[teyuvo]

𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽，𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗎𝖽𝖾．

© 𝗍𝖾𝗒𝗎𝗏𝗈 𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟧．𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽．

[teyuvo]

my break has come to an end and i’ve only published one fic guys i am terrible😓 i do have one neteyam request in my drafts so anon if you see this it’ll be completed soon, promise!

[teyuvo]

hihiii... can i req for aonung? was listening to meddle about by chase atlantic and i feel like aonung has that vibe to him.. it could be anything really its up to u tnxxx mwaps

TIDEBOUND ｡｡ 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌，𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈 You come to the reef burdened by exile, anger, and a war left unfinished. The water resists you, as does Aonung, whose hostility mirrors the clan’s distrust. Forced together, tide and breath teach you both restraint and truth. When the sea nearly takes you, prejudice gives way to understanding—and you learn that belonging can be found not by fighting the current, but by surviving it together.

𝖺𝗈𝗇𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗑 𝑓!𝗋𝖾𝖺 ✶ 𝟫𝟥𝟢𝟨──── 𝗌𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖺，𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍，𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗆𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌， 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾(𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗁𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁)，𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇，𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗒 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 (honestly not meddle about related at all so sorry anon but i hope you enjoy nonetheless!)

The first thing you remember is the breath.

Not the calm, steady kind your mother once taught you beneath the canopies of home—but the sharp, involuntary intake that claws its way into your chest when something inside you snaps. You remember crouching low beside your siblings just outside the kelku, knees drawn tight, fingers digging into your palms hard enough to ache. Inside, your parents’ voices rose and fell like thunder trapped beneath woven leaves—heated, desperate, afraid. You didn’t need to hear the words to understand them. You already knew what was being decided.

Kiri sat with her back to the doorway, her body curved protectively around Tuktirey. Your youngest sister whimpered softly, small hands clamped over her ears as if that might make the world kinder. Kiri murmured to her in a low, soothing rhythm, rubbing slow circles into her shoulders, as though she could press the fear out of her bones by force alone. Lo’ak paced, restless and sharp-edged, tail lashing. Neteyam stood too still, jaw set, carrying the weight of a future he never asked for. And you—

You burned.

You burned with helpless rage, with the sickening understanding that this was not a battle you were allowed to fight.

Running, your father said. Uturu. Safety. The Metkayina.

Cowardice, you thought.

The sky people do not stop because you flee them. They do not soften. They do not forget. They take, they burn, they poison—and then they come again. You believed, with a certainty that felt carved into your bones, that they must be driven out or destroyed. Anything less was surrender. Anything less meant more gunfire scattered into Eywa’s veins.

But you followed anyway.

The journey away from Omatikaya territory felt endless, each flap of Ikran wings pulling you farther from the songs of your childhood. The forest thinned, the air changed, and the ground beneath your feet lost it’s familiar rhythm. The ocean came into view like a living wall—vast, breathing, indifferent. You had never trusted it. Water swallowed sound, swallowed strength, swallowed breath. It did not forgive hesitation.

Neither, you learned quickly, did the people who basked in it.

The first thing the Metkayina gave you was silence.

Their stares slid over your family like cold current over stone—measured, assessing, sharp with something that made your spine prickle. You felt it immediately, that subtle shift in the air, the way your presence unsettled the careful balance of their reef. Whispers followed you, low and quick, like fish darting between coral.

Demon blood, their eyes seemed to say.

Not quite Na’vi.

Not quite welcome.

You felt it most keenly when their gazes lingered on your father—on the shape of his body, the memory of what he had been layered over what he was now. You felt it when their attention flicked to you and your siblings, as though you were echoes of a mistake Eywa should have corrected. Breathing the air of Pandora while carrying the stain of the sky people within you.

You kept your chin high. You always had.

It didn’t stop them.

A group of youths circled too close, their laughter sharp and bright as broken shells. One of them—brazen, curious, cruel—reached out and tugged your queue. The sensation jolted through you, intimate and violating. They poked and prodded, eyes alight as if inspecting something counterfeit, something stolen. As if your body were not yours by right, as if Eywa herself had erred in shaping you.

Your fingers twitched at your sides. Old instincts screamed. You imagined the forest—how quickly such a slight would have been answered there. But this was not your home. You were a guest. A burden. A risk your family had carried across the world.

So you endured.

You swallowed your anger with the salt-heavy air and let it settle deep, heavy as stone in your chest. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That survival required restraint. That belonging could be earned.

But you never truly forgot.

Not the way the salt burned your lungs the first time you were forced beneath the surface. Not the way your body betrayed you—flailing, stiff, panicked—while the Metkayina children cut through the water like it was an extension of their own blood. And certainly not the way Aonung made a spectacle of it.

He had decided, early on, that your family’s adaptation to the reef would be his personal entertainment.

“Again,” he would say, grinning sharp as coral as you broke the surface too soon, chest heaving, vision swimming. “You fight the water like it insulted you.”

Laughter followed him everywhere—bright, cruel, effortless. He laughed when Lo’ak swallowed too much seawater, when you misjudged a dive, when Neteyam’s patience wore thin. He laughed as though struggle itself amused him, as though it were proof of something he had always suspected.

Tsireya tried to soften the blows. She offered gentle corrections, quiet encouragement, hands warm and steady when she guided your breathing. She spoke of the tide as something to listen to, not conquer. Of the sea as kin. You appreciated her—truly—but kindness only went so far when it was constantly undermined by her brother’s voice cutting in from the side.

“Relax,” Aonung would sneer. “Unless your lungs can’t handle it.”

Sometimes it was during training. Sometimes it wasn’t.

You could be minding your own business—working through the motions of a shallow dive, practicing the rhythm of breath Tsireya had taught you, counting heartbeats the way your mother once taught you to count arrows—and still, somehow, Aonung would appear. Always too close. Always watching.

His eyes dragged over you with an appraising sort of contempt.

“Your tail’s too thin,” he remarked once, flicking it without warning. The contact sent a jolt straight up your spine. “No wonder you cannot swim.”

Another time, he caught your hand mid-motion, turning it palm-up as though inspecting a flaw in craftsmanship. “Look at that extra finger,” he said lightly. “Have you ever considered chopping it off?”

You yanked your hand back, jaw tight enough to ache.

And then there were the comments he didn’t bother disguising as instruction—the quiet remarks about your slimmer nose, the shape of your eyes, the way your body carried echoes of something other than Na’vi. The way he said demon-blood without ever using the word.

Each barb lodged itself somewhere deep, settling beside the stone of anger you carried everywhere now.

You learned restraint because you had to.

Respect here was not something you could demand—it was something you were expected to earn through obedience, through silence, through endurance. Your parents watched you closely, the unspoken plea in their eyes clear: don’t make this harder than it already is. Don’t give them a reason.

So you swallowed it.

Every insult. Every laugh. Every look that lingered a second too long.

You imagined your fist connecting with Aonung’s jaw more times than you cared to admit. Imagined the satisfying crack, the sudden silence. But you never moved. Never gave him the satisfaction of seeing you break.

Instead, you threw yourself into learning. Into failing and trying again. Into letting the water fill your ears, your nose, your thoughts, until there was nothing left but the steady drum of your heart and the burn in your lungs.

Still, Aonung noticed.

He always noticed.

There was something almost infuriating about the way he kept coming back—how even when you trained alone, when you slipped away to the shallows at dusk to practice breathing where no one could see you struggle, he would surface nearby like a shark drawn to blood.

“You’re stubborn,” he said one evening, watching you from a rock as the sun bled into the sea. “I’ll give you that.”

It wasn’t a compliment. Not quite.

You didn’t look at him. You focused on the water instead, the gentle pull of the tide around your ankles, the way it whispered rather than roared when you let it.

If respect were not given so freely here—if restraint were not the price of your family’s safety—you would have struck him long ago.

But you stayed your hand.

You learned how to let the anger coil instead of strike—how to hold it tight and sharp inside your ribs while the world tested you. Days bled into weeks, and the ocean stopped feeling quite so eager to claim you. Your breaths grew longer. Your movements smoother. The panic that once clawed at your throat dulled into something manageable, something you could push through if you focused hard enough.

“Three minutes and fifteen seconds.”

Tsireya’s voice cut through the ringing in your ears the moment you surfaced, lungs burning in a way that felt earned rather than terrifying. She wrapped her arms around your shoulders without hesitation, all warmth and pride, her smile bright enough to chase away the lingering ache in your chest.

“That was good,” she beamed. “Really good.”

Cheers followed from the shore. Tuktirey bounced on her heels, clapping wildly as if you’d conquered the ocean itself, while Kiri raised her hand and flashed a thumbs up—an oddly human gesture that still made your chest tighten with something fond. Lo’ak bumped your arm, an exaggerated eye roll failing to hide his grin, and Neteyam’s hand landed briefly on your head, affectionate and steady, like he was silently telling you he’d never doubted you.

You exhaled, a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

Then there was Aonung.

He stood a short distance away beside Roxto, water lapping lazily at his calves. He didn’t clap. Didn’t smile. He just watched you, eyes narrowed slightly, expression carved into something unreadable—like he was weighing you against a standard only he knew.

Your gaze found his without hesitation. It always did.

For a fraction of a second, something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe. Or annoyance. Then his mouth curved, slow and deliberate, into that infuriating smirk.

“Your turn at the end was sloppy,” he said, voice smooth and measuring, like a judge delivering a verdict. “You lost momentum before surfacing.”

Of course he did.

Your eyes narrowed, lip curling as the satisfaction of the moment curdled into irritation. You didn’t bother answering him with words. Instead, you lifted your hand and flipped him off cleanly, the gesture sharp and unmistakable before you turned and kicked toward the shore.

Behind you, Aonung stiffened. His brows furrowed, gaze snapping to your retreating form, clearly struggling to decode the meaning of a gesture he had seen more than once from you and Lo’ak—but still had yet to understand.

Tsireya sighed and shot her brother a look, murmuring something sharp and reprimanding, but her voice faded with distance as you hauled yourself onto the sand. The cool air hit your skin, but it did nothing to cool the heat racing through your thoughts.

Your jaw ached from how tightly you clenched it.

You paced a few steps away from the water, shaking droplets from your hair as violent images flashed unbidden through your mind—your fist connecting with Aonung’s mouth, the look of shock finally wiping that smirk away. Your fingers curled and uncurled at your sides as if itching for something to break.

The ocean whispered behind you, tide rolling in and out with infuriating calm.

You had done well. You knew you had. You could feel it in your muscles, in the steady rise and fall of your chest. You had earned that time. Earned the pride shining in your siblings’ eyes.

And yet, somehow, Aonung still managed to burrow beneath your skin.

It was absurd—truly, maddeningly so—how easily hatred came to some people. As if blood were a choice. As if bone and breath and the shape of your hands were sins you had committed deliberately. You had not asked to be born the way you were. You had not chosen the sky people, or the scars they carved into your family’s name. And yet, here you were, paying for it anyway.

You sank down beside Kiri, letting the sand cool your palms. She glanced at you from the corner of her eye, that quiet, knowing look she had perfected—one that said I see it too without needing words. Tuk’s voice bubbled happily between you, animated and bright as she rambled about a new braiding technique your mother had tried, about how long her hair had grown, about how she thought it made her look older.

You listened without really hearing.

Still, you hummed at the right moments, murmured questions you already knew the answers to, just to watch Tuk’s smile widen every time she got to explain something new. That smile mattered. It grounded you, even as the anger continued to churn low and restless in your gut.

The others returned to shore soon after. Lo’ak splashed up beside you, scowling as he shook the water from his hair. “I almost had you,” he muttered, irritation poorly disguised.

You snorted, pushing yourself to your feet and brushing sand from your loincloth. “You never had me.”

He shook his head, lips twitching despite himself.

That was when Aonung passed.

“Maybe try drowning next time,” he said casually, already walking past you. His shoulder clipped yours—not hard, but deliberate. “Oops,” he added, a half-hearted apology dripping with insincerity before he did the same to Kiri—except this time, his foot came down squarely on her tail.

Kiri hissed sharply.

Something inside you snapped.

It wasn’t audible. It wasn’t dramatic. It was the quiet, final break of a thread pulled too tight for too long.

You moved before thought could catch you.

