ECHOES. | ➶ neteyam sully
── .✦ part 2 of: DECLASSIFIED.
DECLASSIFIED (SERIES): READ ON AO3
READ PT. 1: BRUISES | 2: ECHOES | 3: ECLIPSES
wc: 5.5k
pairing: neteyam x fem!warrior!na’vi
story description: somewhere between childhood and now, the past began pressing closer, leaving marks that did not belong to you and neteyam’s shared training.
warnings: UNRELIABLE NARRATION, ANGST, slooooooooww burnnn, injuries (duh), blood like lots, a lot of self-destruction on both ends for neteyam and reader, HUGE impact of grief, secrets, miscommunication, mentioned character death, childhood friends to enemies to lovers, betrayal, hurt/comfort.
a/n: hi guys!! part 2 is finally out!! lots of story building in this one and takes place in a flashback :)) quite a dense part i had to split it into two so more parts r coming up! feel free to ask for tags, hope y’all’s enjoyyyyy
CHAPTER SUMMARY:
What began as a childhood promise turns into a debt of blood, as a promise made in the dirt all those years ago finally came due.
As Neteyam rises too fast into war, you learn how to fight, how to survive, and how to live with the knowledge that loving him means losing pieces of yourself.
8 years ago…
“Why’d you ask me,” the boy questioned softly, his gaze drifting upward to the vast, open sky scattered with wispy clouds. "To teach you how to fight?”
Everyone left in pairs, and both of you watched them go, counting without meaning to. The grounds of the forest still held their warmth, like the day hadn’t noticed they were gone yet. Someone barked a laugh, too loud, too sudden. Then that sound thinned too, swallowed by leaves.
You shrugged, your chin resting lightly on your knees as you looked ahead. Your fingers kept drawing the same crooked shape over and over again in the dust until it didn’t look like anything anymore.
"Because... you’re good?”
Neteyam made a sound through his nose; not quite a mere laugh, more like scepticism, as he dismissed your excuse. His eyes narrowed slightly as he spoke, deliberately bumping his shoulder into yours with a gentle, measured force, as if trying to dislodge the truth from your words. "I know that’s not just all… I know you better than anyone.”
You wobbled slightly at the contact, shooting an amused eyebrow. "You do?” Then, with a mock serious tone, you added, "Don’t flatter yourself, future olo’eyktan, future chief, heir and eldest son of Toruk Makto—"
“—Shut up!” he exclaimed, his hand shooting up to cover your mouth. You squirmed, swatting at him with a soft laugh, the sound bubbling out of you despite his grip.
“I’m serious,” he insisted, leaning back. “Tell me.”
Tell me everything.
There was a weight to his gaze now, an eagerness that made your heart beat faster, a quiet insistence that demanded honesty even as the ridiculousness of the moment made it impossible not to grin.
Your chest tightened at that. He noticed. He always noticed. When your laugh faded a second too early. When your hands went still in your lap. When your eyes drifted somewhere far away and did not come back right away.
“…My dad was good too.” You admitted softly, picking up a leaf from the ground. You began to fold it, crease after careful crease, until the veins strained and split. “Everyone said he was brave. Strong heart.”
Neteyam fell completely still, listening. A stillness that felt like a protective shield, as if he had understood that some things needed to breathe on their own before they could take shape in words. He was good at that, good at knowing when to hold back, when silence could be stronger than reassurance, when presence alone could speak louder than any hurried comfort.
“He died in the war,” you added quickly, like you were afraid the truth would harden if you left it alone too long. “I do not remember his face right,” you said. “But I remember thinking he was really really big. Bigger than everything. Like… nothing could reach me as long as… he was there.”
You swallowed hard, letting the thought hang in the air, thick and almost tangible.
“Until he wasn’t.”
Your mind tried to conjure the features you had lost to time, but all that remained was the feeling — warm, towering, unshakable — and the hollow space left behind when it was gone. Your shoulders folded inward without you meaning to, curling around yourself as if your body remembered the loss before your mind even could.
“I hate feeling small,” you continued, each word shaking slightly like a bird uncertain of flight. “I hate when people tell me to stay back. Like I am something that needs to be kept out of the way.”
