Chapter Text
The tree branch underneath his toes is damp from the night’s rainfall. Usually, that would be a good thing; hinting at a healthy crop come harvesting, the movement of animals as they travel closer to Hometree to access the many streams and rivers, and fresh tracks to hunt.
But, when you’ve spent nearly the entire afternoon dealing with wet and cold toes, it means nothing good. And he’s not even able to dry them off because he’s still yet to find his intended target.
The sky-people - humans, dreamwalkers - are straying a bit too close to the edge of their perimeter. The whirling blades of their flying machines had been audible from the top of Hometree since this morning, putting even the most stubborn of ikran on edge.
“Set them on the right course, brother,” he’d been told, a firm, inarguable hand landing on his shoulder. “If it comes to it, perhaps a more definitive argument could be made.”
His bow, which he specifically remembers leaving next to his hammock, had then magically appeared in his hands. There was no telling his twin no, not when he got like this. That is: dismissive of any other ideas because he’s been arguing with the council for most of the morning.
And yet, even with the obnoxious sound of their aircraft, he’s been unable to find the damn humans. He’s tempted to have a break, even for a little while to eat the fruit he’d stashed away in the pouch by his hip. His stomach rumbles at the thought, but his foot suddenly slips against a piece of moss he hadn’t seen.
He bares his teeth at the nuisance, and takes a swipe at it with blunt fingers. It flies up in a cloud of dirt, and falls to the ground.
A sudden, unfamiliar gasp, comes from below. His ears perk, and his eyes follow the mud down to the ground.
A dreamwalker, kitted out with one of those large, black weapons, stares up at the trees. Bright yellow eyes darting around with the senses of a hunter, tail flicking behind them - her?
He finds himself suddenly intrigued, curious. Tilting his head so much the beads at the ends of his braids click together softly. There’s something about this dreamwalker that makes him frown. Although, he’s not sure if that’s a bad thing, or a good one.
Another dreamwalker, her choice of clothing and hairstyle familiar - the scientist, Grace - pushes down against the end of the weapon. It lowers, although reluctantly.
“Careful with that thing, airhead,” she says, not cruelly. “Don’t try to shoot something you can’t hit. That basic training won’t make you a markswoman overnight.”
They’re travelling in a group of three, the final dreamwalker clumsily hopping over the roots of the tree to join them, and nearly ending up on his ass when his boots don’t quite clear the obstacle.
“Watch the equipment, Norm,” Grace tells him. As they continue down the well trodden forest path, he decides to follow them from above.
He swings from tree to tree with ease, avoiding the pack of syak syuk by giving up his piece of fruit as a distraction. The sound of it bouncing against the next tree over sends them running, and he grips the branch he crouches on in case the dreamwalkers notice him. There’s no clear notion to whether they did but he doesn’t dare glance down in case any movement draws attention.
He waits until the animals disappear into the leaves again, and then turns to catch up.
The empty ground stops him so abruptly that the branch shakes under his feet. He flails a little, grabs for the bark, and glances around him when he becomes stable. As if anyone is actually around to be able to see him slip, he thinks to himself with a huff of air.
They must’ve taken a turn that he didn’t see whilst he was distracted. Flicking and tilting his ears doesn’t reveal their voices, and he bares his teeth.
“Skxawng,” he hisses out. “I’m never gonna hear the last of this. I managed to lose a group of dreamwalkers.”
He entertains himself whilst waiting for the eclipse to arrive by attempting to hunt down some sort of food. But it seems that something has chased all of the potential prey out of this part of the forest, and makes it a very boring waste of time.
Pausing at a collection of younger trees, he takes a moment to collect himself, when his ears suddenly flick backwards.
A shiver of something cold that’s not a drip of rainwater runs down his spine, causing his tail to wrap itself around his ankle. He sniffs once, and tenses. Every muscle locking up as his eyes try to spot the threat.
That scent is so distinguishable, it’s almost programmed to cause fear to freeze up the toughest of warriors. Even Tsu’tey has told him, the few times he’s come up against the beast, that he’s had to turn tail every time because his heart had nearly beaten its way out of his chest.
A palulukan. One far away from its usual territory.
Curiosity rears its head again, strong enough to bat at least a little bit of the fear away and get him moving again.
He doesn’t even have time to wish for his ikran companion before he’s happening upon the creature. Standing at the edge of a cliff face, roaring at a fierce waterfall as if it has personally offended it. Or taken its meal, which is most likely.
He waits, and watches, pulling his bow off his back just in case, and keeping his eyes focused on the water too. There’s a sudden splash, a flailing of arms, and the dreamwalker’s head emerges from the depths. Her hair plastered to her forehead, and her mouth wide open to take in as much air as possible.
The beast takes a swipe, as if it could catch her from there, but the dreamwalker is too focused on grabbing hold of a tree root to notice. For a moment, he considers turning back, finding the other dreamwalkers and making sure they stay on their side of the forest. Leaving this one to the very obvious death that will come for her.