Two long strides closed the distance between you and Aonung. Your hand fisted in his shoulder, yanking him around, and your other hand connected with his face in a clean, solid punch. The impact jarred up your arm, pain blooming across your knuckles—but the look of pure shock that spread across his features was worth it.

Lo’ak’s muffled laughter burst out behind you. Tsireya gasped, hand flying to her mouth, Tuk echoing the sound in startled horror.

You barely registered any of it.

Aonung recovered fast.

He snarled something sharp and furious before dropping low and tackling you by the legs. The ground slammed into your back, the air knocked clean from your lungs as sand and grit filled your mouth. He was on you in an instant, weight pressing down as you twisted, claws scraping, tails lashing.

You fought like you always had—dirty, relentless, fueled by everything you’d swallowed until now.

Fists flew. Elbows struck. You rolled, trading blows, the world narrowing to heat and motion and the sound of blood rushing in your ears. You caught him across the jaw again; he answered with a sharp hit to your ribs that made your breath stutter. Somewhere nearby, voices shouted—Tsireya calling his name, Neteyam barking for you both to stop—but neither of you listened.

Aonung’s eyes burned as he pinned your wrists briefly, teeth bared. “You think you belong here?” he spat, breath hot against your face.

You bucked hard, knee driving up between you, forcing him back just enough to tear free. “I don’t need you to decide that,” you snarled, shoving him off with everything you had.

You scrambled to your feet at the same time he did, both of you breathing hard, chests heaving, eyes locked like predators sizing each other up.

The moment didn’t last.

Neteyam moved first.

He stepped in front of you without hesitation, broad shoulders blocking your line of sight as if he could physically place himself between you and the consequences. His hand brushed your arm—not to restrain you, but to remind you where you were. To remind you who you were fighting for.

“Back,” he murmured, low and urgent.

Across from you, Tsireya reached her brother, fingers gripping his arm as her gaze flicked anxiously between his bruised jaw and your bloodied knuckles.

“Aonung—stop,” she said, breathless. “Please.”

Aonung let himself be pulled back, though his eyes never left yours. The fire in them hadn’t gone out—only banked.

The space between you widened.

Your siblings gathered around you instinctively. Kiri hovered close, her presence steady and quiet. Tuk clutched Lo’ak’s arm, eyes wide. Lo’ak, of course, looked almost pleased.

“Did you see his face?” he stage-whispered, grinning. “You beat the hell out of that skxawng.”

You snorted despite yourself—but the sound died quickly when Neteyam shot him a look. The weight of what had just happened settled heavily over the group, an unspoken understanding passing between you and your eldest brother.

Dad is going to kill us.

The walk back was silent.

By the time you reached your family’s marui, the adrenaline had burned away, leaving behind a dull ache in your knuckles and ribs. Your father was already waiting, arms crossed, expression carved from stone.

He didn’t raise his voice at first.

“What did you do.”

Neteyam straightened immediately. “I should’ve stopped it sooner,” he began.

“No,” you cut in, sharp. “Don’t.”

Your fathers eyes flicked to you. “You’ll speak when I say so.”

You clenched your jaw but said nothing—for exactly three seconds.

Jake paced once, then stopped in front of the two of you. “I leave you alone for one afternoon,” he said, voice tight, “and you start a damn fight with the Olo’eyktan’s son?”

“He started it,” you snapped.

Jake turned fully toward you now. “You threw the first punch.”

“And he’s been throwing insults since the day we got here,” you shot back. “You just don’t see it.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Then why are we still here?” Your voice cracked—not with fear, but fury. “They don’t want us. They never did. You dragged us across Pandora just to be treated like freaks.”

“That’s enough,” Jake said sharply.

“No,” you fired back. “I’m done pretending this was the right call. We ran. We hid. And now we’re supposed to smile and take it while they remind us we don’t belong?”

Neteyam shifted beside you. “Dad—”

Your father raised a hand, cutting him off, eyes never leaving you. “I made the call to come here because it keeps you alive,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “Not because it’s comfortable. Not because it’s fair.”

“And what about him?” you demanded, gesturing at Neteyam. “You blame him for everything. You always have, it’s nothing new. He’s not our parent. He isn’t responsible for doing your job.”

His jaw tightened. “Neteyam is the eldest. That comes with responsibility.”

“And that’s not his burden to carry alone,” you snapped. “If anyone’s at fault, it’s me—and even that’s a stretch.”

Silence stretched tight between you.

Then your mother stepped forward.

“Enough,” she said, voice calm—but final.

Both you and your father went still.

Jake ran a hand over his face, the fight draining out of him as he turned away for a moment. When he faced you again, his voice was steadier—but heavier.

“I will speak with the Olo’eyktan,” he said. “There will be consequences. One you will share.”

Your shoulders stiffened.

“You don’t have to like each other,” He continued. “But you will learn to coexist. We need them. And whether you like it or not, that means learning restraint.”

You met his gaze head-on. “And if he keeps pushing?”

He held your stare. “Then you come to me. Not your fists.”

The words settled like chains rather than comfort.

Even as he turned away, you felt the anger still simmering beneath your skin—unapologetic, unrepentant.

Because deep down, you knew one thing for certain:

If this punishment forced you back into Aonung’s orbit—the ocean wasn’t the only thing about to test your limits.

The following days passed in an uneasy hush.

Too quiet.

Tsireya was assigned to assist you during training on her own, her presence a gentle constant at your side. She corrected your form softly, praised your progress without backhanded remarks, and never once laughed when you faltered. The absence of Aonung was so sudden, so complete, that you allowed yourself to believe—briefly—that Eywa had intervened.

Thank Eywa.

Your relationship with your father remained strained, conversations clipped and careful, but the lack of open conflict was a balm you hadn’t realized you needed. You trained. You swam. You breathed. You existed without having to brace yourself for the next insult.

The Metkayina still stared. Their looks followed you wherever you went—cold, assessing, unwelcoming—but silence was a mercy you learned to savor. No whispered slurs. No pointed laughter. No cutting remarks designed to remind you of what you were not.

You were almost at peace.

Almost.

Though, that fragile calm shattered one morning before breakfast could even settle in your stomach.

You were seated with your siblings, absently picking at your food while Lo’ak complained about the texture of dried fish, when the air at the marui’s entrance shifted. Your head snapped up instinctively.

Tonowari stood just outside, posture composed, authority radiating from him in quiet waves. Beside him—too close, too real—was Aonung.

He didn’t look at you.

His gaze remained fixed on the woven flax beneath his feet, jaw set, shoulders tense in a way that told you he hated this just as much as you did.

Your stomach twisted.

Jake rose immediately, exchanging a few low words with the Olo’eyktan. You barely heard them. The sound in your ears roared too loudly, drowning everything out—until your father turned to face you.

“In response to your childish altercation along the shore,” Your father began.

Your spine stiffened.

“You and Aonung,” he continued evenly, “will be working together—“

That was all you heard.

Work together.

The rest of his words blurred into meaningless noise. Heat rushed to your face as revulsion curled in your gut. You had expected this—of course you had. Your father was determined to make this work, determined to plant roots where none wanted to grow, to clasp hands and play footsies with the Metkayina rather than bare his teeth like a true Olo’eyktan of the forest.

But this?

Spending the day alone with him? Tasked to hunt alongside him, work with him?

Your feet felt unsteady, like the ground itself had tilted beneath you.

Lo’ak, traitor that he was, stifled a laugh beside you. He tried—and failed—to hide his grin, eyes flicking between you and Aonung with barely contained delight. For once, someone else was in trouble.

You shot him a glare that promised retribution later.

Across the marui, Aonung finally lifted his head, eyes flicking to yours for the briefest moment. The shared look of disbelief was almost comical—two enemies united by mutual outrage.

You both opened your mouths at the same time.

“No—”

“We don’t—”

Jake and Tonowari turned their gazes on you in perfect unison.

Do not speak.

The message was unmistakable.

Your jaw snapped shut, teeth grinding as you swallowed every argument clawing to escape. Aonung mirrored the motion, shoulders tightening as he exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Tsireya will not be present,” Tonowari added calmly. “You will learn cooperation.”

Learn cooperation.

You resisted the urge to scoff.

The marui sank into silence, thick and suffocating. You fixed your father with a glare sharp enough to cut, and he met it without flinching, his own expression steady, unyielding. The space between you felt smaller than it should have, heavy with all the things neither of you would say out loud.

With a quiet, bitter huff, you pushed yourself to your feet.

You reached for your bow first—familiar, comforting—the smooth wood carved from the home tree of Omatikaya fitting perfectly into your grip. Your fingers brushed the fletching of your arrows, the weight of them grounding you. Your knife followed, just as familiar, just as yours.

You had nearly turned toward the entrance when a hand settled on your shoulder.

“Not today,” Jake said.

You stiffened.

Before you could react, his free hand slid the bow from your grasp, then the arrows, moving with practiced ease. He leaned them carefully against the wall near the entrance, deliberate in the way he did it—final.

“You’ll learn to hunt with a spear,” he continued evenly. “It’s Metkayina custom. And it’s better suited for the water.”

Your jaw tightened so hard it ached.

A spear.

With Aonung.

The thought alone made your head feel like it might burst. You didn’t care about reef customs. You didn’t care about what was “traditional” here. And you certainly didn’t care to be taught by a fish-lipped skxawng who couldn’t go five minutes without belittling you.

For a heartbeat, you considered arguing anyway.

One look at your father’s eyes killed the idea.

There was no room for protest there—only warning. Push this, and you’ll make it worse.

A low snarl slipped past your teeth as you shrugged his hand from your shoulder, refusing to look at him as you turned and followed Tonowari and Aonung out of the marui.

The air outside was heavy with salt and early morning heat. You caught up just in time to hear Tonowari explaining the task, his voice calm, authoritative.

“You will hunt for the communal gathering,” he said. “Flate skate. Bouyfish. Hammerbrow. All can be found beyond the outer barrier reef.”

Your stomach dropped.

Outer reef.

You glanced toward the water instinctively, the vast expanse stretching endlessly beyond the shallows. That far out, the currents were stronger, the depths darker, the creatures larger—and far less forgiving.

Beside you, Aonung shifted, jaw tight, gaze fixed forward. He said nothing. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t taunt.

Which somehow made it worse.

“You will return before dusk,” Tonowari finished, eyes flicking briefly between the two of you. “And you will do this together.”

The word landed like a challenge.

As the Olo’eyktan turned away, leaving you standing at the edge of the shore with your unwanted partner, the ocean rolled in, foaming around your feet.

You stared out at it, pulse thrumming, anger and unease twisting together in your chest.

Hunting the outer reef was dangerous enough.

Doing it with Aonung?

That was going to test every ounce of restraint you had left.

Which, you learned quickly, was not much.

The outer barrier reef was nothing like the shallows. The current pulled and twisted with a mind of its own, water surging in conflicting directions that knocked your balance loose the moment you tried to settle into it. Your queue brushed the ilu’s tendrils—connected—then slipped free barely seconds later, the bond snapping like wet cord.

Ten seconds.

You surfaced with a sharp gasp, salt stinging your eyes as your ilu veered away, confused.

Again.

It took far longer than it should have to even hold tsaheylu, your body tensing instinctively every time the current surged beneath you. The reef loomed darker here, the water colder, heavier—demanding surrender rather than force.

Aonung said nothing.

That, somehow, was worse.

Each time you failed, you felt his gaze sharpen. Not mocking—no laughter, no taunts—but narrowed, irritated, like watching something malfunction repeatedly. As if your struggle itself offended him.

You broke the surface once more, breath coming hard, ilu nowhere in sight.

You turned on him immediately. “If you expect this to get done today,” you snapped, water dripping from your lashes, “it’s in your best interest to offer some actual guidance. Otherwise you can do all the hunting yourself while I watch from here.”

His eyes flicked to you, slow and unimpressed.

Aonung rolled his eyes. “You talk too much for someone who can’t stay mounted.”

You bared your teeth.

He clicked his tongue sharply, calling your ilu back with practiced ease. When it surfaced beside you, he gestured curtly. “Again. Slowly.”

You scowled. “I know how to do tsaheylu.”

“No,” he corrected coolly, “you know how to fight it.”

You bristled. “I am not a child.”

His mouth twitched. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You moved to mount anyway, hands gripping instinctively—but the current shoved sideways, throwing your alignment off. Before you could correct it, Aonung nudged his ilu closer.

