Chapter Text
On a small islet a little ways away from a marui at the edge of Awa’atlu, ripples of water cascade over each other, following the slow and steady turns of turquoise feet breaching and dipping underneath the surface of the sea.
The hours before the reef is teeming with life have become a source of peace.
The sky is still dark. The only others active at this time are tsamsiyu patrolling the faraway seawall terraces on night shift, and of course, the sea life. A good thing, since it isn’t the judgmental or pitying looks of creatures that dwell in the water beneath her that create an uneasy atmosphere.
Sleep has been coming in fits lately, so it’s common for Hoanyu to be awake before trr’ong. Breathing is easier when the clan is quietly slumbering, out of sight. Unable to stir up any feelings of anxiety that have her tail sweeping agitatedly, so obvious in her discomfort.
Drifting in thought feels more comfortable here in the silence. Naranawm’s eternal gaze rests upon the water like a welcome friend, the only kind that cannot be run from.
Not that she’s running. Though from Tsireya’s point of view, that must be exactly what it looks like. Meeting the younger girl’s wide, unreserved expression for the first time in days across the communal cookfire had been unlucky. She was only passing by on her way to pick up some cooking ingredients from the village stores, treading carefully along the edges of the gathering so as not to draw too much attention.
Tsireya had seen her anyway, keen-eyed for a girl only beginning her sixth cycle, making a move to stand. Hoanyu’s face had twisted in a way that caused the girl’s ears to droop and eyes to turn sorrowful. That was the last thing she saw before diverting her gaze to the pathway beneath, weaving through the crowd at a more…intentional pace. Not a run, but an escape all the same.
Of all the people in the village, Tsireya, her younger sister in all but blood, is the last one she should be avoiding. This she knows with her whole heart.
But having spent the entirety of this impromptu time off from tsamsiyu patrol trying to be imperceptible to all, barring the remnants of her family and the ever-present sight of the Great Mother, it’s become a habit.
Tsireya’s heart doesn’t need to break for her. She doesn’t need to make such somber expressions just because she's an exemplary friend. Separation is a good thing.
Hoanyu sighs, curling in on one knee. Her other foot remains submerged, tracing the tantalizing glow of greens, purples, and blues that emanate from most life on Eywa’eveng. Usually, she would do this with her hands, spending hours belly-down on the rock of the islet, trailing the pads of her fingers across the surface until the beauty of syuratan fades with the morning light.
She lifts her chin, holding out her hands for inspection and hissing in annoyance. The bandages wrapped around her palms and fingers have started to look worn, as have the ones keeping the tear in her left arm’s strake held together. Yet, like many of the things she’d shied away from addressing, the sting of her hands had not registered until this moment of spared attention.
Splotches of red have begun to dot the cloth. Again. The bandages and healing paste should’ve been reapplied two days ago. Scrambling for purchase on the islet with neglected wounds had not been the wisest decision. Especially so, given the instruction she’d received to keep them out of the water in the first place. At least the far more visible superficial ones have healed.
The injuries had felt like marks of honor six days prior, when things were still simple. The tolu earned from receiving them has settled into a dull ache on her right shoulder, but while pride was initially felt at the thought of the swirling black ink adorning her, only embarrassment and shame linger. Growing up secure, never knowing how quickly happiness can be soured, had left her unprepared. How gracious it could have been of the Great Mother to keep her from such revelations.
Thinking about Tsireya, the new markings on her body—whether ceremonial or incurred in battle—and how different life had felt not so long ago, invites a dark pit to swallow her whole. A lawless space where dwelling too long will leave her feeling hollowed out, too dissociative to deal with what the day demands. Hoanyu looks to the sky. Syuratan will begin to fade soon. Even Naranawm and Eywa’eveng’s sisters seem to be preparing for the day ahead.
She breathes in deep the crisp, briny scent of Awa’atlu, home even in her desolation.
Please, Great Mother. Give me strength.
Hoanyu slips into the water, ignoring the sting of salt seeping into her bandages, and swims back to the shore. There are many things to do.
Today will be her first day back on patrol. Akìley, her patrol leader, had expected the worst of her wounds to heal well enough to return by the end of six days. The physical ones would have, in theory, if they were properly cared for.
Relieving the night shift is an early start—she can’t show up with bloody hands, and being late would undo any efforts to dampen her presence in the clan. Things are delicate enough as it is. It has also been days since her parents woke with the light, so she’ll have to leave them a morning meal for peace of mind.
The family’s marui being built near the edge of the village is a point of good luck. Less potential for disturbance or unwanted social encounters when coming and going at the odd hours she’s been keeping, though that surely was not the intent.
Her father had come from a long line of respected fishers and hunters, knowledgeable about practically every known form of sea life and having discovered many themselves. After mating with her mother, he had built a home as close to the open water as possible, a perfect environment to pass along the wisdom of his ancestors to their children.
All Metkayina children grow up learning to treasure the wonders of the sea and all it provides so as not to disturb the Great Balance, but above all, she remembers her father speaking with the utmost reverence.
“Our Great Mother has blessed us with the ability to use these creatures to sustain ourselves, but they are living beings, and should always be respected. We do not kill for sport.”
“The sea is life unto itself. Upsetting the Great Balance means threatening that life, and will only bring you misfortune.”
“Purpose can be found in even the littlest bone, children. Do not waste what can be used.”
Perhaps knowing how fiercely her father regards their way of life has perturbed the clan most about recent events.
Every train of thought leads her back to that day. This has been the hardest part.
She pulls herself up onto the woven pathway that leads to her home with clenched teeth, willing away any deep thoughts about her surroundings. Any pain lancing through her body is a non-factor. Fishing gear comes into view as she makes her way up the incline—dry, unused for days, marking her father’s self-imposed penance. She’ll have to visit the village stores again, which means passing by the cookfire when day patrol ends.
Maybe she could ask Akìley about doing night rotations instead. She’ll encounter fewer people if she runs errands in the morning and sleeps during the day.
Stepping into the air of her family’s home feels stifling, where once it was a warm embrace. Choked with too many memories turned sour, too many things left unsaid, too many questions left unanswered.
Her parents are still asleep where she had left them in the middle of the night. It’s almost eerie how the sight hasn’t changed much from when she had awoken with a tearful gasp, as if time had not moved. Or worse, it was waiting for her return to breathe what little life she could muster back into the open space.
