbons below Neteyam as he flies, Aonung gripping the saddle tightly, Lo’ak and Rotxo not far behind. The wind presses against his face, but he barely feels it. Every mile between him and the village is a jagged pull at his chest. “Are you certain it’s serious?” Lo’ak shouts over the wind.
Neteyam’s jaw tightens. “Dad’s voice… It's urgent. She’s in labor. I cannot waste time.”
Aonung shifts slightly behind him. “We’ll get there,” he says, voice steady, but the tautness of his grip betrays his worry.
You clutch at your belly with each contraction, gasping, shaking, and your children hover near, eyes wide, hands small and tentative on your arms. Ni’alu whispers, “Mama… are you okay?” but you can only shake your head, gripping the mat below you as another wave crashes through you.
Jake keeps one hand on your shoulder, guiding you, murmuring low and steady words that are half comfort. Hours creep past. The sun moves slowly across the sky, then dips behind the distant ridges, casting the marui in shadows. You bite back a cry as the pressure sharpens, low and insistent. Every minute, every breath is agony. You can feel the baby shifting, too low, too fast—as if trying to find their way out, but unable.
Your children cling to your sides. Moi’at squeezes your hand with his bandaged fingers, whispering encouragement that he doesn’t fully understand. And still, the sky beyond darkens, still Neteyam is far.
Stars began to prick the sky when several shadows appeared on the ridge. Your breath catches, a mixture of relief and desperation tearing through you.
“Neteyam…” you gasp, but the next contraction steals your words.
He lands in a heartbeat, ikran shaking the clearing beneath him. His chest heaves, sweat and exhaustion streaking his face, yet he runs, crouching beside you in the large space. “I’m here,” he says, voice low, urgent, and trembling. “I’m here. You’re safe. I’m here.”
You reach for him, every ounce of your strength pulling toward him, clinging to him as if he alone can carry you through the storm. He presses a hand to your shoulder, then to your belly, grounding you. “You’ve been so strong,” he whispers. “I won’t let go.”
Neytiri slides her hand over his arm, murmuring softly. Jake steps back, giving you space, though his presence is steady and reassuring. Your children huddle near, wide-eyed, whispering and watching, held by Tuk. Moi’at at your side, and Kiri, silent, but attentive.
Your body convulses with another contraction. You bite back a cry, but it escapes anyway. “It’s… too strong!” you gasp. “I—” Another wave hits, and Neteyam presses his forehead to yours, murmuring, “I know, I know. I’m right here. You’re not alone.”
Ronal steps in, eyes sharp and scanning, a small bundle of tools in her hands. “We need to move fast,” she says, voice calm but clipped. “This is complicated. I need space.”
The others scatter, Neytiri takes your children to wait outside, Jake following closely behind. Lo’ak entertains them just outside, his children trying to peek glances at you, at their mother, going inside to help you.
Tsireya slips in next, moving like water. She kneels behind you, one hand supporting your back, murmuring quietly, “Breathe, sweet one. Trust your strength.”
Another contraction slams you into the floor, trembling, sweat slicking your hair against your face. Your belly tightens impossibly, and you feel the baby shift, too low, too sharp. “I—I can’t—” you gasp, your voice breaking.
Neteyam does all he can to comfort you, every other time before this one— the twins’ birth was easier for you. He sits where Tsireya was, holding your head in his lap, supporting your shoulders. His hands press into your back, guiding the rhythm of your breathing.
He leans close, murmuring low praises, his hand never leaving your back. “You’re amazing. Our baby… it’s almost here. I’ve got you.”
The pressure spikes. Your body screams, your muscles trembling, sweat and tears mixing. Ronal’s voice cuts through the chaos. “Now push with me. One long push. Strong. You can do it.”
You cling to the warmth of every hand on you, summoning every ounce of strength. The air feels heavy, electric, and the ocean outside seems to hold its breath with you.
And then—a sharp, desperate cry. Your chest heaves. Your legs tremble. Relief and exhaustion crash over you as Ronal lifts the baby carefully into your arms. Warm, wet, crying, perfect. “She’s perfect,” she smiles.
You stare down at your daughter, her tiny fingers curling around yours, her eyes blinking open for the first time. Your heart aches with joy and exhaustion all at once. “You are ours… you are strong, and safe… you are loved.”
You collapse back against Neteyam, chest heaving, every muscle trembling. The baby is tucked to your chest, warm and small, and her cries begin to slow as she feels your heartbeat. You feel Neteyam’s breath brush against your hair, his hand stroking your back, grounding you in the dizzying aftermath of pain and relief.
Ronal adjusts a soft blanket around your shoulders and the baby, checking her quickly, murmuring, “Strong heartbeat… breathing steady… perfect weight.” Her hands linger only long enough to ensure safety, then she steps back, letting you catch your first quiet breaths with your daughter.
