Chapter Text
Neteyam held his youngest sister Tuk, sleeping peacefully in his arms as Lo’ak and he listened to their parents from the next room over. After encountering the sky people earlier that day, they had all been shaken. Lo’ak and Kiri were quiet and less needy in their worry, unlike Tuk. Not that Neteyam would fault Tuk for that. Tuk refused to let go of their father and mother. He could still see the tears on her face as she ran towards his mother once their parents killed the aliens. It was only after Neteyam’s father had dismissed the children for the night, did Tuk let them go in favour of her eldest brother.
Kiri was on the opposite side of their room, silently staring at the ground. The sky people’s capture of Spider had shaken her. It hurt to see her this way.
It hurt that he couldn't prevent it. He should have.
Lo’ak and Neteyam sat with their backs to the tent wall, separating them from their parents.
“You cannot ask this!” Their mother hissed, “The children, this is their home, Jake. This is our home!”
Neteyam could see Lo’ak looking at him from the corner of his eye, but he kept his eyes forward, stroking a hand through his sister's hair.
“He had them under his knife.” His father replied.
The hurt and worry in his mother's voice were not unfamiliar. Raised in a state of alert and war with the sky people, hurt and worry laced all the voices of the Omatikaya. But the sound of his father quivered and quiet, that was cause to worry. If his father was scared, Neteyam should be too. And Eywa knew he was.
Standing up slowly so as not to wake Tuk, Neteyam walked over to Kiri to place her down, running a hand over his eldest sister's hair as he got up.
Lo’ak stood to follow, “Bro,” he whispered.
Neteyam did not answer. He would not, not when he could feel the heat and anger in his chest. Not when beneath the anger, he could feel his fear, his weakness. He was not in the mood for whatever excuse or complaint his brother was going to spew from was going to say.
“Bro,” Lo’ak grabbed his arm; Neteyam let himself be spun to face his little brother with a clammy hand. Neteyam rolled his eyes.
Lo’ak’s eyes were wide, and his eyebrows (that’s what his father had called them) were pulled closer together than usual.
Lo’ak looked down and up. “Do you think mom and dad are talking about taking us away? Is that why…”
“Lo’ak,” Neteyam said, raising his hand to his brother's shoulder, “I do not know. Mother and father will tell us when we need to know. Until then, let it go.”
And Lo’ak did, letting go of his older brother's arm. Neteyam squeezed his shoulder before walking to the entrance to their tent.
Kiri rolled over, pulling their younger sister towards her. “Where are you going?” She whispered.
“To help grandmother,” Neteyam replied, walking out of the tent.
---
Neteyam had no intention of helping his grandmother when he had spoken earlier; Instead, he had planned to go flying on his Ikran, but after the word left his mouth, he knew that he would. He had no desire to lie to his sister.
Neteyam and his siblings were often assigned to help the Tsahik. Lo’ak would often complain about it, whining how he was a hunter, not a healer. But as the children of the Olo'eyktan, it was expected of them. Though their parents had not yet told them which one of them would become the future Tsahik of the Omatikiya, it was not hard to see that Kiri would be the most obvious candidate. Her connection with Eywa far succeeded that of Netayam and Lo’ak. And it was not as if it would be Neteyam. His future had been decided on the day of his birth.
Walking into the wounded tent, Neteyam could see rows of hurt and sick Na’vi, but not his grandmother. Their coughs and moans pained him. To see such strong warriors and beautiful souls left here. What had they done? What had his people done to deserve this?
He walked the rows asking if those awake needed anything, grabbing water and food for those who asked. Sometime later, he finally finished helping the last wounded warrior and started his trek to his grandmother's home. Neteyam could hear the wind carrying the faint voices of those inside.
“Ma Jake, you do not understand; they will not take us.” His mother explained.
Neteyam crept closer. Quieting his steps and breaths the way his mother had taught him to do when they hunted.
“Listen to my daughter Jakesully.” His grandmother spoke, “It is not our way.”
From inside the tent, Neteyam could hear movement. His father, he knew by the way his footsteps sounded. He could never hear his mothers, but his father was not so light on his feet.
“So what do we do?” His father asked, desperation clear and unsettling, “Tell me, please. We cannot stay here, but we cannot subject our children to a life of isolation.”