Before falling asleep, her parents had both settled into their shared hammock on the far right of their home. When she had awoken, bleary-eyed, looking around in a daze, her mother had been curled up on the opposite side of the marui from before, face buried into the sleeping mat directly ahead of Hoanyu’s gaze and streaked with dried but obvious tear tracks.
It has become a common sight, her mother curled up on this side of the marui where the mat now remains unused, but last night struck a particular nerve. Her mother had fallen asleep clutching a necklace to her chest that Hoanyu was intimately familiar with, having hand-carved each pearlescent bead and woven the strands herself.
Hoanyu felt sickened in an instant, carefully extricating herself from their home and heading to her little islet of comfort. An indeterminate amount of time was spent parsing through memories, trying to figure out how the heartfelt gift being worn less frequently had slipped her notice.
The necklace remains in her mother’s grasp. Hoanyu breathes slowly through her nose, eyes shut against the tears threatening to form.
A light gust of sea wind wisps through the marui, ruffling the fringe on one of her mother’s favorite shawls hanging near the entrance. She grabs it, carefully walking over to the spot previously designated for a part of her life she’ll never get back. Gently draping the shawl over her mother, she takes care to tuck it in at the sides. Her eyes wander involuntarily.
Hoanyu has been avoiding this corner of their home for good reason. Every little thing littered around holds memory: figurines carved by her father—some made from wood of the great mangrove trees, some pxazang or nalutsa bone—scattered collections of shell beads and sea glass fragments, a sleep cover made from the finest kinglor silk by the Aranahe clan—procured from their first time bartering with the Tlalim—draped carelessly over an empty hammock. All personal belongings that tell the story of a lifetime, much of which Hoanyu had witnessed firsthand.
Her eyes settle on the weapon rack nestled in the furthest part of the corner, some notches still carrying the typical sea glass or crystal knives of any taronyu. Nothing particularly noteworthy.
Three empty spots fill her with the same sickened feeling that had her fleeing her home in the night, once housing a hand-carved spear, a traditional speargun, and the artisan coral knife she had watched come into shape for days.
One of those had been found near the battle that had earned her the tolu on her right shoulder, while the other two had been carried away from Awa’atlu in disgrace by the end of Eclipse on that very same day.
It feels symbolic, in a way. All the things left behind are evidence of a life of shared experiences, while those missing reveal that her certainty in knowing someone so well was nothing but a distorted truth.
Hoanyu squeezes her eyes shut once again, exhaling viciously against the lump of ugly emotion rising in her throat.
Her mother begins to stir. In that moment of frustration, she had dug her fingers into the shawl where they were tucking it beneath her mother’s arm. She bites back a curse, shifting back on her haunches so as not to startle the woman too much.
The hand without the necklace reaches out vaguely toward where her mother must feel another body's presence. Not quite out of sleep, she murmurs.
“Atanvi…?”
Hoanyu swallows, taking the suspended hand in her own. “Not Atanvi, mother.” Nor will it ever be again.
The combination of touch and sound fully rouses the woman. Eyes usually clear as azure sea glass meet hers, now perpetually rimmed in red. They roam around the marui briefly, taking in their surroundings.
“Hoanyu?” Her hand is grasped with a familiar, tender touch. “It is very early.”
“Sleep, mother. Tsawke has not risen yet. I will cook and then prepare for patrol.”
Her mother’s nose twitches. Hoanyu tries not to tense up when her stained palm is turned over and examined. “Your wounds are bleeding again.”
“It is fine, I will wrap them again before I leave.”
“Akìley will not let you on patrol with open wounds, daughter. You should go see Tsahìk.”
She retracts her hand, folding both into her lap out of sight. “I would rather test Akìley’s resolve than be late and face his wrath.”
“Still, why has the skin not sealed? Have you been following Ronal’s instructions?”
Hoanyu averts her eyes.
“Keep them out of the water. Stay home and rest. Come see me in two days to reapply the bandages and healing paste.”
After two days, she had not gone to the healing marui. Using a recipe remembered from tagging along to Tsireya’s healing lessons, Hoanyu had made a paste and reapplied everything herself while her parents slept. Two days after that, she had been plagued with nightmares so great that she left home, aimlessly wandering along the beach while gazing longingly at the sea. The no water rule was broken that night. She didn’t even bother with the paste.
But she won’t, can’t, tell her mother those things.
She can’t tell her mother that being in the marui she was raised in, haunted by all the little reminders of the brother she had loved so dearly, whom she always strived to be like, makes her want to scream.
The shame is too hot for her to seek refuge with Tsireya and Aonung, even more so to face Tonowari and Ronal, who had always treated the Paynrra siblings with so much kindness and good faith, trusting her and Atanvi to watch over their children. Though admittedly, Atanvi did most of the supervising. A fact that only fuels her uncertainties.
As parents and leaders, it would make sense for them to question those decisions now, but if their opinion of her family mirrors the hushed whispers that seem to trail after her in the scarce moments she walks the populated paths of the village, she’d rather not know.
All she has is her little islet, bordered by the rough rock and coarse, gritty sand that are too harsh on her current injuries.
Her mother sighs, Hoanyu’s silence being enough of an answer. Her heart feels heavier.
The shawl provided as a cover is adjusted to be worn, cinched in the middle by the loving hand still holding that pearl necklace. Hoanyu watches her stand with a grace that has not been lost in melancholia, making her way over to their supply shelves in the back of the marui.
She carefully sifts through some sachets and small shell bowls for several moments before her shoulders slump in defeat. “We are out of ingredients,” she mutters. “I have not been to the healing marui since…”
Since before Atanvi’s exile.
How long before does not matter. Time has fallen into this odd split; life before her brother was exiled, and after, all events lumped together on two sides of a tragic tale.
It has been a difficult time, trying to reconcile what life was with what it will be from now on. They haven’t talked about it, really. Hoanyu doesn’t want it to become a conversation now, either.
“If I have time today, I will go.”
The words are bitter on her tongue. May Eywa forgive her for lying to her already grieving mother.
*
By the time her injuries are handled and the food is cooked, Tsawke has risen just enough for the sky to start fading into the blue of day.
Even the smell of his favorite smoked hammerbrow fish is not enough to wake her father. Hoanyu rolls his portion up with strips of seaweed and herbs for him to enjoy, or at least ingest, later, while her mother seems to be pensively watching the village begin to wake.