Your eyes followed a bug as it scuttled across the earth, its tiny legs a blur of motion, desperate to reach a crack in the soil where it would disappear. You envied that certainty, the sense that it knew exactly where it belonged. And then it was gone, swallowed by the small shelter of the planet, leaving only the imprint of its passing.
“If I learnt how to fight,” you said, blinking back the sting in your eyes, softer now, “Maybe I will... Maybe I would not freeze. Maybe I could be bigger than the fear.”
The leaves shivered in the soft wind, letting the sun scatter across the ground in scattered golden patches. Suddenly, Neteyam nudged your knee with his, light but deliberate, a small touch that jolted you out of the spiral of your thoughts. The shock made your chest skip, your heart hiccupping like a startled bird, startled by the sudden intrusion of something ordinary yet startlingly alive.
“That is a lot of thinking for someone so skawxng,” he said, his voice teasing but not unkind, tipping the air between you with a lightness that seemed to dare you to respond.
You gasped, sharp and indignant. “What?”
He squinted at you, one corner of his mouth tugging sideways, mischief threading through the intensity like sunlight slicing through leaves after a storm.
Before you could dodge, he attacked the side of your ribcage with his knuckles.
“Skawxng!” you laughed, breathless as you shot back, trying to climb over him and failing completely. He yelped and tipped sideways, grabbing for you as he went down. You both tumbled into the dirt in a clumsy heap, elbows knocking, laughter bursting out of you as dust puffed up around your bodies. You ended up tangled together, laughing so hard you couldn't move.
Eventually, you rolled apart and flopped onto your backs, staring up at the open sky. Your chest still felt tight, but not like it was closing. More like it was slowly, carefully loosening.
Neteyam reached out and flicked a bit of dirt at your arm.
“You are not small,” he said, like it were the simplest truth there was.
Above you, the sky stayed blue, and beneath, the ground felt warmer.
“You do not have to fight yet,” he said after a moment. “That is my job.”
You frowned and turned your head toward him. “What?”
He shrugged, like the answer was obvious.
“I am older than you by a year. I will graduate first in the Academy. When I turn eighteen, when I become the captain of Bridgehead raids, I will tell you if it is safe.”
He turned his head and his eyes met yours. “I will protect you.”
The words settled gently, not loud, not dramatic, but steady as a promise made to Pandora itself.
“May I be your vice-captain? Faction one, you and me?”
He didn’t answer right away. His gaze stayed on you, steady, unreadable, like he was weighing something that had already been decided.
Then, the corner of his mouth lifted, just barely.
“Who else would I choose?”
2 years ago…
You pushed through the familiar press of bodies beneath the Tree of Souls, the roots knotted like a maze underfoot, the air thick with the scent of soil and sweat and the faint tang of bioluminescent sap.
Crowds had always filled this place at this time of the year, it never felt empty. And today, every movement carried purpose. Voices twisted together, fragments of whispers you could not quite catch. Names. Reputations. Predictions. Warnings. Every glance measured who could rise, who would follow, who might break.
Jake Sully stepped forward before the tree, his shadow long and steady over the gathered. The murmurs softened as if they had heard him without a word. When he spoke, it was calm, deliberate, the sound rolling over the assembly like slow water.
“This is not a celebration,” he said. Not because he needed to correct the crowd. Everyone already knew. “Leadership must rise where it is needed.”
The crowd shifted, a ripple of tension and acknowledgement weaving through the press of bodies. You felt it press against your chest, brush against your back, tug at your focus like the wind through the roots.
“By tonight, starting from Faction Seven to One, the new captains and vice-captains would be chosen!” Jake Sully raised his hands, his voice carrying through the crowd.
The Tree of Souls answered and voices rose, howling and cheering, feet stamping into the soil, hands slapping bark and each other in excitement. You were jostled from every side, pressed closer to the roots, swallowed in a tide of sound and heat.
Neteyam nudged your side with his elbow, light, deliberate, warm against your ribs. His grin was quiet but fierce, eyes bright in the chaos.
“This will be me next year,” he whispered, letting the words drift over the roar, almost lost in the tide. “And us next, next year.”
You twisted to meet his gaze, breath shaking slightly from laughter and adrenaline.
Yeah, it would.
Faction Seven.