Then his hands were on you.

Cool. Webbed. Firm at your hips.

Your body locked instantly, muscles going rigid beneath his touch.

“Relax,” he muttered, clearly annoyed. “You’re stiffening. The water’s reading it.”

You shot him a glare over your shoulder. “Remove your hands—”

“Do you want to learn or keep sinking?” he cut in sharply.

His grip adjusted, fingers pressing just enough to shift your center of balance. “You’re fighting the pull. Stop trying to stay upright—lean into it. Let it carry you sideways before you cut through.”

You swallowed, jaw tight, acutely aware of how close he was now. Of the heat at your back despite the cold water. Of the steady confidence in his touch that contrasted violently with the way your heart kicked against your ribs.

You stiffened again despite yourself.

“Eywa—” Aonung hissed, pinching sharply at your side. “I said relax.”

You jerked, sucking in a breath. “Don’t pinch me!”

“Then stop locking up like a dead fish,” he snapped back. “The current isn’t your enemy. Treat it like one and it’ll throw you every time.”

For a moment, you and Aonung simply stare at one another—your eyes sharp with lingering defiance, his gaze flat and unreadable, like still water before a storm.

Then you grunt softly and let go.

You force your shoulders to drop, unclench your jaw, loosen the death grip you hadn’t realized you were keeping on your own body. You signal to your ilu and draw in a deep breath, filling your lungs until they ache.

Dive.

The current still grabs at you, tugging hard, trying to pull you off-course—but this time, you don’t fight it. You let it slide along your side, guide you just long enough before you angle through it. Your bond holds. Your ilu responds instantly, body flowing with yours as you cut cleanly through the water.

You move.

Not perfectly—but well enough that the reef no longer feels like it’s trying to tear you apart.

When you resurface, breath steady, there’s a small smile on your lips before you can stop it. Not triumph. Not arrogance. Just quiet, earned pride.

You turn toward Aonung.

His expression hasn’t softened—still deadpan, still irritatingly composed—but his brows are no longer drawn tight with irritation. If anything, he looks… neutral.

You gesture forward with a jerk of your chin. “Come on. If we want to be back before dusk, we should move.”

You barely have time to dip beneath the surface again before his voice stops you.

“You know how to use a spear?”

You pause, just long enough to roll your eyes. “No.”

Aonung groans, tilting his head back briefly as if asking Eywa for patience. “Great.”

“What?” you snap. “I wasn’t exactly raised hunting fish.”

“No,” he mutters. “You were raised shooting things from trees.”

You bristle. “And it worked.”

“Not underwater.”

He swims closer, movements efficient, practiced. From the strap along his back, he pulls free a long, smooth-shafted spear—balanced, wickedly sharp at the tip. He holds it out to you, handle-first.

“Take it.”

You hesitate, then grab it, immediately feeling the unfamiliar balance shift in your grip. It’s heavier than your knife, longer than anything you’ve wielded before. Awkward.

“You don’t throw it,” Aonung says, already irritated by the way you’re holding it. “You guide it. Water slows fast movements. Precision matters more than force.”

“I know how physics work,” you mutter.

“Then stop gripping it like you’re about to stab the ocean.”

He reaches out before you can protest, fingers closing around your hands to adjust your grip. He shifts your wrists, angles the spear slightly downward.

“Lead with the point,” he instructs. “Your body follows the weapon, not the other way around. And don’t aim where the fish is—aim where it’ll be.”

You glance at him sidelong. “You always this charming when you teach?”

He snorts. “You always this difficult when you learn?”

Before you can retort, a shadow moves beneath you—sleek, fast.

Aonung’s voice drops. “Bouyfish. See it?”

You swallow and nod.

“Good,” he says. “Now don’t think. Just move.”

You tighten your grip, heart pounding, the ocean humming around you as you angle your body with the current—just like he taught you.

You dive without a word.

The bouyfish scatter at the disturbance, silver flashes darting in every direction. Your pulse spikes—but you don’t chase blindly. You narrow your eyes, track the arc of one fish as it veers left, then lead it, just as Aonung said.

You release.

The spear cuts cleanly through the water.

Impact.

The jolt travels up your arms as the fish goes still, impaled clean through. You still your ilu and move quickly, grasping the shaft and pulling the fish free before the current can steal it away. You pause only long enough to bow your head, murmuring a quiet prayer to Eywa, fingers brushing over the fish’s eye ridge before you close them gently—gratitude given, life acknowledged.

Then you surface.

Your expression is neutral, calm—though something warm settles low in your chest. You glance toward Aonung just in time to see him and his ilu glide past, effortless, the shifting current seeming to part for him rather than fight. He slows when he notices the fish in your grasp.

He looks at you.

Really looks.

For a long moment, he says nothing. Then, finally, he gives a short nod—sharp, controlled. The smallest acknowledgment.

It’s the only praise he allows.

Without another word, he dives again.

You follow.

Hours pass like that—measured not by words, but by breath and movement. By the steady rhythm of dive, hunt, gather, surface, repeat. You speak only when necessary, exchanging brief gestures underwater, pointing, signaling, switching roles without discussion. One of you hunts while the other gathers, then you trade places seamlessly.

It’s easier like this.

No insults. No arguments. Just the work.

By mid-day, your muscles ache pleasantly, lungs tired but strong. You haul yourselves onto a stretch of sun-warmed rock near the outer reef, laying out the catch between you. Flate skate. Bouyfish. A hammerbrow large enough to feed several families.

You set to work immediately, cleaning the fish with practiced efficiency despite the unfamiliar tools. Blood washes away in the surf as you focus, methodical, grounded.

Aonung doesn’t help.

He sits a short distance away, spear resting across his knees, elbows braced on his thighs as he stares out at the open water. The breeze ruffles his hair, lifts the edges of his songcord. He doesn’t look at you—not once.

The silence stretches.

Normally, it would irritate you.

Instead, it feels… neutral. Balanced. Like the quiet between waves.

You finish cleaning one of the fish and set it aside, wiping your hands in the sand. When you glance over at him again, his gaze is still fixed on the horizon, expression unreadable.

You don’t know why you speak.

Maybe it’s the quiet. Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it’s the way the ocean has stripped you both down to something honest. Whatever it is, the words slip free before you can stop them.

“Why do you hate me?”

The question hangs between you, fragile and sharp all at once.

You don’t look at him when you continue, voice lower, steadier than you feel. “I didn’t do anything to you. Not to you, not to your clan. You hated us the moment we arrived. And I—” You exhale through your nose. “I held it in. Every look. Every comment. I didn’t touch you until you made it impossible not to.”

The silence that follows is heavy.

For a long moment, Aonung doesn’t answer. He shifts slightly, then glances at you from the corner of his eye. This time, he doesn’t look away immediately.

He really looks.

And it annoys him more than he expects.

Because he doesn’t see a demon. Doesn’t see a sky-person’s echo wearing Na’vi skin. He sees a girl—tired, sharp-edged, stubborn. A girl who has carried far too much blame for things she never chose. A girl who fought the ocean and stayed anyway.

His jaw tightens.

He scoffs quietly, gaze returning to the water. “You’re danger,” he says bluntly.

The words aren’t cruel. They’re factual. Certain.

“To my clan. To my people,” he continues. “The sky people follow your father. Everywhere he goes, they burn. You brought that here.”

You don’t interrupt him.

“Sooner or later,” he adds, voice low, “we’ll pay the price.”

The honesty of it settles into your chest like a familiar weight.

And to your own surprise, anger doesn’t come.

Understanding does.

You stare down at your hands, still faintly stained with blood and salt. “I know,” you say quietly.

You swallow. “We shouldn’t have run. We shouldn’t have left our clan. We should have stayed and fought.”

The words taste bitter. Heavy.

“For all I know,” you continue, voice tightening, “they’re already gone. The Omatikaya. Burned because the sky people came looking for my father.” Your fingers curl into the sand. “All those lives… because of us.”

Your fingers curl tighter into the sand, knuckles paling as the weight of it all presses down.

You fall quiet again—not because there’s nothing left to say, but because saying it feels like peeling yourself open. When you finally speak, your voice is lower, heavier, stripped of its edge.

“For what it counts,” you murmur, eyes still downturned, “I want to leave too.”

The admission sits raw between you.

“This place—” you exhale sharply. “You people remind us every day that we don’t belong. Not just to the clan. To Pandora. Like we’re intruders just for breathing.” Your jaw tightens. “If it were up to me, I’d be long gone.”

Gone from the looks.

Gone from the whispers.

Gone from the constant feeling of being tolerated rather than wanted.

Aonung doesn’t answer right away.

He turns fully toward you, studying your face instead of the sea. This time, he doesn’t look irritated. He looks… thoughtful. He sees it all laid bare on you—the longing, the coiled frustration, the resentment pulled tight like a bowstring.

Not just at him.

At the punishment.

At the clan.

At your father.

At yourself.

For not fighting harder.

For swallowing it.

For surviving when others maybe didn’t.

“You’ll never belong,” he says quietly.

The words don’t cut like they once did.

There’s no sneer. No cruelty. Just certainty. Truth spoken without ceremony.

You nod, letting out a small, bitter scoff. “I know.”

The ocean sighs beside you, waves rolling in slow, patient rhythm.

Aonung shifts, gaze flicking back to the water. “That doesn’t mean I hate you,” he adds after a moment.

You glance at him then, surprised.

He frowns faintly, like the words themselves irritate him. “I can’t stand anything that brings harm to my people,” he says. “Anything that puts them at risk. That’s all this is.”

All this is.

Silence settles between you again—different now. Not sharp. Not hostile. Just… there. The ocean breathes beside you, steady and endless, and every so often you catch one another in stolen glances that neither of you acknowledges.

Aonung has never lingered on you before.

Not really.

Before, his eyes had always gone straight to what set you apart—the flatter planes of your face, the extra finger, the traces of your father written into your body like an accusation. He had treated you like proof of a mistake Eywa had made. Something flawed. Something dangerous.

He had never noticed the patterns etched across your skin, how they curve softly along your arms and ribs. Never noticed the single bioluminescent freckle glowing faintly at the tip of your nose. Never noticed the thin, pale scar tracing your cheekbone—so faint it disappears when you smile, so easy to miss unless you’re really looking.

Now, he is.

“How did you get that scar?” he asks quietly.

His voice is low, careful—as if he’s afraid the wind might steal the question and carry it back to the clan. To the others. To his mother. To the people who expect him to keep his distance, his judgment intact.

You turn to him slowly.

Your hand rises without thought, fingers brushing the scar with something almost reverent. The touch grounds you. Anchors you to a memory that doesn’t hurt.

“My Iknimaya,” you say.

His brows lift slightly. You don’t miss it.

“I bonded with my ikran—Seze,” you continue, and your voice softens despite yourself. “It was… easy. She chose me fast. Faster than I expected.” A quiet smile ghosts your lips. “I was careless after. Got clipped by her wing edge when we took off.”

You let out a soft huff. “That’s it. That’s all I got.”

You tell him about the flight—the rush of air tearing laughter from your chest, the way the forest had stretched endlessly beneath you, alive and singing. About the fear that turned into exhilaration. About the moment Seze answered your call, not because she had to—but because she wanted to.

As you speak, your shoulders relax. Your posture loosens. For a brief, fragile moment, the war fades. The migration fades. The ocean fades.

You haven’t felt that light in a long time.

Aonung listens.

Not like someone waiting for his turn to speak. Not like someone searching for flaws. He listens the way the sea listens—to everything.

His gaze doesn’t leave your face. And somewhere between your words, something in him shifts.

He sees you then—not as demon-blooded, not as a threat carried on the tide—but as a girl who earned her place in the sky. A girl who smiled just once without reservation. A girl shaped by courage, not corruption.

The thought unsettles him.

Because all this time, all he had allowed himself to see was the blood in your veins.

Not the life you lived in spite of it.

You rise without another word, brushing sand from your palms as if standing will keep the moment from lingering too long. You call for your ilu and gesture sharply for Aonung to do the same.

“We’ve taken too long,” you say, voice steady. “Let’s finish this.”

He nods once, no argument, and mounts his ilu as you do the same. Silence stretches between you as the water closes over your shoulders. Above, the sky has begun to change—light dimming beneath a slow-moving blanket of clouds, heavy and bruised with promise.