Tsireya kneels beside you, one hand gently brushing your damp hair from your face, the other smoothing the baby’s tiny head. “She’s beautiful,” she whispers. Her voice is calm, almost musical, and it eases the tremor in your hands.
Lo’ak, Neytiri, and Jake return with Moi’at and Ni’alu, peeking over the edge of the mat, leaning closer, eyes wide but soft.
“Wow,” Lo’ak breathes. “She’s beautiful.” He steps back when Neteyam lifts his gaze, respecting the moment, but doesn’t leave—just watching, quiet and protective.
Your children creep closer, Ni’alu’s hand brushing the baby’s cheek, Moi’at holding her tiny fingers with his bandaged hand. “hello, little sister,” Ni’alu whispers, wide eyed, her voice full of awe.
Neteyam leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, murmuring, “You did this. Our girl… our family.” His thumb brushes across your temple, then your hair, grounding you in the quiet after the storm of pain.
“I… I’m sorry,” you murmur, glancing at Neteyam, “I—this wasn’t how I planned… I wanted—”
“To give birth in the forest,” you finish weakly, the words trailing as your chest heaves. “Like before…”
Neteyam’s hand presses firmly to your cheek, tilting your head so your eyes meet his. His gaze is sharp, steady, unwavering. “Do not,” he says, low, and your words falter under the intensity of his presence.
“I just—” you start again, but he cuts you off, voice warm now, fierce in its tenderness. “Do not apologize,” he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then another to your temple. “You have given life. You have done something more than brave. You do not apologize for this, for anything. Not now. Not ever.”
You stare at him, tears slipping freely down your face, your shoulders trembling. His hands circle yours, resting over the tiny body of your daughter, anchoring you both.
“You are incredible,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion. “Our children… our family… It is here because of you. Nothing else matters.”
You let yourself lean into him, exhausted, overwhelmed, but safe. You murmur a quiet, “I love you,” and he presses a kiss to your hair, murmuring back, “and I love you.”
The baby stirs softly in your arms, tiny hands curling around your fingers, and the tension in your chest loosens just a little. You had feared failure, feared being selfish, feared the world shifting beneath your feet, but his presence, his unwavering certainty, tells you that this moment is exactly where you are meant to be.
The marui is quiet now, the chaos of labor replaced by the soft, steady rhythm of your breathing. You cradle your daughter against your chest, feeling her tiny warmth seep into you, each rise and fall of her chest echoing against your own. Ni’alu presses her cheek gently to the baby’s, whispering little promises you cannot hear but can feel—words spun from awe and love.
Moi’at sits close, his bandaged hand brushing yours as if to anchor you both, eyes wide but steady, proud and careful. You let yourself sink into this moment, letting every inch of exhaustion and fear dissolve into the weight of her small body in your arms.
You feel the connection—not just between you and your daughter, but stretching through Neteyam’s steady presence, through your children’s cautious wonder, through the bonds of your community. The air vibrates with life, and for a moment, you are weightless, held in a circle of love and vigilance.
Ronal shifts closer, her eyes soft as they sweep over you and the baby. “She needs a name,” she says gently, voice steady, but you can hear the quiet encouragement beneath it. You glance down at your daughter, the small rise and fall of her chest, the tiny fingers curling around yours. Her presence feels enormous, and suddenly, the perfect name seems impossibly elusive.
Ni’alu tilts her head, wide-eyed, whispering, “Can I help, Mama?” You smile through your exhaustion, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. “Of course, love. We all get to help.” Moi’at leans closer as well, his hand still near yours, and you feel Neteyam’s steady warmth as he shifts slightly to wrap an arm around your shoulder.
Ronal watches carefully, then offers softly, “Names carry meaning. They carry strength, guidance, and hope. Think of the qualities you wish to honor in her.” The words hang in the air, and you feel the weight of them, the responsibility—but also the joy. You trace the baby’s tiny hand, feeling her pulse, and murmur, “She is… fierce already, gentle, and brave. I can feel it”
Neteyam smiles at the children, then looks down at you. His voice is quiet, tender. “What do you feel, my love? What name calls to you?” You lift your gaze, meeting his steady eyes and feel the name take shape in your heart. “Kìreytsìl,” you whisper, letting the syllables roll off your tongue, soft but certain. “She is dawn of hope.”
Ni’alu beams, brushing her fingers over the baby’s hand. “Kìreytsìl,” she repeats, marveling. Moi’at echoes the name, and even the baby seems to press closer, her tiny fingers curling tighter around yours. Neteyam smiles, pressing his forehead gently to yours, whispering, “Kìreytsìl… She is perfect just like you.”
The marui quiets at last, the children guided outside by Neytiri and Lo’ak, their whispers fading with each step. You sink back against the mat, your body trembling, muscles sore and spent, the newborn tucked carefully to your chest. Only Neteyam remains, his presence steady, warm, calming you in the dizzying aftermath of labor.