Whispers rose immediately: The Academy. A machine that fed the rest. Inevitable. Inescapable. You spotted the youngest cadets shifting, eyes too bright, hands tight at their sides. They were already being measured. Already being counted. The chosen leader moved with quiet authority, every step precise, almost mechanical, a conductor of potential and destiny, shaping futures the world had not yet earned.
Faction Six.
Healers. Sacred but exhausted. They saw everyone broken. Neutral but burdened by the weight of life and death alike. People bowed their heads slightly when they passed, as if their presence alone demanded reverence. The chosen healer lifted a hand just barely, a signal of calm and order, and you felt the invisible weight of life and death leaning with them.
Faction Five.
Communications. Invisible, always listening, their presence a thread weaving through chaos. You noticed the subtle shift of the crowd as they swept past, glances dropping instinctively. The chosen captain moved forward, hands twitching in subtle rhythms. They would be the first to know and the last to be thanked.
Faction Four.
Support. Necessary. Often overlooked until they were gone, carrying the friction of the world on quiet backs. You caught the quick rise of shoulders as they were named, the almost imperceptible nods of acknowledgement from the crowd. The captain walked with measured steadiness, unassuming but holding the lattice of being an all-rounder in their stride.
Faction Three.
Strategists. Untouched by blood but haunted by consequences. Fighters muttered under their breaths, resentment curling in the air, yet every failed plan still hummed back to the strategist. Their chosen leader stepped forward, expression unreadable, calm certainty in every line of their posture, absorbing blame without flinching, commanding respect through controlled absence of it.
Faction Two.
Intelligence. Shadows that moved between shadows. Quiet, observing, unseen until it was too late. Every glance felt measured, every step calculated, as if they could read the future in the twitch of a shoulder or the flicker of an eye. The crowd instinctively lowered its voice and leaned away as the air seemed to contract around them. Their chosen captain slipped forward with subtle precision, hands brushing almost nothing, eyes scanning, cataloguing, storing everything. You felt it. The pressure of secrets and silent power pressed down like a blade that never dropped, knowing more than anyone, always a step ahead, untouchable and untold.
Faction One.
Bridgehead Raids. Elite. Frontline. Most died here. Most glorified. The clearing grew heavier as the previous factions took their places. Whispers curled through the crowd, brushing past your ears: “Only the best survive,” “They will be tested before anyone else,” “Death comes quickly here, but the honour is unmatched.”
Nothing happened. The captain did not appear. Confusion spread. Heads turned, voices fell to whispers. “Is someone missing?” “Who will lead?”
Jake let the pause stretch, letting the uncertainty hang in the air, pressing on every chest. Then he spoke again, measured, deliberate.
“We know there is an age limit. We know who stands here may not meet it.”
The crowd stiffened. Eyes widened. Whispers spiked: “Too young?” “Can they really lead?”
You felt your stomach twist, heart tightening with a mixture of anticipation and disbelief. Lo’ak nudged you from the side, grinning. “This is going to be wild.”
The clearing waited. Even the Tree seemed to pause with you. Every breath, every glance, every quiet shuffle stretched longer, heavier, until the name was finally spoken.
“Neteyam.”
Time slowed. Seconds stretched, folding over themselves, heavy with unspoken speculation. Eyes flicked, searching, darting. Cadets glanced at one another, trying to hide fear behind wide eyes. Then, the crowd erupted into cheers, howls, laughter, and voices weaving together.
Toruk Makto and Neytiri stood close together at the centre of the clearing, shoulders rigid but eyes shining with pride and worry in equal measure. Eventually, Neteyam stepped forward, weaving through the surge of voices and stomping feet that shook the ground beneath the Tree. Their youngest daughter, Tuk, bounced slightly on the balls of her feet beside you as Kiri had her arm wrapped around Lo’ak’s elbow, both torn between astonishment and concern. Each of them watched him as the world itself had tilted, their shared anticipation and fear adding weight to the clearing, a silent chorus of love and caution that followed him into the centre.
At some point, he paused and turned, eyes locking with yours one last time, sharp and steady, carrying the weight of promise, ambition, and everything unspoken between you.
And then it hit you, beneath the thrill, a sharp and impossible awareness of what this truly meant.
He will disappear into the shadows and you’ll never know with a certainty, if he’ll ever come home.
