Chapter Text
Varang knew obsession intimately.
She knew it in the way she was drawn to fire, its flickering flames calling to her, pulling her closer even as it threatened to burn her. She knew it in the way it consumed her waking thoughts and haunted her restless sleep, ever since it had first claimed her that fateful day, leaving an indelible, scorching mark on her.
She knew it in the hollows of her palms, still humming with the memory of heat, and in the nightmares that left her trembling not from fear, but from the cruel ache of craving what had already devoured her.
Varang traced the delicate, unfamiliar lines of Neytiri's features, features usually distorted in fierce fury directed solely at her, but now slack and peaceful in repose. And she knew obsession in the way she controlled the uncontrollable, bending the wild, untamed force to her will, wielding it as no other of her people had ever dared to. As even the sky people, who believed they had mastered its power, couldn't.
But this woman, this Neytiri, had ignited a different kind of flame within her, an obsession equally consuming and dangerous.
She remembered the first time she saw her in the sky. It was nothing but a routine attack. Varang led her warriors into what shouldn't even be a battle, not when Eywa's weaklings weren't even worthy of a fight.
But this time, it was different. She realized it the moment she spotted the sky man making thunder and Neytiri shooting arrows at her people, and, better yet, killing them with an ease that spoke of skills honed in war. Each arrow flew with a precision that made Varang’s blood sing, a rhythm she wanted to disrupt, to claim as her own.
Varang had smiled, maniacally, with excitement. She didn't know this woman's name back then, but she knew someone worth her attention. Someone worth killing. So she shot her own arrow, and as expected, it pierced through Neytiri's chest. Varang had almost tasted the blood of victory, the metallic tang of it already on her tongue, her heart pounding with the thrill of dominance.
She had leaned forward, her breath quickening, eager to witness the final shudder of life leaving her prey.
But then, as the fierce warrior she was, Neytiri attacked her with blinding fury. She hauled her Ikran on her Nightwraith, and finally, Varang had found a fight worthy of her hunger. It was chaos in the air, a dance of claws and teeth, of screams and the rush of wind. Varang’s laughter echoed through the sky, wild and unhinged, as she matched Neytiri’s ferocity with her own.
It didn't last long, though.
They never did.
Soon, Neytiri was falling to what should be her death.
Varang had hissed and thought, just another weak warrior of Eywa. She had turned away, her grin sharp and victorious, already dismissing the fallen as nothing more than another fleeting conquest. The thrill of the fight was already fading, leaving her restless, hungry for more.
Oh, how she was wrong.
"I see you," Varang breathed out, her eyes wide and unblinking as she stared at Quaritch, her predatory gaze dissecting every inch of his being, her ears twitching forward with keen interest as her tail flicked slowly behind her.
She saw this sky man exactly for who he was—a strong spirit, a core of undeniable will, trapped within a weak, undisciplined mind shackled by sentimentality. A contradiction that fascinated her. He had dared to tell her she wanted an equal, and he wasn’t wrong.
That was the burning core of her desire, the relentless drive that had consumed her ever since she became one with the cleansing fire, ever since she had willingly, eagerly, burned away the soft, yielding parts of herself until only hardened ash and ember remained.
Varang craved a mirror of her own flame, a warrior and leader whose ruthlessness matched her own blow-for-blow, whose ambition was forged in the same crucible of pain. It wasn’t him. Not yet. The weakness clinging to him, the remnants of loyalty to his own kind, and the burden of a father's misplaced love were too palpable, a stench she could almost taste. Maybe not ever.
But he could be an interesting toy for her to play with, to mold and break as she pleased, for as long as she wanted to. The thought sent a shiver of anticipation through her, her lips curling into a slow, dangerous smile.
"Damn right you do," Quaritch snorted, his own smile finally breaking through, a cocky, self-assured curve that crinkled the corners of his eyes. He leaned back slightly, radiating confidence.
He didn’t see the danger in her, not truly. He thought he was the predator here, but he was wrong.
So very wrong.
