@wyndhorn - Tumblr Blog

Jan 21

TASTE OF THE SUN

Forced into leadership by a dying clan, you discover a perverse comfort in the fire that had always defined your people's destruction, unknowingly walking the path paved with the bones of the fallen savior you swore you would never become.

pairing: neteyam x mangkwan!reader tags: atwow & afaa spoilers, canon divergence, aged-up, enemies to lovers, canon-typical violence, tba (6.5k wc) chapters: tba.

PROLOGUE.

It has been years since Varang fell, since the Sky People fled with their metal birds screaming into the clouds. Time moved on, and in the space left by the clan’s matriarch, the decay of your home has only deepened. The old lands were still there—ash-streaked soil, the blackened stump of the Hometree, yurts of chopped wood crouched on barren ground, smoke clinging stubbornly to the air. But Varang had taken the fire with her when she died, the fury that once bound the Mangkwan together through anger alone.

And for a clan that thrived from violence, the power vacuum was filled with blood. From the chaos rose a cruel tradition: Tupe slu txepìva—“Who becomes ash.” Leadership was no longer inherited, nor earned. It became a sick play of luck where the only end was a temporary claim to the mantle, followed almost immediately by a violent death before they could draw their first breath as leader. The shortest-lived claimants fell in an hour, killed in the middle of their own victory feasts; the longest, barely two weeks, killed in the night while the village slept. Some died in raids, others in broad daylight right in the center of the village.

The constant infighting bled the clan dry. Raids failed again and again, undone by the ever-changing leadership. With the food running low, the people began to waste away. Where Varang had commanded strength in numbers, now only a skeleton of her people remained. Fewer hunters meant fewer kills. Fewer kills meant less sustenance. Less sustenance meant death.

You were far from innocent in all of this. You had assisted in some of the killings yourself, deciding that a self-proclaimed leader was too weak or too foolish—which, in truth, they mostly were. Yet even as the blood of your own people settled in your hands, you had never thought yourself fit to take the mantle. That conviction cracked when your mother fell ill.

Stolen herbs, the crude remedies scavenged in haste, did nothing. The rot had sunk too deep into her bones, likely nourished by the ash-choked soil and poisoned air that had become the Mangkwan home. And in your desperation, you brought up the almost laughable idea of moving and settling somewhere where the soil breathed life rather than death. The rainforests.

It wasn't as if the Mangkwan were strangers to conquest. Back then, taking land wasn’t just a necessity; it was an art form. They would find a place. It might be a verdant stretch of riverbank, a grove of sturdy trees, or a patch of hardy scrubland capable of feeding a hundred mouths. And the first thing they would do—the very first act of claiming their new territory—was to set it on fire. The Sky People, with their strange, cold tools and their terrifying machines, had taught your clan a kind of brutal efficiency. Under Varang’s iron gaze, the Mangkwan had learned how to strip an area bare and build something formidable.

Sovamun, the clan’s current leader, throws his head back, the sound of a barking rasp that echoes off the yurt’s smoke-stained walls. He is a mountain of a man. A jagged, fresh slash runs from his temple to his jaw, a souvenir from a raid three days ago. He sneers at you, his yellowed teeth bared in a mockery of a grin.

“Move?” he wheezes, phlegm rattling in his chest. “To the trees like the Omatikaya? Like soft prey?” He laughs again, louder this time. "You think I am a fool? You think the Mangkwan crawl on their bellies to eat berries?"

You stand across from him, arms loose at your sides. You don't feel the sting of insult; you just feel the dull, grinding annoyance of listening to a man drowning in his own ego while the clan suffocates outside. You wait for the noise to die down, watching him with the patience of someone watching a child throw a tantrum.

Sovamun wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and leans forward, his small eyes narrowing. "You think you know better than me?" He walks closer to you, forcing you to crane your neck to look at him. "If you want to make the big decisions... why don't you try to take my place? Kill me." He spreads his thick arms. "If you can."

