#in the sand and in the stars | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cordyce · 1 year

Text

(we are written) in the sand and in the stars

Neteyam x Reader

Fic Summary: Sullys stick together. That is something you have heard since the beginning. But when you are forced to uproot and leave your home, it is something you must learn to fully take to heart. You are not technically a Sully, but you fight like one. And that in turn is enough to be shielded like one as well. There is no choice but to openly accept that this family, these Na’vi, are your fortress. It is perhaps harder, though, to accept that Neteyam has seemingly appointed himself as your personal guard.

༄ CHAPTER THREE: SHORELINES ON A STRING

Chapter Summary: There is no real time given for you and your family to settle into your new home; essentially, you’re thrown into the lion’s den of Metkayina training the very first day after you arrive. But even as you find yourself struggling, it seems like someone is always right there to step in to help. Someone exceedingly familiar and far too willing.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Read on AO3

Water lessons are set to begin the very next morning. The chief’s children–Tsireya and Ao’nung–are still holding true to their assignments as your trainers. Rotxo, who you have since learned is merely just a friend of the others and not actually their sibling, has apparently appointed himself as one of your trainers, as well.

If you had to give your honest opinion on the matter, you think being thrown headlong into Metkayina lifestyle training the first day after you arrived was rushing it, just the tiniest bit. But then again, no one did ask for your opinion–a seemingly recurring affair.

The Metkayinas are already waiting on the edge of your family’s bungalow by the time you and your siblings step out of it. Apart from a smile and wave from Tsireya (the only one who seems truly happy to be here) there is no greeting before the three of them turn and dive directly–gracefully, you must admit–into the water below.

So much for asking for pointers beforehand, you think.

You watch as Neteyam and Lo’ak smile at each other before Neteyam hits Lo’ak’s shoulder with a light “come on” and then they’re jumping right in too. Definitely not as graceful as the reef people before them and certainly nowhere near as well practiced.

(Personally, you think they look more like Na’vi being thrown off the backs of their ikrans as they flail into the water, but you choose not to voice that to save a bit of their pride).

Tuk does nothing to stave off her outward excitement, and her wide grin flashes to you and Kiri at the prospect of jumping in. It’s just the three of you left, and you know it will be easier if you all go together. But as you move forward with your sisters, it’s like there is a tether holding you to the makeshift dock that tugs you back as their momentum lets them jump forward.

You were hoping the prolonged amount of time flying over the open ocean would have solved this. If anything, you thought you could get over this unease if you just pushed yourself off and jumped straight in. That’s what your father would always tell you and your siblings when you were younger, anyway; that you can overcome any problem if you go at it head first.

Now, though, it seems like your head is what keeps causing this problem in the first place.

It makes you feel stupid, as your siblings slowly pop their heads back out of the water one by one to find you still standing there on the netting. You want to kick yourself for being so apprehensive when the chief’s children raise themselves above the surf just to give you questioning looks. Suddenly you feel two inches tall, and you wish you were so you could hide from their misty glances.

“What’s wrong, (Y/n)?” Tuk asks, eyes wide as she looks up at you from where she’s floating in the water.

She makes it look so easy, so manageable. And that makes you feel twice as stupid than you already do.

“I–”

“Don’t tell me you can’t swim.”

It’s Ao’nung, who asks it. Your gaze darts over to him and your stomach twists at the smirk on his face, the animosity in his eyes. Despite Tsireya slapping his arm, he doesn’t waver. Neteyam and Lo’ak whip their heads around to face him, both opening their mouths like they’re about to fire something off. Lo’ak may have just teased you for your fears all along the journey here, but you know he’d never let anyone else get away with doing such a thing.

“I can swim, thank you,” you counter in the same tone as your instigator before the two of them have the chance to mouth something off that you know will do nothing but get them into trouble. And it isn’t a lie. You can swim, it’s just..

“Then get in the water. We don’t have all day.” Ao’nung tips his head, raises his eyebrows expectantly, like he’s wanting you to give up just to give him the satisfaction of it.

You’d like to wipe that look right off of his haughty, patronizing face.

Biting the inside of your cheek, your gaze becomes downcast once more, pointed to the water below you. It isn’t deep but it is definitely extensive enough that you know it will be well above your head. Your hands feel sickeningly numb and a part of you is debating on whether or not to backtrack on your previous statement and simply pretend you can’t swim just to get out of this. Yet, just before you think of turning on your heel and walking off, Neteyam swims to the edge of the landing.

“If you jump in, I’ll catch you,” he offers as he raises his hands up in your direction. The look on his face is a complete contrast compared to Ao’nung’s. It’s steady, fervent. “It will be okay.”

It’s hard for you to tell if it’s his words or his actions that have you crouching lower on the edge of the platform, that have you trusting him and swallowing that first pebble of dread down your uncomfortably tight throat. Regardless of which one it is, your hands feel just a little less numb as you reach down for him too.

“You promise you won’t let me drown?” You implore quietly, where just the two of you can hear, and you laugh weakly in an attempt to appear just a smidgen unbothered. There’s a shake in your fingertips and a tremble in your deliverance that you try your best to hide; you wonder how well you do so.

He is just out of your reach, a few finger widths away from touching is all that separates the pair of you, and he nods.

“Pӓnutìng,” [“I Promise”] he heartens instantly, ardently.

So, you jump.

It lasts only for a split second, the dropping of your gut as your toes hit the water that has you sucking in a breath and wanting desperately to scramble backwards in an effort to grab onto any piece of the netted dock that your fingertips can cling to. But then you feel the grip of Neteyam’s hands just below your ribs, the security of his hold that softens your blow into the water and allows you to keep your head above it, just enough. Your breath trickles out of you like a stuttering faucet as the waves from your descent settle into their natural ripple once again, and you look to Neteyam who is already looking at you.

“See? No drowning,” he grins, a tilt of playfulness in his tone you know to be walking the line of teasing. You’re tempted to say something to level it, but he turns genuine again before you do. “Just stick beside me. We’ll do this together, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you breathe as everyone else dives under the water once again, “Irayo.” [ “Thanks.” ]

Neteyam releases his grip on you and takes in a deep breath before diving down, head disappearing out of your sight. Though your fingers are still twitching, your tail still quivering every other beat, you decide it is now or never. You suck in a deep breath of your own and force your head below the waves.

Nothing could have prepared you for just how beautiful life below sea level is. Even while being veiled with a tinge of crystal blue, everything is so vibrant, so effervescent. Life is bustling underwater–schools of fish part to swim around you and scatter as your hand slices past them, species you have never seen glide away elegantly like they’re merely floating. Nothing seems afraid of your presence, swayed by the addition of your group in their waters in the slightest.

It’s like it all simply accepts you, embraces you as a newfound part of the ecosystem it shall adapt around; flourish regardless.

Your eyes stay wide as you linger close to Neteyam’s side. You really are a perfectly fine swimmer, but it is clear each of you are greatly sub par when compared to the Metkayina people. Tsireya, swimming backwards, beckons for you all to follow, so you try your best to do so. Well, except for Kiri, who you notice exploring in her own direction, seemingly captivated. You don’t blame her. It’s hard not to get caught up in it all, being surrounded by such novel beauty has your mind reeling, and Kiri has always been so in tune with the life around her.

But your marveling is cut short once your chest starts to feel tight–in a way you know is not caused by your current bout of anxiety–so you tug on Neteyam’s arm and point up. He nods, taps Lo’ak, and the four of you swim to the top.

Each of you gasp in the salty air as you break out of the liquid confines of the ocean, giving your lungs a replenishing break. It is short lived, despite your wish that it wasn’t, as you dip your heads back under just to see Tsireya’s hand signal–which you can only assume means for all of you to follow her once more, because this kind of sign language is something none of you have ever been taught. You each suck in another cursory breath and attempt to dive again.

You are well aware that their anatomy is slightly different than yours, more suited (better adapted) for this terrain and aquatic life, but it still baffles you how much of an advantage they hold over each of your heads. They are lightyears better swimmers than you Sullys are, and a part of you knows no amount of training will ever change that. You could never dream of swimming with such ease, such inclination.

This dive is even shorter, lasting only a fraction of the time your first one did. Neteyam is the first to signal a need for breath now, but all four of you are in dire need of the air. You wonder if it’s because you dove deeper, if it was the pressure that made you need it that much faster. The pressure was definitely getting to you, in a more mental sense, so you were thankful as you swam for the surface regardless of the reason.

Turning to look at Tuk (because even if you personally are inclined to think you’re going to have a heart attack at any given second, you feel the need to ensure she’s alright) as you suck in a breath, you don’t notice how your hand instinctively grabs onto Neteyam’s arm to soothe yourself. That is, until he places his own hand on top of yours.

“You okay?”

Tipping your head, you mumble an affirmation. Inherently, you are okay. It feels like such a foolish and trivial thing, to be scared of something as plain as water, but then again it’s not really the water you’re scared of, is it?

“Are you alright?” Tsireya questions your group as the three of them rise above the tide.

“You’re too fast,” Tuk whines, voicing what all of you are thinking but being the only one you know could get away with such a straightforward grievance. “Wait for us!”

“Just breathe,” Tsireya soothes. “Breathe.”

“Easier said than done,” you mutter under your breath, fighting the roll of your eyes at such a statement from someone who appears to have the breath control of a fish. Or Lo’ak when he used to hold his breath as a threat to your parents as a child.

“You are not good divers,” Ao’nung smarts off. “Maybe good at swinging through trees, but..”

That earns him a smack to the back of his head from his sister and you don’t even try to hide your puff of a laugh at the sight. Well deserved, in your opinion. He maybe even needs another smack or two, the way you see it.

“C’mon bro,” Lo’ak wagers.

“We don’t speak this finger talk, you guys,” Neteyam voices, holding up his hand to poorly copy one of the signs Tsireya had been trying to show earlier. “We don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I will teach you,” Tsireya offers, ever the dutiful, generous girl she keeps proving herself to be. You wish some of that would rub off on her brother.

Before you can ask if there’s some sort of textbook on it, Rotxo speaks up for the first time today. “Where’s Kiri?

“Who?”

“Kiri,” he repeats. “Where is Kiri?”

“Did you see her?”

“Yeah, don’t–don’t worry,” you dismiss, and you think for a second as you see everyone’s eyes darting around frantically that your family is lucky to have at least one member who is halfway observant of everyone’s whereabouts. “I saw her swimming that other way earlier. She likes exploring things herself. I’m sure she’s fine.”

Everyone nods, though Tsireya and Rotxo give one last look in the direction you had motioned with your head, before you’re being told you can make your way back to the shallows for your next portion of training. You aren’t sure what it is, but you’re willing to paint on any face of excitement if it means your feet will be on solid ground again as you follow your escorts towards the shore, thankful to not be submerged any longer.

As Ao’nung calls out for the animals of which your next area of training will be revolving around, any trace of thankfulness drains from your body.

“These are ilus,” he states with a gesture of his hand to the creatures that have just swam up upon being summoned. “If you want to live here, you have to ride.”

As he is saying this, Tsireya is already leading Lo’ak over to his own ilu. You observe as he climbs onto it smoothly enough. It is a lot easier saddling onto the ilu than the ikran, you have deduced, but that does not mean you are willing to attempt it.

You listen in as Tsireya tries to give Lo’ak pointers, showing him where to hold on his ilu, how he should position himself. Then, you watch as he takes off into the water. Lo’ak has never been a particularly fast learner, so you partially expected it to go awry his first time, but it still makes you flinch when you see him fly off the back of his ilu within seconds of the ride.

The Metkayina people around laugh at his blunder (something you might have joined in on in any other circumstance at seeing your brother flounder like that), but now it simply has you wrapping your arms around yourself.

“Okay, now it’s your turn,” Ao’nung simpers as he turns around to face you, the same stupid, trying tilt of his lips from before. “Let’s see if you fly off faster than your brother.”

“Pass,” you respond instantly, stepping away from the ilu he calls up between the two of you.

“Pass?” He scrunches his brows at you, reaches over to tug on your arm to bring you closer to the ilu. “There’s no pass. You have to ride, you don’t have a choice.”

You jerk your arm out of his grasp and step back again. “I don’t want to.”

“Just try it!” It’s Tuk this time, who chimes in from where she’s standing in front of an ilu of her own that Tsireya has called up for her. She’s being supportive, you know this, but it does not dull the edge in your response.

“No, Tuk, I said I don’t want to,” you shake your head, but your eyes soften as you look at her hopeful face. “Mom isn’t learning so I shouldn’t be forced to, either.”

This seems to strike a nerve with the Metkayina boys standing around as you hear their grumbles and gripes. But it seems to especially unnerve Ao’nung, who takes a stride forward like he’s wanting to get up in your face.

“Now you listen here, forest girl–”

“It’s fine,” a voice cuts through just before Ao’nung gets too close. You both look over to see Neteyam, who has apparently already found his way onto an ilu by the help of Rotxo, who’s standing awkwardly nearby. “She can just ride with me. Or will that cause more problems, too?”

Neteyam’s smiling, but his eyes do not mirror that same warmth. Something inside you surges at the blunt proposition. You pass it off to be straight satisfaction, given you get to see how the ever so smug Ao’nung falters in expression before he whips himself around with a click against his teeth.

“Fine. But first learning to ride with two is harder. Do not complain to me when you can’t get the hang of it.”

He gives none of you the opportunity to reply before he’s stalking off, so you find your way over to Neteyam. Rotxo is giving him a run down on hand positions and how to hold his body underwater when you make it to his side. They both turn their attention to you as you step up next to them.

“Are you sure? About the riding with you thing?” you push, because the last thing you want to do is slow down everyone else’s adaptability because of your own (foolish) personal issues. Again. “I can just sneak off and let you do it on your own.”

“I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t,” he reaffirms, then turns back to Rotxo. “How will it be different for two?”

It takes a few minutes for Rotxo to tweak and try his explanations for riding with a passenger. It really doesn’t seem all that difficult, but then again you’re still above water, and you won’t be the one steering this thing. He instructs you to climb onto Neteyam’s ilu just behind him and you do as you’re told. It’s a bit awkward, figuring out the hand positions and how close you really need to be seated. Rotxo places your arms around Neteyam’s waist and directs you to lock your hands there. He explains that you can be more lenient with the hand placement when you get more comfortable riding, but for now the grip has to stay tight and secure.

As you feel Neteyam tense under your hands, ever so slightly, you wonder if maybe he’s nervous about this whole riding thing, too. You don’t get the chance to ask him before he takes off.

It’s rough the first few rides (and you aren’t sure who freaks out more when you and Neteyam fly off in separate directions underwater, you or him) but eventually it becomes a little easier. You feel guilty, deep in your gut, for tampering with Neteyam’s experience and hardening his learning curve. But you try to remind yourself as Tsireya and Rotxo guide your family away from the shallows that he was the one who offered, that it was his choice to volunteer himself.

It takes you a bit to actually find the courage to look around as you’re riding through the water instead of hiding your face in Neteyam’s shoulder (this is a lot faster than just swimming, after all), but when you do you find yourself at the same level of amazement you had been before. It really is extraordinary, life in the sea, and you would be lying to yourself if you didn’t admit that a part of you might like it here after all.

After seeing everyone is well adjusted enough on their ilus, Tsireya and Rotxo pull your family (minus Tuk) to the rocks for some breathing lessons. Having good breath control is one of the most vital components of being a successful diver, you’re told.