Aonung dives without hesitation.

You linger.

Something tightens in your chest as you look up at the darkening sky, a prickle of dread crawling along your spine. Storm. The word presses into your thoughts uninvited. Still, you draw in a deep breath and dive after him.

Finish the duty, you tell yourself.

Prove it.

Maybe to the clan.

Maybe to him.

Maybe to yourself.

You angle your body into the current, chasing the familiar rhythm, reminding yourself that you are not weak—that stares do not define you, that blood does not erase skill. You are a hunter. A warrior. You have survived worse than this.

Then the current shifts.

It’s subtle at first—a tug that pulls harder than it should, water pressing in unfamiliar patterns. You adjust, try to compensate, but the sky above darkens further, clouds churning as thunder rolls low and distant.

The sea answers.

The water surges violently, slamming into you from the side. Your bond with your ilu flickers, faltering as water rushes up your nose and steals the breath from your lungs. You struggle to steady yourself, heart pounding, fingers trembling as you cling to tsaheylu.

Ahead, Aonung turns sharply.

He struggles too—less than you, but enough that his movements grow urgent. He signals for you to resurface.

You don’t hesitate.

The moment you break the surface, regret crashes into you.

The waves are no longer small. They rise fast and heavy, slamming down with bone-jarring force. Rain pelts your skin, thunder cracking overhead so loudly it rattles your teeth. You barely hear Aonung shouting your name over the roar of the storm.

A wave rears up and crashes into you.

Your ilu is thrown under, dragged violently by the current. You choke, lungs burning as panic claws its way up your throat. You try to calm yourself—for your ilu, for yourself—but the sea does not care.

Another wave hits.

You see Aonung—just for a moment—before he and his ilu are dragged under as well, tumbling end over end. Your eyes widen, terror sharp and absolute.

You reach for him instinctively.

Your fingers barely brush water.

Your lungs scream as you and your ilu surge upward, desperate for air—

and then something snaps.

The bond breaks.

The world lurches violently as a massive wave slams down, ripping you away from the surface and forcing you deep. You kick, clawing uselessly against the current, but it drags you further down, pressure crushing in from all sides.

Your strength bleeds away frighteningly fast.

Your vision blurs. The roar of the storm dulls into a distant thrum. You fight—until you can’t.

Above you, Aonung is barely holding on.

His chest burns, every instinct screaming at him to surface, to breathe—but his eyes lock onto you as your movements slow. As you begin to sink.

“No—”

The word tears through him, swallowed immediately by the sea.

You don’t hear it.

Your world has narrowed to pressure and darkness, to the dull ache in your chest that blooms into something distant, almost peaceful. The roar of the storm fades until there is only the hum of the ocean—low, steady, beckoning. Your lashes flutter. Your body feels heavy. So tired.

Let go, something whispers.

Aonung doesn’t.

A growl rips from his chest, primal and wordless, vibrating through the water as he fights the current like it is a living thing trying to keep you from him. The sea resists—barriers of pressure, dragging hands of tide—but he pushes harder, rage burning hot and focused.

This is my fault.

i made these barriers.

The thought hits him with brutal clarity.

The looks.

The words.

The way he decided who you were before you ever spoke.

He sees it all now—your silence, your restraint, the way you endured. Not weakness. Never weakness. Strength forced inward, compressed until it nearly broke you.

And now—

Your body hits the sea floor with a soft, awful thud, fantail drifting around you like a shroud.

“No,” he thinks again, more fiercely. Not like this.

He reaches you at last, hands shaking as they grab hold of you, pulling you against his chest. You’re limp. Too still. Your skin is cold beneath his fingers, bioluminescent freckles faint in the gloom.

Beautiful. Terrifyingly so.

Aonung doesn’t hesitate. He kicks hard, muscles screaming as he launches upward, clutching you to him as if the ocean itself is trying to steal you away. His lungs burn. Spots dance in his vision. Still, he does not slow.

When he breaks the surface, he gasps—a raw, desperate sound—waves crashing over his shoulders as rain lashes his face. He calls for his ilu with a sharp cry, voice cracking, and when it answers, he hauls himself up with you still in his arms.

“Hold on,” he mutters, more plea than command. “Please.”

The ilu surges forward, cutting through the water with powerful strokes as Awa’atlu comes into view—lights blurred through rain and distance. Aonung doesn’t take his eyes off you. He tilts your head back, presses his forehead briefly to yours.

“Stay with me,” he whispers, breath uneven. “You don’t get to leave. Not like this.”

By the time they reach the shallows, his movements are frantic. He slides off the ilu and wades through crashing waves until his feet hit sand, then drops to his knees, laying you down gently—so gently it hurts.

“Help!” he shouts toward the village, voice breaking through the storm. “Someone—help!”

He doesn’t wait.

He tilts your head, clears water from your mouth, hands trembling as he presses his lips to yours and breathes—once, twice—again. His chest heaves as he pulls back, searching your face for any sign, any movement.

“Breathe,” he begs softly. “Please. Breathe.”

Another breath. And another.

The world around him blurs until there is only you beneath his hands.

His arms burn, muscles trembling from strain and cold, but Aonung doesn’t stop. He can’t. His palms press firmly against your chest, counting under his breath—slow, deliberate—just as Neteyam had once shown him after Kiri had gone limp in the water. Again. Again. Eywa, please. He bows his head, braids dripping rain into the sand, a prayer slipping from his lips before he can stop it.

Do not take her.

Tsireya’s gasp cuts through the storm.

She drops to her knees beside you, hands hovering uselessly, eyes wide and glassy as she watches her brother work. “Aonung—” Her voice cracks.

Ronal arrives a heartbeat later, sharp and commanding even as rain lashes against her skin. “Move, child,” she snaps, shoving Aonung aside just enough to assess you, her fingers pressing to your throat, your chest, your jaw. Her expression tightens—but she doesn’t tell him to stop.

“Again,” Ronal orders quietly. “Do it again.”

Aonung obeys instantly, hands resuming their rhythm, jaw clenched so tightly it aches.

Then your mother’s scream breaks the air.

She stumbles to your side, collapsing into the wet sand, cupping your face between her hands as if she can anchor you to the world through sheer will alone. “No—no, ma’ite—please,” she sobs, forehead pressing to yours. “Eywa, please don’t take my baby.”

Jake stands just behind her, one arm wrapped tightly around Tuk as she cries into his chest, the other held out to keep Neteyam and Lo’ak back. His face is carved from stone, but his eyes betray him—wide, fearful, locked on the faint rise and fall of your chest that refuses to come.

The Olo’eyktan’s voice rumbles through the gathered Metkayina, cutting through murmurs and rain alike. “Enough. Give them space.” He steps forward, broad frame blocking curious eyes as he motions firmly for the crowd to disperse.

“Come on,” Aonung whispers hoarsely as he leans closer to you, rain dripping from his nose onto your skin. “Please. Breathe.”

Another compression. Another breath forced into your lungs.

Your body shudders.

A wet, broken cough tears from your throat, water spilling from your mouth as your chest finally—finally—heaves on its own. The sound is weak, ragged, but it is life.

And yet—

you do not return.

Not fully.

Your heart continues to beat, stubborn and strong, but your mind drifts somewhere far gentler. You are weightless there. Whole. The sky stretches endlessly above you as Seze cuts through the air, her wings powerful beneath your legs. Wind rushes past your ears, laughter trailing behind you—Lo’ak’s reckless whoop, Neteyam’s steady call urging you faster. The forest welcomes you home, and for a while, there is no war, no water, no storm.

Only peace.

You wake two days later to the quiet hush of a marui.

Your throat burns. Your body feels heavy, foreign, as if it no longer quite belongs to you. When your eyes finally flutter open, the first thing you see is your mother—slumped beside your sleeping mat, exhaustion carved deep into her features. Her hair is unbraided, her hands raw from worry.

Your father notices first.

He straightens near the entrance, arms unfolding as his breath catches. “Hey,” he says quietly, like he’s afraid to scare you away. “Hey, kid.”

Your name leaves his mouth, rough and unsure.

Your mother jerks awake with a sharp gasp, eyes widening as she looks down at you. “Oh—Eywa—” Her voice breaks as she cups your face, laughing through tears. “You’re awake.”

You barely have time to react before your siblings swarm you. Tuk clings to you like a lifeline, sobbing into your shoulder. Kiri presses her forehead to yours, whispering something soft and reverent. Neteyam’s hug is careful, protective. Lo’ak’s is too tight, like he’s making sure you’re real.

It’s overwhelming. Comforting. Too much.

Outside the marui, just beyond the woven doorway, Tsireya stands frozen—hands clasped, eyes shining. Beside her, Aonung shifts his weight, gaze fixed on the ground. Neither of them steps forward. Neither of them is sure they’re allowed to.

The moment doesn’t last.

“Out,” The Tsahik snaps as she storms in, rain still clinging to her braids. “All of you. She needs air.”

Your family hesitates—but they listen. Your mother lingers the longest, brushing her thumb across your cheek before being gently ushered away. Your father casts one last conflicted glance over his shoulder before the marui empties.

Ronal’s voice cuts through the space, sharp and efficient as she checks your pupils, your breathing, the faint bioluminescence beneath your skin. Most of her words slide past you, your thoughts still fogged, still heavy with the memory of water and dark.

Then—

“Aonung.”

Your attention snaps back.

You lift your gaze to meet Ronal’s. She studies you intensely, searching—not for weakness, but for understanding. “He was worried,” she says at last, tone clipped, almost begrudging. She presses a shell cup into your hands. “Drink. For your throat.”

Before you can respond, she turns and leaves.

Moments pass.

Then Aonung steps inside.

He pauses just within the entrance, uncertainty etched into the set of his shoulders. His usual confidence is gone—stripped away, leaving something raw behind his eyes. He crouches beside you, clearing his throat as if he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands.

“How do you feel?” he asks quietly.

You swallow, throat protesting, and manage a raspy, dry, “Like I lost a fight with the ocean.” A pause. “And maybe won.”

The corner of your mouth quirks.

Aonung lets out a soft scoff, shaking his head. “Skxawng,” he mutters—not unkindly. He reaches out, taking the cup from your hands and setting it aside before his gaze drifts back to you.

Slowly. Carefully.

His eyes trace your face, lingering longer than necessary, dropping to your chest as if counting breaths, checking that you’re still here. His jaw tightens.

His eyes trace your face, lingering longer than necessary, dropping to your chest as if counting breaths, checking that you’re still here. His jaw tightens.

Aonung exhales through his nose, gaze slipping to the woven floor beneath you. “You scared me,” he admits quietly, like the words might fall apart if he speaks them too loudly.

Great Eywa.

The weight of it presses in on your ribs, heavy and damp, and despite everything—despite the storm, the water, the days lost—you feel an almost irreverent urge to puncture it.

“You did tell me to drown a few weeks ago,” you rasp, voice rough but unmistakably you.

His head snaps up, brows drawing together. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says immediately, the edge of panic fading as his eyes search your face. “I was angry. I was—” He stops, jaw working. “I didn’t mean literally.”

Silence settles between you again, but it’s different now. Not sharp. Not hostile. It’s the kind that breathes, that lets the sound of waves and distant voices seep through the walls of the marui.

Then his voice breaks it.

“I’m sorry.”

The words are simple. Bare. They hang there, unguarded.

Aonung finally looks at you fully, really looks—no smirk, no scorn, no practiced cruelty. Just him. His shoulders tense, like he’s bracing for rejection, for you to laugh or lash back or tell him it’s too late.

You study him for a long moment, the boy who once made it his mission to tear at your resolve, who now looks like he hasn’t slept in days.

“…You’re bad at apologies,” you say softly.

A flicker of something—relief, maybe—crosses his face.

“But,” you continue, shifting carefully on the mat, “you’re not wrong.”

His breath stutters. He nods once, accepting it without pushing.

“I don’t hate you,” he says after a moment, quieter still. “I don’t think I ever really did.”

Your chest tightens—not painfully this time.

“Good,” you murmur. “Because drowning again sounds exhausting.”

Aonung lets out a short, breathy laugh before he can stop himself, quickly sobering as his hand lifts—hesitant—hovering near yours.