- ➶ -
A few months after…
Even when he wasn’t there, his presence filled the clearing. Cadets whispered under their breath as they executed drills, voices carrying both awe and envy.
“That’s Neteyam’s style,” someone murmured, eyes bright as they mimicked a movement he had perfected. Instructors nodded, murmuring praise to one another, remarking on the efficiency, precision, and unshakable confidence that seemed to follow his name even in absence.
And you felt it keenly, the hollow pull where he should have been, the phantom weight of his timing and guidance missing beside you. Every compliment for him, every admiration that carried across the clearing, threaded into your chest, a mixture of pride and bitter ache. He was everywhere without being there, leaving you to contend with the echo of brilliance he had once shared with you privately.
Yet, underneath the ache, there was warmth, a genuine surge of pride.
You were happy for him. You truly were.
“Don’t be so sad. I’m sure you’ll see him soon.” A voice cut through the haze of your thoughts, playful and sharp.
You looked up, letting yourself smile faintly at the tease, though the emptiness beside you lingered. “Yeah… soon,” you murmured, but it felt heavier than the words sounded. Soon was relative. Soon was weeks of him pulled into captain duties, strategy sessions, and Faction One drills that left him barely breathing, let alone sparring with you.
During trainings, you moved through the drills with careful precision, each strike and pivot a mirror of countless mornings spent under the sun. Sweat ran down your neck and stung your eyes, but you welcomed it, let it anchor you in the clearing.
Lo’ak was nearby, bounding over logs and weaving through mock opponents with that effortless, wild grace of his, every motion bold and unrestrained. He laughed when Spider stumbled over a poorly timed dodge, and Spider, ever precise, muttered something sharp under his breath before correcting his stance.
While you were adjusting your stance, focusing on the way your feet dug into the soil and the way your arms cut through the air, a hand came to rest lightly on your shoulder. It was neither heavy nor intrusive, but it carried a weight of presence that made your muscles tense instantly. You froze mid-motion, breath catching, and slowly tilted your head toward the source.
“Since you’re Neteyam’s partner, mind if I pick up a few tips?”
You turned toward the voice and found a boy standing before you, lean and coiled, his posture relaxed but every muscle ready. You took a moment to study him, measuring, weighing.
Interesting…
“You are…?” you asked, curiosity sharpening your tone.
“M’äko,” he said, his gaze steady, calm, but carrying a quiet spark that made your chest tighten. A few strands of hair fell over his forehead, but there was focus in his eyes, a subtle precision in the way he held himself. He moved like someone who had been watching long enough to learn without being seen, studying, analysing, waiting.
The thought made a small, cautious smile at your lips. “Hmm… I’d rather a spar,” you asked, letting the challenge hang between you. “Later tonight?”
A faint grin tugged at his mouth. “Bet.”
- ➶ -
The clearing thrummed with energy, sunlight streaking through the canopy in shifting patches, Roots twisted across the ground like coiled snakes, offering both obstacles and footing as you faced the Na’vi before you, the buzz of the crowd pressing in from all sides.
“And next we have, M’äko!” someone shouted, and a ripple of cheers broke out from the side of the crowd. The boy’s stance mirrored your own, deceptively relaxed yet taut with precision, and the sight made your chest tighten.
From the side of the clearing, a few muttered, “He’s so meek… can he really—?
M’äko stepped forward, hands low, eyes flicking nervously over the crowd. You lunged first, closing the distance with a practised sweep of your leg, and he jumped back, barely, his movements hesitant but precise. You struck again, faster this time, feinting left and then pivoting, and he ducked under your kick with an awkward grace that somehow kept him balanced.
M’äko was unpredictable in his meekness, hesitating when you expected aggression, pausing just long enough to make your strikes overshoot. Yet, each time you thought you’d land a clean hit, he twisted, slipped, or rolled out of the way. You threw a punch, and he mirrored your footwork instinctively, almost too quickly. You blocked a counter, and his limbs moved in a familiar rhythm… though you couldn’t yet place why.
Then it hit you mid-lunge, heart hammering, eyes widening in shock: he wasn’t just dodging.
He was moving like you.