He moves gently, retrieving a soft cloth and a small bowl of clear river water. “Let me,” he murmurs, his voice low, sure, tender. You nod, too exhausted to speak, and he kneels before you, dipping the cloth in the water, wringing it carefully.
His hands brush your soft, sensitive skin as he cleans between your legs, then move with painstaking care over Kìreytsìl, wiping away the remnants of birth. The water is cool, fresh, and every careful motion from him feels like a vow—protection, love, and reverence.
Once both of you are clean, Neteyam sits back slightly, letting you adjust Kìreytsìl against your chest. You watch her tiny mouth, her tiny hands curling at your collarbones, and feel an instinct stirring deep inside, a mix of awe and tenderness. You lift her closer, guiding her to your breast for the first time. Her small lips find your skin, and she nurses, instinctive and perfect. Warmth floods your chest, and you feel the thread of life connecting you, fragile but unbreakable.
Neteyam leans closer, his hand resting over yours on the baby’s back, thumb brushing lightly against Kìreytsìl’s tiny spine.
His forehead rests gently against yours. You close your eyes, letting yourself simply be—mother, mate, held, protected. feeling the gentle suckle of Kìreytsìl, the warmth of Neteyam, and the quiet certainty that this moment is yours alone, sacred and unhurried.
Time slips in the soft instant of nursing as your child lays her head down against you, your kept nails brushing softly against her new skin. Neteyam watches with silent admiration—he loves watching you be a mother. He plants the seeds, watches them grow, then watches you blossom into the mother you were always destined to be.
Several weeks of blissful motherhood go by, villagers bringing gifts of love to you and your family, the children connecting with their baby sister—and you, telling the stories of your people. Kíreytsìl was born your daughter—pure kray’na. This time you would not let down on showing your children their roots.
Neteyam prepared for the trip as soon as you said you were ready, flying your family out to the mountains in weaved, fuzzy shawls which you kept hidden in your baskets, dressing the children and allowing them to know the snow, see and meet their ancestors, to connect with the spirit tree that, even after all these years—had not fallen.
Kíreytìl was communed with Eywa in the same place you had once called home. This time, your child’s life would be celebrated in three places—the mountains, the forest, and the reef.
The return to the reef was special, calm in a way words could not express. You were at peace—your children understood now, where you came from, where their unusually large fangs had come from, and where your daughter's white hair had emanated from.
Now you lay silently in the comfort of your marui, Neteyam holding you close, Kíreytsìl enswathed in a prrsmung against your chest, feeding from your breasts. Ni’alu and Moi’at lay against Neteyam, arms wrapped tightly around their father.
His hands stroked her cheek carefully as she fed, nose nudged softly against your neck, inhaling your scent. “I love you,” he mutters.
“Mm I love you.” You smile, his fingers drift from her cheek to your hip, then settle over the soft swell of your stomach where your body is still healing.
“You’re sore,” he says, not a question.
“Yes.”
He nods once, absorbing that like information he needs to store. His thumb presses lightly into your lower back, testing at first. When you flinch, he adjusts without comment and begins kneading gently. You exhale before you can stop yourself.
“Better?” He huffs.
“Yes.”
Your words are small, but he keeps going.
Later, when the children wake, the marui fills with noise, Tuk and Pril running about, playing with your children—obsessing over Kíritsìl. You let it happen, leaning back against the woven wall and watching them.
Your body aches in places you don’t talk about, your breasts are heavy. Your hips feel wider, slower. You are softer in several places for now, Neteyam notices that too.
When the children run out to meet their cousins at the shallows, he stays behind. He pins the flaps shut quietly. You look at him, eyebrow lifting. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says—which always means something.
He crosses the space slowly, kneeling in front of you and pushing your skirt up just slightly—not indecent or urgent, just enough to see the faint stretch of your skin, the subtle bruising of birth, his jaw tightens.
“Do not look at me like that,” you mutter, hands moving to cover yourself.
“Like what baby?” His eyes do not leave your thighs, featherlight touches are placed there.
“Like I am wounded prey.”
His eyes snap up immediately. “You are not prey.”
“Then stop frowning.” He exhales through his nose, softer now. His hands move carefully, reverently over your thighs, your hips—just assessing.
You study his face, there is no disgust, no distance, just awe.
The soreness settles deeper at night. It isn’t sharp anymore. Just a low, constant ache in your hips and breasts, like your bones haven’t quite decided where they belong yet, you try not to show it—but Neteyam notices the way you shift when you stand. The way you brace your palm against the wall before straightening. The way you lower yourself carefully instead of fluidly. He says nothing about it during the day, just steadies you.