She will be going back to work with the other tseotu today, designing tolu for their people’s achievements and history. To Hoanyu’s knowledge, this will be the first time that one of her parents has ventured further than the entrance of their home since everything happened. It is easy to imagine the thoughts and fears plaguing her mother at the moment.
With the food set aside, Hoanyu no longer has any tasks to occupy her mind. She and her mother sit, uncharacteristically still in their mounting trepidation, observing as life moves steadily along in the village, untroubled. They might look at peace from an outsider’s perspective.
After several moments, an unhesitant arm draws her in close. She fits herself into her mother’s side unabashedly, bending farther down to rest on her shoulder than in memory. Her mother’s hair, thick and beautifully wild as always, surrounds her in a cloud-like aura of comfort.
“I love you, ma ‘ite.” A delicate kiss on her forehead makes her breath shudder. “It will get easier to bear, for all of us. It must.”
Hoanyu doesn’t respond, sinking silently deeper into her mother’s embrace.
*
Walking through the village affects her much more than watching it.
Awa’atlu mornings are usually abuzz with preparation for the day, even in these early hours. Adults and children alike all have their own places to be—those with earlier starts amble toward their respective work areas or lessons, some calling upon nearby ilu for farther destinations. She can almost taste the communal meal from the cookfires in the air, wafting invitingly for those who prefer to eat amongst the clan or on their way to work. Up ahead, the elderly fisherman she usually greets along the way to the village center has begun his morning cast.
Hoanyu does not hang her head as she walks along the edges of the paths, but keeps her eyes on the brown fiber beneath everyone’s feet.
Sticking to the edges of the community has become her default when out during waking hours. Where once she would hustle through lively areas with the confidence of a practiced routine and innate self-assurance, she now pauses and sidesteps to let others by or wait out groups meandering with nowhere quick to be. Her skin prickles uncomfortably when too close to another body. Her ears alternate uncontrollably between peeling back and flattening out at the sounds of laughter or whispers. She clenches her fingers, the minor pain blossoming in each palm drawing her mind away from the discomfort of being perceived.
Moving through life feels rather empty this way, though she is getting used to it. Whether that is a good or bad sign remains to be seen.
Good, in that it will get easier to bear if she continues to adjust. Bad, because floating through her life and home like a piece of driftwood lost at sea may truly become her new normal if she does.
Just get through the day. That is all that matters.
Having been an outrider for nearly five seasons now, the route to the tsamsiyu saddle dock requires little thought for her to navigate. She walks with swift but measured steps, passing the central docks and heading to the far side of the village, away from the beach.
The water is deeper here, facing the open lagoon, more fitting for the size of the great war mounts of the reef people to thrive in. Mounts of the outriders spend most of their time nearby, only voyaging deep into the lagoon to feed or mate.
The surface roils with the undulation of grey and blue-tipped caudal fins and water being expelled through gill covers. Orange and black wings spread out wide, catching the air as day patrol teams mount their tsurak and take off toward the seawall terraces. Her eyes raise from the paths, stopping short to take it all in.
Surrounded by the sounds and sights of her chosen path in life, Hoanyu feels lighter. More settled.
Valuable, her mind supplies. Respectable.
Far at the end of the dock, Hoanyu sees her patrol leader. He is easy to spot—a bit taller than the average adult Metkayina, imposing in presence, covered in tolu nearly as intricate as that of any olo’eyktan. He almost always wears his hair fully tied up in the back, leaving a large scar spanning from near his right ear, down to his shoulder, naked to the eye.
A few outriders from her team bustle around him in their own preparation. They take notice of her pause, nudging each other and whispering. Hoanyu steels herself with a deep breath, heading over with a confidence that does not quite reach her heart.
“I See you, Akìley,” She greets.
“Hoanyu.” The elder tsamsiyu nods, not looking up from where his hands are fastening straps on the unclaimed equipment slung over a saddle rack. Hers has likely been disposed of by now, one side torn, seemingly beyond repair.
The memory of the saddle tearing apart and blood blossoming in the water rips through her viciously, remorse clawing at her chest. She gives a fervent sweep over the water surrounding them. “How is Ilayl?”
Akìley looks down at her, eyes firm. “He has healed, but grows more irritable with each day of your absence, refusing to let anyone near. A visit from you would have calmed him.” He turns back to adjusting the equipment. “He has been following our schedule, but we have not seen him yet this morning. Perhaps he got tired of waiting.”
Hoanyu inhales. “I was told to stay out of the water.”
“Yet, you smell of the sea.”
Were it almost any other person or circumstance, she might have rolled her eyes despite knowing her guilt. Unfortunately, Akìley has always been known for having impeccable senses.
“All reef people smell of the sea, Akìley,” she mumbles, unconvincing even to her own ear.
He gives her a stern look. “And what of blood?”
She looks away, focusing on the water ahead.
“It is an inconsequential amount, barely more than a few drops.”
“Yes, I am sure the pxazang circling the reef will consider that.”
Her head whips back toward him. “There are more?”
“Just the one we did not manage to kill. It disappeared for a while but was spotted again yesterday. We hunt with Olo’eyktan today.”
All at once, the unease and conflict warring within get washed away with a renewed vigor. The dull sting in her hands throbs a bit more prominently. This is what she’s needed—a purpose. There could be nothing better than to correct what caused her life’s downward spiral.
Hoanyu moves to one of the spare saddles, opting to carry it while heading out to the lagoon on an ilu. “I will find Ilayl and then join you.”
“That will not be necessary. You are needed at the training grounds today.”
Her hand freezes just above the saddle rack. Akìley strides away as if his words were final, a smattering of barely concealed snickering piercing the air in his wake. Hoanyu recognizes the voices. She whirls around, only sparing Sotxon and his lackeys a warning hiss as she follows Akìley across the dock.
“I am fine to join the hunt. My injuries will not deter me.”
Akìley ignores her, approving other outriders to head out and relieve the night team as he checks over their equipment and weaponry.
Heat pulses in her veins. When she completed her iknimaya and earned her place as an outrider for the clan, she had pledged her life to exactly this sort of work. The current circumstance has a more personal incentive, yes, but that makes it far more infuriating to even consider being sidelined.
Hoanyu needs this. Her family, or the crumbling remains of it, needs this.
