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There was a brief moment of clarity at the point of contact—cool steel pressed just beneath his chin, thumb brushing featherlight over the trigger, how his hammering heart had stuttered to a painful thud; the kind of dull ache he experienced whenever he thought of him.
How the world and its beauty was frozen in place; the perfect scene behind his now clenched lids and quite frankly, one of the last things he would see before the gentlest of pressure, barely there and faint, yet just enough, would seal his fate.
It had been an encapsulating moment of tranquility and deafening silence, one soon followed by metal clanging against damp sand, sending the gun spiraling away and the trance broken.
He had blinked back into coherency, bitterly thrust into reality once more, finding comfort in the warmth of Kiri's hands cupping his cheeks, and even more so in the soothing words of Tsireya, and yet there was still nothing at all. Nothing but the persistent emptiness that nestled in the center of his chest, burrowing deep and calling the cavern home.
He remembers meandering through the sand and how the grains felt against his bare skin—gritty, wet, sticking between his toes. He concentrates on that on the way back to the marui, barely registering the tense exchange a mere foot away.
Despite the descent into the evening, there are still others mulling about, going about the motions of daily life. The sound that resonates against his eardrums is casual and carefree as he nears closer to the families who are lounging beneath the sky, speaking in fond tones, echoing laughter and joy and all kinds of jubilance that Lo'ak feels no familiarity with.
His veins seethe with static, a muted envy for those who have yet to witness such destruction and merciless death, locked away in secure maruis and embraced by family. Unbridled by loss and stricken with unrelenting grief.
"—Lo'ak, where are you going?" Tsireya's questions, tone laced with concern and a hint of subtle desperation, eyes wide as her gaze locks on his retreating form.
But before he can formulate a response, something to evade the inquisition, he hears the lower register of Kiri's voice, breathing a hushed, "he needs a moment to gather his thoughts. He will be fine."
He was silently grateful for the interjection; he was on the verge of falling apart, shattering into tiny fractals and returning to the sea. If he were stronger and more resolute, he would be there now, descending into the ground, his very life force joining Eywa and fueling the surrounding land, fortifying it with every fiber of his being.
And yet, he had never been quite as strong as Neteyam.
Never as brave in the face of danger.
Not as calculative and precise.
He would never be Neteyam.
Slender legs know his path long before his brain processes his destination. His steps are tentative at first, as if under the influence of forbidden herbs, uncertain and increasingly unsteady as he propels forward. His eyes are misty and pricking with unshod tears, yearning to be released and coast down the planes of sharp bone, but he resists the urge. He would not give in, he would be strong, he could do it.
The water feels soothing as he abandons the shoreline, eagerly nipping at his ankles and swallowing defined calves. There was always something sobering about entering the water, as if it could cleanse him of all his sins, greedily devouring every flaw and allowing them to dissipate in its boundless depths.
He takes a deep breath just as the water reaches his nostrils, then concentrates, eyes staring, unblinking and transfixed, at the sight of the Spirit Tree. Its tendrils possess an otherworldly glow, a vibrant color that he could never put into words, swaying left and right with the serene current of the sea; it beckons him with its inviting, pulsating warmth, as if Eywa recognized one of her children, one plagued with guilt and shame, needing the reassurance only a mother could give.
With practiced ease, he blindly reaches for his braid and in seconds, the feathery hairs unfurl to reveal his kuru. Restless as his spirit, it yearns for connection and like a flower to sunlight, its spindly tendrils angle toward the tree, impatient in its quest. He takes a moment, his sights shifting to the barely there, pale light glaring from the surface, then with a solemn purse of the lips, he closes the distance and connects.
Blinking awake reveals the sight of waves crashing against a barrage of rock formations, the sound vibrating his eardrums and wracking through every limb of his lithe body. In the center of it all is the sight of familiar braids jostling in the wind, revealing the intricate patterning of navy stripes lining his broad back. He was facing away from him, a stark contrast to his usual greeting and overall giddiness to see him.
Lo'ak feels taken aback by the icy reception, even taking a startled step back; with just another he would be sent splashing into frigid depths. He rights his spine and makes to approach, seizing movement and turning rigid at the sound of his somber tone, "—why did you do it?"