In the fraction of a second your guard slipped, M’äko’s fist found its mark. Pain flared sharply across your ribs, the force twisting your torso as the world tipped beneath you. Dirt scraped against your palms, the scent of earth and sweat stinging your nose as you hit the ground with a thud that rattled your teeth. The air left your lungs in a harsh whoosh, leaving your chest tight and buzzing. You blinked through the sudden disorientation, heart hammering, and for a moment the crowd’s roar felt distant, muffled, like it belonged to another world.
“[Y/N]!” another voice cut in from the opposite edge as the cadets around the edge of the clearing shouted and cheered, but you barely noticed.
You knew you had trained for this, yet fighting someone who moved like you was disorienting, like your reflection had come alive and dared you to challenge it.
Like a mirror, M’äko had both his feet beside your hips before he lowered himself and pressed his spear against your neck. You recognised it instantly as he leaned in close; the subtle rhythm, the way he breathed. Every instinct, every pattern you had drilled into muscle memory, every predictable rhythm, it was all a trap.
And so you did the impossible. Every instinct that had once been automatic, every movement you had perfected through countless drills and repetitions, you abandoned. You hesitated where you would normally strike, letting the rhythm you had trained into muscle memory falter, falter just enough to feel wrong, like you were failing in real time. You shifted your weight sharply to the side, feigned exhaustion, and in the same motion, swung your leg upward, snapping it with a precision that lifted M’äko off balance.
His eyes widened in surprise, his mirrored motions faltering for the first time.
He could only replicate the you he had seen, the predictable patterns, the rehearsed motions.
He could not anticipate what you had just become.
In that heartbeat, that single, chaotic fraction of a second, the opening appeared. You didn’t hesitate. You rolled from under his staggered stance, driving your elbow upward in a brutal arc that clipped his knee, followed immediately by a pivoted kick to push him down on the ground.
The clearing seemed to exhale around you, carrying the weight of every risk, every calculation, every shadow of doubt. Soon, M’äko pushed himself to his knees, hair falling across his forehead, and looked at you, breath heavy, eyes shining with something that felt like respect tinged with disbelief.
The bot gave a small, crooked grin. “I didn’t see that coming,” he said, voice low, half-laughing, half-awed. There was a silent recognition between the two of you: that you had faced yourself and emerged sharper, faster, and far more dangerous than even your own reflection had ever promised.
You let yourself grin back, a mix of relief and triumph warming your chest.
“Neither did I.”
The clearing still hummed when the distant sound hit you first. A sudden roar tore through the forest, scattering birds into the treetops. Heads snapped up as the wind ripped through the clearing, bending branches and scattering leaves, carrying the scent of sweat, smoke, and…
Blood.
Above the canopy, a swarm of riders cut through the sky, a twisting, pulsing wave of movement. They moved with frightening speed, almost too fast to follow, a blur of bodies, spears, and banners flashing past the light rays of dusk through the trees.
Heads snapped up as the people below watched them, every heartbeat synchronised with the thrum of wings and the echo of war cries. Even from the ground, their momentum carried authority — unstoppable, alive, and terrifying. The cadence of their flight made it clear: the raid was over.
“The warriors! They’re here!”
- ➶ -
The wind tore through High Camp, whipping your hair into your face and carrying the scent of the heights. The air trembled, a rolling vibration that made the suspension bridges shiver and the ropes hum. At first, it was just a shadow against the sky, a flicker among the clouds. Then dozens of ikrans appeared, streaking across the horizon in perfect, terrifying formation.
The swarm twisted and spiralled, wings slicing through sunlight, casting streaking shadows across the camp. Your stomach lurched as the mass of motion drew closer, each shadow a living force above the sheer drop of the cliffs.
Every eye at High Camp caught him at the same instant.
Neteyam’s ikran dipped mid-flight, wings flailing as he struggled against the gusts, faltering just enough to send a shock through your chest. His chest rose and fell with rapid, uneven breaths, every movement deliberate, measured, but betraying the pain he carried. Soon enough, with every ounce of strength, his ikran landed hard on the stone floor, one foot scraping against limestone rocks to garner friction.
A scarlet red streak across his side shone bright against the muted greens and browns of High Camp, a beacon none could ignore.
The crowd at High Camp froze for a heartbeat, eyes wide, whispers twisting into sharp gasps.
“Neteyam…” someone breathed, voice almost swallowed by the wind.