You just meet his gaze, your voice flat and unimpressed. "Who will you lead then, Sovamun? If all of your people are dead?"

The smile vanishes instantly. He lunges forward, his massive hand shooting out to grab your jaw. His grip is iron, digging into your cheeks, forcing your head back until your neck strains. He leans in close, his hot, foul breath blowing over your face.

"I will lead my people the way I want," he growls, spittle flying onto your skin. "I will lead as long as I live."

But now? The iron was gone, leaving behind only their wreckage—and a clan that suddenly didn't know how to stand on its own two feet.

It was pathetic. It was a sickness far worse than your mother’s. Without the RDA and Varang providing the structure, the weapons, the framework for their cruelty, the Mangkwan had devolved. The hunters who once stood tall under the banner of conquest were now little more than scavengers, picking through the scraps of a dead world. You remembered hearing the humans speak during the occupation, their strange, clipped words floating over the barracks. They had a phrase for it, a sneer of dismissal: "pussies." They had used it to describe those who couldn't hold their ground, those who flinched at the first sign of trouble.

You think Sovamun is a pussy.

And it didn’t take long for Sovamun to fall. An arrow to the neck during the next raid. It was quick and brutal, as if karma itself had finally decided to do its job. But the truth was far more pathetic, it was nothing more than a panicked, mistimed shot from one of his own men. And yet, just like that, the throne of ash was vacant.

That was how Tuso rose to the top of the food chain, or perhaps straight to the bottom, because he was arguably worse at the job than Sovamun. You didn't even know the man’s name until the night after the raid. He didn’t confess with pride. He collapsed right by the fire, slobbering into the scorched ground, head bowed so low it almost scraped ash. He was terrified, eyes wide with the realization that he had killed the Olo'eyktan by accident, expecting to be executed for his incompetence.

The clan celebrated him anyway. The delirium of Tupe slu txepìva had warped their minds so thoroughly that they treated this blunder as a miracle. They cheered like a swarm of kenten stirred into a frenzy, spinning with excitement that this man—this clumsy follower who had spent his entire life tailing the smartest person in the room—had somehow snatched the title of leader.

You were certain he would not last the night. You half-expected it to happen right there, while the clan squandered the meager scraps of the recent raid to throw him a celebration. It would have been easy. A single arrow to the heart, quick and clean. Or slower, your hands in the base of his kuru, his face pushed into the fire where he circled and screeched like an idiot. You didn't think the guy could even overpower you; he was trembling so hard before that he looked like he might vibrate out of his own skin.

But you didn’t do it, and Tuso was still alive the next morning.

You watched him stumble through the morning duties, looking terrified that someone might ask him to make a decision. If he lived, then perhaps he could be used. A leader too weak to command was still a leader—one who could be steered without ever realizing his hands were no longer on the reins.

So you decided to try again.

The flap of Tuso’s yurt brushes against your shoulder as you step inside. He’s crouched near the fire pit, fiddling with a bunch of dry wood, shaving the ends too thin, looking every bit of the impostor he feels. He startles, nearly dropping the knife he’s using, but recovers quickly enough to offer a strained, welcoming smile.

"Come in," he says, gesturing to a pile of furs across from him. "Sit. Please."

You didn’t acknowledge the offer and remained standing, your gaze sweeping over him. He looks pitiful in his attempt of authority. His clan markings are a mess of red paint, charcoal, and ash smeared across his forehead and cheeks, intended to look fearsome but currently appearing more like a child’s poor imitation of war paint. He tries to straighten his posture, pulling his shoulders back to appear larger, but he still looks like a scavenger playing dress-up in a dead warrior’s gear. Which, in truth, he is.

Realizing you aren't moving, Tuso drops his hand, the awkwardness shifting into a tense, defensive scowl. He crosses his arms, the leather of his chest covering creaking softly.

"You look ridiculous," you say, taking a step closer.

Tuso’s jaw tightens, the grey stripe running down his chin scrunching up. "What do you want?"