Neteyam refuses to acknowledge him directly, still hunched over and purposefully shielded from view. One knee is bent atop the rock, while the other dangles just above the surface of the water. His brow twitches, his palms are clammy with perspiration, and for once, he does not know how to respond. Always one to have something to say, perhaps even more to prove, and yet Lo'ak stands there, wavering on his heels, attempting to piece together what resembled an accusation.
In truth, he was oblivious to what the latter could be alluding to. He was often reckless, not thinking twice about consequences. While others acted with finesse, he was solely reliant on impulsive tendencies, having faith that everything would go according to plan.
It rarely unfolded that way and typically included a myriad of negative outcomes, but still managed to work itself out eventually. So for a brief pause, he has no response and merely stares at the back of his head, wishing to see the broad grin nearly splitting his brother's mouth in two, a tell-tale sign that all was well between them.
"—viperwolf got your tongue, baby brother?"
There it was, a vague remnant of his brother shining through. Lo'ak feels a fond twitch of a smile forming on his mouth, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes, not when he feels like the wind has been knocked out of him still. He musters up the courage needed to take a step, then another, and again until the latter shifts, his neck craning to peer up at him.
And Neteyam, well— . . .
He looks how he always does in this state.
Youthful, refreshed, no signs of trauma. Free from blood, no longer battered, simply existing in the way he always had. Alive, breathing, tangible. But the look in his eyes feels so different now, filled with betrayal and hurt, his lips pursed in disapproval. His leg that had been swinging back and forth seizes movement and instead he focuses his sights on the expression that Lo'ak wears:
It makes him feel overly exposed, as if all his thoughts were laid bare before him. He loathes that feeling, like someone was decoding his intimate workings and tallying his vulnerabilities, as if he were made of glass. All of his flesh and bone on display and subject to examination, every root-like vein committed to memory, every labyrinth each vicious pump of blood rushing from his frenetic heart create. He shifts beneath his gaze, darting his attention elsewhere, anywhere but his face.
Neteyam stirs in his position, his head shaking dismissively, like he was trying to force the image away, but to no avail, "tell me you did not know what you were doing, Lo'ak." Lo'ak winces at his tone and can feel the sting of his words; like a slice from a knife, piercing deep and finding a home in his gut, "I felt it, your pain. Excruciating, relentless. And now, I can see it written all over your face."
Part of him wants to cover his ears and shield himself from the grating sound of his voice. How he detests the melancholy that laces every word, how he chokes out the final sentence. Like it physically pains him to address it. If he weren't feeling riddled with guilt before, he was stewing in it now, lids clenching shut as his hands betray him, shooting up to mute his grim words.
Warding off the fresh memory and the ghost of cold steel, he shakes his head, not desiring to relive it, "I don't know what you're talking about," adamantly defends Lo'ak, desperately hoping that feigning oblivious would be enough to steer the conversation elsewhere; hopefully somewhere pleasant, lighthearted, airy.
Reveries appear in his mind's eye—all positive reels, showcasing his most cherished memories. Learning to fly his ikran. Learning to hunt. Wielding a blade for the first time. The pride that glistened in his father's eyes. The way his mother had looked at him when he had carried Tuk around shortly after her birth. How Tuk would cling to him in her early years, like he was her sole protector. The way Kiri would playfully roll her eyes when he said something stupid. Breathless laughter with Neteyam when the two were soaring through the sky.
Unbeknownst to him, Neteyam has risen to unsteady feet and bounded over, his jaw clenched unbearably tight, his fists even more so. His chest rises and falls rapidly, fighting an unspoken battle. He steels himself before speaking once more, swallowing thickly, "you would lie to my face, brother?"
Lo'ak doesn't want to hear him, but he does, and he doesn't know what to do or worse, what to say. He can feel the latter's looming presence but wills him to disappear, to leave him with his thoughts, but that was not who Neteyam was. He wasn't the kind of man that faded into the abyss when someone was in need, he was the type that lingered and waited patiently, who would plaster to your side until you were ready to confront the issue.
Now was no different.
He wishes he could find it in him to be bothered by it, that he could simply withdraw the connection, swim back to shore, and pretend that none of this occurred. Just a dream. No, not a dream, a nightmare. The kind that would continue to haunt him in and out of slumber. He reluctantly peels his lids open and inhales sharply at the sight; Neteyam was standing there, stock still, countenance struggling to remain impassive.