As far as you’re concerned, taking advice from people quite literally born in the water is pretty redundant, all things considered.

Tsireya and Rotxo (the latter, you’ve discovered, is far more willing to help with you newcomers than the Olo’eyktan’s own son) begin to lead your circle through various breathing exercises. The key is long, deep breaths, focusing to slow down your heart rate as much as possible. Keeping yourself calm, at peace.

Something you’ve never been particularly great at.

Tsireya tries to use Lo’ak to demonstrate this, who does alright on the breathing portion, but fails drastically (embarrassingly, more like) when she places her hand on his chest to feel his heartbeat.

She tells him his heart is beating too fast and you nearly burst out laughing–Neteyam does, along with Rotxo, laugh under his breath when she says it, to which Kiri rolls her eyes. And you can tell by the look on Lo’ak’s face that he wants nothing more than the rocks beneath him to split open so he can have an early meeting with the great mother right about now.

You’re given a few more tips, some other concepts you can try in order to get your heart rate as slow as possible, before everyone starts to depart. Tsireya and Lo’ak split off, talking about diving lessons and giving incentive. Kiri wanders away to do what you can only assume will be more exploring, and you watch Rotxo venture towards the village center (probably to find that insufferable friend of his). Which leaves you and Neteyam, who apparently already has an idea in mind.

“Okay, breathe with me,” he instructs.

A huff blows past your lips. “This is stupid, Neteyam.”

You’re sitting directly across from him in water that comes just up to your chin. If you were standing, it would probably reach right above the middle of your thighs. It’s shallow enough, but you understand what he is getting at. Doesn’t mean you’re all too thrilled about it, though.

“It’s not stupid, you skxawng,” he deters, then promptly dodges the hand you swing at him at the name. He simpers at you and grabs your hand as you go to pull it back (like that fell right into his plans) and places it to his chest. You can feel his heartbeat, the rhythmic pump of it under your palm. “Together. Breathe.”

“If you want to do this together then don’t you need to feel mine too?” You question, because isn’t that the point of all this?

Neteyam’s ears twitch at your query, and if you didn’t know any better you’d think you’d felt his breath hitch. For what reason, you don’t know.

“Right. Yes,” he agrees and moves his hand through the water closer to you, but he falters.

You furrow your brows at that, jut out your lip, because if he’s forcing you to do all this then the least he can do is cooperate right along with you. Sighing, you grab his hand and place it to your chest, palm to heart just like you are to him. The only difference is his hand has one finger less than you, a fact that mentally makes you grimace. A reminder that will ever be engraved in your soul.

He nods to you after sitting in this fixed position for a moment before he begins to suck in a breath. You mirror him directly, correspond with his inspirations and let your chest rise as you feel his do so beneath your palm. You’re doing well on that aspect, matching him breath for breath. It’s such an easy thing when your head’s above water, you wish it would translate just as well when it’s below.

“Okay,” Neteyam speaks up after a few minutes, “Now, try it with your head under.”

You’re a little apprehensive at the suggestion despite being at the shallow end of shore where you can simply stand up whenever you feel like it, and the trepidation must relay wholly on your face, because Neteyam squeezes the hand you still have placed to his chest.

“I’ll do it with you. It will be easy.”

“Ha, easy,” you mumble, let your eyes roll at his valor. Everything is just so easy for everyone else, isn’t it. “Right.”

But still, you find yourself taking in deeper breaths right along with him as you get ready to dip your head below the tide, trusting Neteyam with anything he extends to you. Because he’s never given you a reason not to, has he? He’s always made sure to do his best to keep you out of risky situations, or do everything he can to get you out of them when you found yourself to venture into one unknowingly.

You trust him because he’s proven to you over and over again that he’ll do nothing but look out for you, and a part of you thinks that’s a rather frightening prospect all on its own.

There’s a moment of shared eye contact, an understanding as each of you take one more breath, then you lower your head and allow yourself to be enveloped fully by the ocean. You’d think after diving and riding on the backs of ilus you’d feel more at ease already, have less anxiety about it all. But your chest still hurts just as much now as it ever has, and every second you spend below water has you reeling.

You know when it’s getting the best of you not by feeling it yourself, but by the tapping of Neteyam’s fingers against your chest as he points out your heart rate. It needs to be slow, you know this. It needs to match his, you’re aware.

But it’s hard. It’s hard for you to overcome this and no one seems to be getting that. It’s a feeling that closes in on you and suffocates you–literally and figuratively. You want to just get over it but you can’t. You can’t.

“I can’t do this,” you assert as you break out of the water with a sharp inhale and rise onto your feet. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Neteyam reaches for your arm as he stands up himself, water dripping down his face. “You can–“

“No I can’t, Neteyam!” You bite back. “You don’t understand, it’s too much. I can’t do it.”

Suddenly, his hands are on your shoulders, turning you around and forcing you to meet his eyes. He holds you steady, keeps you rooted as you catch the breath you hadn’t even realized you were actually gasping for. The waves slosh against your legs and you focus on the pale green flecks in Neteyam’s irises in an attempt to calm yourself down. They remind you of the petals on the outlandish flowers from the forest; from home. Something about that helps to level you.

“You can,” he expounds, gives you no gateway to disagree. “You can do this. We can do this. Together.”

Together, he says. Hand in hand, step by step–he is always so insistent on it being together. So adamant that you are not set aside, left to your own devices in an off chance of.. what, exactly? Does he persist on such an ideal so one does not merely feel alone, or is it solely to put his own mind at ease, allow his own soul to rest easy at the proclamation.

Perhaps, you think, your father has done too well on pushing that morale onto his eldest son. Together, he inclines. Together, he reiterates. Like it’s vital you remember it, you embrace it, welcome it. Does he feel such a devotion to the cause for everyone? Or, you wonder..

Your breathing, slowly but surely, begins to settle into normal intakes once again. Your heart rate draws back on its racing in your chest. You let Neteyam’s hands slide from your shoulders to your palms, let him glide his fingertips over your own until he’s leading you back from the step away you had taken.

“One more try, alright?”

And as he pulls you down to where you’re seated once again with your chin being licked by the salty tide, you nod.

You trust him, and you try again.

After what you can only describe as endless hours of grueling water exposure training at the hands of an overtly cruel Neteyam (which really translates to just over an hour of him gently coaxing you to stay longer and longer underwater until you feel somewhat comfortable with the idea), you find yourself sitting with Tsireya along the shore.

She’s teaching you their sign language, the signals and gestures you’ll need to know in order to be able to communicate while underwater most effectively. You’d like to think of yourself as a relatively receptive person, but you must admit the whole learning a new language thing really proves itself to be considerably tricky.

Rotxo is a few yards away teaching the boys the signs. You aren’t sure if Neteyam proposed that idea just to watch Lo’ak suffer from not getting to be around Tsireya, or if it was because he actually wanted his younger brother to retain some real information instead of gawk, but a part of you is thankful for some form of girl time; even if it comes in the shape of a lesson.

The two of you are taking a break as you try to recall different signs on your own when you catch Tsireya staring at Lo’ak from afar. You’re partially thankful his back is to the two of you so you aren’t having to watch them drool back and forth, but you can’t lie and say that you don’t think it’s rather endearing that they’ve taken such an interest already.

“Lo’ak is sweet,” Tsireya says, out of the blue. And as you look over to her and catch her gaze, it almost appears as if she’s surprised herself at saying the thought out loud.

You smile warmly at her, because seeing her embarrassed is not something you’d really wish for. “Maybe to you,” you chuckle, shifting your regard down to the sand as you drag your finger through it. “He’s a pest.”

Her lips stretch widely at that, eyes crinkling gleefully at the corners. “In your eyes, I suppose I could see that.” Then she hums, looks to Lo’ak once more before directing her observance elsewhere. “He seems very curious. Willing to learn.”

Something churns in your gut. Guilt, maybe. Possibly conviction. You just nod your head at her statement.

“He’s willing to do a lot of things,” you abhor, though you don’t mean to sound so harsh. “He feels he doesn’t have a choice.” You lift your head to see the resignation on Tsireya’s face and instantly backpedal. “But with you it’s different. I can tell he likes learning all the things you teach us. You make him excited. To do things. You know.”

You hold your breath as you wait for her reaction and let it all whoosh out of you like a popped balloon when the smile cuts across her glowing face once more. When you notice the mood has once again lightened, you go back to drawing in the sand.

Tsireya hums again, and what leaves her saccharine lips next has you snapping your head up so fast you think you might have given yourself a mild case of whiplash.

“You think Neteyam is sweet, too. Do you not?”

You shift a little in the sand, crinkle your brows a bit at her statement. “I’m.. not sure what you mean.”

Neteyam is sweet, sure. He is nice, the most respectful Na’vi you know by a landslide. Sincere, bona fide; loyal through and through.

“Well, he has been helping you so frequently. Each time you are struggling he is always the first to step in, and you coordinate so well with one another. Harmonize so naturally. So I thought–“ As she takes in your confused expression, her eyes widen and she raises her hand to her mouth as if to stop herself. “Oh, I am so sorry, I seem to have misinterpreted. I didn’t mean to overstep, I–“

“It’s okay,” you wave her off, showcase an easy smile to put her worries to rest even as heat starts to pool into the apples of your cheeks. “Don’t even worry about it.”

She offers up an apologetic smile of her own before turning her attention back to the sand to draw another motion that you can add to your silent vocabulary, getting back to the lesson to steer from the awkwardness–a safe bet. But you find your eyes drifting over to the boy who’s just been brought into question.

Neteyam has always been in your corner, by your side, just as you’ve been with him. He has always been your favorite person to be around, that you are willing to admit readily. That is something easy to confirm the sentiment of.

But as he catches you staring, flashes you a lopsided grin before he’s getting scolded to focus by Rotxo, something new flips in your gut that you try your very best to ignore.

Something rippling.

When you want to clear your head, you always find yourself going directly to Kiri.

It doesn’t even need to involve talking or venting to her about what has you on edge (though both of you do your fair share of that, as well), but simply being in her presence has a way of putting you at ease. Relaxing your mind in a way that you will always welcome.

This time is no different. The two of you may not have your own secret hideout carved into the side of a hollow tree trunk anymore, but that doesn’t mean you can’t find your own place here.

You’re on a semi-secluded strip of the beach. It’s calming, sitting in the water and letting it lap across your thighs and against your waist as you watch Kiri float near the surface. She likes it here, or at the very least likes seeing all the wonders the ocean can hold. It does your heart well, being able to witness her finding a bit of happiness, a morsel of contentment in a time such as this.

She’s probably the only one who you think matches your level of irritability about the situation you’ve all been thrown in, even if you haven’t directly voiced it. And you know very well she is the only one who comes even remotely close to feeling the heartache you harbor over the capture of your brother.

The two of you have always been easy to connect on things like that, and for that you are forever grateful. Besides, if you yourself cannot find comfort, you’re glad she seems to be able to seek it out wherever she goes, even if it’s for just a few moments.

Which is evidently all you’re destined for–a few moments–as drifting voices approach you that do not sound the least bit pleasant.

“What is she doing?” There’s laughs, snickers, and you shoot a look over your shoulder to see Ao’nung with his little group of cronies approaching the two of you. Distaste pools on the tip of your tongue, unease bubbling up your throat.

You keep your eyes on them as you try to warn your sister. “Kiri, get up.”

They’re closer now, practically standing over the top of you, their shadows dimming the warmth of the sun you were just enjoying in peace a moment ago. “She’s just looking at the sand,” one of them belittles, pokes fun. Your jaw clenches.

This time, you reach for Kiri as you address her, pull at her arm so she’s aware of what looms over her, because like hell are you going to let her sit here and be a victim to whatever immature charade these guys are playing at.

“Huh?” She asks as she raises up out of the water, wiping at her eyes and blinking to clear her vision. “What’d you say?”

You open your mouth to speak, tell her the two of you should just go find somewhere else to hang out, but you don’t get the chance to voice that.

“Are you some kind of..” Ao’nung falters, pretends to be thinking, then practically lets his intention drip off his tongue like venom. “Freak?”

And his friend doesn’t miss a beat, tittering as he joins in. “He asked if you are a freak.”

Pulling Kiri up as you stand yourself, a sneer carves its way into the mold of your lips. She scoffs lightly and rolls her eyes. “No,” she grumbles at the connotation, letting you lead her through a gap in the group to walk away.

But it seems all for naught, as they simply step right into your path once again to block you from going anywhere. You’re growing more and more irritated by the second because, honestly, if they can’t stand your family so much, why don’t they just leave you alone?

“Are you sure?” Ao’nung presses, getting right in her face. “I mean, you’re not even real Na’vi.” He grabs at her hands before she can move away, holds them disparagingly, a derisive expression painted across his features. “Look at these hands. I mean look at them.”

The hiss that shrieks through your fangs is instant as you step between them, pry Kiri’s hands out of his slimy grasp and try your hardest to halfway shield her behind you. (Not that that is really an exceedent help, given you’re currently surrounded). Spewing sordid insults out at you and your family is one thing, though you want to wring his scaly little neck for that alone, but physically laying his hands on your sister?

You’ve done your best to try to keep peace, be good for your parents’ sake–bite your tongue and fold your hands like a proper daughter should. But you think you might be reaching your limit.

You’re about to attempt to brush past them one last time–your last stitch effort to break away from this idiotic ambush once and for all to get you and your sister some privacy, but something jerks at you. There are hands wrapped around your tail, tugging at it as guffaws sound around you, like it’s all just some kind of game. You realize to them, it is.

“Ha! Look at her little baby tail.”

“Get your hands off of me,” you bark at the culprit, shove at him and yank your tail out of his grasp. It isn’t a pleasant feeling, being prodded like this, being goaded. It feels invasive, violating. You hate this so much and you just want them to leave you alone.

You don’t understand their wish for a feud when a feud is the last thing you and your family want. Bickering and fighting and being at odds will solve nothing. In fact, all it will do is get you in trouble during the one time where you’re already walking on eggshells every single day as is. Do they not understand how hard this is on your family? Do they not care?

Is belligerence the only thing they are capable of?

“Hey!” It’s Lo’ak, who tears the scrutiny off you and your sister as he strides over, right up to Ao’nung in order to get him away from the both of you. “Back off fish legs.”

“Oh,” he chuckles, levels your brother with a look. “Another four fingered freak.”

His friends push and jab at him, causing him to wheel in all directions to shove them away too. “Don’t touch me,” he warns, wavers. You’re so over this.

Kiri arbitrates, but they don’t listen. “Leave us alone.” It falls on deaf ears.

“Get away from us!” you call out; more forward, less refined. You figure you can leave the diplomacy to your sister, since you find it hard not to be blunt in situations such as this where the offending party can’t seem to get the hint through their overly thick skulls.

You’re still doing your best to shield Kiri with an arm out in front of her–in any other situation you might have laughed at how you’re currently standing like your mother. Now though, nothing about this is funny. Just as you’re about to reach for Lo’ak in an attempt to get him away from their bullying too, Neteyam comes to the scene.

He looks pissed, braids swinging with every stomp of his feet as he stalks up and abruptly shoves Ao’nung back away from the three of you. “You heard what they said. Leave them alone,” he snaps before he’s getting closer, finger pointed at Ao’nung threateningly enough it even has you on edge. He pokes him in the chest, punctuates his demands. “Back. Off. Now.”