“Here is the truth, since you seem to be struggling to grasp it,” you say, “The people are starving. Dying. No amount of raids could keep the mouths here fed. We need to leave this cursed, barren land—pack the clan, and move closer to the rainforests. We settle there. The resources there would feed all your people for many seasons.”

Tuso blinks, his brow furrowing deeply. He looks confused, his tail twitching behind him as he tries to process the logistics. "Move to the rainforests?" He shakes his head, his voice rising with genuine confusion rather than malice. "That is Omatikaya territory. We have tried to kill their people, remember? And the people—my people. They will not follow an order to climb into the trees. Not without blood."

Your patience evaporates. You lunge forward, crossing the small space in a single stride. Tuso tenses, his hand flying to the knife he discarded. He barely has time to pull it out before you’re on him, fingers fisting his armor, slamming him back against the yurt’s wooden stake. The impact rattles the chain of animal bones hanging from the beams. You slam your forearm across his throat, pinning him, and with your free hand, you draw your own knife.

You hover the tip directly over his right eye. Tuso freezes, his breath hitching, his pupils dilating as he stares cross-eyed at the deadly point.

"Listen to me," you say, your voice a low growl. "You will do as I say. You will order the move. If you don't, I will carve this eye out of your skull. I'll leave you half-blind and screaming.”

Tuso glares at you, his chest heaving against your arm. The fear is there, but so is a sudden, sharp flare of anger. He bares his teeth, his fangs glinting in the dim light.

"Why don't you just kill me now?" he spits, the words straining against your forearm. "If you want to lead, take the mantle. Cut my throat and be done with it."

You let out a short, cold laugh. "And get myself killed? I am no idiot. The moment I kill you, three others will put a knife in my back before your body hits the floor. I have no desire to be the next ash."

He grits his teeth, his muscles coiled tight, still searching for a way out that doesn't end in him leading a migration or dying on this floor. He doesn't trust your word.

"I will protect you, Tuso," you say, your voice dropping, smoothing into something almost kind. "As long as you go through with this, I will be your shadow. No one touches you."

Tuso scoffs weakly, though he doesn't dare move his head. "How can you make sure of that? You are one hunter."

You look at him as if he is simple-minded, tilting your head slightly. "Do you really think I couldn't have killed Sovamun? Or all the others that also took the role you’re playing now?" You pause, letting the weight of it settle. “If I wanted the mantle, I would have taken it years ago. I didn't, because every leader stands with one foot already in the ashes. I want to live, Tuso. I’m sure the rest of the clan wants that as well. And the only way we do that is if you stand in front and give the orders, and I stand behind you to make sure nobody disobeys them. Now, do we understand each other?"

The order was given, but obedience has long been a foreign concept to the Mangkwan. For a people whose entire history was carved in the theft of land, lives, and resources, the irony of their refusal was bitter enough to choke on. You watched from the outskirts of the camp, arms crossed over your chest, as the clan erupted into a cacophony of snarls and disbelief. To you, the logic was undeniable, a bright, clean line drawn through the chaos of their lives: the rainforests meant water, meant meat, meant breath. But to them, it was a surrender.

They were people obsessed with gain, with hoarding, with the act of seizing, yet when presented with the ultimate prize—a land that could single-handedly arrest their slow march into extinction—they shrank from it as if it were poisoned.

Tuso was useless, of course. He stood near the center of the chaos, looking like a prey animal caught in a trap, his eyes darting nervously as his people glared at him. He lacked the presence to command, the venom to bite back their insolence. Every time a warrior spat on the ground near his feet, muttering about "tree-huggers" and "cowardice," you saw Tuso flinch, his hand hovering over his knife but never daring to draw it. He was a figurehead, a hollow shell, and every glance he shot your way was a silent plea for salvation.

You didn't have time to coddle him. The sun was climbing, burning with a heat that the sparse canopy of dead saplings couldn't block, and with every passing hour, the rhythmic rattle of your mother’s breathing back in the sick yurt grew louder in your ears. You had to get her to the rainforests.

