Chapter Text
"The tide comes in, and the tide goes out, but it never brings back the part of me that drifted away with you."
There is a hole where the shape of him used to be. The edges are bitten and raw, unwilling to surrender the weight of what was lost, anchoring him to a memory that refuses to soften. Even the sunrise couldn't erase that. He sits by the shore, feeling lost as the tide licks the sand, coming in and going back out. It's calm nature is far off from his own chaotic inner monologue. He can barely stand to be here; by the infinite source of a memory he wants to forget.
Every corner of the village is a minefield of memories that he can't escape. Ao'nung can't comprehend why. Why he has to find so much of Rotxo, that still lingers around, like a trail he had to follow before the dots could connect. His shoulders felt heavy, as though the string to which had been fastened around his soul, was now being tugged by the empty space beside him.
But, he knew it wasn't true. Reality was a cold throw of water. It didn't wait.
It stung. Over and over. Reality didn't wait for him to catch his breath; the tides still pulled, the ilu still needed feeding, and the seat beside him on the enbankment remained stubbornly, physically empty. It was the sharp sting of cold water on his skin and the unforgiving brightness of the sun that hurt the most, forcing him to acknowledge that the world was continuing to turn in a version of existence where Rotxo no longer breathed.
There was no softness in the realization that life was moving forward without his best friend, only the heavy, aching weight of a truth that demanded to be felt in every second that allowed him to breathe.
Ao’nung felt it all. Every single bit.
The silence, however, was short lasting once he heard the familiar soft padding against sand. Her presence was a balm to his nerves, despite the distance of his own emotions. Tsireya settled beside him, close enough for him to feel the warmth of her presence, but respectful of his space. The silence stretched, heavy and profound, punctuated only by the waves.
"Are you okay, brother?" She asked softly, and he noted the worry in her eyes. She looked so much like their mother.
"Oeru lu fpom.." (Translation: I am feeling the peace) He mutters, but that sentence reassures no one. He's lying through his teeth. Tsireya catches on almost immediately, noting that her brother's body language doesn't match his words.
"Lying." She points out quietly, as they descend into a soft quietness.
He doesn't comment on it. He knows he is. Neither of them move to make a sound. Until, Tsireya decides to do it first.
"Aonung," she whispered, her voice cracking like a dry shell.
Her brother didn’t move. His gaze was fixed on the horizon, his jaw set in a line of grief he wasn't yet ready to let go. Rotxo hadn't just been a friend; he was the third point in their triangle, the one who balanced Aonung’s temper and Tsireya’s sensitivity.
She remembered the dull thud as it struck him. She remembered the way the air left his lungs in a silver cloud of bubbles. Most vividly, she remembered his eyes. They hadn't been full of fear— just a sudden, jarring emptiness. He went limp, his arms drifting downward as his body began to sink into the dark pressure of the deep trench.
"I tried to reach him," she whispered, her voice trembling at the memory, "but I couldn't risk going back." She had fled. Left Rotxo’s body to be claimed by the current, and she felt the full impact of her decision.
A single tear, thick and hot, fell onto her hand. The guilt wasn't just that he was gone; it was the way he had been lost. In Metkayina culture, the return to the Ancestors was sacred. To be woven into the Spirit Tree, to have your body returned to the sea with song— it was the final peace. A right of passage.
"There is no body that will be put to rest. The Tulkun will not sing for him. He can't come home." She stammered, turning her gaze to the sea as the weight of her guilt slams into her like a wave against the cliffs.
Beside her, Ao'nung didn't say a word. His silence was loud, his gaze distantly staring into the horizon, as if expecting Rotxo’s ilu to breach. Breaking the silence with a heavy sigh of his own, he spoke. "It wasn't your fault." He wanted to tell her that it was his, but refrained from doing so.
"If it weren't for him; I'd be mourning two siblings right now." He confessed softly, the words laced with a little gratitude for Rotxo’s sacrifice. He couldn't imagine a world without his sister.
She nods silently, sniffling softly and wiping the tears from her eyes. "He was a really good friend. I'll miss him." She whispered, turning to glance at her big brother.
Their eyes met with understanding, because they both knew, that they would honor his life by leaving a space for him. The Metkayina tell stories of the Spirit Tree, of souls returning to Eywa, but the theological comfort feels thin when looking at the empty spot on the skimwing docks. They know that their clan means good.
But, good isn't enough to bring him back.
There were other friends, of course. The Sully children were brave and loyal, and the clan was tight-knit. But no matter who would sit with them at the communal fire or join them on a hunt, the "trio" was a closed chapter.
They realized that friendship isn't a position to be filled; it is a unique frequency. Rotxo’s frequency was gone. They didn't want a replacement; they wanted the boy who knew the exact way to mimic a forest-dweller's confused expression and the boy who shared their first breaths underwater.
They would continue to ride, to hunt, and to lead. But every time they breached the surface and looked to their side, they would always be looking for the third ripple that never came.
The sound of Tsireya’s footsteps fading into the soft, wet sand was eventually swallowed by the rhythmic pulse of the Reef. Ao’nung didn’t turn to watch her leave. He remained seated, his heavy tail anchored in the tide, feeling the cool surge of the ocean rush past his hips and retreat again.
He stood slowly, shaking the droplets from his hands, but he didn’t head back toward the communal marui fires. The thought of the bright lights and the smell of roasting fish made his stomach churn. He needed the silence to be absolute, away from the pitying eyes of the clan who looked at him and saw a leader-in-waiting who had lost his shadow.