His brow bone twitches, his knuckles have turned lavender from the strength of his furled fist, his teeth are gritting audibly. His eyes rival the sea below, stormy and intense, staring at him pleadingly, wordlessly demanding an answer, "please. Tell me you did not do it."
"I—" Lo'ak croaks, straining to find his voice. His vocal cords were trembling and as he opens his mouth again, he can feel an all-too-familiar constriction there, knotting taut. He shakes his head to deny the accusation, but the latter doesn't look convinced.
The corner of Neteyam's lip shifts downward, his face contorting into a grimace, "you did it, didn't you?" He absentmindedly drags his knuckles along the bottom of his chin, replicating what he had witnessed, holding his gaze firmly, "you pressed here. Another on the trigger." Lo'ak opens his mouth to retort, likely to downplay what had happened, but to his chagrin, he can't speak, "why?"
He can feel the blood rushing to his head, like he had been suspended underwater far too long. A thick pressure that has him feeling lightheaded and nauseous, resembling a searing hot migraine, one that would mercilessly terrorize him. He was weak, he knew it. And now Neteyam knew it, too. Probably always had, just cared too much to say it aloud. He turns his head downcast and his shoulders instinctively hunch forward in defeat.
"It should have been me," stammers the teen, shoulders quaking as he weakly fends off a sob. The truth leaves him rattled, has his temple pulsing boisterously, his eyes welling and face flushing dark.
In true Neteyam fashion, he wastes little time in surging forward to embrace him, forcing the younger male into his chest. He cradles him there, allows him to release the wail trapped in the center of his chest, yearning to be heard, to be acknowledged.
His fingers leave raw crescents in Neteyam's back, anchored to him like a lifeline, like he may very well ascend to the same plane if he were to loosen his grip. He had seldom cried about it in the waking world, felt like no one cared one way or another, had feebly tried to keep it together.
He had seen the way his parents had coped. Rarely talked about it, pretended as if it hadn't happened. As if Neteyam had been a meager figment of their imagination. Had exchanged pointed looks if someone casually brought him up. He had done much the same initially, feeling that if he mirrored those emotions, then he would be fine. He would be an impenetrable fortress, but he was a fool, always had been, to honestly think he could ignore the pain that rifled through him.
His mother did not blame him, but it was evident that his father did, even if he never said it aloud. How he would look at him with such disdain. How he would have to catch himself, about to utter the name of Neteyam instead of his own. He gets it, he did. He had never been a natural, always found trouble, never listened like he should.
And he tried.
Eywa knows that he did. It was just that fate had a separate plan for him, one that even he didn't quite understand. He wished everyone else could see that, that it wasn't his fault, not really, not when he tried so hard to save Neteyam.
"Skxawng," Neteyam reprimands, easing up and allowing Lo'ak space to breathe. Lo'ak cared very little that his lungs might have collapsed at the bone-crushing pressure of the hug, but he does finds reprieve in his ability to inhale deeply, his chest expanding and body grateful for fresh air, "it had to be me. If it were you, had you died, I would have never recovered."
"—you're so full of shit," warbles Lo'ak, uttering a humorless and incredulous snort.
Neteyam's voice wavers as he speaks, "I mean it. I would not have lasted as long as you have. It was Eywa's plan, after-all. She knows my heart best and so it had to be me. I had to die so that you could live."
Lo'ak hears a resounding ring in his eardrums, feeling disoriented the longer the latter speaks, "that's not true—"
His laugh is lighthearted and airy, no longer burdened by the truth, "I have never lied to you, baby brother. Even just now, you proved your own strength by putting it down. I was worried that I would open my eyes and find you here with me."
"I can't live with myself for what happened to you," admits Lo'ak, not daring to meet the latter's gaze, lest he find disappointment there, "If I had listened, had I just—"
Neteyam shushes him softly, lowering the two down to the rocks. His countenance has softened considerably, though his eyes are still just as wide and earnest. His trademark smile returns to his face, filled with reassurance, a silent promise, "and yet you continue to live. Each and every day, you get stronger. Not so little anymore, are you?"