The moment came before anyone could fully process it. Neteyam’s legs buckled beneath him, a sudden, horrifying weakness that made the wind leave every lung at once. He felt his tsaheylu snap, a gut-wrenching disconnect that made his stomach lurch as a high-pitched, piercing yelp tore from his ikran, a sound so raw and full of alarm that it ricocheted through the walls of High Camp.
A pair of warriors nearest him lunged forward instantly, catching him before he could fall completely, their arms a steady anchor against the swaying platform. Another grabbed his ikran’s reins, gently guiding the creature to hover above the clearing so it wouldn’t panic. The camp erupted in murmurs, some sharp, some panicked, voices overlapping as if the very air vibrated with alarm.
“Tsahik!” one of the warriors shouted, hoisting him onto their shoulders. “Tsahik, we need the healers. Now!”
Others fell into motion like clockwork, forming a protective path through the camp as Neteyam was carried toward the sacred tent. Faction Six had already been alerted, their sacred presence moving quickly, the smell of medicinal herbs and the quiet authority of the healers filling the tent before anyone reached the flap.
From the trails and platforms around High Camp, injured warriors began streaming in, some leaning on companions, others limping or cradling burns and cuts from skirmishes on the cliffs and lower forests. The tsahik's tent transformed into a whirlwind of motion-hands grasping, herbs crushed, water poured, murmured reassurances layered over sharp commands. Healers worked on multiple bodies at once, adjusting splints, washing wounds, and steadying the weakest.
Neteyam lay at the centre, and yet around him, life in its rawest form swirled — a tapestry of pain, survival, and relentless dedication.
Even at a distance, the urgency and precision of the healers struck you, their hands steadying the bleeding, calming the panicked, measuring life’s fragile thread with ruthless clarity. The ragged cries, the scent of blood and sweat, the desperate hands of warriors moving with practised intensity pressed against you like a memory you could not shake.
Somewhere deep in your chest, a hollow pull twisted through you, a cruel reminder that this was the path your father had walked.
There was only one ending waiting at the end of men like them, and you recognised this future because you had already survived its aftermath once before.
Have you?
- ➶ -
Tsahik’s tent was hushed, sealed off from the rest of High Camp as if the night itself had drawn a careful line around it. The crowds were gone. The fires outside had burned down to embers. Even the forest seemed to have folded inward, leaves still, insects muted, the world resting while you remained awake.
Neteyam lay at the centre of the tent, wrapped in bandages and dim light, his body too quiet for someone who had always carried motion so easily. The bioluminescence threaded through the woven walls cast a faint glow over his chest, rising and falling in a shallow rhythm.
You knelt near him, hands pressed together, forehead bowed, murmuring prayers that barely existed as words anymore. You offered them to Eywa anyway. You did not know what else to do.
When the tent flaps shifted, you felt it before you heard it. A presence, soft and careful. Kiri stepped inside, her silhouette framed briefly by the night glow before the fabric fell closed behind her. She paused, eyes moving instinctively to Neteyam, then to you.
She lowered herself beside you at last, close enough that you could feel the warmth of her shoulder without touching it. The space between you was small, deliberate, filled with everything neither of you said.
Silence stretched on, thick and heavy.
Only then did Kiri speak.
“He didn’t do too badly,” she said softly, almost to the air itself. “For barely a month.”
You did not answer. Your gaze stayed fixed on the slow rise of Neteyam’s chest, as if looking away might break the fragile proof that he was still here.
Kiri waited, then spoke again, gentler this time. “I’ve noticed you. These past weeks.”
She hesitated, choosing her words with care. “You’ve been hard. On everything.”
A beat.
“And distant. Especially with Neteyam. I noticed.”
Your throat tightened. You swallowed. “It is necessary.”
Kiri shook her head, just slightly. “No,” she said. “You are preparing yourself for a future of hopelessness. One that has not happened yet.”
Your lips parted in something that was not quite a smile. “What is the difference?”
She inhaled slowly. “All has not been lost,” she said. “It won’t be.”
You let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, thin and brittle. “How do you know that?”
“Faith.” Kiri answered.
The tent seemed smaller after that. The glow along the walls dimmed, or maybe your eyes just refused to hold onto the light.
For a long moment, you said nothing.
Then, quietly, “My mother had faith too.”
Kiri’s voice softened, your name barely more than a breath.