She steps into the veteran’s path, not challenging, but determined. Unrelenting. “I have been away for days. It is my duty as tsamsiyu to aid my people when capable. How long must I sit back and do nothing?”
Akìley stares down at her, composed in the face of her obstinacy. His eyes bore into hers for a long moment, searching. When he finally speaks, her resolution is shaken.
“I do not see tsamsiyu. I see someone so desperate for vindication that you would put yourself and others in danger. That is not the tsamsiyu that I trained.”
Hoanyu blinks. There is no room for her to process the callous response as Akìley continues.
“You say you could not visit your tsurak because you were told to stay out of the water, but you smell of the sea. You say you are tsamsiyu, yet you show up to hunt pxazang with open wounds,” he exhales roughly through his nose. “You have always been strong-willed and boisterous, Hoanyu, but I have never known you to lack good sense.”
Deep-seated disappointment permeates the air around them. An ache takes over her entire body, rooting her to the spot. The image of the clan crowded together on the beach, parting as a familiar silhouette moves farther out of her sight, flashes bright in her mind. The air had felt like this then, too.
Hoanyu tries to swallow around the lump forming in her throat.
No, this is not the same.
“Akìley, I–”
“–Will be going to the training grounds until your body decides it no longer wants to be bait.” There is a short silence between them before his demeanor softens infinitesimally. “Hopefully by then the soul will return to your eyes.”
She does not succumb to something as silly as letting her breath hitch at his sincerity, but the emotion is there. Accepting that his words are indeed final, she begrudgingly turns to leave.
“Hoanyu.”
His call halts her mere steps away. Akìley closes the distance, reaching for the back loop of his tewng. In his hand is revealed a breathtaking hunting knife, unlike any she’s ever seen in her life.
The handle is not a typical elongated shape carved into the same shard of crystal that would make up the blade, nor wrapped in woven fibers. It seems to be made from the base of a precious coral usually found deep in the lagoon, the porous blue surface sealed under smooth resin that reflects in the light of the water. The pale blade is long and serrated, sharp enough to draw blood with a simple nick. Pxazang tooth, each serration hand-carved to mimic the frightening sight from the actual creature’s jaws.
He takes her right hand, turning it over and placing the knife in her palm, encouraging her fingers to wrap around the handle. Hoanyu looks up in confusion.
“You fought bravely and won, tsamsiyu. Let that be the most important memory from that day.” Akìley squeezes her hand just once, gentle and profound, before walking away.
Hoanyu holds the knife to her chest. Eyes shut against tears once again, she releases a long, shaky breath. It’s impossible to know how many times she’s done so in the past few hours alone.
She doesn’t go to find Ilayl, but she makes a promise to herself to go soon.
On her way back toward the village center, she takes a left turn, following the scent of ritual and healing herbs.
“Three days from now, the RDA will be running a huge shipment of supplies and weaponry to a warehouse under construction about thirty klicks from the city. From the looks of it, they’re trying to build a new surveillance outpost. We cannot let that happen.”
Jake Sully, Toruk Makto, Olo’eyktan of the Omatikaya, makes eye contact with each individual gathered in High Camp’s central war tent. His voice is grave, his expression even graver, like everything else these days.
Neteyam remembers the last time he’d seen his father smile.
A year ago, when on their way out for date night, his parents had both worn mischievous, love-drunk expressions as their children playfully gagged and protested their exaggerated displays of affection. Neteyam had smiled then as well.
Left in charge of his younger siblings as usual, he made sure Tuk was settled for bed and put a firm stop to Lo’ak and Kiri’s plans to sneak off to Hell’s Gate to see Spider. Were it a year or so prior, he might have considered the idea of them all taking the trip in secret, ensuring they were back before their parents had any clue.
But he’d completed his iknimaya not too long before, and would soon be dedicating his life to the path of a warrior. It wasn’t the time to engage in impish behavior. He hadn’t been spending much time at Hell’s Gate by then, anyway.
He, Kiri, and Lo’ak had stayed up for a couple of extra hours laughing around a small fire, sharing some of their favorite snacks from their personal stashes. It was peaceful. Warm.
In hindsight, keeping them all home had been so much the right choice that he wonders if the Great Mother herself had willed it.
Plenty of things were lost that night, including his father’s smile.
A tail whips happily back and forth in Neteyam’s peripheral vision.
Well, one thing has remained the same.
He steals a glance at his younger brother. There’s a dopey little lopsided grin on Lo’ak’s face, his fangs poking out in the way that usually denotes trouble in the near future. Neteyam sighs, nudging him in the side with his elbow.
“Can you at least pretend to take this seriously?”
“I am,” Lo’ak breathes. “I’m very serious about how exciting this is for me.”
The older of the two huffs in irritation. “It’s not supposed to be—“
“—which brings me to our spotters,” Neteyam’s back straightens as his father’s commanding voice booms much closer, feeling Lo’ak stand to attention as well. Standing beside them, their father levels each boy with a withering look for the loss of focus. “Neteyam, Lo’ak, and Pa’ora will be our eyes in the sky. We need to be notified of any escort or fighter craft immediately. Every second counts. Stay alert, do not get distracted. The safety of everyone on this raid relies on you.”
Neteyam nods sharply, though he can’t help the minute feeling of dissatisfaction flickering in his mind.
It is an important task, and he has no intention of treating it as any less than that, but he’d be lying if he said it was the position he wanted. It is frustrating enough that this is his first mission ever, when he should have been out there with the other warriors from the beginning.
Neteyam has earned his place among the clan with—in the words of all the elders—“dedication and discipline far beyond his age”, yet despite being actively at war, it feels like he hasn’t been able to do anything. He hasn’t been given the same freedom as his peers.
Sure, he goes out on patrol, but only when shadowing his parents. Never with any of the other teams, never far from this stronghold they’ve built for themselves in the mountains in the wake of the Sky People returning. If his parents are busy elsewhere, then he is stuck at High Camp, either assisting with the clan’s day-to-day routine, or doing his usual job—looking after his siblings. Hunts in the forest have also become fewer and farther between to lessen the chance of unfriendly encounters.
It’s not that he’s itching to put an arrow or a bullet in anyone’s heart. He doesn’t hate spending time with his siblings, either. He just wants to do more. He is meant to do more. At least that is what everyone has always made it seem like, being the eldest son of Eywa’s miracle and a tsakarem with a mighty bloodline. Yet, he constantly has to fight for a chance to rise to the challenge.