Instead of turning inland, Ao’nung began to wade through the shallows toward the high, jagged rocks of the western breakwater. This was where the waves hit the hardest, where the peaceful turquoise of the lagoon surrendered to the deep indigo of the open sea. He climbed the bioluminescent coral shelves with practiced ease, his lungs seeking the sharper, colder air of the heights.
He reached a secluded ledge that overlooked the Three Brothers. This had been their spot. He remembered Rotxo leaping from this exact height, screaming a challenge that ended in a messy, spectacular splash.
Ao’nung took a deep breath, the air tasting of oncoming rain. He didn't jump for joy or sport this time. He slipped into the water like a needle, diving deep until the pressure hummed in his ears and the world above became a shimmering, distant ceiling. Down here, in the shadows of the kelp forests, he could let the mask of the Olo’eyktan’s son slip. He pushed himself forward with powerful kicks, seeking the one place where he felt he could still talk to his friend: the quiet, timeless heart of the ocean.
Where he hoped to have his grief wash away with the turbulent thrum of the waves.
As Ao’nung descended, the vibrant neon colors of the shallow reef bled into a monochromatic blue. The silence here wasn’t empty; it was heavy and resonant, a pressurized thrum that vibrated against his ribs. He pushed deeper, past the reach of the midday sun, until the only light came from the faint, rhythmic pulse of his own bioluminescent dots and the glowing veins of the deep-sea flora.
He reached the Kelp Cathedral, a forest of towering, amber-colored stalks that swayed in the deep currents like the hair of a sleeping giant. This was where they used to hide during games of scout-and-seek. Rotxo had always been the better hider, capable of holding his breath, and staying silent, that often times Ao’nung would think he resurfaced because of how quiet he could be, just to win another catch of fish that night for their feast.
Ao’nung wove through the thick ribbons of kelp until he reached a narrow crevice in the seafloor, a place that he knew very well. He'd come here, back when Rotxo was still learning the boundaries of the Reef, accompanying him to the depths. Back then, they'd only been ten moons old, in search of fun. To come back home with a sign that they'd gone far this time.
One noticeable item was a sharpened tsurak tooth they'd found after a territorial skirmish. They were the physical evidence of a life interrupted. He reached out, his fingers hovering over the skimwing tooth. In the weightless environment, even the smallest movement felt monumental. He picked up the tooth, turning it over in his hand, feeling the jagged edge that had once been a source of such pride for Rotxo.
"Ao'nung! Look!"
He pried his fingers open to reveal a Skimwing tooth. It was jagged, ivory-white, and nearly as long as Rotxo’s palm. It hadn't come from a hunt; it had been knocked loose during a territorial skirmish between two great beasts, a rare find that felt like holding a piece of lightning.
"It’s still hot," Ao’nung had marveled, reaching out to touch the serrated edge. "Do you think the beast survived?"
"It doesn't matter," Rotxo replied, his eyes dancing with a wild, infectious light. "It’s a piece of a hunter. We’re going to be just as fierce one day."
Ao’nung had only stared at the tooth in awe, glancing at Rotxo with the same light in his own eyes. "I will tie this to the end of my spear. A tooth from the great hunter to make me the greatest guardian."
Ao’nung had smirked, nudging him. "You’ll need more than a tooth to keep up with me. You should give it to my father. He'll keep it safe."
But Rotxo had pulled it back, hugging it to his chest. He was a boy with no lineage to boast of, no father to teach him the songs of the ancestors, and no mother to weave his first loincloth. He was the boy the village fed out of duty, the one who slept where there was space.
"No, listen," Rotxo insisted, his voice dropping to a solemn vow. "I’ll wait until I’m strong enough to craft my own heavy spear. I’ll lash this to the tip. That way, when you are Olo’eyktan, I’ll be standing right there. They'll have no choice, but to see me." He giggled out, with that same infectious grin.
Floating in the cold silence of the present, Ao’nung let out a trail of bubbles that spiraled toward the surface like lost dreams. That spear was never finished. Rotxo had never stood at Ao’nung’s side during a coronation.
The world would remember Rotxo as a casualty of war, a name added to the Great Mother’s embrace too soon. They might even try to honor him as a fallen soldier, but Ao’nung knew the truth, and it felt like a betrayal. Rotxo had chased the image of a warrior because he thought it was the only way to be "someone." He wanted the spear and the tooth because he thought strength was the only currency the clan valued.
But as Ao’nung watched a school of tiny, translucent fish dart through the reef, he realized that the "protector" Rotxo had wanted to be wasn't the man the war created. Rotxo had been a peacemaker. He was the one who could calm Ao’nung’s temper with a single joke; the one who would spend hours untangling a net just so a trapped Tulkun could go free. He was a gentle soul thrust into a violent era, a boy who would have sooner shared his breath than taken another’s.
With a final, decisive movement, Ao’nung took the tooth and wedged it deep into the living coral of the reef's foundation. He wouldn't let it be a weapon. He would let it become part of the island itself— something permanent, something that grew, something that would never be forgotten as long as the reef breathed.
The tragedy wasn't just that Rotxo died before he could carry that spear— it was that he never realized he was already "someone" to Ao’nung without it.
He hadn't needed the skimwing tooth or the title of protector to be seen. He was seen every time he shared his last piece of fruit, every time he mediated a petty spat between the younger hunters, and every time he stayed behind to help the elders with their heavy baskets while the rest of the boys raced to the surf.
But, unlike the rest of the fallen warrior's, there was no formal song for the boy who had simply been kind.