Varang’s smile deepened, her eyes glinting with mischief and malice. Oh, yeah, she would have so much fun with this one. The last time she had felt this kind of thrill, it had been with her. The woman who had met her in the open air, all claws and teeth and glorious, defiant fury. The one who had ultimately fallen, broken beneath Varang's will.
Her fingers drifted to Quaritch’s kuru with deceptive gentleness, a mockery of intimacy as she envisioned the blade’s kiss that would part them forever. She could almost feel the resistance give way beneath her knife, the choked gasp strangling in his throat. His eyes would widen, not with pain at first but sheer disbelief, the arrogant light snuffed out as he crumpled into a twitching, broken shell. "I’ll give you the other sky man, and—"
"Jake Sully," Quaritch corrected her, his tone sharp, impatient, as if she were a slow child. As if she hadn’t already seared that name, that face, into her memory alongside the image of the woman who had dared to challenge her and paid the price.
The interruption grated on her, her tail flicking in irritation. She could taste the violence rising—the urge to shatter his jaw, peel the smugness from his face—and she would usually punish such insolence swiftly and brutally, but she would allow it. For now. Let him think he had some semblance of control. Let him believe he was still in charge. The moment he handed her his weapons, the moment he let his guard down, she would teach him to behave.
"And the airbreather," she continued, her smile widening, her voice dripping with honeyed malice. "But the wife. Tell me about her."
"Mrs. Sully?" Quaritch scoffed, his tone dismissive. He waved a hand as if swatting away a trivial nuisance. "She’s a fucking animal. Vicious and primitive. There’s nothing else worth saying about her."
Varang raised an eyebrow, her expression one of mock curiosity. Mrs. Sully? No, that sterile human title felt utterly wrong. She vividly recalled the name Jake Sully called her in Quaritch’s memories, how his voice softened when he spoke it, how his entire being seemed to light up at the mere thought of her.
Neytiri.
Her smile turned feral, her teeth bared in a grin that promised pain and chaos, a predator reveling in the scent of blood. "I saw her. In your memories." Varang leaned closer to him, her fingers trailing along his kuru with a deliberate slowness, her touch both intimate and menacing.
"She killed you with her arrows." She paused, savoring the flicker of tension in his jaw. "Tell me, does it haunt you? The way she looked at you when she let those arrows fly? Or is it the sound of her scream as she ripped through your men that keeps you up at night?"
She enjoyed how the mention made Quaritch's smile falter for a moment, the way his bravado cracked ever so slightly. She had seen it all in his memories: the massacre Neytiri had unleashed in that ship, the way she moved like a storm, her eyes blazing with a fury that bordered on madness. The way she had pressed her blade to the airbreather's throat for her daughter, fire in her eyes.
It had been... beautiful. A dance of destruction so poetic it stirred something primal within Varang. For a fleeting instant, she almost regretted extinguishing such a flame. Almost.
"And yet, here I am," Quaritch smirked, opening his arms wide, as if to prove his invincibility. The scars on his body gleamed under the light, fresh wounds from a war he kept losing.
His arrogance was delicious, a challenge she couldn’t resist peeling apart layer by layer until she found the trembling core beneath.
"And yet, here she is still," Varang chuckled, tilting her head, her golden gaze remaining unblinking. "Why haven’t you killed her with your weapons? Or is the great Colonel Quaritch afraid of a single Na’vi woman?"
She already knew the answer. He was terrified of Neytiri. Not just wary, not just cautious, but terrified. Varang could feel it, could taste the acrid tang of it in the air when she forced her way into his mind. The mere whisper of Neytiri's name made his pulse stutter. The sight of her arrows sent his fingers twitching toward his sky people's weapons like a child. Only the cold weight of metal in his hands, only the false courage of his machines, let him stand against her.
Varang found it hilarious how one woman, one warrior born of the forest, could carve so deep into the soul of a man who claimed to fear nothing. It made her wonder, idly, what Neytiri might have become had she been raised among the ash and fire of her people. What storms she might have unleashed.