He doesn’t take it.

Not yet.

But he stays.

© 𝗍𝖾𝗒𝗎𝗏𝗈 𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟨．𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽．

[teyuvo]

tysm for 100 followers🥹! honestly, when i first created this acc, i had not expected myself to stay consistent with writing due to hectic studying schedules and whatnot, but after receiving so much love and support after my first publication, it really encouraged me to continue writing even when i do not have that energy in me. thank you for your support, it is greatly appreciated💝!

quick psa regarding my aonung fic: it has been postponed to tomorrow. it turned out longer than i had originally intended, so proofreading is taking longer than usual.

[teyuvo]

guysss, first fic will be published tomorrow! it’s an aonung fic, my first one, so thank you to the lovely anon that requested it💝. i hope to release 3 fics during my break, but we’ll see!

[teyuvo]

i am out for 9 days as a break between semesters, so (hopefully) a ton of fics will be written and published! feel free to send rqs!!

[teyuvo]

your neteyam hcs are so cute 🥹🥹 love ur writing! 🩷🩷

thank you so much anonie🥹💝! so happy you enjoy :33

[teyuvo]

STEADY ﹐ 𝗇𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗒𝖺𝗆．𝗌

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈𝐈 𝗇𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗒𝖺𝗆 𝗌𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗑 𝑓!𝗋𝖾𝖺 ✶ 𝟧𝟥𝟧──── 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿，𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉，𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝖻𝖿 𝗇𝖾𝗍𝖾

𝗒𝖺𝗉 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝗒 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 :>

⤷ Before every hunt, he kisses your temple. It’s brief, reverent. If he forgets, he turns back without hesitation, no matter how far he’s gone. He doesn’t leave without you tucked safely into his thoughts.

⤷ At the Tree of Souls, Neteyam prays not for glory or victory— but for time. For more domestic mornings, more quiet nights, more moments where your hand is still in his.

⤷ He memorizes your tells. The way your tail flicks when you’re anxious. How your ears tilt when you’re lying. He notices long before you speak, and he always adjusts; standing closer, lowering his voice, offering silent reassurance.

⤷ Neteyam never raises his voice at you. Even when angry, even when afraid. If emotions rise too high, he steps away until he can speak with respect. He would rather swallow his pride than let his words wound you.

⤷ Neteyam is not jealous by nature— but he is territorial in subtle ways. If another Na’vi lingers too close, he simply steps nearer, fingers hooking loosely into yours. No glare. No words. Just presence.

⤷ Neteyam touches his forehead to yours when words feel too small to carry what he means. Breath to breath, presence to presence. It is his way of saying I see you. I stand with you. I choose you— always.

⤷ He remembers the place where he first heard your laughter, as one remembers sacred ground. When his thoughts grow heavy, he returns to that memory, letting it steady him.

⤷ He lets you rest your weight against his chest during long ikran flights, even though it shifts his balance. He adjusts without complaint.

⤷ He dreams of a future that scares him because it feels too fragile to hope for openly. it isn’t grand: only you weaving beside him, children’s laughter echoing in the distance, a life where his bow rests against the wall more often than his hands.

⤷ He listens when you speak. Truly listens. Even when others speak over you, Neteyam wouldn’t dare. If you are interrupted, his gaze sharpens, firm, and he quietly brings the attention back to you. Your voice matters to him. That alone makes it matter to everyone else.

⤷ Neteyam remembers everything about you. The way your laughter softens when joy takes you fully. The scent of your skin after rain. The exact pressure you favor when he braids your hair. He commits these things to memory with care, intending never to forget.

⤷ Neteyam has watched too many loved ones carried home on woven stretchers. When you are late returning, his chest tightens with a fear he cannot name. He waits at the forest’s edge longer than needed, fingers busy with his arrows while his eyes never leave the path. When you finally emerge— alive, unharmed, relief floods him so fiercely he must turn away before you see it written across his face.

⤷ He praises you quietly, never for others to hear. A soft “You did well,” meant only for you. A proud look when others recognize your skill. He stands behind you always, never seeking credit for the way he lifts you up.

⤷ If Eywa were to ask what he would offer in exchange for your safety, Neteyam would not hesitate. He would give everything without fear, without regret, and consider it a small price to pay.

© 𝗍𝖾𝗒𝗎𝗏𝗈 𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟨．𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽．

[teyuvo]

STEADY ﹐ 𝗇𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗒𝖺𝗆．𝗌

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈𝐈 𝗇𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗒𝖺𝗆 𝗌𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗑 𝑓!𝗋𝖾𝖺 ✶ 𝟧𝟥𝟧──── 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿，𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉，𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝖻𝖿 𝗇𝖾𝗍𝖾

𝗒𝖺𝗉 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝗒 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 :>

⤷ Before every hunt, he kisses your temple. It’s brief, reverent. If he forgets, he turns back without hesitation, no matter how far he’s gone. He doesn’t leave without you tucked safely into his thoughts.

⤷ At the Tree of Souls, Neteyam prays not for glory or victory— but for time. For more domestic mornings, more quiet nights, more moments where your hand is still in his.

⤷ He memorizes your tells. The way your tail flicks when you’re anxious. How your ears tilt when you’re lying. He notices long before you speak, and he always adjusts; standing closer, lowering his voice, offering silent reassurance.

⤷ Neteyam never raises his voice at you. Even when angry, even when afraid. If emotions rise too high, he steps away until he can speak with respect. He would rather swallow his pride than let his words wound you.

⤷ Neteyam is not jealous by nature— but he is territorial in subtle ways. If another Na’vi lingers too close, he simply steps nearer, fingers hooking loosely into yours. No glare. No words. Just presence.

⤷ Neteyam touches his forehead to yours when words feel too small to carry what he means. Breath to breath, presence to presence. It is his way of saying I see you. I stand with you. I choose you— always.

⤷ He remembers the place where he first heard your laughter, as one remembers sacred ground. When his thoughts grow heavy, he returns to that memory, letting it steady him.

⤷ He lets you rest your weight against his chest during long ikran flights, even though it shifts his balance. He adjusts without complaint.

⤷ He dreams of a future that scares him because it feels too fragile to hope for openly. it isn’t grand: only you weaving beside him, children’s laughter echoing in the distance, a life where his bow rests against the wall more often than his hands.

⤷ He listens when you speak. Truly listens. Even when others speak over you, Neteyam wouldn’t dare. If you are interrupted, his gaze sharpens, firm, and he quietly brings the attention back to you. Your voice matters to him. That alone makes it matter to everyone else.

⤷ Neteyam remembers everything about you. The way your laughter softens when joy takes you fully. The scent of your skin after rain. The exact pressure you favor when he braids your hair. He commits these things to memory with care, intending never to forget.

⤷ Neteyam has watched too many loved ones carried home on woven stretchers. When you are late returning, his chest tightens with a fear he cannot name. He waits at the forest’s edge longer than needed, fingers busy with his arrows while his eyes never leave the path. When you finally emerge— alive, unharmed, relief floods him so fiercely he must turn away before you see it written across his face.

⤷ He praises you quietly, never for others to hear. A soft “You did well,” meant only for you. A proud look when others recognize your skill. He stands behind you always, never seeking credit for the way he lifts you up.

⤷ If Eywa were to ask what he would offer in exchange for your safety, Neteyam would not hesitate. He would give everything without fear, without regret, and consider it a small price to pay.

© 𝗍𝖾𝗒𝗎𝗏𝗈 𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟨．𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽．

[teyuvo]

new fic in the making😼 more neteyam content cus i luv my bby

[teyuvo]

classes begin tomorrow🫩 i’m not sure how many fics i’ll be able to get out this week, but feel free to send requests!

[teyuvo]

DON’T CRY ﹐ 𝗇𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗒𝖺𝗆．𝗌

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈 𝗇𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗒𝖺𝗆 𝗌𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗑 𝑓!𝗋𝖾𝖺 ✶ 𝟪𝟩𝟤──── 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍，𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁，𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍，𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗋𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝗍𝖾，𝗐𝖺𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗍

𝗒𝖺𝗉 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗃𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗒𝗍𝗂𝗋𝗂 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌，𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗁

The forest does not rest anymore.

It hums low with mourning—an ache beneath the roots, a shudder in the leaves that no song fully soothes. Smoke still clings to the air from the distant burn sites, bitter and wrong, and every breath you take feels like swallowing grief.

You kneel at the edge of the clearing where the healers have finally stopped returning. Where the cries faded into silence. Where the body that once laughed and scolded and held you together had been returned to Eywa.

Faylì.

Your sister’s name presses against your ribs so tightly it hurts to breathe.

Your hands are clenched in the damp earth, fingers trembling as if the ground itself might slip away from you. Bioluminescent plants glow faintly beneath your palms, their light blurring as your vision swims. Someone had tried to guide you away earlier—soft voices, careful hands—but you shook them off without remembering how. Now there is no one close enough to touch you.

Neteyam stands at the treeline.

He hasn’t approached. Not because he doesn’t want to—but because he knows you. Knows the way grief tugs you inward, the way pain sometimes needs space before it can be shared. His body is taut with restraint, shoulders squared, jaw clenched so hard it aches. His hands curl at his sides, flexing like he’s holding back something violent and wild.

The moment your shoulders begin to shake, something in his chest splinters.

Your breath breaks apart in your lungs. A sound claws its way out of you before you can stop it—raw, wounded, ugly in it’s honesty. You press your forehead to the earth as if you might disappear into it, as if Eywa might pull you under and let you rest where Faylì has gone.

“She was supposed to come back,” you whisper, voice barely sound at all. “She promised.”

The war stole so much—homes, songs, safety—but this? This is too much. This is cruelty without meaning. Faylì had gone to help evacuate the young ones when the sky demons returned in fire and metal. She had smiled at you over her shoulder, braid swinging, eyes warm and fearless.

You didn’t even get to say goodbye.

Your cry rips through the clearing, echoing against the trunks like a wounded animal’s call.

Neteyam flinches.

That sound—it is the same sound he remembered imagining from the stories. From his father’s voice when he spoke of a night long ago, of watching his mother shatter beneath grief he couldn’t stop.

The forest seems to recoil as he stalks deeper into it, breath coming fast, vision narrowing until there is only rage and pain and helplessness burning through him. He stops before one of the great trees—ancient, unyielding, roots thick as coiled muscle.

And he hits it.

Once.

The crack echoes, birds exploding from the canopy above. Bark splinters beneath his fist, sap bleeding pale and luminous against his knuckles. Pain lances up his arm, sharp and grounding—and still it isn’t enough.

He strikes it again.

And again.

Each blow is a silent scream. For Faylì. For you. For the way your cry lodged itself inside his chest and refuses to leave. His hands shake now, breath ragged, teeth bared as if he might tear the sky itself apart if given the chance.

“Eywa, no,” he growls under his breath, forehead dropping against the tree.

He stays there only a moment longer before turning back.

Because you need him.

When Neteyam returns to the clearing, you are folded in on yourself, arms wrapped tight around your middle like you might come apart otherwise. Your sobs have gone quiet but no less devastating—small, broken sounds that make his chest ache.

He kneels behind you and gathers you into him, slow and careful, as if you might shatter beneath his touch. One arm wraps around your waist, solid and warm; the other comes up to cradle the back of your head, pressing you gently into his chest.

The moment you feel him, something in you collapses.

Your fingers clutch at his chest as your grief spills freely now. You sob into him, breath hitching, tears soaking into his skin. He rocks you softly, murmuring words that barely form—your name, over and over, like a prayer.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Your tail curls instinctively around his leg. His responds without thought, wrapping around yours in a quiet, intimate promise neither of you needs to voice.

“I couldn’t save her,” you choke. “She was right there, Neteyam—I should have—”

“No,” he says firmly, pulling back just enough to press his forehead to yours. His eyes are fierce, bright with unshed tears. “You did everything you could. Faylì knew that. Eywa knows that.”

You search his face like you always do, looking for truth the way you’ve done since you were small. And just like always, you find it there.

Your sobs soften, though the ache remains—deep and endless and real. Neteyam holds you through all of it, through the shaking and the silence, through the moment when your grief finally settles into something quieter but heavier.

He presses a kiss to your hair, then another to your temple.

The war may rage on, will rage on. The forest may still hurt, will still hurt.

But here, in his arms, you no longer feel as if you must carry this weight on your own.