Lo'ak swats at the hand threatening to pinch his cheek, not finding the humor in his words, "I wanted to pull the trigger," reveals Lo'ak, swallowing down the knot crawling up his throat, "I did. I wanted to."
Dark eyes turn solemn as he searches the younger's eyes. For a considerate moment, he remains mum, allowing the silence to drag on as he studies his countenance. And in an instant, he was offering a faint smile, one barely perceptible, but lurking at the corner of his mouth, "but you didn't. And that takes courage. To live takes courage. I would have pulled the trigger."
He doesn't believe that and refuses to even entertain the thought. The raven furrows his brows and wants to pry, to ask for an explanation, but instead of pressing into it, he mumbles a low, "but you're the strongest person I know."
The elder simply looks at him, blinking owlishly. He releases another mirthful snort, eyes rolling in response. He wordlessly points to the sea, but Lo'ak doesn't get the gist, just looks at him in perplexity, his brows inching up his forehead.
He steels him with a stern look, one that directs his gaze to the calm waves rolling in, "do you see that?" he gestures to the sight of Lo'ak staring back at him in the reflection, grinning to himself with the pride only a brother could possess, "now that is the strongest person I know."
He manages to choke out a strangled chuckle, one that he didn't think he was capable of producing. He shoves the latter beside him and the latter has to catch himself, falling back onto his palms, feigning an affronted look, "oh, that was cheesy, bro, even for you."
Neteyam remains in his newfound position, leaning back on his palms, eyes spanning over the cyan sea. He looks pensive, ultimately offering a halfhearted shrug of the shoulder, "you will mourn me," he states matter-of-factly; a fact that must not be ignored, "and when you miss me, you will come back and find me here waiting. And that, little brother, is why you must stay on your path. Who else will I make fun of?"
It was his turn to look pensive. What a bewildering thought, the idea that he could mourn and persevere. Currently, that was an impossible feat, but he was right. Mourning was to be expected; a period of time would go by and by the grace of Eywa, he would eventually be spared of the pain that accompanied every thought of Neteyam.
He would soon smile at every mention, relishing in the vibrancy of his personality, snickering at the memories of the two getting into trouble or in times of vulnerability, how he had expressed all of his qualms and received nothing but support and an active listener in return.
If he were being completely transparent, he would admit that he felt lighter already. All the metaphorical weight on his shoulders that had been dragging him down, coaxing him into a dark abyss, suddenly diminished into nothingness.
It felt wrong to even say, but for the first time since Neteyam had passed, he felt a sense of relief, soothed by their heartful exchange. Filled with a renewed sense of vigor and determination, like he could overcome any obstacle that obstructed his path.
The silence was prolonged, but lacked any of the previous tension. Just comfortable and calm, highlighted by the murmur of the sea smoothing jagged rock. His braids rustle in the whistling wind, nipping fondly at his cheeks and tip of the nose, and like that, a sense of clarity dawns upon him.
He really could do this, couldn't he? He could be okay again?
He glances fleetingly to Neteyam, who has a distant look in his eye, his lips situated in a permanent smile, every hint of melancholy lining his features gone. He looks blissfully happy like that and just for now, Lo'ak could suspend himself in the moment, to fall for the illusion that he would be there when he inevitably disconnected from the Spirit Tree.
That he would find him weaving a basket with his mother or perhaps fiddling with his comms, embroiled in a conversation with his father; something akin to war plans or flight formations.
Lo'ak follows his gaze to the sea and feels the rest of his concerns dissipate, dissolving with each sluggish swell, as if the sea were rocking itself into tranquil slumber. He feels much the same, his lids feeling heavy, an exasperated yawn escaping his mouth. He stifles it with the back of his hand, intent on reveling in the quiet.
"Neteyam?" He addresses the latter abruptly, but he doesn't turn to face him, doesn't acknowledge him at all, in fact, simply stares at the gradual way the sun fades into ember, "I love you, bro."
There was a startling element to how foreign his words sound coming out of his mouth, timbre low and garbled. Slowly, Neteyam swivels his neck to face him once more, but his features are rapidly blurring, contorting this way and that as the reverie fades. Ivory teeth make an appearance, highlighted by the golden halo of the setting sunlight, and within a blink, he was thrust back under the sea, but not without an echoing sentiment of:
"Love you too, baby brother."