But then, she is well beyond the perimeter now. And it won’t be long before the other hunters find her. They might not be so welcoming. Maybe it’d be better for him to scare her back to the sky-people’s ‘territory’– which it’s not at all, but it appeases them to have it thought of that way.
Resolve straightens his shoulders, and he scurries down from the tree tops to go after her.
The palulukan must catch his scent for a moment, because it growls behind him but doesn’t give chase. Probably too busy licking its wounds. He would feel the same if he was outsmarted by a dreamwalker, too.
When he reaches the edge of the raging river, she’s already gone. The thought of a hunt, a chase, breaks the serious expression on his face. Spreads his lips into a grin that his brother would call feral.
He spots footprints, and traces the edge of them. Inspecting their depth, and the patterns inside. Maybe her feet are too weak to handle the detritus of the forest floor. Or maybe, all dreamwalkers are just embarrassed by their extra toe, and feel it must be covered, otherwise they wouldn’t have such strange footwear.
A sound up ahead catches his interest. The snapping of branches, and a harsh shout of what had been explained to him as ‘explicits’, back when the school was still teaching them the human’s language. Although, a lot more than he’s used to echoes through the trees.
Once he clambers up to the treetops, he drags an arrow from his quiver, stroking his fingers along the feathers in a repetitive manner. Calming his breath as he creeps along the branch. He just needs one clear warning shot, and that’ll be it.
The rains haven’t affected the forest as much here, he’s delighted to realise. He can dig his heels in without the fear of slipping over. Which is great, because he doesn’t think he’s capable of shooting his arrow one handed.
Another crash below him, and the dreamwalker appears. Shoving aside the undergrowth and spinning on her heel to check if the beast is following. She’s lost the weapon she’d had earlier, and her back is free of that grey thing that must’ve carried her supplies.
“Neytiri to chopper,” she suddenly says, and his ears flick at the name, “does anyone read?”
Narrowing his eyes and clenching his teeth, a sudden, familiar fire lights itself in his stomach. Causing his arms to lift his arrow to his shoulder.
The dreamwalker hisses another ‘expletive’, and then draws a small blade from a hidden place in her foot covering. Slowly, she begins to creep through the trees, and he pulls back the string of his bow. Anchoring it to his lips as his muscles draw up, strengthening his hold as the head of his arrow aims itself at the tree trunk right next to the dreamwalker’s head–
Something flickers in the corner of his eye. It floats on an invisible wind with small, delicate movements, until it lays its gentle touch against his arrow. And makes him pause, eyes darting between the atokirina and the dreamwalker.
Because, what?
He blinks once, twice, and darts his gaze back and forth again. Silently asking the tiny spirit if it’s absolutely sure. It floats up and away in answer, and he watches as it leaves. He lowers his bow and lets the arrow string go slack.
He needs to drive Tsu’tey away from his hunting path. His group will come upon the dreamwalker sooner rather than later, and he wants to keep an eye on her. To see if there are more…signs, and definitely not to ensure she remains alive during the night.
To do that, he needs to come up with a viable excuse. Ears curling over a little, he hopes that his friend won’t hold the lie against him. He has before, and Tsu’tey can be very stubborn when he wants to be.
He hisses again at the now empty forest floor, damning the dreamwalker and her possible importance. Because it’s just caused a whole lot of trouble for him.
Neytiri is still having dreams.
She thought they’d die down after being on solid ground and not surrounded by stars. But no, they still plague her, although she was still getting some good sleep. As if she’s still in the cryo pod, but her brain hasn’t quite caught up with her body.
When she’d asked him that first morning on base, Norm had given her a weird look.
“Effects of cryo sleep wear off during the time we spend in Pandora’s atmosphere,” he’d told her. “Did you read anything in prep?”
Yes, the pamphlet. But she didn’t tell him that, because it would only serve to make him pissed off. And at the moment he’s the only person, apart from Max, who will talk to her normally. Not like some delicate thing, or someone dumber than a rock. Or like an asset, a pawn to be used in a larger game that she can only hope to see.
She waves him off when he tries to pry, and says she’s fine when he asks if she’d like him to get some sort of meds to help her drift into dreamless rest.
Strangely, or maybe not so, it’s always the same dream.
She’s flying amongst familiar clouds, her helmet jammed over her hair, oxygen mask hanging free by her chin. The controls sit comfortably in her hands, and the craft responds to every little nudge. Even though they’re surrounded by battle she’s completely relaxed and comfortable.
Dodging shots and attacks with ease, she tilts her baby into a roll, and then levels out to send a bogey down towards the sea.
“Nice one,” she hears distantly, but she’s focused on the next target. And then the next, until she’s feeling practically invincible. Like she could take them all out on her own, like she could stay up there forever–
The controls judder, and her baby swirls into an uncontrollable dive. Her heart leaps into her throat as the engine combusts, the shouts behind her getting panicked and scared, demanding that she eject, her hands scrabbling for the handles and yanking down–
The clouds change then, swirling into ones so large they’re nearly mountainous. Stretching towards the sky covered in strange constellations and distant planets she’s only been told about. The chaos dies down to something peaceful, and yet her heart is still beating against her ribcage.