Your mother lay on a pile of furs near the wall, her body curled in a way that suggested she was trying to occupy as little space as possible. Her breathing was a wet, rattling sound that seemed too loud in the small space.

You sat by the pot, stirring the stew with a rough wooden spoon. The rhythm was aggressive, the clatter of wood against ceramic echoing sharply every time the spoon hit the side. You weren't just mixing the broth; you were trying to beat the frustration out of it, your movements jerky and filled with a tension that made your shoulders ache.

Behind you, the furs rustled. You glanced over your shoulder to see your mother pushing herself up, her trembling arms struggling to lock under her weight.

"Sit down," you snapped, the harshness of your voice surprising even you. "This is almost done. Just lay there."

She ignored you, as she often did when it came to her own dignity. With a grimace of effort, she managed to prop herself up against the wooden struts of the yurt wall. The movement triggered a fit of coughing, a deep, chest-rattling hack that seemed to shake her fragile frame apart. She wheezed, hand pressed to her chest, her skin looking paler and thin under the dim firelight, stretched tight over prominent ribs.

When she finally caught her breath, she looked at you, her eyes glassy but knowing. She watched you stir the pot for a moment longer, taking in the tight set of your jaw and the way your tail lashed angrily against the dirt floor.

"What is wrong?" she rasped.

You didn't look at her, keeping your eyes fixed on the boiling liquid. "It’s them. The clan."

"They are... stubborn," she said lightly.

"Extremely so," You slammed the spoon down a little harder than necessary. "It’s not even stubbornness anymore, it’s stupidity. The ash must have clumped up in their brains, rotting out the memories of who we are." You picked up the spoon again, scraping the bottom of the pot. "That is what Mangkwans do. We go somewhere unknown, and we make it ours. We burn it out of the trees. That is the legacy. And now? Now they are scared to do it."

You turned to look at her, gesturing vaguely toward the village outside with a toss of your hand. "Why? Just because Varang is gone? They look like frauds standing out there, clutching their bows like children, afraid to take a step without their mother holding their hands. It’s frustrating."

You waited for her to nod, to agree with your assessment of their weakness. Instead, a low, wheezing sound escaped her throat. It started small, a vibration in her chest, and then grew into a quiet, rhythmic chuckle.

You frowned, the irritation flaring hot in your chest. "You laugh?"

"I am not laughing at them," she said, though the mirth didn't leave her eyes. "I am laughing at you."

"Why?"

"Because you sound just like her," she said softly.

You recoiled slightly, your nose wrinkling in an instinctive cringe.

"Varang would be proud of you," your mother continued, her voice drifting into a nostalgic hum. "The way you speak of taking, of owning... that fire she had. It is in you."

You looked away from her, staring back into the pot. You didn't want to hear it. You didn't want to be compared to the woman whose eyes were painted on every drum, whose name was shouted before every raid. You had followed her, yes. Everyone had. When you were younger, you believed she knew the way, that she was the shield against the world. But there was a detachment in you, a hollow space where that fervor should have been.

You reasoned it was because you had missed the defining moment. You never really got to experience the fire that fell on their home, the catastrophe that Varang wove into every story told during celebrations. You hadn't smelled the burning flesh of the Hometree or felt the sky scream. You only knew the aftermath—the grey, the ash, the endless stories of how Eywa had abandoned the Mangkwan, and so the Mangkwan must turn their backs to Her. It felt like history you were forced to inherit, not a wound you carried yourself.

"It doesn't matter," you muttered, ignoring the twist in your gut. "She's dead. And they are acting like idiots."

You pulled the pot from the fire and ladled the hot stew into a wooden bowl. The steam rose up, smelling of roots and broth, masking the scent of sickness that clung to the furs. You stood up and walked over to her, crouching down to hand her the bowl.

"Here," you said, your voice dropping, losing its sharp edge. "Eat."