The air turns static, and to your surprise, Ao’nung listens. He holds his hands up in faux style surrender, and though he still has a mocking look on his face, it is clear he’s heeding directly to Neteyam’s commands. A part of you wonders if it’s simply because Neteyam is the oldest, if he chooses to resonate with him on that because he used to once be an heir himself. But mostly you think it’s just because Ao’nung is actually scared shitless of him, which you find twice as enjoyable.

“Smart choice,” Neteyam acknowledges as the chief’s son takes a step back, sends a warning look across the entire group. “And from now on, I need you to respect my family.”

One of Ao’nung’s friends hisses before getting signaled back by the former. You roll your eyes at the shrill and Kiri sticks out tongue.

“Let’s go,” Neteyam mutters, redirects Lo’ak with a hand to the head and Kiri with a nudge to the shoulders.

You can still hear them all behind you, snickering to themselves and making demeaning comments about the lot of you as Neteyam places his hand on your back to guide you away with the rest of them. You’re more than willing to just drop it, ignore them and swallow down the hurt their words and actions caused like you have always done, like it was nothing more than a bite of tart fruit. Just another tally to the list of your flaws.

But Lo’ak seems to not share that mindset with you.

His faltering to a stop has you doing the same, turning your attention to him and attempting to step over and reach for his arm to continue tugging him along. Before you can, though, he’s already turning right around. Walking right back to the group you were just saved from.

“Lo’ak,” Neteyam calls after him, his tone dripping in apprehension.

Lo’ak raises a calming hand to the three of you. “I got this, bro,” he reassures, but it does nothing to ease the pins and needles you suddenly feel in the soles of your feet. He steps right up to Ao’nung and holds up his hand, like he’s putting it on display. “I know this hand is funny. Look, I’m a freak. Alien.”

The group laughs under their breaths at him, sharing judging looks with each other. You don’t understand why you have such an odd feeling about this, and you have no idea what he’s getting at by subjecting himself to it.

“But it can do something really cool. Watch,” he instructs, and to your surprise Ao’nung actually has his full attention on your brother’s hand. “First, I ball it up real tight like this, okay? Then–”

In the split second that you blink, there’s a crack, a grunt. Your mouth drops open as you see Lo’ak’s fist come in contact directly with Ao’nung’s face. But it isn’t just once, or twice. Lo’ak gets three solid hits in before Ao’nung falls back on his ass into the water.

“It’s called a punch, bitch!” Lo’ak spits. “Don’t ever touch my sisters again.”

After that, all hell breaks loose. Ao’nung surges forward and tackles Lo’ak to the ground. They immediately start scrapping, throwing each other on and off and swinging at whatever they can get into contact with. The other boys jump in, all target locked on your brother. You’re contemplating stepping in and breaking it up somehow.

You look to Neteyam to see if he’s thinking the same, if he’s running through ways to possibly diffuse the situation as well. But as soon as you glance up and catch sight of the fed up slant to his lips, his tongue poking at the inside of his cheek as he tilts his head to the side, your stomach drops.

“Neteyam don’t,” you plead, attempting to pull him back to stop him but he just barely weasels out of your grasp. Voice straining with frustration, you shout after him. “Neteyam!”

He throws himself into the fight head on, socking the first guy who tries to come at him and instantly kneeing the next. Your hands fly to your face, dragging down it as you think to yourself that this literally cannot possibly be happening right now. Stupid, stupid boys.

“Stop it,” Kiri groans at your side, “Stop it! You’re so stupid.”

“This is so childish!” You yell, too–reiterating her point. “You’re all gonna get in trouble.”

The pair of you watch, exasperated. There’s nothing you can do (because you sure as hell aren’t jumping in the middle of that just to get a black eye) so you turn to your sister. You stare at each other for a moment, hear the cries and complaints of your brother and his rivals, and suddenly laughs are bubbling out of each of your lips at the bewilderment of it all.

The two of you simply stand there and wait, snickering at the idiotic display while you wait for the trouble you warned them of to inevitably come.

And come the trouble does.

You follow at a safe distance as Jake ushers his two slightly beaten and busted up sons to your family’s home. He shoves them inside and you wait outside, leaning against the side of the hut just out of sight as you listen in. You hear him begin to scold them, ask them what his one wish was on the matter of coming here.

Guilt pools deep in your gut as most of the heat is directed to Lo’ak, despite Neteyam’s (unsuccessful) effort to take the blame off his brother’s shoulders. You listen as your brother justifies himself, tells Jake he was simply standing up for you and Kiri, explains what Ao’nung and his friends were saying about you.

Irritation seeps into your skin when you hear your father tell him to go apologize. You don’t think it’s fair–he did nothing wrong, he isn’t the one at fault here. If anything, Ao’nung should be apologizing to him, not the other way around. You watch as Lo’ak storms out of the hut, sparing you a glimpse as he passes, but offering nothing else. You want to apologize to him, you can’t help but feel he deserves that. But you have a bone to pick first.

Neteyam’s footsteps sound close to the exit, so you get ready to move. Before he steps out, though, your father stops him. “Hey,” and it’s softer, than his tone was just moments ago, “So, what’d the other guys look like?”

You want to scoff at the question. Or maybe the audacity of it, given the circumstances.

“Worse,” Neteyam answers him quietly, truthfully.

There’s a pause. You can’t see your father’s face but you can imagine the look he’s giving right now. “That’s good,” he affirms.

Neteyam seems to pick up on the approval in his timbre, because you hear a breathy laugh from him before he adds, “A lot worse.”

He’s told to get out at that, Jake’s way of telling him not to push his luck, if you had to guess. He seems so preoccupied that he doesn’t even register you standing by the entrance, walking right past you. So, you take quick steps forward to follow him.

“A lot worse,” you copy him, hoping the mockery comes across as heavy as you want it to. His focus flits to you, eyes a little wide as if you caught him the slightest bit off guard. You couldn’t care less about that. “Do you know how dumb that sounds?”

“What?” he asks, stops walking to face you as his brows (or the shape of what brows would be) knead together. “What do you mean?”

Conflicted, that’s how you’d describe yourself right now. Maybe it’s because you’re still cut open from what Ao’nung and his friends had said, maybe it’s the guilt eating away at you from indirectly being the reason Lo’ak has to apologize to them. Whatever it is, it has you acting a little arbitrary.

“You shouldn’t have jumped in the fight, Neteyam,” you state–scold, in a haphazard sense. And it’s something you’d feel the need to say even without being at war with yourself. “It was stupid.”

“Stupid?” He levels you with a look, disbelieving, almost. You don’t like the way it makes you feel. “I was standing up for my family. For you.”

“I can stand up for myself,” you retort, and it tastes bitter on your tongue. This wasn’t how you wanted the conversation to shift, you weren’t meaning to sound so vindictive. You blow out a breath. “Besides, it’s not like I’m not used to it. I can handle it.”

And Neteyam, despite your enmity, drops every bit of his guard. “But you shouldn’t–”

“It’s fine,” you intervene before he can finish, because pity is not what you were trying to get out of this. You just want him to be aware, that he doesn’t have to fight and get himself in trouble for the sake of you. Studying his face for a moment, you sigh. “Anyways, you should probably go get something for your lip.”

Before he can say anything else you avert your eyes and walk off, mind already reeling.

Your fingers hurt.

This has taken you far longer than you thought it would and you’re thankful you’re on the last bead because the sun is merely a sliver over the horizon now, meaning you’re running out of light to see since your foolish self did not bring a source with you. Something about the sea beads on hand here feel different to work with compared to the wooden ones you’re used to. The change in texture is obvious, but it’s like using these is more taxing than the ones from home. You’re grateful to Tsireya for giving them to you, yet you still wish you had packed some before you’d left. It’s too late to have remorse over something like that, though, so you push the thought from your mind.

There is one thought that you can’t seem to shake, however.

Guilt has a funny way of trying to swallow you whole. It has you locked in its jaws even now, as you tie off the piece you are creating and hold it up to admire your handiwork. The very cause for the making of this necklace in the first place is guilt, followed ever so closely by gratitude. You hope it conveys that, proves to mean that much when it’s out of your hands and in the ones of whom it’s intended to belong.

It’s a highly acknowledged value in Na’vi culture that making one's own jewelry and clothing, or gifting such things to others directly, is an.. intimate gesture. Not necessarily in the definitive sense, but more so in the meaning that it is just not something one takes lightly, not a sentiment meant to be discarded.

You must respect the things people gift unto you that they have made with their own hands; may Eywa bless their labor. Neytiri taught you that when you were young, when she gave you your first bracelet. You still have it, even now, because such a thing does not leave you in your first lifetime or the next. Hope creeps into your bones that it holds up for you now.

A light sweeps over you from behind, a narrow beam that has you squinting as you look over your shoulder. The only people here who would have a flashlight would be your family, and given the lack of taunting or lecturing accompanying it, there’s just one person who it could be.

“Should you have that? You’d get in trouble if you got caught, you know,” you tell him as you turn back around, stare at the star sprinkled ocean.

“Ah, srankehe,” [“more or less”] Neteyam waves off as he sits down about a foot away from you. You can feel his eyes on you, hear the smile in his voice. “How much more trouble could I get in after today?”

“Right,” you respond with a ghost of a chuckle. You turn to him, peer at him through the blanketed dark. “How’s your lip?”

“Oh, you didn’t hear?” His tone takes a dip, and for a second you grow concerned. “They said I have to get them cut off, they’re unsalvageable. Yes, completely busted up to shreds. Shame.”

Every drop of worry rushes out of your body instantly and you reach across the small distance separating the two of you. He laughs as you shove him, flashes the light in your face as a little bit of payback. Then, the light drifts over your hand, goes back and does a double sweep, only stopping once it’s pointed directly on what you almost forgot you were still holding in it.

“What’s this?” Neteyam asks, immediately scooting closer and cautiously reaching for the necklace. He holds it in his hand so delicately, runs his fingers over the beads like it’s the most fragile thing he’s ever seen. “Did you make this?”

The building anxiety becomes just a smidgen too much as he looks over at you, so you turn your attention down to the beaded item in his hand.

“Yeah,” you nod, bite the inside of your cheek as you brush your finger against the accent shell you placed in the middle. “Yeah, it’s for you.”

That seems to take him aback, has him pausing for a moment. “You made it for me?”

You nod again. Your tongue suddenly feels like lead in the bottom of your mouth. You feel stupid, this seems silly. Part of you wants to yank it out of his hands and yell just kidding! before you risk embarrassing yourself within the next few moments. You try to choose your words wisely.

“I wanted to say sorry, for earlier. I shouldn’t have told you not to fight, that’s not my place. And I really am grateful for you standing up for me. I just.. I don’t want you getting scolded because of me. I don’t want to be the reason you get in trouble. So, I’m sorry, Neteyam. Ngaytxoa.” [“My deepest apologies.”]

He’s looking at you again, you can tell. There’s an odd bevel in his tone when he queries, “So you made this as an apology? Because you feel guilty?”

“Yes,” you confirm, verify as you find the courage to meet his gaze, but you redial too, “Well, and as a thank you.”

“A thank you?” He tips his head like he’s truly perplexed, and you wonder how he doesn’t already know why you’re grateful for him, why you’ve used every ounce of your appreciation in the fashioning of this lavalliere.

“You deserve one.” A knot slides up into your throat, chokes you up as you address him now. You do your best to work past it. “You’ve helped me through so much since coming here. You’ve been patient with me and–and you’ve stepped in whenever I needed you. You’ve done everything you can to help me. I can’t even begin to tell you how grateful I am for that. How grateful I am for you.”

That last part slips out of you before you can think much about it, but once it rolls off your tongue you can’t help but realize just how true it is. You are exceedingly thankful for Neteyam not just for what he’s done, but for who he is. Your heart holds a permanent room for him, and you think he has the right to know that.

For a few painstaking moments, Netayam just looks at you. Like he’s mulling over everything you’ve just said, like he’s processing it to the utmost ability. You’re almost on the verge of regret, thinking maybe you’ve crossed some line drawn in the sand that you were not previously aware of. That is, until there’s a twitch at the corner of his lips.

“Do I have to put it on myself?”

The smile that starts to mirror from his face to yours is inevitable, but you hook your fang on the corner of your lip in a sorry attempt to not beam so widely anyways. You raise onto your knees as you take the necklace from him, to make it easier to face him. Neteyam’s eyes never leave your face as you focus on gently looping the necklace over his head. Once it’s on, you slide your fingers behind his neck–delicately, carefully–lifting his braids out of the way so that it can fall properly into place. You’re slow on pulling away, drifting your fingers down the slick, sea glass beadwork until they find the middle shell. You take this time to straighten it, make sure it’s laying properly against his chest.

Just as you go to pull your hands away, Neteyam’s own come up to keep them held to his chest. Your gaze flits up, dares to meet his. On your knees like this you’re looking down on him, an occurrence that usually is the other way around. His eyes are glistening, shining. There are constellations illuminated across his cheeks, his nose. You think you’d like to map them.

“Irayo fìxtan,” [“Thank you so much.”] he murmurs, soft and low as his thumb rubs over your knuckles. His expression is so warm, so earnest. It suddenly feels very hard to breathe, and that feeling from before, when you were with Tsireya, is happening again. “Irayo fìxtan, Ma (Y/n).”

There’s a shift, a tilt of an axis. Something changes, in this very moment; something far from trivial but so close to uncharted. It is unknown to you what this all means, what this entails.

What changes?

You open your mouth to speak, but even you aren’t sure what you will say. Part of you wants to change the subject, nerves tend to plague you and make you want to veer from such things, but the rest of you, well. You think you might have truly settled on something to say, something to voice, now.

But someone’s hesitant footsteps approaching has your attention faltering, causes you to look to your left where you find Ao’nung walking up with a look on his face that has your stomach twisting. And when you thought that was bad enough, the words that leave his lips make you forget anything you were planning to mutter.

“There’s a problem.. with Lo’ak.”

#in the sand and in the stars #avatar x reader #neteyam #neteyam sully x reader #neteyam x reader #avatar fanfiction #neteyam sully #atwow neteyam #atwow x reader

453 notes · View notes

cordyce · 1 year

Text

(we are written) in the sand and in the stars

Neteyam x Reader

༄ CHAPTER FOUR: SEA SALT IN OLD WOUNDS

Chapter Summary: Tensions are making themselves known among your family. Between Lo’ak hitting a streak of defiance, Neteyam shifting your world on it’s axis, and Eywa bringing old memories to light—you find yourself grappling for a bit of stability. But will it ever come?

Author’s Note: pls ignore the ugly ass dividers in the middle of the chapter tumblr has an image limit and i’m aware it looks like shit </3 also neteyam may be slightly ooc in this chapter. just squint ur eyes and pretend he isn’t for the sake of my sanity.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Read on AO3

Sick does not even come close to describing the feeling that floods your body as you listen to Ao’nung explain what he and his friends have done. It seeps into your bones; wraps around your spine like a vice that jerks you up off your knees in a split second.

But Neteyam is jolting up even faster.

Normally, he’s the most level-headed person within a thirty mile radius at all times. Normally, he is good at soaking in information and chewing on it until the solution is soft on the bed of his tongue. Normally, he chooses rationale over impulsivity.