There are no controls in her hands, only the feel of her body naturally turning with the craft beneath her, and the wind brushing against her exposed skin. No voice behind her commends her tricks as she goes upside down, but someone else does laugh at her antics. It’s unfamiliar, but sparks something in her gut she wants to feel again.
She always wakes after pulling off what must be her most hairbrained trick yet. Her eyes opening just before her head turns to boast with her flying companion, so that she can’t see who it is.
The dream never fails to leave her with some sort of longing, both for the person, and the feeling of flight she might not get back.
And today, it’s left her feeling muted and distant. Even when they enter their Avatars to prepare for an easy recon mission for samples.
“Oh, come on Tiri,” Norm says when she approaches the ‘copter with a morose look on her face. “We’ll get to see trees! Trees!”
“I can see trees over there,” she grumbles, lugging her pack into the cargo hold before clambering on herself.
Most of the scientists are uncomfortable with her full name, because they look at it as some sort of appropriation of the culture. Even though her parents spent decades learning everything they could about Pandora, to the point where they became bilingual, and encouraged her sister when she too displayed a curiosity. To the point where they were the leading researchers on the first mission out to Pandora.
She couldn’t really care less what anyone calls her, she’s dealt with nicknames for most of her life. Tiri, Neyney (which was one she’d always tried to beat out of her sister), shrimp, Taskmaster, Lieutenant, bitch– you name it, she might’ve been called it.
Goes with the territory being an aviator. Their lives are so hairbrained and dangerous, that they couldn’t give a shit about their use of language because they might not be there in the next hour to use it.
The only one who’s not uncomfortable with her name is Grace. But she’s as enamoured with the culture as her parents. She nearly got to live with the Na’vi whilst teaching them English. Although, she’s taken her own nickname to Neytiri’s title, so it doesn’t really matter.
“Airhead,” Grace calls from the other side of the ‘copter, “make sure you visit the quarter-master for your weapons. I’m only bringing you as a means of protection, so get something to protect with.”
She doesn’t think Grace likes her very much, considering she’s the wrong twin. The skin she’s wearing isn’t meant to be hers, even though she’ll claw at anyone that takes it from her. Hell, she’s not meant to be here, amongst so much green whilst Syl–
“Yes, ma’am,” Neytiri says, nodding curtly to drag herself out of her memories before striding over to the supply booth.
She’s handed over a knife, which goes into her sock, and a gun. She’s never held one like this before and, to be honest, it’s not natural. She takes it anyway, even though part of her squirms, and makes her way back to the ‘copter. Taking it slow to appreciate the feeling of her footsteps reverberating up her legs, into her spine. Registering in the firing nerves of her brain is a blessing she’s missed dearly.
“You good?” Norm asks, looking at her weirdly. She must be smiling like a loon, but it’s hard to tamp it down when she can feel her legs.
“Of course,” she answers, leaping into the ‘copter with grace (ha) as Trudy fires up the engines.
Now, when she’d been dragged into this recon, she thought it would be easy. A nice stroll, inspecting the plantlife - appreciating all the green whilst still trying to bat Norm away as he combusts with excitement. Her one job was to not stray away from the main group and, oh yeah, not get attacked by a flesh eating monster!
Was that too much to ask for? Apparently so.
“Neytiri to chopper, do you read?” she tries again, but the comm in her ear is dead. Waterlogged from her little trip into the river. She yanks it out, even though her ear protests when it catches against its shell, and pockets it.
Her training back in the Corps didn’t exactly include survival tips for finding food and shelter and such. It included what to do if any of them ended up behind enemy lines, but she wasn’t sure looking for the nearest communications tower would do her much good. Considering their battles usually happened above large swathes of water, she’s not surprised that her mind draws a blank.
If she’d be a marine, or a black ops it would be a different story. But no, she’s an airhead, and she’ll have to make do for now.
At least the knife in her boot is still there, although the little it’ll do against natural wildlife that will kill her as soon as it gets the chance is improved by the sense of comfort it brings her.
She can’t exactly just pick a direction and walk, so she tries to think logically. Like Sylwanin would; figure out the direction that the chopper had come from and go from there.
Except, the sky above her head is beginning to darken, and pretty soon she won’t be able to see anything at all.
Which means light is the first priority, after which is trying to survive until morning.
“Calm,” she whispers to herself as she carefully and slowly carves the end of her branch into a sharp point. Taking a deep breath does calm her heartbeat some, but not enough to make it stop feeling like it’s trying to escape.
She knows better than to go quickly and draw more attention, so her movements are purposeful. Her ears flicker like crazy at any animal chatter or rustling of leaves, but she can’t control them. Not unless she physically holds them down.
The makeshift torch helps, a little, but it draws attention anyway. And around her, she can hear creatures circling. Their noises are like bouts of laughter, as if her attempt at survival is the funniest thing they’ve seen.