She took the bowl with both hands, the warmth seeping into her pale fingers. She looked down at the food, her expression unreadable in the flickering light.

"I don't want you to die," you said quietly.

She didn't answer immediately. She took a slow sip of the broth, her eyes closing briefly as the heat hit her stomach. A long silence stretched out between you, filled only by the pop of the embers. Then, she opened her eyes and looked at you with a gaze that seemed to see right through the anger you wore like armor.

"Then let them know," she said softly, blowing on the steam. "That you will always get what you want, dear. One way or another."

It didn’t take long for the clan to notice your deal with Tuso. In the history of Tupe slu txepìva, Tuso should have been a corpse three times over by now. As the days dragged on and he continued to breathe—albeit nervously—the whispers began to coil around the campfires like smoke. They noticed how he parroted decisions he was too stupid to conceive, how he moved through the village with a new, terrified confidence, always looking over his shoulder as if checking for a safety net.

They cornered you one night near the central fire. You were sitting on the ground, a knife in your hand as you dragged it rhythmically along the edge of your arrow. You felt their presence before you saw it, a shadow falling over your work, blocking out the light. You didn't look up immediately. You just kept sharpening the wood.

"How is he still breathing?" a voice asked from your left. It was Rokk, a hunter with a jagged scar running through his chest. He sounded genuinely baffled. "We are nearing the third week. That idiot has beaten the record. It’s unnatural."

You said nothing. You just tested the edge of the arrow with your thumb, watching a thin line of welling red blood. The silence stretched, heavy and taunting.

"Hey," Rokk said, stepping closer, his foot kicking dust onto your shin. "You deaf? I'm talking to you. We’re asking how the trembling coward is still drawing breath."

You stopped sharpening. You lifted your head slowly, staring up at him through your lashes, your expression flat and unimpressed. "Maybe he's just lucky," you said, your voice dripping with a boredom you didn't feel. “Or maybe you’re even weaker than he is since none of you could kill him.”

Rokk bristled, his lip curling. "Watch your mouth, little one. You don't get to speak to us like that. Your fangs are barely even there. Don't think your weapon makes you a warrior."

A few of the others chuckled, low and mean. They drew confidence from the hierarchy of age, assuming your youth was synonymous with incompetence.

"Like you’re any better," you replied, standing up slowly. You didn't back away; you stepped into his space, forcing him to look down at you. "If you were half as good at hunting as you are at gossiping, we wouldn't be eating scraps of animal skin for dinner. You complain about Tuso, but at least he's still moving. You lot just sit around and gather dust."

The smile vanished from Rokk’s face. "You think you're tough?"

"I think you're loud," you countered smoothly. "And loud usually means you're trying to hide the fact that you're useless."

"We know what you're doing," a new voice cut in. It was Vura, a woman with a build like a tree, standing with her arms crossed near the firelight. Her eyes were narrow, calculating. "We aren't stupid. You and Tuso. You're the one whispering in his ear. You're the one who wants to run to the trees like a frightened child."

The mood shifted instantly from mockery to hostility. The air around the fire crackled with tension.

"So what if I am?" you challenged, not bothering to deny it. "Someone has to make the decisions, since clearly none of you can."

Vura’s eyes hardened. She stepped forward, nodding sharply at two of the larger men flanking her. "Grab her."

They moved faster than you expected. One lunged for your arm while the other slammed a shoulder into your midsection, knocking the wind out of you. You struggled, clawing at their skin, but they forced you down, driving your knees into the hard-packed ground. Vura stepped in front of you, seizing your queue—your kuru—in a tight, painful grip. She yanked your head back, baring your throat to the firelight.

"Since you want to act like a leader," she growled, her face inches from yours, her breath hot and smelling of raw meat. "Then let's end you like one. In a way that Varang likes.”

Panic flared hot in your chest, but it was cold, controlled panic. Your knife was gone, kicked away in the scuffle, but your hands were free. You were close to the fire pit. The embers glowed invitingly, dangerous and hot.