And Neteyam will make damn sure you never do.

© 𝗍𝖾𝗒𝗎𝗏𝗈 𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟨．𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽．

[teyuvo]

DON’T CRY ﹐ 𝗇𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗒𝖺𝗆．𝗌

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈 𝗇𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗒𝖺𝗆 𝗌𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗑 𝑓!𝗋𝖾𝖺 ✶ 𝟪𝟩𝟤──── 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍，𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁，𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍，𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗋𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝗍𝖾，𝗐𝖺𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗍

𝗒𝖺𝗉 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗃𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗒𝗍𝗂𝗋𝗂 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌，𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗁

The forest does not rest anymore.

It hums low with mourning—an ache beneath the roots, a shudder in the leaves that no song fully soothes. Smoke still clings to the air from the distant burn sites, bitter and wrong, and every breath you take feels like swallowing grief.

You kneel at the edge of the clearing where the healers have finally stopped returning. Where the cries faded into silence. Where the body that once laughed and scolded and held you together had been returned to Eywa.

Faylì.

Your sister’s name presses against your ribs so tightly it hurts to breathe.

Your hands are clenched in the damp earth, fingers trembling as if the ground itself might slip away from you. Bioluminescent plants glow faintly beneath your palms, their light blurring as your vision swims. Someone had tried to guide you away earlier—soft voices, careful hands—but you shook them off without remembering how. Now there is no one close enough to touch you.

Neteyam stands at the treeline.

He hasn’t approached. Not because he doesn’t want to—but because he knows you. Knows the way grief tugs you inward, the way pain sometimes needs space before it can be shared. His body is taut with restraint, shoulders squared, jaw clenched so hard it aches. His hands curl at his sides, flexing like he’s holding back something violent and wild.

The moment your shoulders begin to shake, something in his chest splinters.

Your breath breaks apart in your lungs. A sound claws its way out of you before you can stop it—raw, wounded, ugly in it’s honesty. You press your forehead to the earth as if you might disappear into it, as if Eywa might pull you under and let you rest where Faylì has gone.

“She was supposed to come back,” you whisper, voice barely sound at all. “She promised.”

The war stole so much—homes, songs, safety—but this? This is too much. This is cruelty without meaning. Faylì had gone to help evacuate the young ones when the sky demons returned in fire and metal. She had smiled at you over her shoulder, braid swinging, eyes warm and fearless.

You didn’t even get to say goodbye.

Your cry rips through the clearing, echoing against the trunks like a wounded animal’s call.

Neteyam flinches.

That sound—it is the same sound he remembered imagining from the stories. From his father’s voice when he spoke of a night long ago, of watching his mother shatter beneath grief he couldn’t stop.

The forest seems to recoil as he stalks deeper into it, breath coming fast, vision narrowing until there is only rage and pain and helplessness burning through him. He stops before one of the great trees—ancient, unyielding, roots thick as coiled muscle.

And he hits it.

Once.

The crack echoes, birds exploding from the canopy above. Bark splinters beneath his fist, sap bleeding pale and luminous against his knuckles. Pain lances up his arm, sharp and grounding—and still it isn’t enough.

He strikes it again.

And again.

Each blow is a silent scream. For Faylì. For you. For the way your cry lodged itself inside his chest and refuses to leave. His hands shake now, breath ragged, teeth bared as if he might tear the sky itself apart if given the chance.

“Eywa, no,” he growls under his breath, forehead dropping against the tree.

He stays there only a moment longer before turning back.

Because you need him.

When Neteyam returns to the clearing, you are folded in on yourself, arms wrapped tight around your middle like you might come apart otherwise. Your sobs have gone quiet but no less devastating—small, broken sounds that make his chest ache.

He kneels behind you and gathers you into him, slow and careful, as if you might shatter beneath his touch. One arm wraps around your waist, solid and warm; the other comes up to cradle the back of your head, pressing you gently into his chest.

The moment you feel him, something in you collapses.

Your fingers clutch at his chest as your grief spills freely now. You sob into him, breath hitching, tears soaking into his skin. He rocks you softly, murmuring words that barely form—your name, over and over, like a prayer.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Your tail curls instinctively around his leg. His responds without thought, wrapping around yours in a quiet, intimate promise neither of you needs to voice.

“I couldn’t save her,” you choke. “She was right there, Neteyam—I should have—”

“No,” he says firmly, pulling back just enough to press his forehead to yours. His eyes are fierce, bright with unshed tears. “You did everything you could. Faylì knew that. Eywa knows that.”

You search his face like you always do, looking for truth the way you’ve done since you were small. And just like always, you find it there.

Your sobs soften, though the ache remains—deep and endless and real. Neteyam holds you through all of it, through the shaking and the silence, through the moment when your grief finally settles into something quieter but heavier.

He presses a kiss to your hair, then another to your temple.

The war may rage on, will rage on. The forest may still hurt, will still hurt.

But here, in his arms, you no longer feel as if you must carry this weight on your own.

And Neteyam will make damn sure you never do.

© 𝗍𝖾𝗒𝗎𝗏𝗈 𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟨．𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽．

[teyuvo]

SOFT AS THE SEA ❤︎ 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝖽𝖾．

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍，𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖺．

𝗇𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗒𝖺𝗆 𝗌𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗑 𝑓!𝗋𝖾𝖺 ✶ 𝟤𝟪𝟣𝟣──── 𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗄𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝖺，𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿，𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌，𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀，𝗌𝗁𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗒

You spot it from halfway down the beach—the unmistakable chaos of boyish pride turned violent.

The sand erupts beneath a tangle of limbs and blue skin, fists and forearms blurring together in a mess of saltwater curses and sharp shouts. Aonung’s voice cuts above the rest, sharp and taunting, while Lo’ak’s snarl answers back with equal heat. Neteyam’s deeper tone follows, controlled but edged, the sound of someone fighting not just an opponent but his own restraint.

Kiri stands a short distance away, arms crossed over her chest, tail flicking idly behind her. Her expression is flat—unimpressed, unsurprised, as if this exact scene had already played out in her head long before the first punch was thrown.

You, however, do not have the patience for this.

With a sharp exhale, you break into a quick jog, bare feet pounding against the warm sand. By the time you reach the pile of rolling bodies, you don’t hesitate. Your hand snaps out, fingers curling firmly around Aonung’s tail.

He yelps.

The sound is loud and indignant as you yank him backward with surprising strength, dragging him clean out of the fight. Sand sprays as he stumbles, nearly falling onto his face before catching himself.

“Are you serious?” you snap, your voice low but cutting. “This is how you spend your time now?”

Aonung whips around, eyes flashing. “Let go of me—!”

You give his tail a sharp tug in warning. “Do not test me.”

The scuffle continues for half a heartbeat longer before you turn back, unimpressed gaze sweeping over the remaining boys. Without missing a beat, you stride forward and grab Lo’ak by the tail next, then one of the Metkayina boys beside him, hauling them apart with practiced ease.

“Eywa help me,” you mutter, dragging all three apart one by one, “you fight like reef pups with no sense and even less shame.”

Lo’ak hisses as you pull him back, teeth bared more in frustration than pain. “They started it—”

“And you finished nothing,” you cut in sharply, releasing him only once he’s steady. “Congratulations.”

Neteyam is the last you separate. When your fingers brush his tail, he stiffens—not in resistance, but surprise. His golden eyes flick to you instantly, wide and alert, breath still heavy from the fight.

“Enough,” you say, gentler despite yourself. “All of you.”

Silence settles, broken only by the distant crash of waves and the boys’ uneven breathing.

You turn fully to Lo’ak and Neteyam then, your irritation softening as you take them in properly—scraped knuckles, sand clinging to damp skin, a thin line of blood beneath Lo’ak’s nose.

“Are you hurt?” you ask, concern threading through your voice now.

Lo’ak wipes his nose with the back of his hand, grimacing before giving a stiff nod. “I’m fine.”

Your gaze lingers a moment longer, searching for anything worse, before shifting to Neteyam.

He doesn’t answer right away.

He’s staring at you.

Not rudely—if anything, he looks caught, as if your presence has knocked the wind straight out of him. His ears twitch, tail flicking once behind him, and for a fleeting second, all the fight drains from his posture.

“I’m… fine,” he finally says, voice quieter than before.

If you weren’t already frustrated, you might notice the heat creeping up to the tips of your ears at the way he looks at you—like you’re something unexpected and precious all at once. As it is, you simply nod, satisfied they can find medical care themselves if needed.

Your attention snaps back to Aonung, who has been sulking a few steps away, jaw tight. You grab his tail again, firm and unapologetic, and start dragging him toward the Marui.

“We are going to see your mother,” you announce flatly.

“What—no, wait—!” he protests, digging his heels into the sand as his friends trail after, wide-eyed and muttering.

“Oh yes,” you reply coolly. “I think she’d love to hear how her son spends his afternoons starting brawls with guests.”

Your thoughts churn as you march forward, irritation simmering beneath your skin. Unbelievable. And they call themselves men.

Behind you, the Metkayina boys follow reluctantly, casting nervous glances between you and Aonung. Lo’ak scoffs loudly, stomping off in the opposite direction, wiping the blood from his nose with an angry huff.

Neteyam doesn’t move.

He stands there, rooted to the sand, watching you with unblinking eyes—like a creature that’s just discovered something beautiful and doesn’t quite understand it yet.

Kiri clicks her tongue softly. “Oh no you don’t.”

She grabs his arm and tugs him along toward their family’s Marui. “You can stare later,” she mutters dryly.

Neteyam allows himself to be dragged, but even as he goes, his gaze lingers on you—on the determined set of your shoulders, the way your tail flicks with restrained irritation, the oceanlight catching in your hair.

Oh, how Eywa has bound his heart.

From that day onward, the decision becomes unspoken but absolute.

Neteyam no longer trains under Aonung’s watchful—and often volatile—eye. The elders do not say it outright, but trust has been thinned, frayed by bruised egos and clenched fists. Lo’ak is separated as well, though Tsireya’s calm presence softens his sharp edges. Neteyam, however, is placed with you.

And he does not question it.

He seeks you out instinctively, as though drawn by tide rather than instruction. At dawn, when the reef is still quiet and the water mirrors the sky. At dusk, when the sun bleeds into the horizon and the sea exhales warmth back onto the shore. Most days, it is just the two of you—your footsteps in the sand, his shadow close behind.

Sometimes Kiri joins when Aonung’s temper flares too harshly or when the lessons grow heavy. She sits nearby, humming to herself or tracing patterns in the sand, a grounding presence. But more often than not, she leaves you to it.

Leaves Neteyam to you.

Tonight, you sit side by side at the shoreline, the waves brushing close enough to cool your feet. The air smells of salt and living water, the horizon painted in fading golds and blues.

Neteyam inhales deeply at your instruction.

You kneel in front of him, placing your palm flat against his chest. His skin is warm beneath your hand, the steady rise and fall of his breathing not nearly steady enough. His heart flutters fast, eager and disobedient.

“Again,” you say softly. “Slower this time.”

He obeys immediately, eyes closing as he draws in a careful breath. You feel his heartbeat quicken anyway, as if your touch alone has betrayed him.

“Two minutes and twenty-four seconds,” you remind him gently. “That is your longest so far.”

His lips press together in frustration. “Metkayina children can do five minutes,” he mutters. “I am far behind.”

“You are forest-born,” you reply without judgment. “Your body must learn the sea, just as the sea must learn you.”

You keep your hand steady against his chest as you speak. “You must breathe slow before you dive,” you say. “Let your heart slow. The calmer it is, the longer your breath will last.”

Neteyam nods again, trying. You wait, patient, listening to the tide and the uneven rhythm beneath your palm. Seconds stretch. His breathing remains shallow, his heart stubbornly fast.

You glance up at his face and catch the narrowed crease between his brow ridges—the small, involuntary sign of his frustration. He is trying so hard. Too hard.

Without another word, you withdraw your hand.

You rise to your feet in one smooth motion, brushing the sand from your sea-fiber skirt. The movement catches his attention immediately; his eyes open, confused but alert.

You turn back to him and hold out your hand.

“Come with me,” you say simply.

Neteyam does not hesitate.

He places his hand in yours at once, fingers curling securely around your palm. The trust in the gesture is immediate, unquestioning. You feel it like a quiet weight settling into your chest.