But that was a thought for another time. Right now, Quaritch's fear was far more entertaining.
Quaritch scoffed, his smirk tightening. "Harder to do than it is to say." He tilted his head, mirroring her posture, his eyes narrowing. "Why all these questions about her?"
Varang leaned in until she was a hair’s breadth from his mouth, her breath ghosting over his lips as she whispered, "I killed her." She pulled back just enough to watch his reaction, but instead of the shock she expected, he laughed—deep and mocking, grating against her nerves.
"Oh, that's cute, cupcake," Quaritch said, his voice dripping with condescension, enough for her to consider cutting his heart off. "But I saw her. Wounded, but alive."
Varang’s pulse quickened. Wounded but alive? How?
Her eyes gleamed with a manic light as she countered. “I saw her fall."
It had been magnificent. Every victory against the weak children of Eywa was enjoyable, but that one had been memorable.
"Well, she is a tough son of a bitch. Was already flying too." Quaritch scoffed, rolling his shoulders as the idea amused him. "It's how they say, like husband, like wife. Picture it: dragging her and that traitor husband of hers to the execution block. Bet their brats’ll scream real pretty—"
Varang barely heard him, her mind racing. She had known there was fire in Neytiri, but to survive that and still take to the skies? The thought sent a thrill through her. Would Neytiri still face her? Would she still rise to the challenge? All the warriors who’d survived Varang’s wrath bore scars they could never heal from, both physical and mental.
She made sure of that.
But if Neytiri was executed, as Quaritch so casually suggested, Varang would never know.
"I'm gonna kill her first, you know? In front of him. Watch his face when that blue bitch drops. Bet he’ll beg." Quaritch continued, a sadistic smile twisting his lips.
Varang’s jaw tightened, a possessive fury flaring within her. She saw it now, the obsession that consumed Quaritch, the way Jake Sully dominated his every thought, every breath, even his love for the airbreather was tied to that man. And that… that was her opening. If Neytiri was still alive, still fighting, then she was more than a dying flame.
She was hers.
Varang needed to see it for herself. Needed to feel it.
"You desire him." Varang chuckled with delight, her tail flicking.
Quaritch's smile dropped instantly, replaced by a cold, dangerous glare. His voice was low, almost a growl. "What did you just say?"
There it was. The crack, the truth she had dug out from the depths of his obsession.
"Jake. Sully." Varang said slowly, enunciating each syllable as she tugged at his kuru, forcing him to meet her gaze. "You desire him."
It happened as she expected.
Varang giggled, a low, throaty sound, when Quaritch’s hand shot out and grasped her throat, pulling her closer until their faces were inches apart. "Careful what you say, baby," he warned.
He thought he held the power there. How funny. How utterly naive.
"You don't have to do this," Varang purred, her lips brushing his, her voice a sultry whisper.
She saw the flicker, the minuscule hitch in his focus as his eyes involuntarily dipped to her mouth, momentarily ensnared. Now. She acted with blinding speed.
In his momentary distraction, she twisted her body with practiced ease, removing his hand from her neck. In one fluid motion, she grabbed his throat with one hand and pushed him down to the ground, pinning him beneath her. Her other hand reached for one of her dual blades, the cold metal pressing against his cheek.
Quaritch's eyes widened, and he raised his hands, "Whoa, whoa, sugar. Slow down there."
Oh, how he looked good beneath her. The way his muscles tensed, the way his breath hitched—it was intoxicating. She wondered if Neytiri would also look this good, if she would surrender to her. But no, from what she had seen, Neytiri would hiss and defy her, fight with every ounce of strength she had. And that thought only fueled Varang’s interest further.
She loved submission, the true, deep kind that came from utter conquest, but it had been so achingly long since someone truly challenged her dominance, since someone stood, or lay, this close to being her equal.