With a sharp, violent twist of your torso, you wrenched your head free from her grip, ignoring the stinging burn as strands of your hair tore loose. Before they could recover, you lunged sideways, your fingers brushing the edge of the fire pit. You grabbed a thick branch, the end of it blazing with roaring orange flame.

The pain was immediate and blinding. The heat seared your palm, flesh sizzling, but you didn't let go. You used the momentum to swing upward, driving the burning end of the branch directly into Vura’s face.

She screamed, a high, raw sound as the fire met her skin, stumbling backward and clawing at her eyes. You didn't stop. You scrambled to your feet, the branch still alight, and drove it hard into the chest of the man on your left, shoving him backward until he tripped over a log and fell into the dirt, clutching at the smoldering embers on his chest.

The third one hesitated, his wide eyes flicking between you and his screaming companions. In that second of hesitation, you scrambled for your bow, snatching it up from where it leaned against the log. You nocked an arrow in a blur of motion and spun around, drawing the string tight.

You aimed the arrow directly at Vura, who was staggering back to her feet, her face smeared with soot and burn, her eyes streaming with tears. She snarled, fumbling for her own bow, and in a heartbeat, she had an arrow nocked and pointed right back at you.

The distance was negligible. Ten feet, maybe less. At this range, a release from either of you meant the other died. It was a stalemate of death.

You didn't lower your weapon. The burn on your hand was agony, a throbbing, white-hot pulse that made you want to scream, but you held the draw with steady, merciless precision. You stared into her one good eye, your expression flat, void of fear.

"Go ahead," you said, your voice steady despite the racing of your heart. "Let’s see if you can aim through the tears.”

Vura’s breath hitched. Her hand shook on the string. She was a brute, used to bullying the weak, used to overpowering those who couldn't fight back. She wasn't used to someone who would stare down the arrow and not blink. She looked at you, really looked at you, and saw something that terrified her more than death: the certainty that you didn't care if you lived, as long as you took her with you.

Slowly, she lowered her bow.

The tension snapped, but you didn't relax. You kept the string drawn but pointed the arrow down, your gaze sweeping over the others who stood watching, their whistling and jeering dead silent now. You scoffed, the sound cruel and dismissive.

"If you're too much of a weakling to conquer the lands of the forest people, then you might as well grant yourself an early death," you announced, your voice carrying over the crackle of the fire. “Lesser mouths to feed.”

The secret was out, and with it, the fragile illusion of safety that had kept you alive in the village evaporated. You walked among the yurts with your hand constantly hovering near your knife, expecting a knife in the back or a rock to the skull at every turn. Yet, the blows never came. It seemed that after the display by the fire, the clan had decided to wait and see.

But more surprising than the lack of retaliation was the shift in their resolve. The words you had spat at them had festered. Maybe it was the shame of being challenged by someone younger, or maybe it was simply that they were tired of starving. Whatever the reason, the snarling resistance began to dull into a grim acceptance. When the next raid was discussed, the plan wasn't just to take meat or scraps of tools. It was to take territory.

You had led them to the place you had scouted in your head, a spot etched into your memory from countless travels deeper into the forest. It was south of what you knew to be Omatikaya territory, past the winding expanse of the Long River. It was a calculated gamble. It was far enough from any Hometree that you wouldn’t trigger an immediate, all-out war, but close enough to bleed their resources. The water there was clear, the canopy thick and filled with life. It was a strategic foothold, a place where the Mangkwan could hole up, regroup, and—most importantly—where your mother could breathe air that didn't taste of death.

You knew it wasn't a permanent fix. If the forest clans realized you were squatting on their doorstep, they would group up. They would bully you out, hunt you down like the vermin they considered you to be. But that was a problem for the future. For now, it was a patch of green in a grey world. If you had to run, you would run. Endless running was the destiny of the outcast anyway, and the Mangkwan had certainly made themselves the pariahs of the Na'vi. To be driven out again was just another day in the cycle.