That afternoon, you wash Kìreytsìl yourself without any help. The water is warm from sitting in the sun. She startles when you lower her in, tiny limbs jerking—but you murmur softly and she settles against your palms.
Ni’alu sits beside you, chin in her hands. “We were this small?”
“Yes.” You smile softly, glancing at her for a beat.
“No,” Moi’at interrupts confidently. “I was bigger.”
You laugh, a wet, jovial sound. “You were loud.”
Neteyam sits behind you, repairing a spear shaft. He watches the way your hands support the baby’s head. The way your thumbs rub gentle circles over her ribs.
“You can help,” you say without turning.
“With what?”
“Her hair will dry wild if you do not soothe it.” He sets the spear down immediately, crouching beside you carefully. His hands look almost ridiculous next to her tiny skull and he hesitates. “You won’t break her,” you murmur.
“I know that, baby.”
But he is still careful, you guide his fingers, show him the direction to smooth, the pressure to use. His tongue presses lightly into his cheek for concentration, just like when he twists Moi’at’s curls, or when he braids Ni’alu’s hair.
He glances at you once, catches you staring—a small smirk plays at his face. “What?”
“Nothing.” You say, but your chest feels full in ways that have nothing to do with milk.
It happens for the third night in a row, Kìreytsìl feeds often, maybe too often. By the time the marui quiets and the baby finally sleeps, your breasts ache in a deep, swollen way that makes even fabric brushing against you feel like too much.
You try to ignore it, but your mate doesn’t. “Come here baby,” he murmurs behind you.
“I am here”
“Closer. Come on.” Based on your tone, Neteyam could tell something was bothering you.
You back up—barely. He shifts closer anyway. His hand slides over your stomach first, grounding. Then slowly upward, pausing just beneath your ribs. “May I?” he asks quietly.
That’s what makes your throat tighten, he waits for your answer, and you just nod—you know you need it.
His hand cups your breasts carefully, testing the weight, the heat. You flinch before you can stop yourself. “Too much?”
“A little bit.”
He adjusts immediately, applying less pressure, moving slower. His thumb moves in gentle circles along the side rather than the center, easing the tight pull without pressing where you’re most sensitive. His other hand mirrors it, patient, steady.
You didn’t realize how heavy they felt until he supported them fully, a tight breath finally leaves you. “There’s so much tension,” he murmurs softly, almost frowning. “You should not have to sit with this.”
“It’s normal,” you whisper.
“That does not mean you endure it alone. Tell me next time.”
His palms warm you slowly, easing the tightness with careful pressure the way you showed him on your back earlier. When he feels where you’re most swollen, he adjusts again—careful not to hurt, careful not to stimulate too much, just enough to relieve the ache.
You relax back against him. “That’s better,” you admit quietly. His chin rests on your shoulder as he continues, slow and methodical.
“You give so much,” he says. “Let me give back.”
The soreness softens under his touch, not gone, but manageable. Supported. When he finally stills his hands, he doesn’t pull away. He simply leaves them there, warm and protective, holding you gently against his chest.
You cover his fingers with your own. “Thank you,” you whisper. He presses a soft kiss to your temple.
“Always.”
The sun melts into the horizon in streaks of gold and violet. The sea glows like liquid light. Aonung has built a small fire pit on the sand. Rotxo pretends he did most of the work. Tuk insists she helped. No one argues.
Tsireya passes around roasted shellfish wrapped in leaves. Kiri hums softly while braiding Tuk’s hair. Lo’ak is already halfway through teasing Neteyam about how emotional he looked in the snow.
You laugh, leaning into Neteyam’s side. He shakes his head but his arm slides around your waist automatically, pulling you closer.
Aonung nudges him. “You look softer.”
Neteyam smirks. “That’s because I don’t have to fight you every morning anymore.”
Tsireya gasps dramatically. “You two were impossible.”
“We were competitive,” Aonung corrects.
“You were children,” Kiri says calmly.
The others go to the water, leaving just you and Neteyam. You shift closer, his hand slides to your waist, thumb brushing slow circles against your skin. Your foreheads touch first—that familiar pause. That shared breath.
He kisses you like he always does—slow at first, testing. Giving you space to pull back if you want, and when you don't, when your fingers curl into the fabric at his waist, his other hand moves to your jaw, tilting your face slightly. The kiss deepens, not heated, just steady. Intentional. When you pull back, you stay close enough that your noses brush.
“Let’s go before they start wrestling without us.” He laughs. Already dragging you to the water, when you dive in, he goes the complete opposite direction—towards the men, and you, of course, go towards Kiri, Tsireya and Tuk.
You swim with your found sisters, for the first time in a long time, since the war, since living to protect your children, you feel just like a kid again. Sneaking off to swim with the friends who had found you in a cave.
The night stretches, and you grow tired, so Neteyam takes you home. Not to the mountains, or the forest, just wherever he is going.