You lead him away from the shoreline, past scattered driftwood and low dunes where the sand grows cooler beneath your feet. The sounds of the ocean soften as you walk, replaced by rustling leaves and the distant call of birds.

It takes some time, but eventually the reef gives way to something else.

A small wooded area rises ahead—palms and thin-trunked trees clustered together, their leaves whispering in the breeze. It is not the dense rainforest of the Omatikaya, not the towering canopies and glowing undergrowth of his home.

But at the very least, it is green.

The air here feels different—still tinged with salt, but grounded. Earthy. Familiar in a gentler way.

You slow to a stop and turn to face him, releasing his hand only once he is settled.

“Here,” you say quietly. “Close your eyes.”

Neteyam does as told, shoulders easing almost immediately. His breathing deepens on its own, drawn by memory rather than effort.

“Think of your home,” you murmur. “The forest. The places where you do not have to fight your body to belong.”

The change is immediate.

You see it in the way his shoulders drop, tension loosening like a knot finally given permission to unravel. His posture softens, spine no longer held so rigidly upright, and there is a gentle sway to him now—as though the earth beneath his feet has begun to speak a language his body remembers.

You take a quiet moment to simply look at him.

Neteyam’s features are different, yes—subtle traces of humanity woven into Na’vi form. The shape of his nose, the slope of his brow, the way his lips soften when he isn’t guarding himself. They are small details, easily overlooked by those too eager to judge, but to you they are striking. Beautiful. A faint smile pulls at your mouth before you realize it’s there at all.

You cannot understand how anyone could look at the Sully children and see anything but Eywa’s work. Forest-born or reef-raised, human blood or not—it makes no difference. They are Na’vi. They are children of Pandora. Children of Eywa.

The thought settles warm and firm in your chest.

Neteyam exhales.

It is slow, controlled—exactly as you taught him.

His eyes flutter open, golden irises catching the light filtering through the leaves above. When his gaze lifts and finds yours, something gentle passes between you, unmistakable.

You smile without thinking, your eyes dropping briefly to the beaded necklace resting against his collarbone. The Omatikaya beadwork stands out immediately—wood and fiber instead of shell and coral, earthy tones instead of ocean shine. It looks foreign here, and yet impossibly fitting.

Different does not mean wrong.

You glance back up at him—and then, on a sudden impulse, you turn and bolt.

Sand and leaf litter kick up beneath your feet as you sprint into the clearing, laughter bubbling free before you can stop it. The sound surprises even you, light and unrestrained.

“Hey—!” Neteyam calls, startled.

You hear his footsteps almost instantly—longer strides eating the distance between you with ease. Before you can get far, strong arms wrap around your waist, lifting you clean off the ground.

You gasp, laughing, tail flicking wildly as your feet leave the forest floor. Neteyam laughs too—an open, airy sound you haven’t heard from him before, unguarded and bright.

You wiggle in his grasp, pretending to struggle until he lowers you back down, careful and steady. When your feet touch the ground again, he doesn’t move away right away.

Instead, he looks around the small clearing, taking in the trees, the filtered sunlight, the quiet hum of life. A small, genuine smile settles onto his face.

You drop to your belly with a contented sigh, stretching out across the forest floor. The earth is cool beneath you, solid and comforting. Neteyam follows without hesitation, settling beside you, mirroring your posture with surprising ease.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

The silence is comfortable—not awkward, not heavy. Just the sound of leaves shifting overhead and the distant echo of waves reminding you the sea is still close, even here.

You turn your head slightly to look at him. “What was it like?” you ask softly. “Your home. The forest.”

Neteyam’s ears twitch.

His expression changes instantly, lighting up like a spark has been struck somewhere deep inside him. He rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow as he begins to speak, words tumbling over each other with barely contained enthusiasm.

“The forest is… alive,” he says, voice warm and animated. “Not like here—different, but just as strong. The trees are taller than anything you can imagine, their roots like giants’ hands gripping the ground. At night, everything glows. The ground, the leaves, the animals—it is like walking through the stars.”

His hands move as he talks, painting pictures in the air. He tells you about ikran flights through the Hallelujah Mountains, about the way the wind roars in your ears and the forest stretches endlessly below. About home-cooked meals around the fire, laughter echoing through the kelutral, stories passed down like sacred threads.

“My mother sings,” he adds quietly, a fond smile touching his lips. “Sometimes when the day has been long. And my father—he teaches us to listen. To Eywa. To the forest.”

His voice softens then, pride and longing woven together. “It is home,” he finishes simply.

You listen, captivated—not just by his words, but by the way he speaks them. His passion is undeniable, glowing through every sentence, every smile.

You imagine it as he speaks—the forest stretching endlessly in shades of green and blue, light filtering through towering branches, the ground alive beneath one’s feet. You picture how safe it must have felt for him, how right. The thought settles warmly in your chest… and then twists.

Guilt follows close behind.

You turn onto your side to face him, propping your head up with one hand. “You’re brave,” you say softly, the words sincere and unguarded. “To leave all of that and come here so suddenly. I don’t think I could have done it.” You shake your head faintly. “If I had to leave the sea, I don’t know who I’d be.”

Neteyam studies you quietly, something thoughtful passing behind his eyes.

Your gaze drifts again to the necklace resting against his chest, the beads catching the light as they always do. You hesitate, then lift your eyes back to his in silent question. When he nods, you reach out slowly, careful, fingertips brushing against the beadwork.

The texture is different from anything you’re used to—smooth wood, woven fiber, grounding. “It’s beautiful,” you murmur.

Heat creeps up the tips of your ears when he smiles at you like that—lopsided and fond, like he’s been waiting to hear it.

Before you can pull your hand away, Neteyam shifts. He pushes himself up from the forest floor, movements deliberate. Confused, you follow, sitting up with a slight tilt of your head as you watch him untie the necklace.

“Neteyam—?” you begin, but the words trail off when he steps closer.

Gently, reverently, he lifts the necklace and moves behind you, looping it around your neck and tying it with practiced care. The beads settle against your collarbone, cool and unfamiliar and impossibly intimate.

Your breath catches.

You turn to face him, heart fluttering. “I—I can’t take this,” you say softly, fingers brushing the necklace as if to make sure it’s real. “It’s yours.”

He shakes his head, eyes steady. “I don’t need a necklace to remember where I come from,” he replies quietly. “My home lives here.” He taps his chest once. “And here.” His gaze lifts to meet yours again. “I want you to have it.”

For a moment, neither of you speak.

You simply look at each other, soft smiles blooming, something unspoken and tender stretching between you. The air feels warmer, thicker, as if the world itself has slowed to watch.

Before you can overthink it, you lean in.

The kiss you press to his cheek is slow and gentle, lips lingering just long enough to mean something. You feel the heat rush to your skin, your own shade deepening instinctively, blue blooming rich and bright.

Neteyam freezes—just for a heartbeat—before his smile widens, soft and stunned, color darkening across his cheeks in response.

Behind you, the sun begins its descent, spilling orange and pink across the sky, painting the clearing in quiet gold.

He is the first to move.

Neteyam straightens and extends his hand toward you, palm open and patient. You take it without hesitation, allowing him to pull you easily to your feet. His grip is warm, grounding.

Side by side, he leads you back toward the shore, neither of you feeling the need to speak. The silence is comfortable again, filled with shared understanding rather than emptiness.

When the reef comes back into view and the sound of waves grows louder, Neteyam slows. He turns to you one last time.

“Thank you,” he says softly. “For taking me there. For making me feel… welcome. Like I belong.”

You shake your head immediately, a small smile on your lips. “It’s the least I could do,” you reply. “After Aonung’s childish behavior, anyway.”

He laughs lightly at that, the sound warm and genuine.

You part ways soon after, offering a quiet goodbye before beginning your walk home. You don’t look back—but if you did, you would see him still standing there, unmoving, watching you go without interruption this time.

His tail flicks lazily behind him, and his lips curl into a soft, content smile.

Maybe, he thinks, living among the Metkayina will not be so bad after all.

© 𝗍𝖾𝗒𝗎𝗏𝗈 𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟧．𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽．

[teyuvo]

SOFT AS THE SEA ❤︎ 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝖽𝖾．

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍，𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖺．

𝗇𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗒𝖺𝗆 𝗌𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗑 𝑓!𝗋𝖾𝖺 ✶ 𝟤𝟪𝟣𝟣──── 𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗄𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝖺，𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿，𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌，𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀，𝗌𝗁𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗒

You spot it from halfway down the beach—the unmistakable chaos of boyish pride turned violent.

The sand erupts beneath a tangle of limbs and blue skin, fists and forearms blurring together in a mess of saltwater curses and sharp shouts. Aonung’s voice cuts above the rest, sharp and taunting, while Lo’ak’s snarl answers back with equal heat. Neteyam’s deeper tone follows, controlled but edged, the sound of someone fighting not just an opponent but his own restraint.

Kiri stands a short distance away, arms crossed over her chest, tail flicking idly behind her. Her expression is flat—unimpressed, unsurprised, as if this exact scene had already played out in her head long before the first punch was thrown.

You, however, do not have the patience for this.

With a sharp exhale, you break into a quick jog, bare feet pounding against the warm sand. By the time you reach the pile of rolling bodies, you don’t hesitate. Your hand snaps out, fingers curling firmly around Aonung’s tail.

He yelps.

The sound is loud and indignant as you yank him backward with surprising strength, dragging him clean out of the fight. Sand sprays as he stumbles, nearly falling onto his face before catching himself.

“Are you serious?” you snap, your voice low but cutting. “This is how you spend your time now?”

Aonung whips around, eyes flashing. “Let go of me—!”

You give his tail a sharp tug in warning. “Do not test me.”

The scuffle continues for half a heartbeat longer before you turn back, unimpressed gaze sweeping over the remaining boys. Without missing a beat, you stride forward and grab Lo’ak by the tail next, then one of the Metkayina boys beside him, hauling them apart with practiced ease.

“Eywa help me,” you mutter, dragging all three apart one by one, “you fight like reef pups with no sense and even less shame.”

Lo’ak hisses as you pull him back, teeth bared more in frustration than pain. “They started it—”

“And you finished nothing,” you cut in sharply, releasing him only once he’s steady. “Congratulations.”

Neteyam is the last you separate. When your fingers brush his tail, he stiffens—not in resistance, but surprise. His golden eyes flick to you instantly, wide and alert, breath still heavy from the fight.

“Enough,” you say, gentler despite yourself. “All of you.”

Silence settles, broken only by the distant crash of waves and the boys’ uneven breathing.

You turn fully to Lo’ak and Neteyam then, your irritation softening as you take them in properly—scraped knuckles, sand clinging to damp skin, a thin line of blood beneath Lo’ak’s nose.

“Are you hurt?” you ask, concern threading through your voice now.

Lo’ak wipes his nose with the back of his hand, grimacing before giving a stiff nod. “I’m fine.”

Your gaze lingers a moment longer, searching for anything worse, before shifting to Neteyam.

He doesn’t answer right away.

He’s staring at you.

Not rudely—if anything, he looks caught, as if your presence has knocked the wind straight out of him. His ears twitch, tail flicking once behind him, and for a fleeting second, all the fight drains from his posture.

“I’m… fine,” he finally says, voice quieter than before.

If you weren’t already frustrated, you might notice the heat creeping up to the tips of your ears at the way he looks at you—like you’re something unexpected and precious all at once. As it is, you simply nod, satisfied they can find medical care themselves if needed.

Your attention snaps back to Aonung, who has been sulking a few steps away, jaw tight. You grab his tail again, firm and unapologetic, and start dragging him toward the Marui.

“We are going to see your mother,” you announce flatly.

“What—no, wait—!” he protests, digging his heels into the sand as his friends trail after, wide-eyed and muttering.

“Oh yes,” you reply coolly. “I think she’d love to hear how her son spends his afternoons starting brawls with guests.”

Your thoughts churn as you march forward, irritation simmering beneath your skin. Unbelievable. And they call themselves men.

Behind you, the Metkayina boys follow reluctantly, casting nervous glances between you and Aonung. Lo’ak scoffs loudly, stomping off in the opposite direction, wiping the blood from his nose with an angry huff.

Neteyam doesn’t move.

He stands there, rooted to the sand, watching you with unblinking eyes—like a creature that’s just discovered something beautiful and doesn’t quite understand it yet.