When the hunting party finally breached the canopy, the impact of the landing was immediate. Old habits died hard. Before the packs were even unloaded, the tradition asserted itself. It was instinctual, carved into the bones of the clan. An arrow was set alight, and let loose.

It wasn't a massive blaze, just a controlled burn to clear the immediate underbrush and flatten the ground for the yurts. You were the one who wanted to preserve the canopy, to save their lives from their own stupidity. Yet, as you watched the flames lick at the vibrant green ferns, turning them black and curling, you felt an unsettling sense of relief. The scent of burning sap felt like homecoming. It was a sickness inherited in the blood, a phantom craving for the chaos that had defined your people, warring with the part of your brain that knew better.

Burning it felt like branding the flesh of the world. Of Eywa. It was a preemptive strike against the weak Mother, a violent comfort in the knowledge that if ruin was to come, you’d have done it first.

The ambush came in the dead of night, swift and merciless. One moment you were kicking dirt over a dying ember, and the next, the camp was swarmed. They moved like ghosts in the dark, efficient and terrifyingly silent. There was no grand battle, only the sudden, crushing grip of foreign hands and the sharp press of wood against your throat.

You hissed as a warrior wrenched your arms behind your back, binding your wrists tightly with rough fiber. They shoved you down, driving you to your knees in the center of the half-finished clearing. Around you, the clan was in the same state—a circle of defeated captives kneeling in the dirt. You scanned the faces, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. This was a disaster.

You told Tuso it was too early for a damn celebration; none of the yurts were even fully built. The ground was barely cleared. But the stupidity of your people knew no bounds. They had gotten high. Too many of them were swatting at invisible insects or giggling at the darkness, completely oblivious to the danger that had dropped from the canopy.

There was no fighting your way out of this. You were outnumbered, outmaneuvered, and most of your brethren were drooling on themselves. A dark, grim part of you was actually glad they had attacked now. If the rest of the clan had migrated, if the elders and the young had been here, the Mangkwan would have been erased tonight. This was a mercy, in a twisted way.

As you knelt in the dirt, forced to look up at the circling enemy, your mind raced. Only the Omatikaya was known to be this efficient. The elders used to whisper stories about them with a mix of hatred and fear, describing them as ghosts who could move through the leaves without bending a branch. Seeing it firsthand was terrifying, but it sent a spike of adrenaline rushing through your veins that had nothing to do with fear. It was anticipation. A visceral, gnawing thrill at seeing something you’ve been wanting to see for a long time.

Then you saw him. Jake Sully.

He stood in the center of the clearing, barking orders in a voice that cracked like a whip. The Toruk Makto. The demon who rode the last shadow. It was like seeing a myth step out of the stories and into the firelight. Beside him stood another Na'vi, tall and broad, wearing more armor than the rest. You guessed immediately that this was Tarsem, the current Olo'eyktan.

Tarsem stepped forward, his face twisted in a sneer of pure disgust. He looked at your people—not as warriors, but as vermin.

"Why are you here?" he shouted, his voice echoing off the trees. "You bring your filth into our home? You think we will not cut your throats for this?"

From the line of captives, Tuso had chosen that moment to find his voice. You almost groaned aloud.

"We... we didn't mean it!" Tuso sobbed, his voice cracking so pathetically it made your skin crawl. He was blubbering, snot running down his face, tears streaming. "Please, Olo’eyktan! We are sorry! Have mercy! We were just passing through!"

Disgust clawed up your throat. It was humiliating. It was weak. And it was getting you exactly nowhere. Apologies were for equals; to the Omatikaya, you were invaders. A sorry meant nothing to an arrow.

The desperation inside you clawed at your throat. You didn't want to die here, in the dirt, listening to Tuso beg. You didn't want your mother to die alone in the ash because her child got herself executed for stupidity.

"Our people are dying," you said.

The words cut through the night air, silencing Tuso’s whining instantly.