Normally, you wouldn’t see him do such a thing as reach to the base of Ao’nung’s neck to grip onto the braid encasing his neural queue and order him in venomous tone to “ walk ”, but a divergence from normalcy is well acceptable now, you think.

The sickness doesn’t subside as you trail right behind Neteyam, doing your best to keep your thoughts to yourself as he leads Ao’nung to your family’s home like a mindless dog who’s just been caught chewing up the rug. You can’t read the look on either of their faces, can’t really decipher what is going through either of their minds. Which wouldn’t really bother you in the case of Ao’nung, alone. But it leaves you unsettled when it comes to Neteyam, who you have always been so good at reading; has you feeling like you’ve suddenly gone illiterate in a language you’ve been speaking your whole life. It frustrates you, pushes you even closer to the ledge.

The sickness doesn’t subside, no, but with each step closer to your home that you take, it gains a new confrère.

Anger begins to simmer the unease in your bones. It gnaws at the frayed hems of your mind as you recall Ao’nung’s confession over and over again, run it through your head repetitively in a frail attempt at finding reason in it. You knew he was not fond of your family, had a clear disdain for your presence in his home, but this?

Does he really hold such a hatred in his heart that he would abandon your brother in a place he did not know with no real way to defend himself? No route back? No promise of safety?

You’d like to push Neteyam’s hand to the side and do the leading yourself. Maybe it’s ill intent to want to twist Ao’nung’s braid so hard it has him seeing Eywa firsthand, but you couldn't care less. Not now. He has done nothing but terrorize your family since your arrival, what would be the harm in a little retaliation such as that?

After what feels like a walk far too long, you finally reach your family’s hut. Jake’s head snaps up as soon as he sees the three of you walk in, and his eyes are on high alert when he takes notice of Neteyam’s hand securing the chief’s son in such a way. His expression portrays that there better be good reason for his son to be manhandling him as he is; you think the reason is well past good.

“Tell him what you told me,” Neteyam orders, brisk and demanding. He doesn’t let go of Ao’nung, not yet, and you wonder if it’s because he doesn’t want to risk him running off with his tail between his legs.

Because if Neteyam was looking at you like that, that is most certainly what you’d be doing.

You do your best to quell yourself as you listen to Ao’nung recite the same story, near verbatim, that he told you and Neteyam to your father. It’s no easier to hear the second time, and with every minute that passes you can only think about Lo’ak. Alone, cold, scared for his life; praying to the great mother that he is still alive.

Your ears flutter; a threat to press back against your skull. Fear is so familiar to you that you nearly welcome it like you would an old friend. But this time it is different, like an acquaintance who you do your best to avoid in crowds. It’s different because it is not for you alone, not for your own peace of mind or with your own life on the line. It enrages you, scalds you–burns at you as you yearn for the safety of one you hold dear.

This fear has you bubbling over, rattling the lid off of the pot you use to vigorously contain all the ugly, unrefined pieces of you. Like stew left unattended on the stove.

Once Ao’nung is through, Jake doesn’t say a word. He simply stands up and reaches for a flashlight from his bag (which has you hiding the one Neteyam snatched earlier behind your back, as a second thought) along with his sheath, then turns to walk out. It’s only now that Neteyam releases his grip on Ao’nung, gives him one final steely glare before he goes to follow his father. Your body pivots to do the same, but you falter.

In any other situation, at any other time, you might have been able to bite your tongue. If this had been directed at you, if it was you lost out at sea–even despite your irrational grievances–you think you might have found it within yourself to just brush past it. Forced yourself into the practiced philosophy of out of sight, out of mind, for the greater good of your father’s ataraxis.

But you were not the target of this, your brother was. And if Jake wants to preach your family’s maxim so much, then maybe you can be so inclined to partake in a bit of malicious compliance in its stead.

You deem now is the perfect time to do so.

“If they bring him back dead,” you address, turn your head to make direct eye contact with Ao’nung. You want him to know you mean it, that it is direct and equitable. “I will kill you myself. That is pänu.” [ “A promise.” ]

His expression cracks, the mask he’s plastered on slips, in just the slightest way that is noticeable. And you see it, the twinge of emotion that incites a tremor in his cheek, stings at his eyes. He gulps the smallest of lumps down his throat, and you know. He’s scared–for something, anything, you aren’t sure and you don’t care. You just want him to feel a fraction of what you’re feeling in this very moment, just a smidgen of something other than thinly veiled neutrality.

You take in his reaction and you heed to it before you finally focus your attention back on following the trail your father and Neteyam had taken. Finding where they went is easy; all you have to do is follow the shouts coming from the shoreline, the glow of torches and lanterns burning brighter with each pad of your feet against the netting. A crowd is already formed, people standing on and around the docks speaking among themselves. You catch a glimpse of Neteyam through a break in the sea of people, his sapphire skin sparkling against a backdrop of teal, and you begin pushing your way through.

Just as you reach him, your father and a few Metkayina men are already taking off into the water. They are the search party, you deduce, based on the murmurs of those around you. You try to drown them out, pretend you don’t hear how some of them are already putting the blame onto your brother; as if they even have a clue.

Your fingers brush against Neteyam’s wrist–out of instinct, yen, you aren’t sure it matters–but at the slightest bit of contact he’s already grappling for it. Blindly, before he’s even turned his head. Like he can tell by just the ridges of your fingertips that it is you. His hand molds around yours, the warmth of his palm embedding itself to the lines crafted in your own. And now, only now, does he look to you.

“They are going to the Three Brothers Islands to find him,” Neteyam tells you, and his voice comes out just as level as it always does. Just as composed. “They should all be back soon.”

Any other person would miss it, any other person wouldn’t pick up on such a thing. But you are not them. Neteyam has seemed to have put so much effort into concealing his emotions earlier that he’s caused a misstep, a flux. His voice is level, yes. And his eyes are steadfast, sure. His tone rings true to the promise that he believes his brother will return safe and sound, but –stray doubt has slithered in and soiled the pristine veils of that covenant.

Yes, any other person would miss it, but you pick up on the slightest quiver in the tip of his tail as it brushes against you. You take note of how his left ear twitches once, twice, three times; a nervous tell he’s had since you were merely children. You lock your gaze on the fang that hooks the edge of his lip, biting down, just barely. You detect it all, and you feel the vex.

He does his best to look strong and put on an unbothered show as the rest of your family runs up, asks what’s going on– Where is Lo’ak? What is happening? –and what the meaning of this is. You simply allow him to do so, let him step into his role as the pillar of the family oh so seamlessly, just like always. Squeezing the hand he has failed to retract as a comfort, a response to the plight, you shudder out a breath.

And the waiting game begins.

It takes forever–at least, it feels like it does. The time spent waiting for the return of the convoy feels perilous, daunting. Excruciating, in a longing sense. Neytiri spends the time pacing, cursing below her breath at the situation, her son, the distinction isn’t clear. Neteyam is not far off, he gets a lot of his mannerisms from his mother. He nearly drives you crazy with each pass he does beside you, but you find distraction in taking care of Tuk with Kiri. She has always been so empathetic with others, with Lo’ak especially, and her whines for when he will return have you silencing your own anxieties until you finally convince her to just go to bed.

After some time, though, you hear it. The shouts in the distance as they come within sight. The horns they blow as the search party comes back into view. The sigh that wracks out of you is near violent as you see your brother’s silhouette seated behind one of the Metkayina men.

You rush to the ledge just as Lo’ak is stepping onto it and you can see it in his eyes. There’s fire behind them, raging, and it’s aimed directly at Ao’nung. But before he gets even more than a step in, Jake is stopping him, holding him in place. Safety precautions, you assume, an attempt to keep things from escalating.

You for one think that Lo’ak deserves to throw at least one cheap shot at him, maybe even waterboard him for a few minutes. An eye for an eye sort of thing.

“Let’s have a look at you,” your father says, does a walk around of Lo’ak to look for any real injuries. He won’t find any, you can tell, and you know he knows that too. “He’s fine, he’s fine. Just a few scratches.”

Neytiri brushes past you, now. Jumps down to the lower dock and grabs her son to run her eyes over him herself. But the relief painting her features is fleeting, and you bite the inside of your cheek at the shift in her gaze seconds later.

“I pray for the strength that I will not pluck the eyeballs out of my youngest son,” she hisses as she claws her hand in front of his face. Lo’ak looks unbothered, unperturbed–would probably be embarrassed at such a sentence in any other circumstance, knowing him.

“No,” Tonowari speaks up to your left, and your gaze snaps to him. His rebuttal is not something you were expecting, not something you had anticipated. “My son knows better than to take him outside the reef.” And as if his speaking up didn’t catch you off guard enough, he places his hand on Ao’nung’s shoulder and makes him lower into a kneel. “The blame is his.”

Everyone is tense, high strung; not wanting to do anything to tip this boat in either direction and send all of you plunging into an unforgiving sea. You understand that’s the consensus of their thoughts, truly, but the only abstraction playing in your mind is that you think you like Ao’nung better when he’s forced to be on his knees and silent.

“Okay,” Jake mutters out in a breath, grabs at Lo’ak’s arm to pull him along. “Let’s go.”

But it appears that Lo’ak holds a grudge against anything being as easy as this, so true to his fashion he yanks his arm out of his father’s grasp.

“No,” he shakes his head, and you have half a mind to shake him senseless. You wonder what the hell he’s thinking, why he’s doing this. “This is not Ao’nung’s fault. This was my idea, Ao’nung tried to talk me out of it. Really.”

Your father simply regains his grip on his youngest son, Neytiri shoving him along as well as he spews out a quiet apology. Lo’ak’s eyes meet Ao’nung’s just as he’s being drug past him, and you realize in that moment, it was more than just trying to please those he feels the pressure to impress.

Jake shares a hushed understanding with Tonowari as he passes him, tells him he’ll handle this. You hear the chief and his mate begin chastising their son as you fall into line to follow your family further and further away from the dock.

You’re just out of earshot of the locals when Lo’ak turns to look at his father, already pleading his case. “Dad, you told me to make friends with these kids. That’s all I was trying–”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Jake cuts him off, tone dripping in disappointment, indignation. He fixes Lo’ak with a stern look. “You brought shame to this family.”

The statement causes a pause, a delay. It was not even directed at you and it has your stomach tightening into knots, nausea blooming in the pits of it. To say such a thing to him when it wasn’t even him who did anything wrong feels malevolent; it doesn’t strike you as fair.

In fact, nothing seems all that fair lately.

“Can I go now?” Lo’ak speaks up after the beat of silence.

Jake sighs, haughty. “Any more trouble, I jerk a knot in your tail. You read me?”

“Yes sir,” your brother responds immediately. “Lima Charlie.”

Your father nods his head with a grunt, and Lo’ak wastes no time in turning on his heel and stalking off. Part of you wants to run after him–you still aren’t fully settled from this incident after all, and you’d really like to give your brother a hug and let him know you’re glad he’s alright–but Neytiri is whipping around to face the three of you that remain as soon as Lo’ak is gone.

“Where were you?” She asks, directed entirely to Neteyam.

“Yeah,” Jake chimes in, and that same tone he was using on Lo’ak is plaguing his voice now. It’s watered down, of course, but even diluted you know that it still tastes like straight poison to swallow. “What happened to keep an eye on your brother?”

Neteyam, not missing a single beat, dips his head. “I’m sorry, sir.”

So inculcated with obedience, so willing to drop it all just to fall into line. You’ve always seen it, acknowledged it, but now it shines in a new light for you. Neteyam never strays, never complains, never voices against anything when it comes from a station of command. He’s deemed himself a soldier, a leader, his siblings’ keeper; a patron to service everyone else and admonish himself.

And you just don’t take too well to that right now.

“It’s actually my fault, sir,” you step in, do your best to ignore the heat of the gazes that switch from him to you. “I’m the reason Lo’ak wasn’t looked after.”

There’s a sharp inhale behind you, and out of your peripheral you see Neteyam’s head snap back up. You aren’t sure to which parent you should be looking, so you keep your eyes fixed forward, and wait.

“What were you doing?” Jake questions, and it all feels so unfamiliar. You are not immune to discipline from either of them, it has been administered to you many times over the years, but something about this moment feels heavier.

Your body tenses up in a weak attempt to control the flinch that it so desperately wants to convey as Neytiri steps into your line of sight. Saying you are scared of the only mother figure you have ever known is not something you’d be open to readily admit, but if you were ever asked if she made you a bit wary when she was angry, you think you’d have to agree to that statement.

“ Why? ” It’s all she presses, a ghost of a hiss trailing on the end as if to dot the curve of punctuation.

“I was struggling with some things that Tsireya has been teaching us,” is what you settle on saying, and it isn’t particularly a lie, but deep down you still feel the slightest bit culpable for it. “I asked Neteyam for help even though I knew he was busy. I shouldn’t have distracted him, it’s my fault. I’m sorry.”

“There’s no place for distractions, ” Neytiri bites, snaps her teeth. This time you do flinch. Not because you’re afraid her actions might harm you, but because her words do. Like the implication that you are a distraction is something she expected; a burden easy to predict. “Do not let this happen again.”

“I won’t,” you whisper, try to focus on the flame of a nearby torch to will the burning behind your eyes to stop. “ I won’t. ”

Nothing else is said before Neytiri turns on her heel to walk away, Jake trailing close behind. A hand brushes against your arm; Kiri offers you a sympathetic, odd tilt of a smile as she steps away too. Which only leaves you and Neteyam, and you can already tell you aren’t going to like what he has to say about all of this, so you do what any person wanting to avoid confrontation would.

You clear your throat and go off in the complete opposite direction.

“Hey,” he calls after you the very next second, already scrambling to match your fast pace. “Hey, wait!”

But you ignore him, pretend you don’t hear him. Because why should you stick around and listen to what he has to say if you are already well aware of the very words that are going to be leaving his mouth? You think it benign; that he should save his breath. You keep walking, and to your chagrin, Neteyam keeps following.

“ Agh, Ma (Y/n).” And you know that timbre, know it only wavers as such when he has grown frustrated. Something inside you takes a little pride in that, and in turn you think you need to be checked in the head because of it.

The sand under your feet grows more and more moist, colder on the soles as you keep padding off. You had no intentional path when you started walking–just the goal of getting away from Neteyam–but with a few more strides it seems that you find yourself in the very same spot you and him had been earlier. Perhaps just by tendency, it being one of the only places you are semi-familiar with, or maybe something else. Regardless of which, you do not let it blindside you as you are still on a mission.

“Why are you so stubborn?” Neteyam groans, pinched and drawn out. A smile nearly tempts your lips at that, a laugh just about rolls off your tongue. That is, until you feel it.

The tug on your tail is swift; has you jutting to a stop in your tracks instantly. It is not playful, or fun spirited–which leaves an odd taste in your mouth. Sand tunnels up in the skid marks your feet leave and you whip around to yank your own tail out of Neteyam’s calloused grasp. Your mouth is propped open, gaping. You wouldn’t be able to conceal your disbelief if you tried because did he really just do that?

“I am not a child,” you reprimand, holding your tail close to you like you’re scared he might try to grab at it again. Then again, there is the chance that he might. “You do not drag me back by my tail like one.”

You expect him to bubble out an apology forthright, but instead he closes the gap between the two of you with a pointed gaze.