Neytiri doesn’t provoke them, doesn’t even lash out. Maybe if she becomes a boring hunt, they’ll leave her alone. It’s not the best logic, but right now it’s what she’s got. And it, amazingly, doesn’t work.
But she refuses to injure them, so she takes long arching swipes with her torch to keep them away, jabbing it outwards when they throw gnarly looking claws at her legs.
“Come on,” she grunts, more to herself than to them. “Can’t run, can’t hide. Need to wait it out. Just until sunrise–”
Another animal launches itself at her, and she has a moment to think before she ducks the attack. Tucking herself into a roll, she holds the torch above her head. To keep both her hair and the ground from catching fire. It works, almost, but she ends up landing badly on a branch, or a rock, and a flash of pain shoots up her back from her hip.
It’s enough, because the next thing is that she’s being jumped. And she has a moment to bring the stick in front of her face before all she can see are scrabbling claws, and snapping jaws. The snarling fills her ears, and she shrieks at the animal in a poor attempt at intimidation. She can feel her tail thrashing against the ground.
There’s a moment where she thinks she’s not going to be able to hold it back, her arms shaking so much the stick is beginning to tremble too. It would be such a waste of company money, would be all that’s thought about her death. Until her human body jolts awake in the link, perfectly (kind of) healthy.
“No,” she growls, fortifying her muscles and pushing upwards . It works, the claws getting further away from her face, but there’s no time for her to think about how impressive she is before someone else is leaping into the fight.
With a roar so animalistic it sounds like a bigger version of what she’s fighting, a Na’vi jumps in. Arms pulling back on an arrow, his first shot is true, taking out the creature on top of her. The force of it sends it flying backwards and Neytiri quickly scrambles to her feet.
She watches with a half open mouth as the Na’vi - the warrior - fights against the pack using his bow. Flinging it around the place to make him look bigger, aiming non-lethal hits that still have them yelping in pain, snarling in a way better show of intimidation than she could ever pull off.
Until there’s only one challenger left, dancing on its six paws before rushing the warrior at full speed. He crouches in reply, so that when the animal launches, he rolls with the impact, comes back up onto his feet, and throws it into the trees.
In the firelight, shadows cast themselves over his snarling face, making him as fierce as the pictures of roaring tigers Sylwanin used to shove in her face. The noises that escape him are feral, but they slow, and quieten until he’s standing up straight.
He’s so tall, she can’t help but think, eyes quickly trailing up and down his body. It’s been a while since she’s had any thoughts on relationships, but she knows that if he was human, and Sylwanin was still here, he’d be one that they’d both try to hit up for a date.
She keeps that thought to herself as he turns with the gracefulness of a fighter, and eases the torch out of her grip.
“Wait a second,” she protests, snapping out of her little daze as he throws it into the river. Dousing the flames before she can finish. “I need that!”
The warrior grumbles quietly, scowling at her as she goes to grab her stick. If she can’t have any means to see, she’ll keep her one means of protection. She glares at the water as she fishes it out, but then manages to school it back into something neutrally polite before facing him.
He’s crouched over the one he’d hit first, muttering to it quietly as he eases his blade into its wheezing body. The animal dies, and he places a hand against its head as he draws his weapon out. He remains there for a few seconds, before pushing himself back to his feet.
“Thank you,” she says, “for saving me.”
He stares at her, blinks slowly, and then moves to grab his bow from where he’d dropped it.
Neytiri frowns, and tries again. “Thank you,” she says, and he suddenly begins muttering to himself. “I’m really grateful.”
He turns to her, and the scowl is back. Creasing his nose and forehead, turning his gaze sharp as he lifts the bow to point it at her. “You should not thank,” he says, in accented English. “This is your fault. That one didn’t need to die.”
“What’s my fault?” she snaps back. “They attacked me.”
“Too loud,” he says with a shake of his head. “Like a child, untrained. You drew them to you, taunted them. This is your fault. Had to scare them away from their hunting path.”
Neytiri’s eyes widen, and she drops the end of her stick from where it had been accusingly pointing at him. Ah, she’d forgotten to keep her movements quiet as darkness set in. That’s why she was set upon so quickly. So, it was her fault.
“I’m sorry,” she says genuinely, clearly. Keeping his eye contact when he turns to look at her.
He clicks his tongue between his teeth, which is far too human for Neytiri to not let her mouth twitch a little. “Better,” he says, before turning back to the forest. “Go home.”
Her breath freezes in her lungs with surprise, a tiny noise slipping out of her mouth before she chases after him. Crashing through the underbrush to get him within sight again. “Wait, no hold on,” she calls after him, reaching out a hand to grab his wrist.
He hisses and bats her away, and she dances backwards.
“Sorry,” she says again. “But I need your help.”
“No,” he says dismissively.
“Please,” she says. “Even if you point me in the direction of our main base. Could you do that–”
“Too far away,” he tells her. “Go back to the river and wait there.”