“[Y/N].”
You did not look at her when you said it. You did not need to. The words were not meant to argue or accuse. They were simply a truth, worn smooth by time, by repetition, by the way it had been held and turned over in your mind for years. Faith had lived strongly in your home once. It had been spoken with the same certainty, and it is still the same hope.
Yet, it felt as though it had not been enough.
“If it helps,” she said, tentative, “Vice captains will be chosen soon. Captains choose their second.”
You shook your head immediately. “I’m too young. It won’t be me.”
Kiri’s gaze drifted back to Neteyam, to the stillness of him, to the cost written plainly in bandages and blood. “He’s too young too,” she said. “And yet, here he is.”
Something inside you finally collapsed.
You folded forward, burying your face in your hands as your shoulders trembled, grief spilling out in quiet, broken breaths. Kiri moved without hesitation, arms wrapping around you, holding you as if she could keep you from shattering completely.
Too young.
- ➶ -
Today was the day. The choosing took place at dawn.
The forest was still damp from the night, leaves heavy with moisture, the ground cool beneath bare feet. Warriors gathered in silence, standing shoulder to shoulder, faces drawn and unreadable. No one spoke above a murmur. This was not a celebration. It never was.
Neteyam stood at the centre.
He looked different now. Not weaker, not broken, but altered. His movements carried a careful precision, as though every step had been measured and weighed against pain. Fresh bindings wrapped his torso, darkened at the edges where blood had soaked through and dried. His breathing was steady, but you could see the effort it took to keep it that way.
Jake spoke first, his voice low, carrying without strain.
“Now, last but not least we have Faction One. The captain has the right to choose their vice.”
Neteyam lifted his chin at the sound of it. The words settled over the clearing slowly, like mist sinking into leaves. You felt them land in your chest, familiar and heavy, a sentence you had been waiting to hear since you were children tracing shapes into the dirt and pretending the future was something gentle.
The warriors shifted, subtle but collective. Everyone knew what this meant. Everyone knew what was being weighed. Vice-captain was not a title given lightly. It was a promise of blood shared, of commands obeyed without question, of standing beside someone when the ground ran slick and the sky burned.
It was trust sharpened into duty.
Jake’s gaze moved briefly across the gathered faces, then returned to his son. “Neteyam, you have been recognised.”
“Choose.” He added.
Neteyam inhaled.
It was a careful breath. A measured one. You saw his shoulders lift, then settle, as if he were bracing himself against something invisible. For a moment, his eyes flicked toward you. You stood a little behind the others, hands loose at your sides, spine straight. You did not look at Neteyam. You did not need to. You could feel him, the way you always had, like a familiar current running just beneath the surface of the world. You remembered the years of training that had braided you together, the way your bodies had learned each other’s timing without words, the way you had fought like two halves of the same instinct. You remembered promises spoken quietly, almost jokingly, as if saying them aloud would make them less fragile.
You felt it then, a strange, suspended stillness, as if the world itself was holding its breath. Finally, you looked up.
He looked away..
Not unkindly. Not hesitantly. Just briefly, like his look was a glance meant to reassure rather than choose. Like something already decided.
Your chest tightened.
“Keyra.”
When he spoke the name, it was steady. Clear. Unwavering. The sound carried cleanly through the clearing and struck the ground like a dropped stone.
Voices broke loose the moment the name left his mouth.
Too young. She’s too young. She’s the same age as him.
You felt it before you saw it, the collective pivot of attention, the way the clearing seemed to inhale and reorient all at once. Faces swung toward you. Dozens of them. Warriors, elders, cadets. Eyes narrowing. Eyes widening.
The forest blurred at the edges. The roots beneath your feet felt suddenly unreal, as if you were no longer standing on solid ground but on the brink of something vast and unnamed. Noise folded into a low, distant roar, your pulse loud in your ears, your breath coming shallow and uneven.
You did not move.
Everyone was looking at you now.
And whatever life you had imagined for yourself a moment before quietly, unknowingly slipped out of reach.
PART 3 HERE
AHHH sorry this kinda took a while… the brainstorming for this was a TADDD bit. can’t wait for the next parts because it gets a lot more…. messy! anyways, as always — likes, comments, reblogs are deeply appreciated. 🫶🏻
