Chapter Text
Quaritch was dragged ashore by Spider, his body limp and unresponsive until the cold air hit his lungs.
He choked violently, coughing up mouthfuls of saltwater that burned all the way up his throat. His chest heaved, each breath scraping raw against the inside of him. For a moment, he could do nothing but lie there on the rocks, gasping, the roar of the ocean pounding in his ears.
“Let’s move out,” he rasped, voice rough. He stumbled towards his waiting ikran. The long legs under him were unsteady. He was still in heavy disbelief over the fight that had just unfolded.
When Spider didn’t respond, Quaritch turned to him with his expression confused.
“Son,” he tried calling out again, “come with me.” His voice unexpectantly desperate. The boy had just saved his life. Quaritch was certain that the boy saw him as his father. Certain that all this time he was fighting against him was all mere act.
He held out his hand to the boy. Quaritch urged him to grab it with the tilt of his head. But the boy never does. Spider's lips curled as he hisses at him before diving back into the sea. The waves crashed against the rocks below, swallowing the place where Spider had disappeared. His hand hangs absently in the air for aa moment longer as he tried to not let the disappointment take over. He takes a breath in, glancing down at the rocks beneath his feet. Then he glances around once more. None of his men were near. If any had survived the battle it seemed like they had already retreated back to base. A total loss. Again.
He swallowed, frustrated by the familiar turn of events. He could only be thankful that at the very least this time did not end with arrows piercings through his chest. His hand comes up to clutch his vest. His heart raced. At least he would not have to wait to get reprinted and adjust yet again to a new body. Even after all this time, he still felt foreign in it. Though his body moved as expected, the skin on his body felt wrong. The perspective felt wrong.
The adrenaline was starting to wear off. Quaritch groaned in pain as he did his best to heave himself over Cupcake’s back. He needed to get out of here before any Na'vi discover him and decide to finish the job. He sluggishly connected his kuru to his ikran and patted it's neck.
"Off we go." The ikran takes off slowly, equally tired from the fight.
He wasn’t sure when he started to lose consciousness.
At first, it was just the exhaustion. The steady drain of energy as the adrenaline faded. The wind against his face felt colder. Sharper. His grip on the reins loosened without him noticing.
Then his vision began to blur.
The horizon wavered, colors bleeding into each other. The steady rhythm of the ikran’s wings became distant, like it was happening somewhere far away. His breathing slowed, uneven and shallow.
“Stay… steady,” he muttered, though his voice barely carried. His ikran yelped, trying to get him to snap out of it, but he was too far gone.
The forest stretched out beneath them, vast and endless. A deep expanse of greens and blues. Everything was moving too fast. It was coming up too fast.
Quaritch blinked hard, trying to focus, but the darkness crept in at the edges of his vision. His hands tightened weakly, then slipped. The ikran let out a sharp, panicked screech as it dipped suddenly, its balance thrown off.
Branches rushed up to meet them. There was no time to recover and they slammed into the canopies.
Leaves exploded around them, branches snapping under the force of the impact. The world became a blur of green and motion and noise. Quaritch felt himself thrown forward, something hard striking his side, knocking what little air he had left from his lungs.
Then finally they hit the ground and everything went still.
You could hear the commotion from your home. You lived far from any clan. A simple nook amongst thick trees and vines. Easy to miss to untrained eyes.
An ikran’s screech cut sharply through the forest, loud and distressed, followed by the violent crash of branches snapping and leaves tearing. The sound echoed, then faded just as quickly as it had come.
Your ears twitched, angling toward the direction of the disturbance. You stayed still, listening carefully. The forest spoke in its usual quiet ways. Insects hummed. Leaves rustled softly. No sounds of a hunt. No signs of immediate danger.
You reached for your gear without hesitation, fingers moving out of habit. A small satchel of herbs. Your knife. Bandages woven from plant fibers. You slung everything into place and began moving toward the crash.
You slipped between the trees, careful and quiet, your steps light against the forest floor. Shadows clung to you as you moved, your body instinctively avoiding open spaces. Living alone, you have learned it’s better to stay unseen.
The closer you got, the stronger the scent of blood became.
The crash site had torn through the canopy, leaving a jagged opening where sunlight now spilled through in scattered beams. Leaves and branches littered the ground below, forming a rough cushion.
An ikran lay at the center.