His parents do not agree with his desire to take on higher responsibilities. Well, one doesn’t, but they’re both dedicated to “presenting a united front”. In the case of his mother, who knows better than they all about Na’vi maturity and the honor of contributing to their people, he wishes she would compromise less.
When the RDA returned, he was in the final season of his sixth cycle, the Na’vi measure of time. He is now in his seventh cycle, the one that marks his transition into adulthood, and by the end of it, he will be fully mature physically and mentally. Or theoretically, he would, if given the chance to fulfill his duties and garner the experience to mold himself into the man he aspires to be. However, in human years, he is only fifteen and some months.
At the start of their seventh cycle, all Na’vi are no longer considered children. Over the years, he’s learned a lot about human life cycles and culture, more so from their human allies and the media from Earth that Spider used to collect back at Hell’s Gate than from his father. Fifteen is an age when many take on more responsibility. Still, something like a “summer job” is incomparable to what those of the same age are expected to undertake on Pandora.
Spending sixteen years living as Na’vi is a long time, but it is shorter than what Jake Sully spent being human, not as intrinsic. A part of his father likely sees him as little more than a child unprepared to face what they are up against, which is…bothersome, for sure.
Sometimes, he can’t help but feel as if the humanity within his family impedes them all. Truthfully, Neteyam understands why.
Kiri and Lo’ak have grievances that he cannot truly resonate with. Tuk, of course, is just a child, but she’ll be in the same boat as him when she grows. It is one thing to have human blood coursing through their veins, but to look like it carries an entirely different weight. They all have their own personal struggles. Though he isn’t sure if the others have grasped the deeper impact humanity has had on their parents, and by extension, their upbringing.
The War took its toll on everyone involved. They know the story, but their father and mother do not talk about it in depth. Not with their children, at least.
By chance, Neteyam had woken one night when he was only eleven to the sound of his father and Norm talking. He’d overheard things he knew would never be expressed in the light of day, willingly in front of children—thoughts marred with grief, glimpses into a mind overrun by guilt and shame.
“Sometimes I still feel like it should’ve been me in that box, set on fire and scattered into the wind.”
“If it had been you, Jake, we wouldn’t have stood a chance. Quaritch and Selfridge were going to start that war one way or another.”
“Yeah, well, at least they would never’ve gotten all the intel handed to them on a silver platter.”
It was an eye-opening experience to hear how his father truly sees himself. It certainly put many things about his family into perspective.
The way his mother sometimes leans into the overprotective mentality of a human parent worrying over their teenager, typically less self-sufficient than their Na’vi counterparts, is a product of the horrors she suffered from humanity itself. Horrors that his father had a hand in and will always punish himself for, even so long after proving he would never be that man again. These feelings can linger for generations.
Neteyam understands his parents. He just doesn’t think the past should dampen the life their family is meant to live. If they are to overcome all that has happened and will happen, they need to embrace who they are, who they want to be, with no regrets.
He wants to be someone of use to the clan. He wants to protect his family. He wants to prove that he can live up to the expectations everyone has of him and help carve out the space for life to return to a semblance of what it once was.
He hasn’t figured out how to voice these thoughts in a receptive manner, yet, so he settles for advocating for himself and his siblings when he can.
This position as a spotter and Lo’ak being included in the war party, despite not completing his iknimaya, are the results of that. Though as the briefing on the upcoming raid comes to a close and Lo’ak seems giddier than ever, Neteyam starts to wonder if the latter was a lapse in judgment.
Neteyam believes in his brother. He knows Lo’ak is skilled enough to be a great warrior, which is why he presented his father with the idea of letting him experience something a bit more serious before his Uniltaron and coming-of-age ceremony. He hoped it would give his brother some much-needed perspective, lessening the way Lo’ak’s… hang-ups, as their father would say, cause him to behave rashly. Neteyam would give anything to take away the thoughts that plague his little brother and allow him to showcase his true potential, without the posturing and bravado.
The boy in question grips Neteyam’s forearm excitedly as the meeting is dismissed. “Bro, Spider’s going to be so jealous. We’ve got to go rub it in.”
He rolls his eyes, already imagining how this will go. Lo’ak will boast about finally being allowed on a mission, and Spider will moan about how long it will take their father to see his worth in battle, egging Lo’ak on with the same reckless enthusiasm they’ve always shared.
Then Neteyam will have to calm his brother’s eager, unfocused mind, usually done with a joke that serves as a thinly veiled truth so as not to harm his brother’s pride. He’s not interested in navigating that conversation right now.
Neteyam shakes his head, eyeing where their father is speaking with Tarsem and Norm. His ears flicker, picking up on bits of their conversation. “Go without me.”
Lo’ak stops, following Neteyam’s gaze. Preoccupied with his eavesdropping, he does not see Lo’ak’s expression turn solemn.
“We’re taking Tuk river fishing later, remember? If you want to join.”
He hums in acknowledgment, separating from his brother as the crowd of warriors disperses enough to pass through. Many of them offer kind greetings along the way. He does his best to respond respectfully, though distracted.
“Neteyam,” Tarsem nods when he reaches the group. His father and Norm step away to continue their talk in private. “It is nice to see you will be joining the war party.”
Neteyam halts. He turns to the older boy with an unamused huff. “It is about time, you mean.”
“A win is a win.” Tarsem shrugs, not losing his easygoing smile.
Neteyam looks at him expectantly. “You were talking about the talioang hunt?”
His smile turns more conspiratorial then. “I was just telling your father we could use another good archer tomorrow, since Nitram has suddenly fallen very ill.”
“And?”
Tarsem sighs with a rueful shake of his head.
“Apparently, you are on patrol until the raid.”
“Dammit,” Neteyam curses. This outcome was highly anticipated. “Thanks for trying, at least.”
“Anything for you, brother. Maybe it will work next time.”
He hopes there won’t be a next time. After participating in the raid, it would only make sense for him to gain more freedom in choosing how he lends his skills to the clan. He’ll insist on it. Such schemes will be unnecessary, then.
“Tell Nitram I owe him for the day of hiding.”
Tarsem snorts. “If anyone is owed a debt, it is you. He is happy to spend the day with his new mate. I will spare you the details of how he plans to use the time.”
“Too bad he did not spare you.” Neteyam grimaces, causing the other to laugh.
They say their goodbyes, Tarsem heading off just as Norm and his father part ways on the far end of the tent. The avatar waves to Neteyam as he approaches, leaving his father to swipe at a screen in frustration.
He peers over the man’s shoulder. There are several images and footage that their scouting teams have managed to take of the maglev train route, crowding the screen. “Is everything alright?”
“The window of time from the nearest blind spot to where we need to hit the train is almost too narrow.” His father grumbles absentmindedly.
“How bad is it?”
“Norm and I are trying to figure out a way to give us some cushion, but we should be fine.” His father drags a tired hand down his face, exhaling slowly. “It’s your first mission, so don’t worry about the logistics. Your only job is to stay focused.”
Neteyam nods. As it always is.
He stays by his father’s side, listening to the quiet murmuring as the man thumbs through the images before him. Neteyam can see where the frustration lies. Maglevs run quicker than they can move, and the optimal place for them to begin the raid is within close enough range of an older outpost—one they didn’t manage to prevent being built earlier in the year—for backup to arrive if they don’t move with precision. Timing will be everything.
He hesitantly shares his thoughts on their maneuvers, and his father rebuts with counterpoints that Neteyam eagerly absorbs. Learning from his father is always a treat, what with him being gifted tactically. He loves these moments of inclusivity, where he’s allowed to speak his mind and discuss their operations—they’re the closest he feels to being a true warrior.
If only he saw me fit enough to put these teachings to use.
It is a bitter thought, one he has had trouble shaking as of late. Thinking lowly of him is not why his father keeps him from the forefront of the fighting. The reasons his mind often seems to settle on, however, do not make him feel any more content.
“Dad, can I ask you something?” The words tumble from his lips.
His father turns from the screen, eyeing him quizzically. “Go ahead.”
Neteyam takes a deep breath.
“Did you make me a spotter so that it would be easier to look after Lo’ak?”
He watches as the man’s expression falls deeper into honest confusion. The thin lines of hair above his eyes draw together as he responds, his voice quiet and transparent.
“No. You made a good point about giving him a chance, so I’m honoring that. Also, your mother will have my ass sleeping in the avatar bay if I don’t loosen the reins a little.” Neteyam smirks. Perhaps his mother had not been as compromising as he thought. “Lo’ak’s too young to be down on the field, and this way, you can watch each other’s backs.”
A firm hand is clasped on his shoulder.
“Son, this position was yours from the start. You’ve got the best eye and instincts out of everyone in your age group. I’m trusting you to keep our party safe. It’s not something to take lightly.”
Pride swells deep in his heart, the tension in his mind and body withering. He looks into his father’s unwavering gaze with renewed confidence. “I understand.”
“But when the day comes, do not let your brother out of your sight. You know how he gets.” They share a knowing look.
“Yes, sir.”
He feels more content knowing that trust earned him these tasks, less like he was born solely to watch over his younger siblings. The corners of his mouth upturn placidly as his father’s large hand ruffles through the roots of his braids.
Neteyam spends the rest of the day enthusiastically shadowing his father, the plan for river fishing entirely forgotten.
*
“I still can’t believe your dad’s actually letting you go on a mission.”
“I know, right? I can’t wait to put an arrow in one of those gunships.”
Neteyam rolls his eyes. Here they go.
“In your dreams, maybe,” Spider laughs. “You couldn’t even hit an 'angtsìk if it was dead on the ground in front of you.”
“At least I’m tall enough for an 'angtsìk to see as a threat. Or see at all, if we’re being honest.”
The past three days were swept away in preparation for the raid. Detailed coordination and route planning, tactical training, and weapons arrangement were the only things Neteyam knew outside of patrol hours. He took every opportunity to accompany his father, mother, Norm, or Tarsem as they moved throughout the stronghold and ensured the war party was ready.
The day has finally come. Neteyam is gearing up, trying to ease himself into a focused headspace. He would surely succeed if the two idiots next to him gave it a rest.
The 'angtsìk comments do get a little chuckle out of him, though.
“Seriously, your aim sucks, bro. You’re too shaky. I’m a better shot than you any day.”
“We can test that theory when I get back. Just don’t cry when I embarrass you in front of Kiri and Tuk laughs.”
“Not gonna happen, but sure.”
“I’ll show up and embarrass both of you if you don’t shut up,” Neteyam interrupts their bickering, throwing an unfinished arrow between them. “Lo’ak, focus on getting ready. Don’t forget your comms.”
Lo’ak immediately reaches up to touch the bare skin on his neck, eyes widening. “Shit.”
He runs off, presumably to find wherever he left his comms. Neteyam starts filling his quiver with finished arrows. He can feel Spider move to lean against the pole behind him, so he throws an embellished disapproving look over his shoulder.
“You always rile him up before I have to deal with the result. I’m starting to think you have something against me.”
Spider flashes him a wicked smile. “Someone’s gotta keep you on your toes, mighty warrior.”
Neteyam gives him the finger. It is quiet for a few moments, the only sound between them being the slink of arrows sliding into place.
“I figured you would seem more excited. You’ve been waiting for this for a while.”
Neteyam’s movement falters. He didn’t realize his thoughts on the matter were so transparent. Regardless, he takes a moment to dissect his feelings. A vibration thrums throughout his body, but it isn’t forceful or overpowering, nor is it light and jubilant. It is steady. Insistent. Necessary.
He thinks of all the times when he had felt excitement in the truest sense of the word, and knows that this is not that.
“Hunting is exciting. Warrior challenges are exciting. This is different. Less positive.”
Spider hums in assent, eyes far away. “I wish I could be out there. Helping.”
“You help a lot here,” Neteyam argues. “Everyone knows that.”
“You know it’s not the same.”
He does. The feeling must be very similar to how he’s felt the past year of being hindered. Except when it comes to Spider, things go far beyond a year of wanting.
It must be a tricky thing to navigate emotionally. Neteyam has always commended him for the grace with which he handles it all.
“Bet you a basket of yovo fruit Lo’ak does a frustrated spiral on his ikran when he misses a shot?”
Grace, and avoidant humor.
“Your bets are a nuisance to the gatherers.”
“Two baskets?”
Neteyam laughs, standing up with his prepped bow and quiver. He holds out his hand for Spider to shake. If everything goes well, they shouldn’t be shooting at anything at all. That isn’t their job for the day.
Easy win.
“You'd better start looking for a good harvest while we’re gone.”
*
Everything goes well. Until it doesn’t.
With the train and escort ships being destroyed, the job is already half done. Neteyam and Lo’ak circle high and wide above the burning train debris, scanning the perimeter around the raid. The thrumming in his veins sedately continues, aiding in his laser-sharp focus.
“Let’s go. Two minutes, people. Let’s go,” his father’s voice crackles in his ear.
Just two minutes free from any movement amongst the trees or around the mountain peaks, and they are home free. They pass over where the ground team has begun weapons acquisition, and then everything falls apart.
“Bro, we have got to get down there.”
Neteyam’s blood runs cold. No, no, not right now. “No way! Dad will skin us!”
They’re not supposed to leave their position.
Do not let your brother out of your sight.
“Come on, don’t be a wuss.” Lo’ak takes off toward the crash.
But he can’t just let Lo’ak fly down into the wreck alone.
I’m trusting you to keep our party safe.
It only takes a split second to make his decision, but to Neteyam, it feels like time has stopped. The calm, steady pulsing in his body turns violent, his heart racing.
“Lo’ak, get back here you—argh!” He growls, swooping down to fly after his impulsive idiot of a brother.
This is wrong. They shouldn’t be going down there. His father’s voice rings loudly in his head.
Do not let your brother out of your sight. Every second counts. Eyes in the sky—too young to be down on the field—escort or fighter craft—stay focused—two minutes—
—I'm trusting you.
They land. Lo’ak takes off running. Doesn’t stop when he calls. Someone hands him a gun before Neteyam catches up, and he lets out a war cry. Anger bubbles to the surface of his mind as he urges his brother to the side.
“You don’t even know how to use it.”
Lo’ak shoves in the mag and loads the chamber. “Dad taught me.”
Neteyam wants to drag him back to the ikran by his ears, braids, leg, anything, but a powerfully reflexive restraint overtakes his body. He’d made a promise to himself many years ago to never lay hands on his brother in anger again. Arguably, this would be a justified exception, but when he makes a move to grab the younger boy, it is like his limbs freeze just short of touching. Lo’ak will fight it, so he will have to use more strength, and Neteyam just can’t. Not with the memory of sad, scared eyes gazing up at him.
In his hesitation, the worst happens.
“Gunship’s inbound! Fall back!”
Behind them, the crash site goes up in smoke and flames with a deafening explosion of rubble and dust. They run, but the ship fires again before they can get far.
A heat like none Neteyam has ever known envelopes his entire being, the force behind it lifting him high off of what may have once been the ground, now nothing more than crumbled ruin. The debris scattering through the air as he is suspended pelts his body, bits of his skin being taken off with every hit.
Then he is falling. It isn’t a particularly long descent—not enough time to feel fear over where this flight ends. Neteyam slams into the decimated earth, and everything goes dark.
*
It is unclear how long he lay in darkness. When Neteyam comes to, his body is wracked with pain. A dull, high-pitched ringing fills his ears, and his vision swims.
He tries to move his hand, but succeeds in little more than a twitch of his fingers in the dirt beneath. He lies there, mind overcome with that awfully piercing sound. Beneath it, his father’s words continue to echo mockingly.
The safety of everyone on this raid relies on you.
Suddenly, the world is flipped over. A few laborious blinks focus his vision enough to recognize a head of locs, the ionar, and war paint.
Son, this position was yours from the start. You’ve got the best eye and instincts out of everyone in your age group.
“Dad…?” Neteyam croaks, choking through the pain and ash caught in his lungs as his torso is lifted.
“What are you doing here, boy? What the hell were you thinking?”
Disappointment feels deserved. He had one shot to prove himself worthy of the praise and reliance, and he failed. Hopefully, Lo’ak is alright.
“I’m s…I’m sorry,” he tries to swallow as the world shifts again, being slung over his father’s shoulders. “I’m sorry, sir.”
The war party retreats, taking what they have and fleeing back to safety.
The flight back to High Camp is silent, save for his father directing everyone back home over comms. The firm support of his father’s arms allows him time to rest and recover. The world stops spinning, the ringing subsides, and Neteyam regains control of his limbs.
He catches sight of both Lo’ak and his mother flying alongside them. Txe’ean, his ikran, has been keeping close as well. Neteyam breathes a sigh of relief. As long as they are all alive and safe, he can accept whatever comes next.
*
They get scolded. Harshly. He knows it’s warranted. If he had run faster and dragged Lo’ak back to their ikran despite the protest deeply ingrained in his mind, things could have gone differently. Better.
Warriors do not hesitate, his inner thoughts snarl. You have fought many things worse than a bitter memory, with far less at stake.
Kiri’s concern and his mother’s words are warmer than he feels he’s earned, but it frees him from his father’s glare. For that, he is grateful. His mother leads him toward the healing marui with a gentle grip on his arm to ensure he remains upright. Her thumb caresses the skin of his bicep, an attempt at comfort. It doesn’t work as well as it usually would.
“Do not punish yourself for this, ma ‘itan.”
Neteyam grits his teeth, saying nothing.
It is busy when they reach the healing marui. Many warriors have already been brought in to be taken care of, and the few healers they have are rushing about with potent tinctures, thick pastes, and bandages. He can’t help but notice that a lot are in a far worse state than he is.
Kiri and Tuk arrive just ahead of them, dutifully heading to assist their grandmother. The tsahìk looks up from where she is aiding a young warrior in drinking something that will ease his pain. She passes the cup to Kiri when done, instructing her to administer the same to a few others, before heading over to where his mother’s guiding hands sit him down.
His grandmother looks him over, taking in all the cuts, scrapes, and burns littering his body. He tells her about the ache in his head, and she tuts disapprovingly, but looks far less worried than she had amongst the others. She looks up at her daughter, her expression bleak.
“How many did we lose?”
His mother is silent for a beat too long. “We can discuss it later, mother.”
His jaw clenches, the fingers of one hand curling in frustration. Either she doesn’t want to talk about it in front of him, or so many others. He could do without the coddling—his mistakes had consequences, and they should be spoken about openly.
Hearing it all would help rebuild his resolve and spur him into preventing the same thing from happening again. Maybe even give him the courage to be firmer with Lo’ak when needed.
Understanding alights in the wise woman’s eyes. She nods to the entrance. “Take him home. I will tend to him when we are done here.”
*
He is grateful for Spider’s presence during the healing. The normality of his teasing and prodding allowed Neteyam’s thoughts to ease temporarily, as if the day’s events had not caused a storm within. Even Kiri’s bold contesting with their grandmother granted him a bit of amusement.
He doesn’t like to brood in front of his family. It invites too many questions, too many worrying eyes. He’d learned that the hard way. When he started thinking more profoundly about life and the world around him, it often attracted scrutiny from the adults in his life. He was forced to open up about certain questions weighing him down. More often than not, the conversations that followed seemed to discomfit everyone involved, so he learned to compartmentalize—saving anything negative or disconcerting for private.
After his grandmother and Kiri finish patching him up and all the heckling over his injuries subsides, Neteyam climbs down to one of the outcroppings in the cave’s entrance. It is his favorite place to enjoy some quiet time after a long day.
Gazing into the expanse of the forest fills him with longing for the days when they spent their lives down amongst the flora and fauna below. His thoughts wander, carried away by the feeling.
I could have died today. Some did die today.
He could die any day, even while doing nothing out of the ordinary. There is always a possibility. But today he had come very close, and the idea unsettles him.
Not because he is afraid to die, but because it would have been pointless. Going down to the crash didn’t benefit them in any way. All he received from it were gashes and scrapes, a dull ache in the back of his head, and the loss of his father’s trust.
They lost good warriors, beloved family members.
Death by indecision. A terrible way to die. That's what he caused.
Neteyam sighs, fiddling with a hole torn in his tewng from the explosion. He likes this one the most. He’d fashioned it the day after his Uniltaron to mimic the colors of the vision Eywa had given him—his body sinking into vibrant shades of greenish blue spread out as far as his eyes could see, a golden glow highlighting the edges of his sight. It was all-consuming, though in the vision, he was not afraid. He had felt weightless, at peace. Unburdened in a way he hasn’t known since he was a child.
He’ll have to sew the hole up when he gets a chance. He’s not ready to part with it just yet. Not before he figures out the meaning of it all.
Maybe that is why the Great Mother chose not to take him back today. He should count himself lucky.
As his thoughts continue to drift, he hears the sound of familiar footsteps—typically loud in places where stealth isn’t necessary—coming closer to this edge of the settlement. Sure enough, within a minute or so, his brother’s legs dangle over the outcropping to his right.
Lo’ak drops into the space beside him wordlessly. The silence goes on for longer than Neteyam expects, as they stare off into the darkened canopy.
“Can’t believe I’m grounded for a month.”
Neteyam looks at his brother incredulously. “I can, skxawng.”
Lo’ak rolls his eyes, but his posture sags.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
That dejected look on his little brother's face is commonplace, moreso during the last year than ever. Seeing it always invokes sadness, the feeling pressing in to share space with Neteyam’s sense of inferiority.
Neteyam clenches his jaw, trying to think of how to say what he wants as kindly as he can. He places a hand on the younger boy’s shoulder.
“I want you to understand that I will always have your back, little brother,” Lo’ak looks up at him, surprised by the conviction in tone. “But you have got to stop being so reckless.
“This isn’t getting lost in the forest at night and hiding from nantang, or climbing the vines to escape from angry talioang. It is war. People died today. We almost died. You have to be more sincere about it. We’ll never be able to prove ourselves to Dad if he doesn’t have faith in us.”
His hand is shrugged off.
“Says the one with nothing to prove.”
The words lance through his heart, as usual, but he doesn’t have the energy to laugh it off after today.
“Lo’ak.” He insists.
The younger boy groans. “Okay, fine, I hear you. I know I messed up. I feel awful about it, but I can’t take it back now. Lecturing me like dad will not change that.”
Neteyam turns away, jaw clenching even harder. The younger boy used to look at him with pride and awe, hanging on to his every word. Now, Lo’ak only ever compares him to their father in a negative light, only talks about Neteyam’s skills with underlying bitterness or in jest. He usually takes it all in stride, knowing his brother is just frustrated and brash, but it hurts. Lo’ak is right about one thing, though—they can’t take back what’s already happened.
“I’m just trying to help.”
Help both of us, really, but you refuse to see that.
“I know,” Lo’ak whispers, almost as if he didn’t want Neteyam to hear it. He looks back at his brother, the tightness in his jaw loosening.
Lo’ak seems hesitant for a moment before sighing as he pulls a weighty pouch from behind him, holding it out sheepishly. A faint sweet smell wafts in the air as it is raised.
Neteyam takes the pouch. He knows that smell. As he pulls the drawstring apart, the scent bursts vividly into the air around them, hardened, glistening slices of rumuat and utumauti, colorful and inviting, appearing. His heart thumps. He hasn’t had candied fruit in months.
“I’m sorry I got you hurt.”
The heavy atmosphere dissipates, as does any lingering pain from harsh words. Guilt and grief still roil deep within, but he can’t help the fond feeling that spreads as his baby brother awkwardly avoids meeting his eyes.
“Apology accepted,” he says, bumping their shoulders. “Where did you get these, anyway?” Living at High Camp means they don’t take many trips to the part of the forest where the sap to harden the fruit grows anymore, let alone having the luck of finding utumauti. At least Neteyam can’t remember the last time he’s seen either.
Lo’ak smirks, popping one of the fruits into his mouth. “I stole them from Kiri’s stash.”
Neteyam shakes his head, a grin forming.
“She’s going to cut your tail off, bro.”
“Nah, I have a plan. I’ll trade Pa’ora for the utumauti, then I’ll get Spider to distract Kiri the next time we go out so I can collect the sap.”
“Not like that will take much convincing,” Neteyam snorts. Lo’ak scowls.
“Eywa, they disgust me.”
They fall into a fit of laughter. Eclipse approaches as the two brothers sit, sharing the pouch of candied fruit. For the first time in a while, Neteyam feels young. Like this, freshly out of trouble, laughing with his brother and sneaking in sweets before sleep, is where he still belongs.
The world is unkind, and he has no choice but to face it. Childhood was shed when he realized that years ago.
On days like these, though his failures are very few and far between, it becomes uncertain if he’s ever been as ready as he likes to believe.