“I am not a child either.” He mirrors your tone, like an echo in a lower octave. “I do not need you to take blame for me.”

A standstill, an impasse. You and Neteyam stare at each other for a few baited moments. His leer is heavy, disparate. Whatever is swirling behind those honeyed irises has you transfixed, but it doesn’t mean you are willing to back down. It’s like you’re backpedaling on a conversation you’ve just had, but then again you suppose you are, aren’t you?

“You shouldn’t be given blame yourself,” you tell him, unequivocally. Because it is what you believe, what you harbor in your heart. And Neteyam seems to always pull anything he wishes out of your heart. “I know you think you have to be responsible for everyone, but you don’t.”

“That is rich, coming from you.”

That takes you back a moment, has the gears inside your head stuttering in their tread. He’s thrown your own words back in your face twice now, like a rag that’s already been used and soiled. It’s as if he’s dead set on hammering you out, knocking you straight no matter how many blows it takes.

It unnerves you.

“I am the oldest.” A statement, a fact; you say it because you know that one cannot argue with the flat truth. “That is my job.”

It has always been your job.

“Then you should understand–”

“No, I don’t understand, Neteyam,” you interject, brows furrowing up at him. “You are their older brother, I understand that. You want to stand up for those you care about, I understand that, too. But there is a difference between taking their side and taking their blame. And you don’t seem to get that. ”

“If you are so against such a thing, then why did you do it just now?” He asks, brisk and unfiltered in a way he rarely gets. There’s a cinch between his brows, a dip in the lines of his lips. It isn’t angry, or mean–it’s simply achingly curious. “Why take my blame when you are not the one at fault?”

“Maybe I am just tired of seeing you get in trouble for things you don’t do.”

It comes out quieter than you intended it to, like all the fight seeps out of you with each word that tumbles from your lips. A decrescendo of what was once a building dispute; a come apart. Your eyes flit away from Neteyam’s, your hands ring around your tail that you’ve failed to drop thus far.

“It just seems like you’re carrying everyone else’s problems around with you constantly. Protecting them nìftxavang,” [ “with all your heart” ] you shrug sheepishly, tip your head as you force yourself to meet his gaze once again. “If I am able to take just a portion of the weight off your shoulders, then all I ask is that you let me.”

He’s quiet, reticent. Each passing beat of locked eyes has you feeling more and more foolish. Perhaps you have crossed a line, said something you should not have. Maybe, this went over the boundaries of whatever the two of you were now, ventured into unmarked territory that you do not have permission to claim just yet.

You’re still so unsure of what this is, at all.

Neteyam’s eyes cut away from you, dip down to some spot towards your feet. He reaches a hand up to fiddle with the necklace hanging from his neck; the one you made for him just a few hours ago. His thumb presses to the shell on it, his teeth pull his lips in. Then, he nods.

“Only the light weight,” he cracks, lifting his head just enough to look at you through the braids that seem to always have a way of falling into his face. “You are not built to carry anything ku’up.” [ “Heavy.” ]

You shove at his chest as the smile finally carves into his cheeks, roll your eyes at him and grumble under your breath. “I’m stronger than you, you skxawng.”

“Ah, whatever helps you sleep at night,” he chuckles, grabs your hands to pull you with him as he stumbles a few steps back from your faux assault.

But he drops one, lets the grin lessen a little as he reaches behind you. It’s hard not to jerk when you feel his fingers brush against your tail again (considering it has been pulled on more than twice today already, neither instance with your permission), and yet you control it because this time it’s gentle, loose. His grip is hollow as he skims his fingertips along your tail. A shudder runs through you as he gets to the end of it, in the very same place where he had grabbed onto earlier. Heat pools into your cheeks as he brushes against it with his thumb–tender, demure.

“I’m sorry. For pulling on your tail. That was.. rude.” It’s devout, vehement. His touch conveys every word he utters in a tenfold manner. It’s nearly overwhelming. “Ngaytxoa, Ma (Y/n)?” [ “Forgive me?” ]

Part of you wants to say no out of spite, make him squirm or tug his tail in retaliation, but the way he’s looking at you now has you tongue tied. As priorly stated, you harbor the ability to read Neteyam like an open book in your native tongue, and more often than not that is a skill you find joy in.

Now, though, you think you’d prefer to be struck dumb, because his gaze is dripping in such potent lovelorn infatuation that the side effects of that apparently include a fluttering in your gut that teeters on frenzied.

You can’t seem to get any words out so you nod, bite the edge of your lip as you glance down to where Neteyam has taken to playing with the frays of your tail. You wonder if he even realizes what he’s doing, if he knows how all of this is affecting you; or if his gestures just ring true to his presumed inexperience.

You suppose that’s something the two of you have in common when it all comes down to this: inexperience.

A breathy sort of chortle thumps out of him at your mute response. He’s so close you swear you can almost feel the vibrations of it. The question crosses your mind whether it would be odd to request to place your hand over his heart, like you did when he was helping you before. You just want to feel it, become more acquainted with the rhythmic thump. Your mouth parts to ask, but.

“What are you guys doing?” Kiri’s voice carries from a few yards away, startling you into a step back. The action causes Neteyam to lose grip of your tail, the contact and closeness between the two of you waved away like a tepid vapor.

“Nothing,” you reply straight away, because you think doing so might make you feel a little less awkward about this in the long run. (However after the words leave your mouth, you’re pretty sure they’ve caused the opposite effect). “We were just..”

“Talking over training for tomorrow,” Neteyam chimes in when he sees you struggling, finishing your sentence off like it’s the easiest thing in the world. A culpable air of confidence about him to get away with such things, you think. “We were just setting aside times to fit it all in.”

“Right,” your sister drawls, studying the pair of you for a moment before she continues. “Well, there’s only a few hours of night left. Dad sent me to come find you so that you would get some sleep.”

“Okay. Coming.” And you curse yourself for the hitch in your deliverance as you say it. But it seems she doesn’t catch it, or doesn’t care enough to react, because she’s already turning around to walk back the way she came.

You’re taking steps to follow her without hesitation, fully expecting Neteyam to just fall in line and do the same. However, instead of matching your steps when he skirts his way into your peripheral vision, he’s brushing past you. It’s peculiar, for him to do such a thing. But as you eye him in his parting you notice how his ears are pressed abnormally flat to his skull and you have to fight the urge to giggle.

Apparently even the strapping former heir gets embarrassed.

“I’m not blind, you know,” Kiri states after Neteyam has disappeared far enough ahead and you catch up to her languid pace.

The tips of your ears feel like they’re being lit by a match and you curse yourself for what feels like the near instant karma of internally making fun of Neteyam just a second earlier.

“I never said you were.”

“Hm.” She hums, sends you a side eye glance. “I see my brother has a new necklace. And since you and I both know how absolutely atrocious his beading skills are, I know he didn’t make it.”

“You noticed?” You don’t understand why you’re so shy now. It’s not like you haven’t made your fair share of jewelry for others in the past. Hell, you’ve made Kiri countless pieces since you first learned how to.

“Of course I did,” she rolls her eyes. Blunt, curt, the pair of you have always been that way with one another. So you can easily tell she’s getting annoyed with you beating around the bush now. “But I will say that you should’ve made him give you the first courting gift. Would’ve been funny to see him on pins and needles when giving it to you.”

That nearly has you tripping over your own feet, your eyes shooting as wide as saucers. You sputter over her words, tumble through a poor attempt at correction.

“That wasn’t–The necklace isn’t a courting gift,” you defend, desperation littering itself in your pledge.

Kiri merely turns to you, pauses in her steps for just a moment, and gives you a look so knowing that it has you questioning everything you thought you were certain of.

“Isn’t it, though?”

Before you even have the chance to ramble off anything else, she’s continuing into the string of maruis, like she’s well aware you cannot talk past this point for the risk of awakening those sleeping in their homes. You feel choked up, leg locked like you’ve been caught in a slip of netting. Convincing yourself is trivial, pointless, but you try to do so anyway.

You made the necklace as a thank you, a symbol of gratitude; an offering. It was innocent in nature and two dimensional in creation. There was no chance that this simple necklace could be seen as something as pivotal as a courting gift. Could be interpreted as anything that holds so much weight.

At least that’s what you keep repeating to yourself, as you do your best not to have another restless night sleeping on a mat that’s laid next to the very man who has single handedly redefined the meaning of family for you.

———————————————————————————

The next day, eagerness is buzzing in everyone’s chests.

You aren’t sure you’ve ever seen Kiri wake up so early without having to literally be dragged out of bed by the ankles. And it’s even more a surprise to you when Tuk doesn’t whine and cry at being disturbed from her slumber hours before she normally would. Then again, it feels near impossible not to be keyed up–jittery–because there is something you’re all dying to know.

Sitting in a circle on a group of rocks just as the sunrise is peeking over the horizon, each of you listen intently as Lo’ak recalls what happened last night–even Ao’nung has joined you, and you hate to admit it but he’s acting slightly less insufferable than usual as he pays mind to your brother’s story. You’re seated between him and Neteyam, trying to pretend you don’t see how the latter keeps fiddling with the necklace he dons, acting like every time you catch a glimpse of it Kiri’s words aren’t ringing in your ears.

It is harder than one would think.

Lo’ak is just wrapping up his recollection, explaining how he told the tulkun that saved his life to swim away and that was the last he saw of him before he was picked up by the search party. It seems so surreal, a miraculous sort of thing. You’re left stunned by the time he quits talking.

“I wish I’d been there,” Kiri muses, eyes lit up in awe; wonder. Her smile is so bright that it makes you wish she could have been there, too. Divine occurrences have always been so special to her. “The ocean blessed you with a gift, brother.”

You’re inclined to agree, voice your own opinion on that, but Ao’nung is speaking up before you get the chance.

“The tulkun have not returned yet.” It sounds matter-of-fact when he says it, like he’s bordering on a disputing scoff, but even you can tell he’s merely questioning it because that is what he knows. “And anyway, no tulkun is ever alone.”

“Well, this one was,” Lo’ak counters. His hand waves to his side, over his arm in a sort of vague demonstration. “He had a, uhm–a missing fin. Like a stump on the left side.”

Tuk mumbles an empathetic reply to that and in your heart you hold the same sentiment. A tulkun without a fin sounds so cruel, so pitiable. It strikes the question of how something like that could even happen, how a tulkun could become so mutilated in such a way. You look across from you to Tsireya with full intentions to ask, but her eyes widening has you wavering.

“That’s Payakan,” she whispers, then turns to Ao’nung and Rotxo and raises the volume of her proclamation. “It’s Payakan.”

Kiri tips her head. “Who’s Payakan?”

“And why do you say his name like that?” You add, not failing to pick up on the ill filter of her tone as she recited it. It has your stomach feeling heavy, your mind alert.

“He’s a young bull who went rogue,” Rotxo explains, catching your attention. His expression holds nothing but offhand confusion. “He’s outcast. Alone. And he has a missing fin.”

“They say he is a killer,” Tsireya presses, hand reaching out for Lo’ak’s arm like she’s trying to make him feel the seriousness of this implication.

You lurch at that. “A killer?” Your brother was left alone in the open ocean with a killer?

“No.” Lo’ak shakes his head. “ No. ”

“He killed Na’vi,” Ao’nung expounds. His tone is more sincerely serious than you think you’ve ever heard it, which is doing absolutely nothing to console you. “And other tulkun. Not here, but far to the south.”

“No, he’s no killer!” Lo’ak continues to refuse the idea, push it as far off as he can. Your concerns are in multitude, of course, but he seems so sure about his standpoint on this that it has you questioning which side you should be agreeing with here.

“Lo’ak,” Tsireya breathes, giving his arm a squeeze. “You are lucky to be alive.”

“I’m telling you guys, he saved my life.” His voice is laced solely in sincerity. It’s like he’s desperate for someone, anyone, to just believe what he’s saying. To just listen to him. “He’s my friend.”

There’s a sliver of silence that follows–a fleeting moment where it is obvious that no one is entirely sure on what to say next–and Neteyam, who has not spoken up yet once during the duration of this, stands up.

“My baby bro, the mighty warrior,” he smiles, leaning over Lo’ak to grip onto his shoulders and give them a lighthearted, teasing shake. “Who faced the killer tulkun and lived to tell about it.”

You can see the frustration on Lo’ak’s face before he voices it. He shoves Neteyam off with a dry hiss and stands up from the circle. “You guys aren’t listening,” he sighs, throwing his hands up in defeat before he turns to walk away.

“ Lo’ak, ” you drone, an indirect request for him to stop walking away as your sisters do the same. When you realize he isn’t turning around, you smack Neteyam (who still hasn’t sat back down) on the thigh with the back of your hand and glare up at him. “Did you really have to do that?”

“What?” he huffs, showing his own palms like he didn’t do a single thing wrong.

Ignoring him, you turn your eyes back to your brother, who keeps stalking off until he’s out of sight headed to where the ilu gear is kept. You consider the possibilities of where he’s going, what he’s thinking, but if you’re being truthful with yourself you already know full and well the destination he has in mind.

Worry is something you feel far too often–the threat of blowing a blood vessel is always so damn prevalent in this family–but now you do your best to swallow it whole. Whatever Lo’ak is doing, he’s doing because he thinks it to be right.

And you refuse to be the one who gets in the middle of that.

——————————————————————————

The only regret you have for not chasing after Lo’ak yourself once he stormed off is that you feel a bit bad about what he’s going to be missing. Tsireya and Rotxo are taking you to their direct connection with Eywa today.

The journey isn’t far, but it is more than just a swim around the reef, so Tuk hitches a ride on the back of Kiri’s ilu instead of riding her own. You’re positioned on the back of Neteyam’s–because even though you have been getting better about the whole being underwater thing, you haven’t quite reached the point of feeling comfortable riding one of your own–but he doesn’t seem to mind your presence there; it’s almost as if he welcomes it.

You find delight in that prospect.

It’s getting late, the time table of the day closing down, when your group breaks out of the water for the final time. Tsireya flashes you all a smile, dimple dipping into her cheek as you glide under a low hanging rock. She announces your arrival, looks over her shoulder to clock all of your reactions once you’re underneath the rock no longer and can really see where it is she has brought you.

The only word you can find to describe it is beautiful, but even that doesn’t feel like it does it any true justice. Your eyes flit all around, taking it all in, letting yourself record mental logs of what will now be your replacement for a physical contact with the great mother. Rocks are floating like they’re laced with helium, arches are carved like they’re meant to hold the sphere of your planet’s entirety in their sheath. Something draws at you, like a string wrapped around your heart chords.

Like a childhood friend, pulling at your hand to come play.

“This is the Cove of the Ancestors. Our most sacred place. Eclipse is the best time of day to be here,” Tsireya continues as the last sliver of daylight fades out, and you are listening, but you find yourself getting lost in the feeling of it all, too. Then, she stops, and the luminescence below you tells you where you are before she even has the chance to. “This is it. This is the Spirit Tree.”

If the cove is beautiful, then there must be a word out there that surpasses it that one can only use to describe this. It’s so captivating that it nearly feels like a trance–slipping off Neteyam’s ilu and sucking in a breath easier than it has ever been before. More willing, more inclined; the pressure of the water doesn’t even cross your mind as you follow behind Tsireya to the heart of the tree.

Something’s tugging.

The Spirit Tree holds such a striking resemblance to the Tree of Souls that you find your hands nearly trembling as you swim. Everything has felt so foreign, so new, since coming here. Having something like this–even if these limbs float upwards towards the surface of the water instead of blowing freely below in the wind–feels like having a piece of home.

Familiarity fabricated in fallace.

You wait until Tsireya gives you the signal, the okay to connect to the tree with a supportive smile, before you swim up to any specific limb. It’s only when you have it directly in front of you, when you reach back and hold your queue in your hand, that it hits you that this will be your first time connecting to Eywa in such an extended period of time.

Anxiety isn’t what you would define it as, but something starts prickling at the back of your neck, scratching at the base of your spine. You curse yourself for having such a feeling right now of all times, when you were just fine a moment before. But it’s only normal, you think, in a time like this. You contemplate opting out, just swimming to the surface to clear your head.

Then Neteyam swims up to the limb beside you, sends you a bemused quirk of his lips as he holds his own queue in his hand, and it’s like the sight of him alone makes that all go away. So with a practiced sense of composure, you lift your neural queue to the projection–allow the tendrils to spread along the surface–and you connect with the slow flutter shut of your eyelids.

The Great Mother’s power has always been different for you.

Connecting to a spiritual hub is a unique experience for everyone, granted. It can be a gateway to the past, or serve as a reunion with loved ones young and old who you hold dear. Most see family members that have already gone on to meet the Great Mother, people they have lost along the way of their lives or even before it. For instance, when Kiri shifts through she sees Grace, gets to talk to her biological mother even though they never had the chance to bodily meet in the proper sense. You’ve heard Jake speak of how he talks with Tsu’tey, his brother, and others in his family.

But you– you have no one to really meet. You do not know your birth parents and though you are well aware Eywa must obtain that information, she has yet to share even a glimpse of them with you in all your nineteen years of life. You used to try bargaining, begging, for just one meeting with them; you wouldn’t even need a conversation, just a single glance at their face. But Eywa has never obliged to your request, never given in, so what you settle on reliving is the memories.

Memories are like medicine; they either heal the ailments of your body and soul or turn you into a dependent addict. You think you might be a novice addict half healed.

It’s foggy at first, as the pictures begin to flash behind your eyelids. Like readjusting your sight to the sun, you have to blink through your mind for the memory to come into focus. (An odd sensation, if you are not used to it). When it does, it’s almost like watching a movie filmed by a camera in your pupil–your perspective alone, like you’re reenacting it in real time.

“ Come on! ” Lo’ak shouts as he runs past you, bumping against you with Spider in tow. His voice nearly resembles an echo, like it isn’t fully clear. Almost as if he’s yelling from the end of a canal.

They’re young, here; giggling as they splash through a creek. They can’t be more than four and six, which would set you as the same. Kiri runs up next to you and smiles, hair stuck to her forehead in wet strings. Childhood exudes well on her, on all of them. Something feels tight on your face as you smile back.

“ Where are we going? ” you ask, voice just as hollow as Lo’ak’s from before even if it’s littered with laughter as you rush to follow after them. Your feet slip on some of the rocks and you hurry to catch yourself. Glancing down you see the moss covering them, coating them in slick tissue. It makes you pause, for just a moment.

But a moment is all you get. You are not granted much leeway here. Your body moves forward before you will it to, like you are not the one operating it. However, you suppose that is partially true. The thing with memories shown to you by Eywa is that you’re only allowed as much variance as she wishes you to have; nothing more and nothing less.

You let yourself be pulled along.

The creek gets deeper as you race with your siblings, less rocks protruding to step on and more water lapping at your ankles. Before you know it you’re going around a bend, losing sight of Lo’ak and Spider for just a moment as the creek rises all the way up to the middle of your small shins. By the time you make it past the curvature, they’re already climbing up a rocky embankment.

Their hands don’t even grip onto anything solid, just the lush vines that drape over the bluff’s surface. There’s a sinking in your gut, like those moss covered stones have found their way in and decided to weigh you down. You rush towards them, start to climb up yourself to stop them.

“ Get down. Get down! ” You call, desperate, and you just can’t seem to remember why. This is your memory, something you have already lived through, but it’s like you’re seeing it all for the very first time. This is not something you are used to, the unfamiliarity is destabilizing.

They don’t listen to you, don’t obey your request. They simply persist to laugh, continuing climbing up the unsecured vines. Spider even lets go to hold on with just one hand as he turns to look down at you. “ Catch us if you can! ”

And something just doesn’t feel right. It’s like listening to a ghost story knowing the riveting is creeping up right behind you, like it’s breathing down your neck. You’re growing frantic, panicked. You keep climbing.

“ Stop it! ” You shout once more, and this time your voice cracks. “ You’re gonna get in trouble. You’re gonna– ”

Your hand slips, the rock crumbles under your fingertips. Falling backwards like the monster of your bedtime fears has you in its grasp now to drag you down. The weight in your gut turns featherlight as your gravity shifts. You land hard, not fully on your side but tilted just enough that your temple is what ricochets against the riverbed.

There’s shrill shrieks of your name–from Lo’ak, Spider, Kiri who rushes to your side, screaming for Jake, Neytiri, Neteyam, anyone to come and help–and suddenly you’re gasping. Your young hands fly up to your face, your little palms flash into your vision frantically, and it’s like the sheet of unawareness lifts in an instant.

Because the fingertips that search for your face don’t quite reach it with direct contact, and they are not the shade of dusty blue that they are now. The tightness from before that smushed against your smile was not apprehension, but an O2 mask tightened with protocol security. And each gasp you suck in is not due to the wind being knocked out of you, no. Rather it’s by the crack in the perspex that is not only letting in the toxicities of the Pandoran air but also the water of the creek in which you have fallen. You know this memory all too well, despite how you do your best to pretend it doesn’t exist.

You’re drowning, in every aspect one is able to.

It becomes too much, too real for you to relive, and you fight your hardest to break off the connection with Eywa abruptly. The gasping nearly translates, almost conveying through your body in real time as you jerk your neural queue back from the branch to which you connected it. You can’t even take a breath to calm yourself down, still stuck underwater and meters from the surface. Movements fraught, you reach for anything to root yourself, to catch a single calming moment.

And it’s Neteyam, who you come in contact with first. Your hand grips onto his arm; hold tight and unrelenting. His palm is covering yours in an instant, breaking from his own queue in without a single hesitation. The look on his face is questioning, concerned, as he does his best to silently search for what is wrong. You shudder, try to stop the trembling of your body the best you can with no ounce of succeeding. Why would Eywa show you such a memory? Why now?

Neteyam’s hold on your hand tightens as he pries it off his arm. Unsure of what he is doing, worried he is going to let go, you watch intently (fearfully) as he moves it. But his actions wave that away promptly as he takes your hand and places it to his chest.

Directly over his heart.

He nods his head at you, reaches forward to put his free palm on your chest too. Like a way of saying you can do this, you’ve done this. Allow yourself to calm down and listen to my heartbeat and we can settle this together .

Because it’s always together, isn’t it?

Neteyam keeps his palm to your chest until he feels it slow back to its near resting pace. But even then, he does not pull away for a few more moments, a few more steady beats–like he needs to be truly sure that you are alright, now. He’s tentative when he retracts his touch, pulls his hands away to go back to keeping himself afloat in the water, and you let the memory fade from you.

But not before remembering one final detail of it.

You’re about to raise your own hands to gesture him a thank you, mimic a sign that Tsireya taught you when you were first learning–you feel like all you’re conveying to Neteyam lately is some form of appreciation; he better not be getting a big head about it–but before you can, the branches all around you begin flickering. Flashing and blinking in the most erratic way. Your heads whip around for the source, and you don’t think you’ve ever felt the blood drain from your fingers as fast as it does now when you spot it.

Kiri is convulsing, body rigid and tight. You and Neteyam swim to her instantly, Tsireya reaching over and disconnecting her from the Spirit Tree and pushing her body upward. Neteyam takes over once he gets to her, holds her close and swims to the surface as quickly as possible.

Everything feels like it’s moving too fast and too slow at the same time as you break through the surface and Neteyam drags Kiri over to his ilu. You and Rotxo help him push her up onto it, and feeling her body like this–limp, lifeless–has tears welling in your wet eyes.

“What is wrong? What is it?” Tuk calls, whines out as you’re doing your best to get Kiri adjusted briskly.

“It was a seizure,” Neteyam huffs before bending down to give her instant mouth to mouth.

“Watch her head,” you voice, hands shaking as you help hold it in place so he can breathe life into your faint sister again. You pray to Eywa, to anyone , that this will not be where your sister enters eternal sleep. “Kiri, please. ”

“Is she breathing?” Rotxo questions, and he sounds just as concerned as you do, just as rushed even as he repeats himself.

Then, in a beat that has you shuddering out a ragged sigh, Kiri lets out a puff of a breath. Relief floods your bones but only in fragments. She’s breathing, yes, but for how long? When will another seizure come on? When will this turn awry again? Urgency stays rooted in your chest as you push back from Neteyam’s ilu.

“Get her to the village,” Tsireya orders, already pulling Tuk onto her ilu with her. “Hurry!”

Neteyam does not need to be told twice. He is sending his ilu forward within the next second, one hand secure on Kiri and the other holding on to his animal. Someone starts to pull at your arm; Rotxo, hauling you to his ilu and advising you to climb on behind him. You do, without question.

Your tremor plagued hands latch around his midsection as you try to swallow the worry for your sister–an impossible feat. Rotxo senses it, notices it, and places a hand over yours in a gesture you can’t decipher from reassuring or comforting. Though when it all boils down to it, you suppose it doesn’t matter.

Because you’re indebted to it regardless.

——————————————————————————

Kiri is brought to your family’s marui the second your convoy reaches the island, and you refuse to leave her side for anything. You sit beside her, holding her hand and watching as her chest rises and falls with every breath she takes. Maybe it’s a bit irrational, but it almost feels like if you look away she’ll stop–like your attention is the only thing keeping the rhythm going. So you stay in place and keep your focus, for Kiri’s sake and your own.

Jake called in Norm and Max without much thought at all. Perhaps it's the human still in him, but seizures are in a pretty well known territory for the scientists from Earth. You can’t say you blame him for it–you’d call in anyone it takes to figure out what’s wrong with your sister and see her wake up–but it does make the passing thought cross your mind of how it makes the Metkayina people feel to have skypeople on their land.

Maybe that makes you a hypocrite.

The beeping of machines is becoming melodic, everything they have hooked up to Kiri to check her vitals and look for occurrences scattered around on the floor. Norm and Max have been running scans and tests since they first walked in, and they’ve still found nothing. It’s making you aggravated.

“There’s no bleed. There’s no fracture. No effects of hypoxia,” Max states as he studies his tablet screen. He shrugs, seemingly dumbfounded. “Brain looks good.”

It’s obviously not good, is what you want to mouth off. Something clearly is wrong for her to have a seizure in the middle of a spiritual connection like that. She has no record of it before, no signs leading to something like this happening. There is something going on with your sister, and if they can’t seem to figure it out then you would prefer them to just leave–family friends trying their hardest or not.

Ronal’s voice is the first thing that has you even slightly veering your attention away from Kiri beside you for the first time in hours. “I see that I am not needed here,” she grumbles, gripes, and you can’t say you blame her. Your family has brought in people that overstep her role; you think you would feel pushed away too. She goes to walk back out but Neytiri is quick to grab her.

“You are tsahìk,” she hisses, and you think she’s brave for doing so at Ronal, now of all times. But something flickers across the woman’s face, and she bites her tongue instead of throwing back a hiss to your mother like you expected.

“Remove these things,” she orders, voice level, but Neytiri does not convey that when she turns to the scientists beside you.

“ Out! ” She snaps, already shoving at them like they should have been out of the way before she even requested it. Then again, maybe they should’ve. “You have done nothing!”

Jake speaks nervously to Max and Norm at the order, rushing to get their things out and gone. Fearing an angry Neytiri seems to be a universal concurrence among your family and those surrounding. Rightfully so, you believe, so you shove the cuffs and plugs off of Kiri as well, tossing them haphazardly to Norm as he scrambles to get all the equipment.

They are out in less than a minute, their things shoved just outside the entrance of the hut. Jake follows them out, leaving to speak with Max and Norm about what they think the cause is, you’re sure. But you are over paying any mind to them and you are not given the opportunity to listen in anyways because Ronal is handing you an incense-esque bowl a moment later.

You cradle it as she begins her ritual–for cleansing, healing–and do your best to keep steady hands while doing so. She presses the wood along Kiri’s skin in a line, a practiced pattern as she mumbles sacred words to herself. Over and over again this continues. You pass the holder to Tuk when it is time to turn Kiri onto her side, so that you can assist Ronal to hold her there. You’re willing to do everything needed for this to work, willing to offer whatever help you can.

Kiri’s on her back once again, Tuk cradling her head in her lap as you rub your thumb over her knuckles. Ronal breathes in against her stomach–once, twice–then leans up to funnel the air out. Once more, she repeats this, and just as she leans up to exhale it all again, Kiri’s eyes flutter.

She blinks hazily into consciousness, eyes disoriented as she regrasps reality in the moment. You allow it now, the feeling of relief to blanket you fully. Your sister is breathing and awake; she is okay, even if that means just for this segment of time.

“Kiri,” Tuk sighs, watery eyes threatening to overflow. “You’re awake.”

It starts with a quiver of her lips, a crinkle of her eyes; a cry wracks out of Kiri’s lips as she fully wakes up. You tighten your grip on her hand, lean forward to cup her face and wipe away the tears that begin to stream down as Neytiri whispers sweet comforts to her. You allow the relief to flow through you, but you find that it does nothing to stop the cracking of your heart at seeing your sister in such a state.

Nevertheless, you turn to Ronal, who is now collecting her things back on the tray she carried them in on. She kneels near you to reach for a certain container and you drop Kiri’s hand for a single moment, just to touch her arm. Her gaze snaps to you instantly, caught off guard, and you offer up a wobbly smile.

“Thank you.” It’s all you say, all you can get out, before you release your grip and pick up your sister’s hand again. Ronal nods to you, commiserating, and stands to give your family a moment of privacy.

As your attention falls back onto Kiri, you mumble another string of gratitude under your breath. Just in passing, merely minor. You may be at slight odds with Eywa right now for her own personal showcases towards you, but you find the need to thank her for the protection of your sister despite that. So that is what you do.

——————————————————————————

You can’t sleep. Something that has seemingly become a rather normal occurrence for you within the passing weeks, but especially now.

Every time you cave into slumber, you’re jolting awake just mere minutes later. Whether it’s from the fear that you need to check and make sure your sister is still breathing next to you, nightmares about whatever the hell could be happening to your brother, or that unfair memory the Great Mother decided to plant in your mind again–any scenario has you unable to get any sufficient means of rest.

Hence you find yourself where you are now. Sitting on the edge of the netting outside of your family’s marui, legs dangling over the edge as you stare down at the very water which chooses to beset your nightmares. It’s funny how something so crucial to one’s life can cause such a hindrance in yours.

The netting beside you dips and for once it doesn’t cause you to jump. Probably the sleep deprivation making your nerves shot, if you gave a half-assed guess on the matter. Neteyam, is who you expect it to be, though you’re not sure why he’s the first person to surge through your mind as a possibility. You suppose you can add that to the list of things that are keeping you up at night.

But when you turn to greet who has joined you at this late hour, you find that it is not Neteyam after all; but Jake. He looks at you with a soft expression, a contented sort of diction. You don’t miss the hairline crease between his brows though, even in the dark.

“What’s going on in that head of yours, babygirl?” He queries, and you fight the urge to bubble out a laugh. Because of course he picks up on it and of course he comes right out with it instead of trying to sugar coat his way in.

Jake is a good father at every baseline margin, even if there are some things he can work on. He’s known to be a little too harsh (with Lo’ak and Neteyam especially), or a tad too overlooking (according to Tuk and Kiri), but it is all done in the name of family preservation; a safety net to catch everyone in case they fall. He has his quirks, like any parent does, but he is doing his finest in the only way he knows how.

To you, that has always translated more explicitly.

Truth be told, you think he is so forthcoming with you because your origins are one in the same. His other children are hybrids, so he sincerely tries his hardest to empathize with the trials they face from that. But when it comes to you; he knows. He knows exactly what it feels like, having your soul transferred into a body of an entirely different species. Exactly what it feels like, to now share the same skin but not the same heritage. To face the things you do, the glares you receive, the distrust you are bestowed.

He believes he understands all too well what it is like to live a life like yours, so he conveys that to you the best he can. And yet he does not truly get it himself, you surmise.

Because even he–Jake Sully, the great Toruk Macto–was eventually accepted with open arms into the hearts of the Na’vi, and the closest thing you’ve ever received to favorable reception was tight lipped smiles paired with the halfhearted decency to at least not call you a pariah to your face and instead whisper it behind your back.

But you choose not to worry with formalities such as that. Or at least pretend you don’t, anyways, for the sake of your momentary sanity.

“Nothing,” you respond with a shrug, a shake of your head. Adding more onto your father’s plate is not in your interest. You’ve already caused enough trouble, you do not wish to stir up alarm along with it. “Just not tired.”

Your body must have a vendetta against you–probably retaliation from depriving it of sleep–because as soon as you say it a yawn is cracking your jaw open. You try to stifle it, but it’s no use. There’s no hiding it and you don’t even really have it in you to attempt such a feat.

“That so?” He’s smiling; even though you aren’t looking at him you can hear the amusement in his voice. But his tone takes a pivotal dip directly afterwards, turns somber in a wink. “Seriously, tell me what’s going on. Is it your brother?”

Yes , you want to confirm, agree with his assumption–but that’s not really the true root of the problem, is it? Spider is only one of the variables, a singular plot point on the declining graph of your stability, but he isn’t the sole cause of the drop.

Your fingers fiddle with each other, five to five as you try to stave off the attention.

“(Y/n), c’mon.” He’s pressing, keen. His heavy hand comes to rest on your shoulder and you cannot help but lean into the comfort of the accustomed touch. “We stick together, remember? How can I help you if you won’t tell me what’s eatin’ you?”

You suppose he has a point. This family is always so driven for solidarity, so determined to do things hand in hand. Maybe, you stave off on that too much. Maybe, you do not live up to your found family’s staple ideal enough. Perhaps you can give in, open up, just ever so slightly. Just this once.

“I’m.. scared.”

It’s vague, open-ended enough that you think it to be something easy to pass. But even so, it is the truth. There is no falsity in your statement, no fray in the cords that bind it together. You are scared; and that fact alone should do well enough to quell your father.

“Alright,” Jake sighs through his nose, squeezes your shoulder in a way only a parental figure does. He pauses for a moment, like he’s contemplating how he wants to go from here. “Is something gettin’ to you specifically, or..?”

You shake your head in response, try not to blow out a cynical chuckle at the implication. Of course there are things getting to you specifically –that much should be blatantly obvious. But you do not feel like adding onto that at this stage, and you think that comfort for generality would do just as well as comfort for specificity, so you are more than willing to settle for the former.

“Okay,” he nods, shifts over to pull you closer to him, into the warmth of his side. He leans his cheek to the top of your head, turns just enough to press a faint kiss there before settling back against your crown. “You don’t have to be scared of anything. I’ll always be right here. Don’t forget that, babygirl.”

And even if it might seem trivial later on, even if it becomes insignificant, his words hold just enough weight right now that you allow yourself to relax. Eyelids fluttering shut, you rest against your stand-in father as he rubs soothing circles into your shoulder.

You aren’t sure when it is that you finally drift off to sleep, or how you get back into your cot, but that night is the first night you get more than a blink of rest in a while.

And you don’t feel the smallest inkling of scared, even if it’s for just one single, peaceful moment.

——————————————————————————

Kiri has–understandably–not quite been herself since the incident.

Well actually, it isn’t particularly out of character for her to become a little moody or withdrawn every now and again. She has her days (which normally you’re always keyed into right along with her), but it’s different now. The awe sourced light that is usually shining behind her crystal irises has dimmed. Her liveliness has diminished.

Like she’s becoming a shell of herself, so she doesn’t have to feel anything at all.

Aching becomes a common sensation, a near habitual feeling the more you stay around her–but you just can’t bring yourself to leave her side. If she is going to close herself off, then you are going to put your foot in the door; create a crack to break the bridge between her and impending isolation.

You’re placed beside her even now, as your family stands around within your marui tidying things up. By the rules, everyone is supposed to deal with their own belongings and if someone wants to help once done with their own, then they can. Those rules seem nugatory; trifling, now.

Kiri has been making work of tying up her sleeping mat for a good five minutes straight now, but in reality she’s only been fiddling with the string tied around it for the past three. Be that as it may, you choose to pick up her slack instead of drawing attention to her lack of productivity.

Being sloppy is not in your nature when it comes to things like this (perhaps you have a slim case of post traumatic stress from Neytiri’s scolding for doing things messily as a child) so you find it hard to rush through doing double the work. Near stressful, it would be, yet it doesn’t get the chance to progress to such a stage because a hand is reaching down to grab up your mat while you’re focused on regrouping some of Kiri’s belongings.

Neteyam presses his lips together in a tight smile–a passing of a deliberate glance–and begins rolling your mat up in the exact way you like it to be done. You try to tell yourself that it’s nothing but expected that he’s aware you prefer to double knot the binding instead of single after all these years of knowing one another–it’s not like you aren’t also aware of how he favors the order of his effects in his pack to be–and even still, it has a butterfly hatching in your stomach as you take note of it.

You’re just about through with the remainder of Kiri’s and your’s things when you hear the first one. A horn, being blown out to sound the arrival of.. what? It has all of your heads turning–well, except for Kiri, who doesn’t even offer up a tip of her head, let alone a full turn–to the entrance of your hut.

“What was that?” Tuk pipes up as she drops her mat (very poorly rolled up, you’ll fix it later when she isn’t looking) to go and see what the fuss is about.

“What’s going on?” Lo’ak builds onto the inquiry as everyone of your family apart from you and your sister venture towards the netted pathway.

“The tulkun have returned!” It’s Tsireya, you recognize the faint trill of her voice as it passes by in a sweep. She’s probably on her ilu, sent by her parents to make the announcement to everyone if you had to assume. “Everybody, our brothers and sisters have returned!”

One by one, Lo’ak of course making his beeline first, each member of your family dips out of your home and away from sight as they go to investigate further. The tulkun have returned, they have completed a migration cycle and come back home to their Metkayina family, and you want to go see, but..

Your gaze flickers to Kiri, who has yet to move even an inch, despite the fact that you know she heard Tsireya’s bulletin. A few weeks ago, she would have been the first to run out of here, the first to see their grand homecoming. You try to think of something to say, a way to suggest maybe going to look that your sister would actually be inclined to accept.

However, your youngest sister is bouncing back in before you can even come up with one good solution. “Kiri! (Y/n)! Come on, come on!” Tuk bounds, running over to the two of you and grabbing each of your hands in her own.

“Tuk, leave me alone,” Kiri huffs, tries to pull her hand back from Tuk’s hold but it’s no use. She’s already heaving the pair of you to your feet. Exasperated, a groan drags out of Kiri’s chest. “ What? What do you want?”

“Look!”

As soon as you’re hauled out of your marui and blinking in the sunlit view, you’re hit with a wave of amazement so compelling that you wonder for a second whether you need to sit back down to regain yourself. The tulkun are all banking in, calling for their Na’vi counterparts, like they’re harmonizing a welcome home melody.

It’s nothing short of magnificent.

“Come on,” Tuk beams, “Let’s go meet them!”

As you let Tuk drag you along, you turn your head to catch Kiri’s gaze, and the sight you’re greeted with nearly has the stunning reunion before you paling in comparison. A smile, stretched wide and dimpled into her svelte cheeks, is on full display. No more cinched brows, no more pursed lips.

Just pure, unadulterated joy. Radiating like a gleaming sun.

Your expression mirrors it; you wouldn’t be able to stop the grin even if you tried. The ache grows dull, faint between your ribcage. You release Tuk’s hand so she can drag Kiri towards her ilu as you get to the shore, finally feeling secure enough to let her go. To see her thrive, again.

Flitting your eyes across the span of shoreline and aquatic celebration ahead, you pause at the sight of someone specific still standing on dry land. It catches you off guard, has curiosity rolling to the tip of your tongue; because why is he not already in the water, embracing such a momentous occasion with everyone else?

“Why are you still here?” You nudge Neteyam slightly, breaking his attention from the show in front of him and focusing it all entirely on you, instead.

“I was waiting for you,” he says, candidly, like it should be obvious. Like there is no other possible reason he’d still be stuck on shore with his ilu drifting nearby. You try not to blunder.

“You didn’t have to wait for me.”

“I’ll always wait for you,” he adheres as he wades into the shallows to climb onto his companion. His hand is reaching out for yours promptly, a proposition to join him, and you take it with no more than a sliver of hesitation.

Biting back grins is apparently not a strong suit of yours today, because the tilt of your lips gives way easily. You walk through the water, letting the cool waves lap at your shins, and mount right behind him. He drops your hand only when you go to hold onto him; a ghost of reluctance shadowing his face. The obscurity flickers away in a blink, though, and he’s tossing you one more smile over his shoulder before taking off–heading to the heart of the celebration.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen anything quite so moving.

Metkayinas young and old–some merely babies–swim and float amongst the water to meet with their spirit brothers and sisters. Witnessing relationships between bonded pairs is one of the most transcendent honors one can bestow in their lifetime; that is what Neytiri used to tell each of you when watching your siblings create their first affixion. You never doubted that sentiment, but now it rings truer than you thought it ever could.

A tulkun breaches out of the water to your left, their Na’vi pair doing the same; a mimic of each other, a mirror of souls. It is not deliberate, of course, yet its fin edges dangerously close as it begins to descend back to the waves it’s created. You suck in a breath–solely out of surprise–but you are thankful you have done so a moment later because Neteyam is sending his ilu into a dive. Quick thinking, he has, to weave the pair of you out of the way in just the knick of time. He’s rising out of the water as soon as it’s clear, turning back to you before you can even draw a proper inhale in.

“Sorry I didn’t give any warning. I should’ve told you before I just–”

“It’s okay, Neteyam,” you reassure through a chuckle at his rushing, wiping at your eyes. “I’m fine. Can we do it again?”

He loosens up, relaxes in a way that you can feel his back become more pliable against you as he nods. You regain your grip on him around his abdomen, lock your hands so you’re better prepared this time. A boyish grin is what he flashes to you after which he sucks in a gust of air–which you copy–before he’s sending his ilu forward at a downward angle once again.

Captivating is the view of the tulkun’s homecoming from above, but bewitching is it once you are blanketed in oceanic blue.

Children–Na’vi and tulkun alike–are being introduced for the very first time. Families are reuniting. They are swimming in sync, like their hearts beat as one. You wonder, by chance, if they do. It would not surprise you, would not startle you one bit. Something as special as this must hold well in the sight of Eywa. Must put forth the most profound of links.

You make out Kiri and Tuk, holding onto a tulkun’s fin as it swims through the water, Rotxo hanging onto the bottom of the same one. Still beaming, still light. Such a beautiful sight to be graced with. Too beautiful, maybe.

Perhaps you should have better bearings on yourself–perhaps, you should not let yourself be swayed so easily by the things around you–because in all your pursuing in the magnificent, you let your mind stray from the focus of holding onto Neteyam tight enough.

By the time you feel your grip loosening it’s too late. Your heart skips a beat, your throat constricts in a faux gasp. Right out of your fingers (in the most literal sense) you feel Neteyam begin to slip from you. It’s plummeting, has your mind already plateauing directly to watery graves.

Yet you don’t get any closer to drifting backwards than that. Before you can so much as shift a few inches away, Neteyam’s already reaching back for you. His palm lands on your thigh; circles his grip around the back of it and pulls you back in contact with him. Chest to back, skin to skin. You fully expect him to let go once you loop your arms around him again, but he doesn’t. If anything, it’s almost as if he’s holding you tighter.

And you, well.

Maybe you’re a little bit tired of trying to bury all the sprouts of affection that want so desperately to bloom out of you. You think you might be well past trying to swallow down the saccharine syrup that longs so desperately to drip off your tongue. So you do not protest, you do not nudge his hand away. You simply cling onto him securely and let your head rest on his shoulder as you take in the show of pure, virtuous love all around you. And you feel your own, blossom in real time.

You’re content, surprisingly at peace, under the water as reconnecting life bustles every which way. Everyone seems so joyous–and who would have a reason not to be? Tsireya is the next familiar face you spot, and she is quite a bit away so you can’t be too sure, but you are near positive she is telling her spirit sister about Lo’ak by the gestures her hands convey. You know your brother would be giddy at the sight of it–even if he would try to act gruff to hide it–so you lift your head to look for him.

He isn’t far (as if he would put too much distance between him and Tsireya, that fact should be obvious), just floating near the surface with his face a smidgen below the waves to peer beneath him. But it is not the lighthearted, love-struck expression you thought you were going to find outlining his features as he watches them. If you had to choose a single word to describe it, you think you’d have to go with yearning. And somehow, you know it is not romantic in nature.

Nor is it directed towards the chief’s daughter.

——————————————————————————

Following Lo’ak without him knowing is concerningly easy.

After alerting Neteyam of your hunches, he’s all too willing to send a little party forward to see just what his little brother is getting up to. The pair of you–along with Tsireya, Ao’nung, and Rotxo–follow him to the Three Brothers island chain, which only confirms your suspicions as true. And if the location was not sufficient enough, diving and finding him face to face with the fabled Payakan would have certainly concluded your hypothesis.

Observing him speak to the tulkun is easy enough (though you’d be lying if the whole “killer” title didn’t still leave an off putting churn in your gut), but it is when Payakan opens his mouth that you decide this is not a good idea after all.

Lo’ak has always been so trusting, so unquestioning when it comes to things he’s already set his mind on being true. And now, as he swims forward without even a single falter of uncertainty into the whale’s open mouth, you find this case is no different.

You were fine to watch him converse. You were fine to see him swim forward (stupidly). But as soon as Payakan closes his mouth around your brother, you are no longer fine at all.

Surging forward, your only thought is to save him; which must be an ideal you and Neteyam share because his movements are the same. However, before either of you can get any more than a foot ahead, the chief’s children are grabbing at you. You send a glare back at Ao’nung, a question of concern for why he would still you. He simply signs for you to stop–wait.