Your gaze softened slightly as you approached. Its chest rose and fell, slow but steady. Alive. Injured, but alive. One wing twitched weakly, and a low, pained sound slipped from its throat.
“Easy,” you mutter softly, holding out your hands. “Easy, dear. Let me help you.” You see it ease slightly when it saw you were of no threat.
You take another step closer and finally you see that the ikran had protected its rider. Covered by its wings you see a Na’vi. Quickly you rush forward to gently lift the ikran’s wings. The ikran stirred at your touch, letting out a faint hiss, but it did not strike.
“It’s alright,” you whispered. “I will not harm your rider.” You brush your hand against its head for a reassuring pat. It lets out a low rumble at the gesture. You continue to lift the wing further, the ikran moves, finally allowing you access.
You freeze.
Blue skin. Tall frame. Familiar shape. But the details were all wrong. Uncanny.
Your eyes flicked quickly over him, taking everything in. The strange clothing clinging to his body. The unnatural cut of his hair. Short and uneven. And then your gaze dropped to his hand.
Five fingers.
Not four. A dreamwalker, a sky person inside a fake Na’vi body. Your breath hitches.
Memories pressed in, uninvited. Fire in the distance. Trees falling. The thunder of sky machines. The fear in your clan’s voices. Anger… And later... your exile.
The war against the sky people had left many of your clan dead. It had also left many sky people dead. As a healer, you despised the sight of death, no matter their origin. Your clan did not agree with your views. They casted you out for your faith in sky people despite everything they've done. For standing in defense of the sky people when others called for their deaths. It had hurt more than any wound left from the war. To be turned away from your home, from your family, from everything you had known.
But you had understood it.
Yes, the sky people brought destruction wherever they went. They took and took, tearing from the land without listening, without asking. They did not stop. They did not See. Most of them did not.
Your gaze returned to the unconscious dreamwalker before you.
Yet you still believed in them.
If Jakesully, Toruk Makto, was once a sky person, then it meant something. It meant there were those who could change. Those who could learn. Those who could See Eywa, not as something to conquer, but something to lay faith to.
Maybe these sky people were not born cruel.
Maybe they were simply lost.
Lost, coming from a dying world, searching for life without understanding how to live within it. And here, the forest of Eywa breathed life into everything it touched.
Maybe, with time, they could learn.
You reached into your bag, pulling out the woven leaves to temporarily help with the bleeding from his and his ikran’s wounds. Thankfully the ikran’s skin was tough. It was not heavily injured, nothing it couldn’t recover from on its own with plenty of food and water.
The rider on the other hand needed to be brought back home for further treatment. You smooth your hand over the ikran again, urging it up. It lets out a strained coo as it forced itself upright. It shifts, muscles straining under its own weight. You move to its side, nudging gently at its shoulders with your palms, guiding it to straighten. Its wings spread slightly, shaking with the effort, and you press a hand against one to steady it. Once it is upright enough, you carefully slide your hands beneath the rider, lifting with all your strength to settle him back onto the saddle. His body sags heavily, unresponsive. The ikran lets out a low rumble again as it tilted his head to check in on its rider.
"He'll be alright. I promise." You whisper again to the ikran, fingers brushing over the leathery edges of its wings. "Come on."
The strange armor came off first.
Your fingers brushed over the material, unfamiliar and rigid. You had seen pieces like this before, worn by sky people during battle. It resisted at first, fastenings hidden and unnatural, but you figured it out quickly enough. Once removed, you set it aside, out of reach. A place he wont easily find amongst leaves and vines.
You glance at the body, intrigued. Never have you seen a dreamwalker up close before. His body had more muscle than any Na’vi you had seen before. You wonder if all dreamwalkers were like this. You turn his palm over and line your hand against his. His was much larger and the extra finger jutting out confused you. Flexing your hand, you wondered what it was like to have an extra finger.
The dreamwalker groaned silently in his sleep. You scold yourself for getting distracted and move to take the rest of his clothing off.
Layer by layer, you stripped away what you could, leaving only what was necessary. His wounds were clearer now. Bruising along his ribs and neck. Deep cuts along his side and shoulder. Smaller injuries scattered across his body.
You cleaned each wound carefully, washing away dirt and blood. He stirred once or twice, muscles twitching under your hands, but he did not wake.
“Stay,” you murmured, more to yourself than to him.
Crushed herbs followed. You pressed them into the worst injuries, binding them with practiced precision. Your hands moved quickly, confidently, weaving wraps from plant fibers to hold everything in place.
By the time you finished, he was covered in medicine and bandages, the sharp scent of herbs filling the space.
You leaned back slightly, studying your work. With the threat of death no longer looming overhead, you take another moment to look at him. His face was clean off all the blood that once stained it. Your tail flicked, wondering what he’d looked like when fully awake. More importantly, you wondered how he'd react to you saving him. Surely, he'd see the situation and understand you only wanted help, right?
Perhaps you should try and recall the bits of English you once learned long ago...
The simple quiet did not last.
At first, it was subtle. A shift in his breathing. What had been slow and steady turned uneven, a slight hitch between each inhale, as if struggling to breathe. Your hands stilled over the herbs you were sorting, your attention sharpening as your gaze moved back to him. His chest rose a little too quickly now, the rhythm broken. Muscles along his arms tensed beneath the wraps, fingers twitching faintly against the mat.
You leaned forward slightly, watching closely, ready in case he woke disoriented. Your grip shifted subtly, prepared to restrain him if needed, though you knew even injured he would be difficult to handle.
His head turned sharply to one side. His jaw tightened. A strained breath left him, deeper now, almost a choke.
Then his eyes snapped opened. His body followed only a second later, surging upward on pure instinct before his injuries could catch up to him. A frustrated and pained groan leaves him. His whole body tensing, muscles flexing from the ache. His hand flew to his side, fingers pressing instinctively against the bandages there as if expecting something else. His expression shifted, confusion cutting through the initial aggression as his gaze flicked down over himself. Bandages wrapped across his torso, his arms, his shoulder. His usual gear was gone. No vest. No weapons.
“You are safe,” you said carefully, your voice steady despite the tension coiling in the air. The words felt unfamiliar on your tongue in his language, shaped differently than your own. You forced them out slowly, hoping they carried the meaning you intended. “You need rest.”
His head snapped toward you.
Teeth bared. Your ears flatten back against you head when you flinch backwards.
Any trace of confusion vanished in an instant, replaced by something far more dangerous. His eyes locked onto you, sharp and calculating, and for a brief moment you could almost see the shift happen behind them. He wasn’t trying to understand anymore. He moved without warning.
His hand shot forward pulling on you hard. The force yanked you off balance, dragging you closer as he twisted, using his weight and grip to try and overpower you despite the obvious strain it put on his injuries.
Pain flared across his body. You could see it in the tightness of his jaw, the way his breath hitched, but he ignored it completely.
His other hand came up, gripping at your shoulder, shoving you back just enough to pin you in place against the ground. The movement was rough, controlled, practiced. Even weakened, he knew exactly how to use his size and strength.
“Don’t,” he warned, voice low and edged, breath still uneven but steady enough to carry intent.
His grip tightened around your wrist.
“Where am I?” He demanded, each word clipped. “Where is my gear? Did you take it?” His eyes scanned over you carefully, ears pressed flat against his head.
“Don’t you know who I am, huh? Na’vi? Answer me.” He continued on. It should be clear to anyone who he was. It didn’t make any sense to him as to why a Na’vi would help him without ulterior motives.
“You are my patient,” you snapped, the words sharper now, no longer softened for his understanding.
Before he could react, your knee struck forward, digging hard into the bruised stretch of his ribs. He sucked in a harsh breath, the sound breaking into a low groan as pain flared through him, immediate and blinding. His grip loosened just enough. You twisted free and shoved him back with both hands, putting your weight behind it. He resisted on instinct, muscles tightening, but his body betrayed him. The injuries, the strain, the exhaustion all caught up at once.
He fell back against the woven mat with a heavy impact, breath knocked from his chest.
You followed immediately, not giving him space to recover, one hand pressing firmly against his shoulder to keep him down. Face hovering over his, keeping contact with his golden eyes. Breaths heavy. You stay like this for a moment. He glared silently up at you, teeth still bared. You found it intriguing that despite his origin, he still managed to pick up Na'vi mannerisms.
“I do not care if you are sky person,” you said, your voice low but unwavering, each word deliberate. “You rest.”
For a moment, he doesn't move.
His chest rose sharply as he dragged in air, teeth clenched against the lingering pain. His eyes burned up at you, bright with anger, with disbelief, with something that bordered on outrage. His lip curled, a quiet, dangerous sound rumbling in his throat as his hands flexed against the mat beneath him.