“I can’t do that, the river’s miles away,” she replies, leaping over an errant tree root. Neytiri pauses when she sees how bright it is, eyes widening at its changed colour. “Woah.”
“You must go back,” he argues, continuing to stride through the forest, not even taking interest in how his footsteps glow behind him.
Neytiri doesn’t argue, merely follows him, trailing her fingers against the plants as she walks. She smiles with fascination when they react to her touch. The trees back home wouldn’t have done this, not ever. She wonders if Sylwanin is watching over her shoulder.
When she reaches out to touch another one, she gasps at the freckles glowing along her skin. She stares at them when she lifts her hand in wonder, trailing her free hand from her wrist to follow their pattern, all the way up to her shoulder.
“Go. Back,” the warrior suddenly spits, standing right in front of her.
She gasps, leaping back and tightening her grip on her weapon.
“You should not be here,” he snarls. “Sky-people are not allowed. And you are ignorant, do not even know your own body. Go back to the river.”
Neytiri balks at the fierceness in his tone, but then rankles, her tail swishing behind her. The furred end trails against the floor and her cargo pants. She draws herself upwards to her full height, until she only has to tilt her head a little to make eye contact.
“No,” she says with no small amount of determination. “I need your help.”
He hisses and paces away, and then back again. “You should not be here,” he repeats, some hesitancy in his voice. Uncertainty in his eyes.
“I need your help,” she says, and his jaw tightens. She’s not pleading, she’s asking a fellow fighter for aid.
He doesn’t reply, simply turns and continues on. But she takes that as answer enough, her smile returning as she darts after him. Although, a small part of her thinks she might regret that.
“Which direction is the base camp,” she asks, trailing her fingers over the trunk of a tree and watching the bark turn bright. “If you could point me–”
“Too dark,” he replies shortly, the anger still there, “as I said.”
“Then, may I ask how you learned English?” she asks next, giving in to the biting curiosity. “Was it Grace’s school? She was explaining how she’d been pulled away because of an attack– woah!”
Neytiri draws herself to a quick stop at the edge of a cliff. Watching as the warrior just simply leaps onto the twisting branches that stretch across a drop that would easily kill them. He makes it look so easy, getting halfway across without even pausing to consider his next step. Instinctive in his movements.
Neytiri firms up her shoulders, and swings her arms on her first jump. She lands, although it’s far from impressive, and her hands shoot out either side to keep her balance. “Do you have a name?” she asks.
There’s no reply, and she scrambles to pick up the pace. Because at this rate, he’ll abandon her in the dark forest without even a glance over his shoulder. She can see him doing it, clear as anything, so as they nearly reach the other side, she decides to stick as close as she can.
“Grace said, in passing, that the kids and teenagers who attended her school chose their English names,” Neytiri says, words breathless as she hops over a tangled web of vines. “Did you choose your– oh shit.”
She slips again, but this time not even her flailing hands can save her balance. Yelping, she thinks about shouting for help, but wasting the breath wouldn’t do. He won’t lift a finger to prevent her from falling head over heels–
“Thank you,” she says sincerely when he grabs hold of her shirt. Heaving her back, he hisses something in his native tongue at her. Which sounds distinctly like he’s calling her ignorant again. Neytiri flexes her hand around empty air, and mourns the loss of her weapon, sent tumbling towards the forest floor below.
“Like a child,” he suddenly says in Na’vi, staring at her with golden eyes.
“If I’m ignorant,” she retorts, “and childish, then maybe you should teach me. You’ve claimed that the base is too far for me to reach by foot so we have the time before others come to find me.”
He looks like he’s actually going to consider her request, staring at her with a slight tilt to his head. Like a cat, with those slitted pupils and big ears. But then he clicks his tongue, and flicks his hand against his palm, opening it like a starfish.
“You should not be here,” he says, although the dismissal is not as strong as it had been. “ Kehe, go back.”
“No,” she says, lining her spine with steel plating and utilising the stubbornness that got her into the flight program in the first place. “Teach me.”
He takes a breath in, his haunches raised, his feathers ruffled. But then, his gaze flicks to something behind her, and the air escapes his lungs in a rush. Neytiri frowns at the look of amazement on his face, tilting her own head before turning. Frowning at the small, glowing white things floating towards her.
They look like jellyfish if their insides were exposed, the tendrils buoying them through the air with the exact same movement. There must be twenty of them, all slowly approaching her.
She reaches out a finger, slowly, to present it with a landing place. Like you would a butterfly, if they still existed. Its touch is featherlight, and if she closed her eyes, Neytiri’s sure she wouldn’t feel it. It’s why she startles when one lands on her shoulder. Another on her stomach, a few on her chest, and one even on her nose.
“Um,” she says quietly, but the warrior only stares.
“Atokirina,” he whispers, reaching out to touch one himself. It shies away, and lands on Neytiri’s forearm, grazing against the dried blood from a scratch. “Pure spirits, from the sacred tree.”
“Alright,” Neytiri murmurs, trying to move. “Why are they on me?”
He doesn’t answer, only comes closer to watch as one lands directly on top of her head. He’s smiling now, and it actually makes him look nice. Kind. The spirits decide then that they’re done with her and lift off, like a cloud of mist gently easing into the open sky.
She watches them go, finally letting her tired arms drop to her sides, until they disappear.
She turns to ask whether he knows what that was, only to face his suddenly determined expression. Her wrist is caught in his hand, rough calluses against smooth skin, and then she’s being pulled across the rest of the branch.
“Come,” he tells her. “You must.”
She doesn’t argue, just concentrates on keeping up. This body hasn’t built up any kind of stamina yet, so her lungs ache around the harsh breaths, and her knees nearly give out every time they jump from a height. She gives in to her itching curiosity, ignoring the screams from her muscles.
“You didn’t answer my question about you na–”
She’s cut off again, tripped by something wrapping around her ankles and sending her over the branch they’re balancing on. Her stomach shoots up to her throat, and the air is punched from her lungs when she lands. She rolls with the fall, years of training kicking in so that she doesn’t damage anything else.
A stone stops her, and the sudden thundering of what can only be hooves gets her to move. Scrabbling at the damn rope that’s wrapped around her legs. Above her head, the warrior shouts loudly, jumps down from the branch, and kicks up clouds of dirt when he lands.
Battle cries echo through the trees as a herd of horses burst into the clearing, raising their heads when their riders pull to a stop. The warrior approaches, his arms outstretched.
“Be calm, brothers,” he calls in Na’vi. “There is no need to fight.”
One of them slides down the horse's back, disconnecting his plait and approaching with a stony expression on his face. When his eyes meet Neytiri's, the scowl deepens.
“What is that doing here?” he spits, pointing at her with his bow.
“She escaped the clutches of the palulukan. She has no means to get back to the human base,” the warrior replies.
Neytiri glances between them, unable to even understand their facial expressions. It seems Na’vi use only their ears and tails to communicate, leaving her with no context. She shuffles on her feet, but knows better than to even open her mouth. She’s at the disadvantage here.
“Send her back,” the rider says, and the warrior shuffles on his feet.
“I would,” he replies, “and I have tried to. But there was a sign from Eywa.”
The rider’s ears fold back, and around them the others whisper. Their weapons have not moved from where they’re aimed at Neytiri’s head, but they do draw back their mounts a little.
“My brother must hear about it,” the warrior continues. His words mean something big, because the rider scoffs but then turns back to his mount.
“Very well,” he says as he clambers up. “But you will explain to him why you have returned with the dreamwalker rather than drive them away. I’m sure he’ll be most pleased with you.”
The warrior growls and grumbles something in Na’vi, but it’s too quiet under the sudden shouting of the herd as they about face and begin to ride into the trees.
The rider, right at the front, says something over his shoulder, and suddenly Neytiri’s wrist is in someone else’s hand. Tugging at it doesn’t relieve the harsh grip, and a small part of her rankles at the feeling of a stranger's fingers on her skin.
“What’s going on?” she asks the warrior when he draws level with her. But the scowl is back on his cheeks, and he doesn’t bother answering her as the trees blur around them. “Where are they taking me?”
The one holding onto her arm gives it a harsh pull, and she trips over her own feet to keep up with their speed. They don’t even react to her sharp protest.
She jogs for what feels like an hour in the darkness, the riders keeping pace with them. Neytiri’s sure she wouldn’t know how the hell to get back to that wide expanse if they just let go and left her there. She’d starve, or die from thirst for sure if the flora and fauna didn’t have her for breakfast first.
But then, the leaves above their heads give way to the sight of a great tree. Bigger than even some of the ones that had been on Earth well before she was born, it stretches towards the starlit sky with a majesty that causes her jaw to drop. The roots alone would take three of her Avatar body to even graze fingers if they were wrapped around them. The trunk is wider than the entirety of the base camp.
She gets a crick in her neck from staring up at it. And around her, she hears snickers of laughter. But she doesn’t particularly care. They don’t slow their pace to let her admire it, ducking under one of the gaps between two roots.
And then, she’s surrounded by Na’vi on all sides, milling in from sections of the tree she can’t see. The smell of food and woodsmoke itches her nose, and the sound of the crowd causes her ears to flick.
They stare at her, reaching out their hands to touch her clothes as their group works its way towards the centre of the trunk. She doesn’t flinch away, although she finds it really discomforting. The last thing she wants is for her reaction to come off the wrong way.
A great fire sits at the bottom of a winding structure, nearly like a staircase, but without the stairs. The heat coming off the flames chases away the chill of the night outside, but her body remains tense and alert. Eyes flickering over anything and everything that catches her interest.
As they get closer, the warrior breaks off from their group, but not before leaning to whisper into the shell of Neytiri’s ear.
“We are approaching my brother, the Olo’eytkan, who will decide whether or not we should kill you.”
“Brother?” she asks in surprise, but she doesn’t get time to ask any other questions.
Out of the shadows of the great fire steps a person who looks the exact mirror image of the warrior.
“I see you, brother,” To’mey states, lifting his fingers to his forehead and letting them drop.
The feathers on his shoulders ruffle with the movement, causing his ear to flick.
He returns the gesture, which gives him a chance to drag his smile back from the surface. The uniform of the leader had always been a point of annoyance, even though he insisted his brother suited it.
“I thought your assignment was to drive the sky-people away, not to bring one into Hometree,” To’mey continues, gaze falling on the dreamwalker. She has the sense to keep her head down, and her eyes locked on the ground. At least some self-preservation is present.
“It was my intention, brother,” he replies, with no small amount of determination.
From behind him, Tsu’tey appears, staring as he walks past to join To’mey next to the flames. “And yet, you claim that Eywa has given a sign for you to bring her here,” Tsu’tey says, eyes narrowing in doubt. “Did you knock your head at some point today?”
He will be the first to admit that Tsu’tey is his best friend. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t piss him off. He doesn’t peel back his lips, even though his teeth are bared and he really, really wants to.
“No, I only did that once,” he says, voice quivering over the growl he’s desperately trying to hold back.
Tsu’tey smirks in challenge, “Perhaps we should test out the favour of the Great Mother to these destroyers and see how well the dreamwalker handles a night in the forest. It will send a message to the others that they should be wary about sending one of their people into our territory.”
The crowd around them murmurs in agreement, a few warriors cheering from the back. But the sound dies when To’mey lifts one hand for silence, and places the other on Tsu’tey’s shoulder.
“A sign?” he asks, stepping forward so that they are at eye level. “What would the Great Mother give this dreamwalker that would change your mind, brother.”
“That is something for me to ask, is it not?”
From the stairwell, the Tsahik appears, dressed in her formal red shawl and headdress, shooing Tsu’tey back when she draws near.
He leans over and says quietly, in English, “That is Ninat, our Tsahik. Interpreter of Eywa.”
“Eywa?” the dreamwalker murmurs in interest, gaze coming up from the ground with nothing but curiosity.
He frowns. All dreamwalkers know of the members of their clan, and their positions. Yet, this one doesn’t seem to know anything. Strange…
Ninat comes to a stop before the dreamwalker, gaze assessing even as she unsheathes her ceremonial dagger with all the speed of a pincer bug and sticks her with it.
The dreamwalker hisses in pain, her tail lashing but doesn’t do anything more. Just stares in mute horror as the blade is brought to the Tsahik’s tongue. There’s quiet as the rest of the clan waits, and watches.
“What is it you are called?” she asks, the dreamwalker’s ears flickering in surprise. Ninat begins to pace around her, lifting her kuru and swirling her tail around her hand. There’s no difference between her body and theirs, he noticed it too.
“Neytiri,” the dreamwalker replies, and around them the clan members shuffle.
He cuts a glance to his brother, who only frowns.
“Why have you come to us?” Ninat asks next, her fingers pressing against the dreamwalker’s shoulder blades, feeling the material of what they call clothes.
“For help, at first,” the dreamwalker replies, truthfully. “I was separated from my squad, and I thought your friend could direct me towards our base. But he claims it’s too far to go by foot.”
“At first?” Ninat asks, finally stopping her inspection and sliding her knife back into its sheath.
The dreamwalker nods, “I wish to learn.”
Ninat clicks her tongue, flicking her fingers in dismissal. “We have already tried to teach sky-people,” she tells her. “It is difficult to teach what you already have learned.”
“I’m not a scientist,” the dreamwalker retorts, something dark like guilt flitting across her expression. “Ask Dr. Augustine. But I’m a quick study.”
“What are you?” Ninat asks, and beside him To’mey makes a small noise of curiosity.
The dreamwalker stumbles for a moment, trying to think of the words. “I was an…aerial hunter,” she finally says, and his ears flick.
Interesting.
“A hunter?” Tsu’tey suddenly asks, stepping forward. “Then I can kill her here–”
“No,” To’mey says, holding out an arm to stop him.
“Where is the logic in that?” he hisses. Tsu’tey’s expression falters, as if he’s trying to hold back something childish.
“This is the first dreamwalker we have encountered who is not a scientist,” To’mey says to the crowd, some of whom have been shuffling anxiously as the conversation flew over their heads. “Perhaps we can learn from her as much as she does us.”
There’s a few moments of quiet as he thinks, considers. To’mey’s eyes suddenly fall on him, and dread pools in his stomach.
“Brother,” he says, coming forward to press a hand that weighs much more than it should against his shoulder, “as you have now relinquished your duties, you will teach her our ways. Our culture and our customs.”
His eyes widen, and as he hisses out a protest of, “Why me, that’s not fair,” Tsu’tey chuckles.
But To’mey has already committed to the idea, and he nods at Ninat to relay the news to the dreamwalker.
“It is decided,” she says, gesturing to him without turning - probably to avoid the harsh glare he’s sending towards the dreamwalker. “You will be taught our ways by one of our greatest warriors. Learn well, Neytiri. And we will see if you can be as quick a study as you claim.”