Neteyam could hear the deep sigh of his grandmother as he moved to peek through the back entrance of her tent. There, he could see his parents seated by a small burning fire. His mother's hand held his father's in her lap. Seated in front of them was Tsahik, his grandmother. He could not see her face.
His mother squeezed his dad’s hand and turned her head, “Ma Jake…” she sounded tired.
“Listen, Jakesully,” his grandmother sighed, “We do not ask this without great cause and great sacrifice. It is the Metkayina way, just as it is ours. To ask them to take, you must first give.”
“So, a fruit basket?” His father said right before his mother hit him upside the head.
Neteyam covered his mouth so they would not hear him laugh.
“Jake.” His mother warned.
“Okay. Okay,” his father said, “I’m sorry. What must we give them?”
Neteyam watched the large rise and fall of Tsahik's shoulders. She never had much patience to give his father.
“Your gift must show your gratitude and that they should not fear you,” His grandmother leaned forwards, “And, as Toruk Makto, and our Olo'eyktan, it must show your submission to the Metkayina Olo'eyktan. Your offering will be a gift and sacrifice.”
Silence befell the tent.
“Mamma,” his mother whispered, “What do we have to give?”
His grandmother stood and circled his parents.
“The Metkayina Olo’eyktan has children. They are similar in age to yours.”
There was a pause before his mother stood and snarled, “You cannot ask this. This is too much.” she hissed.
“I have not asked anything, daughter. I have only given you an answer.”
Even without saying it outright, Neteyam knew what was being asked. He saw the clench of his father’s jaw. The fear and disgust in his mother's eyes. His mother was right to be wary, but she was also wrong. This was not too much to ask. Too much to ask Kiri. She was too free-spirited to perform such a task. She deserved to live life on her own and Eywa’s terms. His parents knew that much. And there was no way they would ask that of Lo’ak. He was a skxawng. He was reckless and thoughtless. And it wouldn't be fair to ask that of him. Lo’ak deserved a choice; he was skxawng but also strong and free-spirited. He was not destined for a life predetermined. He, like Kiri, grew up with a choice; it would be cruel to strip it away. If Neteyam could do anything, if he could fight for anything, he would do so that his sibling was able to live the lives they pleased. But it was not too much to ask him.
One second, Neteyam was peaking through the folds of a tent, and the next, he was face to face with Tsahik. Lost in thought, he had not realized that the voices of his parents and grandmother had stopped.
“Neteyam.” His mother said, walking over to him. Neteyam let himself be pulled into his mother’s embrace.
“Son.” His father said, standing for the first time, “What are you doing?”
Shit .
Neteyam straightened himself, squaring his shoulders as his father addressed him, “Sorry, sir. I was looking for grandmother to see if she needed any help with the wounded, and then… I’m sorry, I was eavesdropping.”
Neteyam stood and waited for his father to reprimand him as he walked closer, but instead of being scolded, Neteyam was pulled into a hug. His father held him to his chest, and Neteyam took a minute to hold him back, slowly wrapping his arms around his dad, listening to his heartbeat. Moments of affection from his father had become few and far between the past few years as war and responsibility overcame him.
“Mother.” His mom breathed, coming to his grandmother's side.
His father released him after a few moments, walking beside his mother, leaving Neteyam at the other side of the tent. “There is another way. We will find one. This is,” He looked back at Neteyam, eyebrows furrowed, “too much to ask.”
His grandmother threw up her hands, exasperated, “I have already spoken my truth. I have told you all I know.”
It hurt to see his parents like this. To see them so… vulnerable. It was odd but becoming a more and more common sight.
“Sir,” Neteyam said, taking a deep breath and looking into the eyes of his parents, “I will do it.”
His mother let out a sound, caught between a breath and a cry, and pulled him to her. Holding his shoulders as he faced her. But it was not her who spoke next.
“Neteyam,” His father said. His father's eyes bore into his, “Son. We do not ask this of you.”
“No,” Neteyam said, holding his mother's arm (to ground her or himself, he could not say), “But I offer this anyway,” He squeezed his mother's arm, and she squeezed his, “I will offer myself as a mate to the children of the Metkayina Olo'eyktan and Tsahik,” Because that was his duty. He was the eldest son, and it was his job to help his family in their times of need. And if he was not going to be the future Olo'eyktan of the Omatikaya, he would still make himself useful to his family and his people, and he would still make his father proud.