“You got a death wish,” he muttered, voice rough, still edged with that same threat, though it lacked some of its earlier strength.
His gaze flicked over you again, slower this time. Taking in the details he had missed before. The lack of weapons in your hands. The herbs. The woven structure of your shelter. The absence of restraints. You were clearly no fighter. Yes, you could hold your own against the wild, but you were not raised to be a warrior. Not that you ever wanted to be one. Not like the other Na'vi did.
“If you hit me again,” he continued, breathing steadier now though still tight, “I’m not gonna hold back.” You sigh at his insistent threats.
“Do not move,” for emphasis you forcefully fix his bandages that came loose. The action elicits another pained groan from him. “And I will not have to, sky man.” You give a small hiss as a warning for him to stay put.
His ears point down as he tries to detect any sign of an ulterior motive from you. His tail flicks, agitated.
“I don’t know what you're after, but if you’re well aware of who I am,” he tilts his head, “what makes you so certain I won’t just kill ya once I’m recovered?” There was a slight tone of humor in his words.
You do not meet his eyes. Instead, you focused on your work, smoothing the edge of the bandage, checking the seal of the herbs, making sure nothing would come loose again. Your movements were steady, precise, as if his words carried no weight at all. Any of your people would call you a skxawng for this. For bringing him here. For tending to him. For turning your back on the obvious danger lying in front of you.
They would not be wrong. Still, it was a risk you were willing, and wanting to take.
“If you kill me,” you said at last, your voice calm, almost quiet, “then I will return to Eywa.” You bring yourself to raise your eyes to the man. “I am not afraid of that.”
For a second, he just stared at you. Quaritch could never understand how these natives had such unshakable faith in a god that so clearly did not exist. He let out a short, dry scoff.
“Yeah?” he muttered, shifting slightly despite the way his body protested. “Well, is that supposed to scare me, or impress me?”
“You Na’vi all got the same lines,” he continued, his tone edged with mockery. “Eywa this, Eywa that. Circle of life, all that spiritual crap.” He glanced away briefly, jaw tightening as if something about the words irritated him more than he wanted to admit.
“It don’t change the outcome.” His eyes snapped back to you. “You die, you’re dead. That’s it.” You narrow your eyes at him.
“This is why I pity you sky people. You have never felt the warmth of Eywa. So you fear it. You burn Her down without thought because you simply do not See.” You shake your head in frustration.
“Pity?” he echoed, voice low. The word didn’t sit right with him. You could hear it. “That what this is? You drag me outta the dirt, patch me up, and now you feel sorry for me? Think you can help me once and I'll switch sides?”
You didn’t answer immediately. Instead, your hands brushed over the bandages softly, making sure the medicine pressed evenly. Truthfully, the answer was yes. You wanted to believe it. You wanted to prove to yourself, and maybe even to your old clan, that not all sky people were irredeemable. That some could learn to See, to respect life as Eywa wove it.
“I am a healer. I heal,” you said finally. His eyes narrowed, jaw tightening as he leaned back slightly against the mat, still testing the limits of his injuries, still trying to size up every possible threat.
“Yeah? Is that what the rest of your clan thinks too?” His voice was casual, not expecting a serious answer. You grew quiet. Slowly, deliberately, you stepped away from the bed. Your hands moved to the small stash of food you had hidden in the corner, roots, nuts, and dried fruit.
“I have no clan,” you said, voice low. The words felt heavier than you expected as you packed the food neatly into your satchel. He blinked, confusion flashing across his features.
"Since when did you natives travel alone?"
You looked back at him, meeting his gaze this time, calm and unwavering. “I will feed your ikran,” you said, changing the topic. “It is injured, but it shall heal with rest. Just as you shall. Do not leave, I will be right outside.”
For a moment, he said nothing. His chest rose and fell unevenly, the tension in his body coiling and uncoiling like a spring ready to snap. His ears twitched, tail flicking once, then still. He had no idea what to make of you. For now, he was just thankful you were stupid enough to help the enemy. The moment he was good enough to move again, he was gone. Until then, he'll play along with your 'game.'
A beat passes and he nods, letting his head rest back against the bed. You take the moment to leave the home. The cold air filling your lungs, cooling you from the heated encounter. The scent of wet leaves and earth fills your senses, grounding you. You swallow roughly as you question your own decision for the millionth time.