Kiri clicks her tongue softly. “Oh no you don’t.”

She grabs his arm and tugs him along toward their family’s Marui. “You can stare later,” she mutters dryly.

Neteyam allows himself to be dragged, but even as he goes, his gaze lingers on you—on the determined set of your shoulders, the way your tail flicks with restrained irritation, the oceanlight catching in your hair.

Oh, how Eywa has bound his heart.

From that day onward, the decision becomes unspoken but absolute.

Neteyam no longer trains under Aonung’s watchful—and often volatile—eye. The elders do not say it outright, but trust has been thinned, frayed by bruised egos and clenched fists. Lo’ak is separated as well, though Tsireya’s calm presence softens his sharp edges. Neteyam, however, is placed with you.

And he does not question it.

He seeks you out instinctively, as though drawn by tide rather than instruction. At dawn, when the reef is still quiet and the water mirrors the sky. At dusk, when the sun bleeds into the horizon and the sea exhales warmth back onto the shore. Most days, it is just the two of you—your footsteps in the sand, his shadow close behind.

Sometimes Kiri joins when Aonung’s temper flares too harshly or when the lessons grow heavy. She sits nearby, humming to herself or tracing patterns in the sand, a grounding presence. But more often than not, she leaves you to it.

Leaves Neteyam to you.

Tonight, you sit side by side at the shoreline, the waves brushing close enough to cool your feet. The air smells of salt and living water, the horizon painted in fading golds and blues.

Neteyam inhales deeply at your instruction.

You kneel in front of him, placing your palm flat against his chest. His skin is warm beneath your hand, the steady rise and fall of his breathing not nearly steady enough. His heart flutters fast, eager and disobedient.

“Again,” you say softly. “Slower this time.”

He obeys immediately, eyes closing as he draws in a careful breath. You feel his heartbeat quicken anyway, as if your touch alone has betrayed him.

“Two minutes and twenty-four seconds,” you remind him gently. “That is your longest so far.”

His lips press together in frustration. “Metkayina children can do five minutes,” he mutters. “I am far behind.”

“You are forest-born,” you reply without judgment. “Your body must learn the sea, just as the sea must learn you.”

You keep your hand steady against his chest as you speak. “You must breathe slow before you dive,” you say. “Let your heart slow. The calmer it is, the longer your breath will last.”

Neteyam nods again, trying. You wait, patient, listening to the tide and the uneven rhythm beneath your palm. Seconds stretch. His breathing remains shallow, his heart stubbornly fast.

You glance up at his face and catch the narrowed crease between his brow ridges—the small, involuntary sign of his frustration. He is trying so hard. Too hard.

Without another word, you withdraw your hand.

You rise to your feet in one smooth motion, brushing the sand from your sea-fiber skirt. The movement catches his attention immediately; his eyes open, confused but alert.

You turn back to him and hold out your hand.

“Come with me,” you say simply.

Neteyam does not hesitate.

He places his hand in yours at once, fingers curling securely around your palm. The trust in the gesture is immediate, unquestioning. You feel it like a quiet weight settling into your chest.

You lead him away from the shoreline, past scattered driftwood and low dunes where the sand grows cooler beneath your feet. The sounds of the ocean soften as you walk, replaced by rustling leaves and the distant call of birds.

It takes some time, but eventually the reef gives way to something else.

A small wooded area rises ahead—palms and thin-trunked trees clustered together, their leaves whispering in the breeze. It is not the dense rainforest of the Omatikaya, not the towering canopies and glowing undergrowth of his home.

But at the very least, it is green.

The air here feels different—still tinged with salt, but grounded. Earthy. Familiar in a gentler way.

You slow to a stop and turn to face him, releasing his hand only once he is settled.

“Here,” you say quietly. “Close your eyes.”

Neteyam does as told, shoulders easing almost immediately. His breathing deepens on its own, drawn by memory rather than effort.

“Think of your home,” you murmur. “The forest. The places where you do not have to fight your body to belong.”

The change is immediate.

You see it in the way his shoulders drop, tension loosening like a knot finally given permission to unravel. His posture softens, spine no longer held so rigidly upright, and there is a gentle sway to him now—as though the earth beneath his feet has begun to speak a language his body remembers.

You take a quiet moment to simply look at him.

Neteyam’s features are different, yes—subtle traces of humanity woven into Na’vi form. The shape of his nose, the slope of his brow, the way his lips soften when he isn’t guarding himself. They are small details, easily overlooked by those too eager to judge, but to you they are striking. Beautiful. A faint smile pulls at your mouth before you realize it’s there at all.

You cannot understand how anyone could look at the Sully children and see anything but Eywa’s work. Forest-born or reef-raised, human blood or not—it makes no difference. They are Na’vi. They are children of Pandora. Children of Eywa.

The thought settles warm and firm in your chest.

Neteyam exhales.

It is slow, controlled—exactly as you taught him.

His eyes flutter open, golden irises catching the light filtering through the leaves above. When his gaze lifts and finds yours, something gentle passes between you, unmistakable.

You smile without thinking, your eyes dropping briefly to the beaded necklace resting against his collarbone. The Omatikaya beadwork stands out immediately—wood and fiber instead of shell and coral, earthy tones instead of ocean shine. It looks foreign here, and yet impossibly fitting.

Different does not mean wrong.

You glance back up at him—and then, on a sudden impulse, you turn and bolt.

Sand and leaf litter kick up beneath your feet as you sprint into the clearing, laughter bubbling free before you can stop it. The sound surprises even you, light and unrestrained.

“Hey—!” Neteyam calls, startled.

You hear his footsteps almost instantly—longer strides eating the distance between you with ease. Before you can get far, strong arms wrap around your waist, lifting you clean off the ground.

You gasp, laughing, tail flicking wildly as your feet leave the forest floor. Neteyam laughs too—an open, airy sound you haven’t heard from him before, unguarded and bright.

You wiggle in his grasp, pretending to struggle until he lowers you back down, careful and steady. When your feet touch the ground again, he doesn’t move away right away.

Instead, he looks around the small clearing, taking in the trees, the filtered sunlight, the quiet hum of life. A small, genuine smile settles onto his face.

You drop to your belly with a contented sigh, stretching out across the forest floor. The earth is cool beneath you, solid and comforting. Neteyam follows without hesitation, settling beside you, mirroring your posture with surprising ease.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

The silence is comfortable—not awkward, not heavy. Just the sound of leaves shifting overhead and the distant echo of waves reminding you the sea is still close, even here.

You turn your head slightly to look at him. “What was it like?” you ask softly. “Your home. The forest.”

Neteyam’s ears twitch.

His expression changes instantly, lighting up like a spark has been struck somewhere deep inside him. He rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow as he begins to speak, words tumbling over each other with barely contained enthusiasm.

“The forest is… alive,” he says, voice warm and animated. “Not like here—different, but just as strong. The trees are taller than anything you can imagine, their roots like giants’ hands gripping the ground. At night, everything glows. The ground, the leaves, the animals—it is like walking through the stars.”

His hands move as he talks, painting pictures in the air. He tells you about ikran flights through the Hallelujah Mountains, about the way the wind roars in your ears and the forest stretches endlessly below. About home-cooked meals around the fire, laughter echoing through the kelutral, stories passed down like sacred threads.

“My mother sings,” he adds quietly, a fond smile touching his lips. “Sometimes when the day has been long. And my father—he teaches us to listen. To Eywa. To the forest.”

His voice softens then, pride and longing woven together. “It is home,” he finishes simply.

You listen, captivated—not just by his words, but by the way he speaks them. His passion is undeniable, glowing through every sentence, every smile.

You imagine it as he speaks—the forest stretching endlessly in shades of green and blue, light filtering through towering branches, the ground alive beneath one’s feet. You picture how safe it must have felt for him, how right. The thought settles warmly in your chest… and then twists.

Guilt follows close behind.

You turn onto your side to face him, propping your head up with one hand. “You’re brave,” you say softly, the words sincere and unguarded. “To leave all of that and come here so suddenly. I don’t think I could have done it.” You shake your head faintly. “If I had to leave the sea, I don’t know who I’d be.”

Neteyam studies you quietly, something thoughtful passing behind his eyes.

Your gaze drifts again to the necklace resting against his chest, the beads catching the light as they always do. You hesitate, then lift your eyes back to his in silent question. When he nods, you reach out slowly, careful, fingertips brushing against the beadwork.

The texture is different from anything you’re used to—smooth wood, woven fiber, grounding. “It’s beautiful,” you murmur.

Heat creeps up the tips of your ears when he smiles at you like that—lopsided and fond, like he’s been waiting to hear it.

Before you can pull your hand away, Neteyam shifts. He pushes himself up from the forest floor, movements deliberate. Confused, you follow, sitting up with a slight tilt of your head as you watch him untie the necklace.

“Neteyam—?” you begin, but the words trail off when he steps closer.

Gently, reverently, he lifts the necklace and moves behind you, looping it around your neck and tying it with practiced care. The beads settle against your collarbone, cool and unfamiliar and impossibly intimate.

Your breath catches.

You turn to face him, heart fluttering. “I—I can’t take this,” you say softly, fingers brushing the necklace as if to make sure it’s real. “It’s yours.”

He shakes his head, eyes steady. “I don’t need a necklace to remember where I come from,” he replies quietly. “My home lives here.” He taps his chest once. “And here.” His gaze lifts to meet yours again. “I want you to have it.”

For a moment, neither of you speak.

You simply look at each other, soft smiles blooming, something unspoken and tender stretching between you. The air feels warmer, thicker, as if the world itself has slowed to watch.

Before you can overthink it, you lean in.

The kiss you press to his cheek is slow and gentle, lips lingering just long enough to mean something. You feel the heat rush to your skin, your own shade deepening instinctively, blue blooming rich and bright.

Neteyam freezes—just for a heartbeat—before his smile widens, soft and stunned, color darkening across his cheeks in response.

Behind you, the sun begins its descent, spilling orange and pink across the sky, painting the clearing in quiet gold.

He is the first to move.

Neteyam straightens and extends his hand toward you, palm open and patient. You take it without hesitation, allowing him to pull you easily to your feet. His grip is warm, grounding.

Side by side, he leads you back toward the shore, neither of you feeling the need to speak. The silence is comfortable again, filled with shared understanding rather than emptiness.

When the reef comes back into view and the sound of waves grows louder, Neteyam slows. He turns to you one last time.

“Thank you,” he says softly. “For taking me there. For making me feel… welcome. Like I belong.”

You shake your head immediately, a small smile on your lips. “It’s the least I could do,” you reply. “After Aonung’s childish behavior, anyway.”

He laughs lightly at that, the sound warm and genuine.

You part ways soon after, offering a quiet goodbye before beginning your walk home. You don’t look back—but if you did, you would see him still standing there, unmoving, watching you go without interruption this time.

His tail flicks lazily behind him, and his lips curl into a soft, content smile.

Maybe, he thinks, living among the Metkayina will not be so bad after all.

© 𝗍𝖾𝗒𝗎𝗏𝗈 𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟧．𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽．

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────────𝑩𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐅 ﹙𝘢𝘷﹚ 【強力な戦士】𝓃

𝐎𝐎𝟏 ˘ ˘ 〝𝗐𝗁𝗈’𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝓂𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗋〞 ﹐ 𝐍𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐘𝐀𝐌 𝐒.

𝐈. 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖺 ✶ 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍，𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖺．𓏳 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅－𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗁 𝖿𝗂𝖼

𝐈𝐈. 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝖼𝗋𝗒 ✶ 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗋𝗒．𓏳 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝖻𝖻𝗅𝖾

𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 ✶ 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽 𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽，𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍．𓏳 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗇𝗌

𝐎𝐎𝟐 ˘ ˘ 〝𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅，𝗂’𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝓎𝗈𝗎〞 ﹐ 𝐋𝐎’𝐀𝐊 𝐒.

𝒞𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀𝒮𝘰𝘰𝘯．

𝐎𝐎𝟑 ˘ ˘ 〝𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝒻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄〞 ﹐ 𝐀𝐎𝐍𝐔𝐍𝐆

𝐈. 𝗍𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 ✶ 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗂𝗍．𓏳 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅－𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗁 𝖿𝗂𝖼

© 𝗍𝖾𝗒𝗎𝗏𝗈 𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟧．𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽．