Work Text:
You know that when the council deliberation starts, something is not right.
Kneeling beside Lo’ak, the subtle tremble sending waves of shock through his body doesn’t go unnoticed. His fingers twitch, he looks like the fate of the entire world resides within him, amber eyes blown wide. The nervosity overwhelming him seems to be invisible to your father, but you see it.
Something is not right. You notice it—despite Jake’s words he’d often spit out your way when nobody was looking, you’re not stupid. Not a skxawng, as he’d call you, maybe thinking you wouldn’t catch it. You always did, letting the burning word pierce your delicate heart like a flaming arrow.
Perhaps that’s what pushes you to speak before your younger brother even has a chance to open his mouth. Words of iron protest roll off your tongue, echoing through the boundless ocean, pulsant through the bodies of Na’vi surrounding you.
Something is not right. What they do isn’t right, discarding your brother’s soul brother, destroying a familial bond. A bond stronger than hatred everyone seems to be filled with now, stronger than the drear ancient rules. And you are a fucking Sully. The Sully family doesn’t give up. Never.
They whisper, when you speak. They curse you, their glares heavy on your back. Sully and his alien kids have done enough harm for their remaining eldest to cause destruction.
The first ears your open veto meet are Jake’s, and it flares unexplained rage within him, stirring fervid fury he doesn’t know he’s capable of feeling.
That is the first step taken in the direction of the later disaster. He is—used to be—the Toruk Makto, the leader of the leaders. He is—still is—a Marine. The flesh and blood from which you come, the blood and flesh you’re made of, all stained with years of honor and discipline and pride. There is not a command you can ignore. It’s not allowed to just go against his orders.
A father knows best.
A version of that saying you know, the one learnt from Tsireya is a father protects. Not that he ever offered support to his eldest daughter, the survivor, the twin of Neteyam. It doesn’t matter, the blood you’re tied to him with, not the fragile bond formed between you. You are not the Golden Child. Your brother was, now dead.
When his slender fingers wrap around your arm, tightly enough to cause pain, he isn’t thinking of you as his little girl. Now, you are the enemy. The enemy of the clan, the disgrace, the troublemaker.
The murderer.
You dig your heels into the ground, trying to stop him from dragging you out of the crowd; crowd means safety, there’s your mother there. Neytiri. In vain, you could never compete with the strength of an adult man, hissing at you when you try to resist.
Jake doesn’t think before speaking when you’re finally far away from the rest of the clan, far enough for nobody to hear you. He doesn’t think before acting, and so, once the palm of his open hand hits against his daughter’s face with a loud, almost grotesque clap, he’s almost just as surprised as you are. However, he does not falter.
“That thing, that monster, is an outcast,” he spits out with deadly venom, hands clenching into fists at his sides. Can he not see your fear, the terror flashing in your eyes? “He’s a loose cannon, just like you! In fact, if you hadn’t run in the first place, if you hadn’t disobeyed orders, your brother would still be…”
Maybe it’s the macédoine of deep shock and sharp ache twisting his eldest’s face into a grimace that sobers him up. Maybe it’s the way you shrink into yourself, bringing your hands closer to your face as if to protect yourself that burns him with shame, sudden regret. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s the flash of lost trust in your eyes. Not watery, just disappointed. Not crying. Never crying where he could see it.
But that, that is the moment when the great Jake Sully realizes what he’s done; the way his hand stings from the amount of force he used to slap you, how shaken you look, what he’d just said. The way he scarred you, and because of what?
His mind wanders. The thought of Neteyam flames him with the heat of a thousand suns. His twisted limbs, lifeless body, gazeless eyes staring into oblivion.
All because of you.
Anger replaces the blood in his system, searing trails in the interminable void where his heart should be. And just like that, he’s seething again.
“God,” he grinds out, the tension trapped in his shoulders threatening to snap the muscles. His fists quiver.
And you’re afraid. You’re not sure what hurts more—the sudden, violent slap coming from someone who was supposed to shield you from harm, not cause it; or the brutality of his words that come right after.
Having lost your balance, you stumble a bit deeper into the settlement. Farther away from the Na’vi in a distance, still hovering over your younger brother’s fate. Father away from safety. It’s just you and your father now, and the palpable hatred stretching between you. Just the electricity of danger making your skin tingle.
The deep shadows cast on his face make him look terrifying, and your heartbeat spikes up drastically, blood singing in your ears. Every cell of your body screams at you to run.
“It wasn’t my fault,” you try weakly, as it’s the last line of defence you have left. “It wasn’t!”
You study him. His body is tense, every muscle in his being straining. A part of him, the one he silences, feels guilty. Regret for the pain he’s inflicted upon you gets pushed down to the deepest, darkest pits of his mind. Because only anger is what keeps him afloat. Because fury is easier, simpler, faster.
All you can see before his hand rises again is the quick flash of his fangs in a cautionary hiss. When his hand falls down, it connects with the same spot as before on your face, reddened and flared up and aching. The same obscene, unnecessarily loud slap fills the air between you.
“Don’t talk back to me,” he snarls and bends a little, just so his eyes meet yours.
You look for something human in his eyes. And fail to find anything.
You know you can’t fix it. You can fix nothing. You’re acutely aware your father, your dad, the person you used to trust the most in the world is gone. What remains is this shell of who he once was, all emotion turned into blind choler.
For the first time in your life, true paralysing fear pulsates through you, vibrating through your chest. It’s not just the sharp anxiety mixed with adrenaline whenever you’re under attack. It’s not the casual nervosity whenever you mess up, awaiting punishment. No, this is terror.
He’s going to kill you, your mind chants repeatedly like a mantra.
You wish you could move. All you can do is struggle to breathe, staring at him like a helpless prey stares at its hunter. There is nowhere to run, and you think he knows it.
“Do what you must,” it takes all of your willpower to speak, voice cracking miserably halfway through.
His hands twitch, still curled up into fists, and you see that flash of hesitation in his eyes. That brief moment deciding your fate. Jake’s trying so hard to maintain control, but God help him, your face morphs into Neteyam. Just for a moment, disappearing when he blinks. But it was there, so real, so vivid, he’s sure he can bring him back if he tries hard enough. Maybe, if he punches your soul out of your body, he can push his son’s spirit back into it.
You were twins. You’re almost him, but not quite. You’re not what your father is looking for, but he’s so cold, and a fire is a fire.
You stole his beloved son from him.
“Don’t you understand, skxawng,” he snaps, taking a few steps forward with enough force to make the cane beneath his feet creak. “You don’t tell me what to do, not when you’re just a daughter.”
You can’t stop the words that escape your throat. The ones you’ve been carrying for days, weighing you down like a pair of boulders; something you’ve meant to say for a long time.
Now is not the time. But there might not as well be any other time to do it.
“I’m not your daughter,” your shaky voice states with bitterness as you ignore how badly it stings to be called a moron, again. “You said it yourself. I am the twin sister of your eldest son. Not your daughter. A son’s sister.”
You underestimated how badly it would hurt to acknowledge it aloud. In a desperate hope to somehow stop yourself from crumbling at his feet, your hands press to your chest, right where your heart should be.
“It should’ve been me, that night,” you hear yourself say, but it feels odd. As if it isn’t your voice that’s saying it.
Jake pauses for a moment, stunned by the words that leave your lips. His jaw clenches as he tries to push down the anger that rises up at the sound of your tone. But it’s nothing compared to the effect your next sentence has on him. His expression hardens, and you see it. You see him weigh if hitting you again is worth a shot.
“What the fuck did you just say?” he breathes out.
He’s too close, you realize with horror. You’re within arm’s reach, he can so easily hurt you now. He can do anything he wishes, because the Metkayina are occupied and far away, and you’re far too weak to resist.
Nobody will hear you scream, it hits you.
“I disobeyed your orders, that night,” you’re forcing the words out, one by one, violent shivers shaking your body. “Because I went out to search for you. I couldn’t bear the thought of sitting back and watching you die.”
You’re the eldest daughter of the Sully family. Sullys don’t cry. And yet, your eyes, so different from your father’s now, glisten with hot tears.
“Neteyam had the same thoughts about me,” your voice grows more and more unstable with each new syllable. “It should’ve been me that night.”
His face hardens even further. You’re testing his breaking point, and he thinks you don't care one bit. The sight of your unease sets his teeth on edge, but not quite as much as your defiant words. It makes his blood boil. Knowing you put yourself in danger after being given a specific order.
For a second, he sees Neteyam, right where you stand. The vision fades just a fraction after.
“Neteyam was the perfect son,” he barks. “He would’ve never done what you did.”
What hurts the most is that he’s right. He would’ve never done what you did. If only you’d listened that night, if only you’d stayed in place, your brother would still be alive. You don’t even have the guts to mourn him like your mother, feeling like an intruder. Someone who gets in the way of your family’s grief. Because how could the murderer mourn? What are you supposed to do with the blood on your hands? Pray?
Your terrified gaze darts from his face full of fury to the clan behind his back, far away, their distant voices mixing with the soft hum of the ocean. You wonder, how far you’d make it if you just went for it.
No, that’s stupid. He’ll kill you on the spot.
How strange it is to consider possible death out of hand of your own father. How strange it is to watch his hand hover over the handle of his dagger. He’s ready, and you know it. You think he knows you know, too.
“What do you want me to do now?” your voice is weirdly hoarse, desperate, as you finally get the courage and take a step back. Just one. “I know I did wrong. You can’t tell me every decision I’ve ever made for us was wrong.”
Please, echoes in your head. You don’t say it aloud, however, the plea lingering on your tongue.
He can tell you’re trying to keep it together, but the way you flinch at his every movement, your eyes scanning the surroundings like you’re contemplating an escape, all of it tells him how badly he’s frightened you.
And a sick part of him is glad. He finally regains control of you. Your weak attempt to defend yourself only fuels the anger that’s been building.
“You haven’t made any good decisions,” he growls. “Only stupid ones.”
He’d get the same effect by slapping you again. You remember, clear as a day, the moment when you let two arrows pierce through your chest, right above the heart. You saw them flying through the air with a deadly whistle, you did not move. You took it like a fucking man you were not, just so your siblings could have a chance to run.
To hell with every sacrifice you’d ever made. Your father… no. You can’t call him that now. Jake. To Jake, it doesn’t matter what you’ve done. Only what you haven’t.
And when he takes a step closer, just enough for you to physically feel the heat radiating off his body, you begin to understand. You can’t stop him.
You stare at him with those doe-like eyes of yours. Not glossy now. Dry, sharp, holding more understanding than anything else.
Your gaze locks on his hand holding the dagger, the silver blade casting glints onto the ground.
“Do it,” you whisper.
Jake freezes. The words hang in the air like smoke after a shot—silent, heavy, suffocating.
Do it.
Not a plea. Not a scream. A whisper, cold, final.
His breath catches in his throat as your eyes lock onto his—not with fear now, but something far worse: acceptance. And it suddenly gets to him how close he’s standing, how his hand is wrapped tightly around the blade, he’s ready to strike. Ready to kill.
And just like that, the fury cracks.
Because this isn’t defiance. This is surrender. The kind that doesn’t come from weakness, but from realizing there’s nothing left to fight for.
But the thought creeping into his mind that gnaws at him, the she murdered Neteyam, throbbing painfully in his head, even though deep down he knows it isn't true. He tries to be good, he really does. There’s only so much a person can take.
He sees it all flash before him: your small frame, a girl, barely a teenager, taking two arrows meant for the others, blood gushing out of the wound, hot red and angry, your teeth gritted to not cry out… and him too far away to do anything but watch.
Would he even do anything if he was closer?
And still, he called you reckless after Neytiri’s frantic attempts to wake you up. Still, he told you that you should’ve stayed behind ‘like ordered’. Still, he couldn’t be the father you needed.
A low sigh grumbles in his chest; not of any anger now, but regret. Jagged and deep.
His hands twitch at his sides, no longer grasping the weapon. He wants to reach out, pull you close like he used to when you were small enough to carry you on his shoulders. Back before war carved lines into both of your faces.
Jake doesn’t move. His pride doesn’t let him.
Instead, voice rough as stone and breaking at the edge orders you, “get the hell outta my sight.”
That’s all he has to offer. And you take it. Always did, always will—clinging to anything that isn’t open hatred, and right now, it resembles mercy. Pity, maybe.
Or maybe, which was more probable, he just realizes he can’t kill you in bare sight. There will be another time for execution.
Your gaze drops to the intertwined, golden cane beneath your feet, the singing of the ocean matching the howl of blood in your ears, your heart beating hard, fast. You give a sharp nod, circling him carefully to get to your hammock.
“Yes, sir,” you confirm quietly.
The gun. You need to get the gun.
You can feel his glare escorting you until you disappear from his sight, as promised. Each step, you shrink in on yourself, your body shaking as if you can hardly stand on your feet. For a moment, he considers asking you to stay. A weak need to make everything right gets silenced quickly, and in the end, he does nothing to stop you. He stands there, heart hammering in his skull.
Once you’re back in the family tent, you come to an anxious realization that you have maybe thirty seconds to do what you’ve yearned to do for months now. Forty seconds, if you get lucky, as the gathering begins to return back to their homes.
The desperate search starts at the baskets, continues through the shelves, ends on your father’s weapon pile.
Finally, your trembling, cold hands land on what you’ve been looking for. The heavy rifle, loaded, equally cold and ready. The cool metal against your skin soothes your nerves somehow as you stick your head out of the tent to check if anyone is coming. You can’t see anybody, not Jake, so it’s time.
You stand next to the water, on the edge of the tent, hoping to fall back into the depths once it’s done. You position the barrel accordingly, pushing it into your chin hard enough to make you gasp. Your fingers turn dangerously white.
There’s no racing thoughts, no racing mind. Calm, cold acceptance is what’s left, your muscles relaxed. You’ve waited for so long.
It’s easier than you initially thought to pull the trigger.
And then, you flinch, you miss, and the sound of a fired shot stretches through the air. The sound rings out in the village, making heads turn.
In an instant, Jake is running.
He’s not even sure why he does it. Maybe instinct, maybe just a cruel twist of fate. Maybe it’s the image of his dead son he can see before his eyes. He finds himself sprinting to the place where the shot came from.
His feet barely make a sound against the ground as he races through the vicinity, a million thoughts rushing through his head at once. Who would have fired their weapon in the middle of the night?
You can’t hear him getting closer to the tent. In fact, you can’t hear anything at all past the deafening ringing in your ears. The bullet missed, but it fired right next to your ear. All what surrounds you is blurry.
The rifle falls out of your hands as you stumble forward, falling to your knees. You’re too shocked with what happened to try and shove the weapon away, hide it, pretend you never fired it. Your father’s anger is a fate worse than death.
You stare at the ground, fighting to regain control of your senses. Before anyone sees you. Before anyone adds two to two.
Jake’s heart is in his throat when he finally reaches their family's space, dread clenching in his chest like a fist. Every instinct is screaming at him. He practically falls inside, eyes quickly darting around the place. When he spots you kneeling on the ground, his heart nearly stops.
You realize something warm drips down your face. All dazed, you reach with an unstable hand to touch it, then stare at the blood on your fingers calmly. There’s no fear, no panic.