“It is now time for evening meal,” To’mey calls over the gathered crowd. It works to disperse them, but before he can slip away, his hand is caught. “Brother, show your…student where she can find more suitable clothing, then join us for the meal.”
He narrows his eyes. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
Yanking his arm away from To’mey’s grip, he gestures at the dreamwalker to follow him.
The time she takes to change is too long. So he finds himself running out of patience and heading down to the cookfire before she emerges. The look his brother gives him is unimpressed, but he does nothing in retaliation. Just takes a plate of food and settles himself down with a free space to his right.
He’s not completely abandoning the dreamwalker.
When she comes down, all sound disappears, and every eye turns in her direction. She shuffles, but raises a hand in what must be a human greeting.
“Good evening,” she says in English, politely, beginning to step her way carefully through the crowd towards him. She steps on no tails, surprisingly, and nods silently in To’mey’s direction when she finally sits.
He nudges a plate of food in her direction when she settles, the furred end of her tail brushing against his knee. It’s unintentional, he knows, but it’s something he notes that will need to be taught as he shuffles his legs a little to the left. Her tail should be swept behind her and curled at the end to avoid being stepped on. Not flicking about as it pleases, giving away her emotions.
He refrains from cutting her a look, because she won’t understand what she’s done wrong.
The quiet chatter begins again, and he takes an appreciative mouthful of food, satiating his grumbling stomach. There’s peace, for all of a few moments.
The dreamwalker clears her throat, not so loudly as to catch anyone else's attention. But enough that it’s obvious she’s going to speak to him.
“I was asking earlier about your name,” she broaches. “You didn’t get to tell me because of the nearly falling to my death situation.”
He gives it a few seconds before grunting. His own silent way to tell her to continue as he scoops his next bit of food.
“May I ask what it is?”
He gives himself time to finish his mouthful, and then rattles it off as he usually would when introducing himself. She stares at him, uncomprehending, wide golden eyes blinking rapidly as her thoughts try to catch up. He feels his forehead scrunch a little, and decides to repeat himself, but at a slower pace.
Still, the uncomprehending blank look answers him.
He huffs out a sigh and says, simply, “Jake.”
“Is that what you chose?” she asks, and he grunts again, chomping down on another bite of food to distract himself. She makes a small noise of interest, before adding, “You can call me Tiri, if you would like.”
Now it’s his turn to blink, the shortened title sending a shiver of something he can’t understand up his spine. He shakes his head firmly and says, “Neytiri.”
The name is natural on his tongue, causing her breath to hitch in her chest and her eyes to go wide again. She doesn’t move for a few moments, long enough for Jake to shuffle awkwardly. Has he said something wrong?
“Yeah,” she suddenly whispers, trying to imitate how he pronounced her name but stumbling over the second syllable. Her tongue isn’t used to their language yet, so it sounds like a child. Jake merely shakes his head again, and urges her to eat.
Being able to go to their hammocks for rest is a relief, because the day's events have decided to settle into his bones and muscles, making them shriek with every step he takes. Crouching in the cold, damp air for hours will do that to even the most experienced hunter.
When they reach the hammocks, the dream– Neytiri pauses, giving the gap between her and the structure a wary look. Jake lets none of the childish want to impress her show as he gracefully clambers in, making all of his movements big and obvious. Showing her where to put her feet, how to balance against the swing of the hammock when they finally get onto their backs.
She smiles gratefully when she reaches it, but Jake only tugs his closed in reply. Rolling over onto his side so that she can’t see the way his next breath comes out with resigned exhaustion.
He’s really not looking forward to the morning.
Neytiri doesn’t wake to the strands of the hammock above her head. Her eyes adjust to the sudden bright, synthetic light bearing down on her head. She blinks, groans and then squeezes her eyes shut as the distant sound of voices reaches her ears.
Someone’s slapping her, gently, but it’s annoying anyway. She bats the hand from her cheek when they come back to try again, grumbling when the fingers lay themselves against her face.
“There we go,” Grace says, and for a moment her heart pangs at it not being the low voice of the warrior– Jake.
She has his name now, and the thought makes her suddenly grin like a loon.
“Has she finally cracked?” Norm asks desperately, voice shaking with fear.
“Nope,” Neytiri says dreamily, but Grace’s weathered hands on her neck as she’s dragged upwards pulls her right back down to her own body.
Right, she might be in trouble…
“Are you alright?” Grace asks clinically, and for a second it’s like she cares. “Is the Avatar safe?”
Nevermind.
“Yes,” Neytiri replies, voice clipped. “I managed to get away from the creature by jumping into the river. It brought me downstream where I encountered one of the natives.”
“What?” Grace whispers in disbelief, Norm’s jaw falling open from where he stands behind her.
“I somehow managed to get him to trust me,” Neytiri reports, before letting some of that awe and burning curiosity to colour her tone. “And you’re never going to believe where they brought me.”