There is nothing you can do now except bide the time until Payakan–hopefully–spits your brother back out of his immense jaws. It feels like hours but you know it is no more than a few minutes when your internal turmoil comes to a close as the sight of your brother begins to peek out of the monstrous tulkun before you. When he emerges there is something different about him, something despondent. It’s nearly palpable, the energy radiating as he swims back up to the surface.

He’s created a bond. But, simultaneously, he’s created a fissure. And you are not too enticed with the premise of how it will break.

Returning to the mainland, you find yourself drifting protectively towards Lo’ak as Tsireya goes to alert her parents of what has occurred. Tonowari and Ronal do not speak as they lead your group–minus Rotxo, who was gifted the unfair pleasure of slipping away from whatever is to become of this–to their marui. Ronal waits for everyone, stands to the side to make sure all of you fall in before she trails behind you.

The tension is nearly tangible.

“You allowed this,” she huffs at her children as she stalks into the hut. But then, her focus shifts, lines up directly with Tsireya as she points an accusing finger to your brother. “You allowed him to bond with the outcast!”

Tonowari is circling in too, honing in on her. It’s like watching ikrans pick off a defenseless fan lizard; how could one even fight back to such an obtuse threat? It has your tongue feeling heavy in the bed of your mouth, like a lead slate.

“Tsireya,” the chief addresses. Tone solemn, grim. “You disappoint me, daughter.” He’s turning to Lo’ak directly after, the same timbre used, the same expression carved into his strong features. “And you. Son of a great warrior. Who has been taught better. ”

“Payakan saved my life, sir,” Lo’ak responds immediately, diligently. It’s almost deja vu to when he was explaining Payakan for the first time to all of you. You remember the lilt in his speech so prominently. Recall the sentiment behind it all. “You don’t know him.”

“No, Lo’ak,” Tsireya hearkens; to save face, to stop another disagreement. To keep peace, is the bottom line. You understand her need to do such, but for some reason you hesitate to get behind it.

Your parents are here, now. Jake and Neytiri stand at the edge of the hut, just inside. Maybe that’s where Rotxo went–to inform them of this meeting that was sure to happen. That falls into line with him, you think, but a piece of you wishes they had not been told. Their presence looming behind you feels formidable. Much like Tonowari’s gaze as he studies each of you.

“Sit,” he utters once, as he begins to lower himself. “Sit,” he orders again, to which Lo’ak is the only one to obey his request. Then, he grows aggravated, demanding. “ Sit down! ” he raises his voice, and you have never taken a seat faster in your life.

You toss a glance to Tsireya, who has been near tears this entire time. Her self control is admirable, her strength is not one to be overlooked, because even though the tears well to the brink of overflow, not a single one falls. Your stomach twists as you shift focus back to Tonowari, contempt carving into the base of your skull.

“Hear my words, boy.” His voice is softer now, not as sharp, but it still holds authoritative weight. Commanding of respect, attention. “In the days of the first songs, tulkun fought amongst themselves. For territory, and for revenge. But they came to believe that killing–no matter how justified–only brings more killing. So killing was forbidden. This is the tulkun way.” It’s blunt, honest. This story has been told before, one can tell. But the last bit of information has not, and that you are well aware of. “Payakan is a killer. So, he is outcast.”

It is easy to notice how no one expects there to be room for discussion now. How they believe this will be the end and your brother will simply agree and settle for his slap on the wrist. But you know Lo’ak far better than that, so it comes as no surprise to you when he’s shaking his head beside you before Tonowari can even get his final words out fully.

“I’m sorry, sir, but you’re wrong.”

And there it is: the discrepancy.

It was different, before when he was just telling your young family and friends about his beliefs and they admonished him and brushed him to the side. He wanted to be heard but he settled on being muted for the sake of complacency. He wanted people to listen but was fine with being drowned out. Storming off, ignoring your calls; he did so to put a stake in the matter and leave it dead and hanging.

But now, there’s a glint in his eye. A quiver in his brow. He was fine with being rebuked before, but now?

“ Lo’ak, ” Neytiri jeers at her son. And that unnerves you. “You speak to Olo’eyktan.”

He doesn’t budge. “I know–”

“That’s enough,” Jake cuts in–something he seems to always be so damn good at.

It causes Lo’ak to falter, bite his tongue for just a moment. Tsireya shakes her head at him, telling him to fall back. And you get it, truly, but it’s just so.. Aggravating.

How can they so blatantly disregard him? How can they muffle his screams of wanting to be heard like a bind around the mouth without a single shred of guilt? Why can they not just listen?

On a last stitch effort to be taken into account, Lo’ak lets go of his tongue. He shrugs his shoulders and puffs out a condescending breath. “I know what I know.”

“That's enough, ” Jake reiterates, crouching down to Lo’ak’s level to give him a stony glare. “I’ll deal with this one,” he converses to Tonowari, before his hand is circling your brother’s bicep and tugging him up and out of the tent.

It leaves you feeling irate, in the most raw form, because this whole situation is just so demoralizing. Anger knows nothing but to simmer or scorch, to bubble or burn, and right now your pot is overflowing. And perhaps your hands have grown clumsy, because instead of pulling it off the burner, you twist the dial to high heat.

“My brother is no liar.” The words leave your mouth before you even think them and you’re rising to your feet. Part of you expects your knees to feel wobbly, buckling, but they do not. “If he says Payakan is no killer, then he isn’t.”

Ronal steps in immediately. “Your brother is ignorant. He knows nothing. Maybe, if he were true of his kind, he would not be so witless.”

Oh, and that? That strikes a nerve in you. Avoiding trouble, remaining quiet and content and compliant to save your family the strife; that all drains out of you now. Like a switch has been flipped. You have had enough.

“He knows more than you will ever– ”

“You watch your tongue,” Neytiri hisses as she yanks you back by the wrist. She does nothing more than send the tsahìk a heated glance before she’s pulling you out of the marui just like Lo’ak had been dragged out before.

She doesn’t even get far before she’s whipping around to fix you with a venomous glare, her grip still not releasing. It must be near bruising now. You strain against it but there is no use; you’d have a better chance breaking free from the claws of a feral mountain banshee than that of Neytiri. You know that and you give in, but it doesn’t mean you’re willing to back down from your credence.

“What are you thinking? ” It’s a question, but she isn’t really asking. “That is the Olo’eyktan. The tsahìk. You show them leioae only. Only. ” [ “respect.” ]

“They did not show it to Lo’ak,” you spit back, and you’re treading some dangerous waters here, truthfully. But why stop paddling if you’ve already lost sight of land? “They did not even listen to what he had to say. That is your son, he wants to be heard–”

“My son speaks foolishly.” There is no hesitation in her deliverance, no pause to think about it. Yet you must admit you can also detect no malice. “And so do you. No thinking before you talk. Disgrace.”

It’s suddenly hard to swallow because her statement is so dense. Her grip feels numbing now but not because it is tight. Disgrace, she says. And it makes you sick how easily it rolls off the tongue. You wonder if she even caught onto what Ronal was inferring in her last statement. If she even realized she was scorning his identity–more specifically one half of it; condemning it.

If she even cared how that made you feel.

“I–”

“Do not speak.”

Someone has pulled the plug on the oven. Someone has doused water on the stove top. Your simmering has cooled to a misty vapor. Your petulance has been frozen to icy shards. Neytiri tells you not to speak so you sew your mouth shut, let nothing slip past the seam.

“You do nothing like this again.” A decree, an injunction. “Distractions, disrespect. It is too much. One more misstep, and..” She trails off, like she can’t even find the words for the threat she’s about to make past her disappointment. You think it meaningless anyways; you have already heard enough.

“Okay.” You say it to save yourself from whatever she could possibly spit out. “I will do nothing like this again.”

It’s bitter, tart. But then again lies have never tasted too well on your tongue. It does not need to bode well with you, merely just enough to get Neytiri to give in. After a few bated breaths of her staring at you, it seems to do the trick. She releases your wrist (the blood pumping once again) and departs without another word.

However, you should know better than to get ahead of yourself and think you are off the hook of scolding–because no more than a few seconds after Neytiri is drifting from your sight, her first born is stepping into it.

“No,” you shake your head, turn on your heel to trudge off in the opposite direction. “Not doing this.”

“Stop,” Neteyam says, announces, and his voice is not sweet. It is not warm and light and reassuring in the way that you adore. It is imposing, lofty. It is the voice of an heir in command. “Do not walk away from me.”

“I am not dealing with you right now, Neteyam.”

Being lectured once is bad enough. Being lectured twice by a man who holds the same bleeding heart as his mother is a fate worse than death. (Partially an exaggeration, you must admit, but it does not feel like one now).

“I said, stop. ” It’s uncharacteristically harsh; his tone, his diction. You would not call it violent, but perhaps would dip your toe into the pool of aggressive. Not in a way that frightens you, or harms you, but in a way that twinges. In a way that pangs.

In a way that has you hissing as your tail is yanked back far more forceful than it has ever been before.

“You do not pull my tail,” you shriek, shove at his chest and tug it out of his grasp. Being scolded is one thing. Being disrespected is another. “I have told you already–”

“If you would listen to me, I would not have to,” he fires back, tips his head at you. “How could you say such a thing to the tsahìk? Do you have no regard?”

“ Me? ” You gape, cinch your brows at him. “She is the one with none. They do not care for us. Ronal speaks of Lo’ak like he is a blot in Na’vi existence. How does that deserve any respect from me?”

“It does not matter how she speaks of him,” he dismisses. “She is the chief’s mate. She helped save Kiri. You would not dare speak to Mo’at that way.”

“Your grandmother had enough respect for me that she did not deface my identity.” Hissing at Neteyam is not something you would like to do, but it comes out easily now. He is not getting it, not grasping your standpoint. “I don’t expect you to understand the way I feel, but I ask that you do not dismiss it.”

“You think I don’t understand?” He rags, stares at you incredulously. “I understand very well how it feels to be an outcast. To be a freak. ”

“But you don’t, Neteyam!”

You’re tipping, losing control of yourself. Arguing solves nothing, confrontation only leads to more, but it has apparently become your theme today. You run your hands down your face. You’re exasperated, fed up. Nobody seems to get it.

“Why do you think you’ve been the one with the least amount of problems since coming here, hm? ” You question him, try not to shy back from the heat buzzing between the two of you. “Do you think Ao’nung backs off when you tell him to just because you’re the oldest? Because he feels some connection to you since you used to be next in line of our clan?”

You’re going too far, you’re being too mean. But you cannot stop now. It’s like you have no control over yourself anymore, like even if you try to lock your jaw to keep the words in they’ll simply crack open your mandible to escape.

“How come when Lo’ak, Kiri, and I were all being poked and prodded like animals, were you not lumped into that?” It’s vile, how the words translate amongst your tastebuds. But even the tough pills need to be swallowed. “They show you respect because you don’t look like some freak lab experiment. If they were not told, they would not know you were not a full-blooded one of them. They see you as true Na’vi, above the rest of us.”

Neteyam says nothing, simply holds your gaze. You take note of him now; his lack of hairlined brows, his wide set eyes, his thick digits that clench at his sides with one less finger than your own on each hand. It’s a privilege, an exemption. A justifiable right to be a little zealous.

Yet, guilt sprinkles in, litters itself along the hems of your mind. You resign it with a hello.

“I do not say this to belittle what you go through. And it hurts my heart to know you feel like you do,” you state. Lower, with less edge. Your head drops, your gaze drifts to your feet in the sand beneath you. “It’s just.. Different. Lo’ak does not feel as accepted here as you do. I do not feel as accepted anywhere as Lo’ak.”

The origin of your outburst, the cause of your conniption. It has all boiled down to this. Funny, how the words seemed to flow so easily before when they were full of vexation, but now that they’re coated in vulnerability they string along as stubbornly as molasses.

“It is hard. Knowing no matter where you go, you never truly belong there.” You’re muttering so quietly you’re not sure if he can even hear you. But maybe if he can’t, maybe if this falls on deaf ears, that is even for the better. “It’s like.. no one ever really views you as a person because they are too busy picking your existence apart. Or even worse, ignoring it. Like no one even sees you, at all.”

You debate laughing it all off as soon as you finish talking. Brushing it away with a shrug of your shoulders and offering up an apology to Neteyam for your harsh words. That’s what would be right to do–what the you before you let yourself become a mess would deem acceptable. You really have made such a muddled up disarray of everything, haven’t you? How foolish of you. Neytiri was right.

Neteyam’s hands raise and you flinch; back to being jumpy, to being resigned. Like trying to scoop up soup with cupped palms–a futile attempt to pretend you never spilt it in the first place when the spices always stick to your fingertips.

You are not sure what you are expecting from him, but his hands reaching for your face isn’t it. They cup your cheeks gently, with great care, as he tips your head back up to meet his gaze. The hostile air from before is gone, the assertive undertone of his grip has vanished to nothing. He cradles your face with such tenderness; like you’re made of glass, like he is scared to break you.

His eyes are searching, analyzing. Or are they? There’s something swirling in them as pink begins to color one side of his face a delicate lilac from the setting sun. Under his scrutiny, you fight the urge to shrivel. Neteyam has always made you comfortable, put you at ease. But lately he has been dangling you over the ledge of.. what?

Your throat bobs with a swallow. Neteyam takes note of it, letting his eyes skirt over your troubled features. His thumb brushes past the apple of your cheek and as it sweeps across your temple it catches the edge of your eyebrow. He doesn’t shy from it, doesn’t pull his hand back in dismay. You aren’t sure why you half expect him to.

Then, he’s leaning in. Pressing so close you can feel the necklace you made him hit against your chest at the proximity, can feel the middle shell against your sternum. He lifts one hand to turn in front of you, dragging the knuckle of his index finger along the bridge of your nose. Less flat, more humanistic than his own. He gets to the tip then drags his finger back up, skimming across your skin, over the silk of your brow and expanse of your striped forehead before it settles back onto your cheek. Like it’s meant to be there, like it was molded by Eywa herself just for you to slot into.

“ I see you, Ma (Y/n),” he speaks with certainty, conviction. Your breath hitches and your heart lurches within your ribcage. “Oel ngati kameie. Frakrr. ” [ “Always.” ]

And it feels almost inane, frivolous, how you catch yourself reacting. This is not the first time you and Neteyam have said these words to each other, but it feels different, somehow. The days of childish appreciation have gone, become stone walled by adult conflicts and mature contest. Neteyam waits for you, adheres to you, and you find yourself entrapped in his guise.

You place your hand on top of his, lean into his touch and allow yourself this solace. Your eyes slip shut as he closes in, presses his lips to your forehead before resting his own against it in a show of affection so genuine it nearly causes your stomach to turn.

Apologies will be delivered later–to Neteyam, for diminishing his grievances; to Ronal, for speaking against her even though you still believe yourself to be right–but for now, this is enough. You let yourself indulge in this bit of selfishness, in this sliver of greed. Allowing yourself to be a mess mid-mending for this one portion of your life, in the only hands you trust to put the pieces of you back together.

Like a shattered vase, being cured by its potter.

#in the sand and in the stars #neteyam sully x reader #neteyam x reader #neteyam x y/n #avatar x reader #avatar x you #atwow neteyam #atwow x reader #avatar fanfiction #neteyam sully

409 notes · View notes