Well, you didn’t entirely miss. There’s a nasty gash on the left side of your face when the bullet scratched its way against your cheek and temple, leaving a bloody trail. It doesn’t hurt. You can’t feel anything at all.
For the first few seconds, you don’t notice your father jumping into the tent. And when you do, you immediately reach for the rifle again, refusing to look at him. The blood on your fingers burns for a number of reasons.
He sees the spilled blood first. Then he sees you—pale, trembling, eyes hollow. And that gash. Too deep, too close to being permanent. And then, the gun comes into view, and Jake nearly chokes on air.
For a heartbeat, he freezes. Not out of anger now, but horror. He calls your name. You don’t answer. Don’t even blink. Just stare at him, stare through him, as if he isn’t even there.
And suddenly, it hits him. You won’t miss this time. You mean it.
Every mistake he’s ever committed crashes into him with a double strength. Everything he’s done to bring you to this state, because it’s his fault, as he acknowledges. He did this to you.
He’s getting used to seeing pure hatred in his family’s eyes when they look at him. If destroying this family is what keeps it ironically in one piece, then so be it.
But he isn’t used to watching his kids die, and he’s already lost Neteyam, his firstborn, to the same weapon you’re holding now. Neytiri saw this coming, she’s warned him countless times, and he’s ignored each one of it. And now you’re there, on the ground with the barrel sinking deeply into your temple, because you don’t intend to miss now, making eye contact with him as if asking him: are you proud of yourself now?
Grief hits him like a storm tide breaking inland, unstoppable, devastating. Only now it finally enters his mind—he’s hit you, almost killed you, he’s had the blade in hand. As if he could trade one child for another, as if stabbing you would bring Neteyam back, as if it would fix the damage he’s done to his own family he swore would protect.
Is there anything so undoing as a daughter?
The eldest, the forgiving, the one making sure everyone else is okay, because who else would do it if not her—if not you. And he managed to overlook all of it.
Another long second passes. He stares into your eyes, silently pleading for you to not do it, but it’s impossible to miss how your finger curls around the trigger, ready to pull. And in a blink of an eye, Jake jumps to you, trying to get the rifle out of your hands, to hell with all the training.
He feels something inside him split wide open. Not fury anymore, not pride or duty or honor or any of that warrior shit that’s ruled him for years.
And you fight back, hissing and screaming and growling, pulling the barrel toward yourself while he pulls on the bottom. He closes his eyes for a split second when your fingers nearly dig them out, and that’s the short moment when all of it happens at the same time.
Neytiri, your mother, jumps into the shared space. Her hoarse cries sear their way in Jake’s brain, something he will not ever forget. His finger slips. It slides down, locks on the trigger, pulling it down faster than he can imagine. Way too fast to give him a chance to react.
The last sound you make is a desperate yelp, something that could’ve been a mom!. Could have.
The bullet shot from such a close distance has a much different effect on your helpless figure than a shot fired from afar.
The sound of a fired rifle thunders through the village once again. The slug smoothly pushes your brain matter out, the dark, hot blood that splutters on everything, truly, everything. The gaping inlet wound is nasty, gushing, completely obscene. It looks almost fake on the side of your forehead, as if you painted it just a moment before.
Your body falls back immediately, convulsing, and hits the rough cane beneath you. Fresh blood escapes from your head rapidly, staining everything around you. It leaks through the tiny gaps between the cane and drips into the ocean.
The horror that takes over Jake is inhuman. There’s way too much of it for his body to take, and all he can do is stare down at the gun in his hands. The weapon that took his son, then his daughter from him.
A quiet voice reminds him that it was his fault, both of those deaths.
None remain.
When Ronal and Tonowari get to them, he’s still frozen with the rifle in his quivering hands. When they fall silent at the sight, Neytiri weeps, kneeling in the blood of her daughter. Of their daughter.
His last words to her were an order, an order to get out of his sight.
That’s all he is. Violence.