The hisses and groans of your people and the orders of the Omaticaya went silent, all eyes shifting to you. The warrior holding your arm pulled you harshly, forcing you to kneel straighter, but you swallowed the groan that threatened to escape. Tarsem and Jake Sully’s eyes locked onto you, looking at the sudden interruption.

Admitting defeat was a betrayal of everything the Mangkwan stood for. You were born of the ash, forged in fire. You didn't surrender. But sticking to that belief now won’t keep you warm at night, and it won’t stop the knife from cutting your throat.

Tarsem stopped circling. His gaze, heavy with the weight of the forest, settled on you.

"Dying?" Tarsem repeated, his voice dripping with disdain. He gestured broadly at the charred clearing, at the half-burnt logs and the reckless fires still smoldering against the roots of the trees. "You come here with fire in your hands, burning our land, and you speak to me of death?"

In that moment, despite the adrenaline, you couldn't help but feel like a little girl. Your experiences, the raids you’d survived, the leadership you’d forced upon the clan—they were merely nothing compared to the centuries of tradition and power standing before you. They had fought the Sky People. They had received help from Eywa. You were just a scavenger from the ashes. The reality of your youth pressed down on you, making your bindings feel tighter. You were young, untested by their standards, yet here you were, playing a game of stakes you barely understood.

But the life of your people was in your hands. You remembered your mother’s words, raspy and weak as she sat in ragged furs: You will always get what you want. It was a lie told to a child to make her strong, but you needed it to be true now.

"Most of the Mangkwan are dead," you said, pitching your voice to carry, forcing it steady despite the hammering of your heart. "Most of us are gone, wiped out by sickness and starvation since Varang fell. We are less in numbers, weak, and scattered. We would be nothing against you.”

You paused, glancing at the line of captives around you. Some were beginning to wake from their haze, shaking their heads as the reality of the situation set in. You could hear the low rumble of protests starting to build. You knew what you were doing would get you killed—not just by the enemy, but by your own kin. But if the Omatikaya let you stay, the least they could do was thank you later.

"Let us stay," you continued, looking back at Tarsem. "We require only this side of the river. We will not bother you. We will not bother other clans."

Jake Sully stepped forward then. "Why should we let you stay?" His voice was rough, gravelly with the authority of a man who had burned worlds to save them. "We know your history. You tried to wipe us out. You flew with Quaritch. You hunted my family."

He didn't need to elaborate. You knew the history. The battle in the skies, Sky People, Mangkwan, the Sully family. You weren't part of that war, but you knew the weight of it. You knew the Mangkwan had allied with the humans to bring down the other clans. You had no right to complain if they refused you. They owed you nothing.

A bitter thought rose in your mind—they judged you for the war, yet they had cast your people aside long before the Sky People came. The Mangkwan had always been the outcasts, the rot beneath the roots, and the other clans were content to let you fester until you became a problem. They weren't clean; they were just the winners.

But this was your only chance. You had to make a deal so heavy, so absolute, that it would erase what the Mangkwan were. You had to kill the warrior to save the survivor.

"Because then the killing stops," you said. "Give us the bank opposite yours, and you will see none of us. No more war… no more fire.”

Your people were struggling now. Around you, the clan erupted. They wrestled against the tight hold of the Omatikaya warriors, screaming insults.

"Traitor!" one shouted.

"We do not bow to the weak children of weak mother!" another roared.

You ignored them. You kept your eyes locked on Jake Sully. It was a gamble. You were stripping your people of their identity, offering them a life of subservience they despised. But it was the only way to buy time.

Jake watched the chaos, then turned his gaze back to you. He looked at your young face, the defiance in your eyes, and the desperation underneath. He seemed to be weighing the truth of your words against the reality of your actions.

"Do you speak for the clan? Are you Olo’eykte?" he asked suddenly.

You held his gaze, feeling the lie form solid and heavy on your tongue.

“I am.”

author's note: my talent is releasing fics nobody asked for. no neteyam yet, but i'd like to know ur thoughts on this one!

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