Varang grinned, her expression both threatening and playful. "You don't have to lie to me, Quaritch," she murmured with mock sweetness. She caressed his throat with the tips of her fingers, her grip firm yet teasing. "You seek Jake Sully not just because he betrayed you. You seek him because you want him beneath you. Like this." She nodded, her breasts brushing against his chest as she leaned closer, her blade still pressed to his cheek.
Quaritch’s eyes narrowed, his breathing shallow beneath Varang’s grip. His hands twitched at his sides, but he didn’t dare move, not with her blade hovering so close to his face. She could see the conflict in his gaze. Anger, pride, and something darker, something he was trying to bury.
"Deny it, Quaritch," she purred, "Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me you don't dream of him. Tell me you don't think of him at every moment you breathe. Tell me you don't want him."
It was pointless to lie to her. She knew it all, had seen it all, even the thing this sky man hid from himself. It was the most delicious kind of power, the power her Father and sister had tried to deny her, but she conquered it anyway.
Quaritch’s lips twisted into a humorless smirk, "You’ve got a vivid imagination, cupcake," he growled, "Maybe you’ve been spending too much time around all this fire. It’s starting to smog your brain."
She didn't fully understand half of what he was saying—these sky people and their strange, clipped words—but she recognized evasion when she heard it. He was deflecting, burying the truth beneath layers of mockery, refusing to accept his own desires. And that wouldn’t do. Not for her. If he were to be one of hers, he had to see.
They lived by their desires, carved them into their skin alongside their scars, wore them as openly as war paint. The way of Eywa was a weakness they didn't indulge in anymore.
Varang giggled and leaned even closer. "You wish for him to kneel for you," she murmured, her lips brushing his ear. "To beg, to break, to be yours." She pressed the flat of her blade against his cheek. "And your patience… is wearing thin."
Quaritch’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t deny it this time. Good. Instead, his smirk widened, a flicker of defiance burning in his eyes. "And what if I do? You gonna psychoanalyze me now, sweetheart?"
She didn't have to understand to know what he meant.
Varang grinned, her grip tightening ever so slightly. "It’s written all over you. Your obsession, your desperation… It’s pathetic. But I admire it." She tilted her head. "I, too, have my desires."
Her blade traced a slow line down his cheek, leaving a faint red mark but not breaking the skin. Quaritch winced, his breath hitching, but he didn’t look away. That was what she liked about him, this need to prove himself was so easy to control.
"And what would they be?" he rasped, "I thought you just wanted to spread your fire through this world. Put all blues on their knees for you."
Oh, simple, simple man.
"I do," Varang’s grin widened, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "But you’re so focused on Jake Sully, you haven’t even considered what I want from that man."
She released his throat abruptly, standing and stepping back, her blade still lazily twirling in her hand. Quaritch coughed, rubbing his neck as he sat up, his eyes never leaving her.
"And what do you want?" he asked, his tone cautious now, edged with suspicion.
Varang’s tail flicked behind her, her posture relaxed but poised, like a predator waiting to strike. "Neytiri," she said simply, with a shrug of her shoulders.
Quaritch barked out a laugh, shaking his head. "Miss Sully? You’re kidding me. She’s just another blue. Dangerous, sure, but nothing special."
Nothing special? Did this fool truly believe she would waste her time hunting just another weakling of Eywa? Neytiri hadn’t proved herself yet, but there was something in the way she moved, like fire given flesh, that set her apart.
"Maybe." Varang’s expression darkened, her smile turning cold. "But I need to know if she is alive l am."
"Alive?" Quaritch raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "What the hell does that even mean?"
"It means if she doesn’t just fight to survive," Varang snapped, "If she fights to burn. I want to test it. To conquer it." She paced in front of him, her movements fluid and deliberate, like a panther circling its prey.
Quaritch scoffed, his tone dry. “Sounds like you’ve got a crush.”
Varang stopped in place. A crush? She searched his memories for its meaning. Love? She let out a low, derisive chuckle that vibrated in her chest. No, this wasn’t love. Love was the poison that had rotted her mother’s spirit and killed her. Love was the reason she had to poison her father and put her sister in exile.
“A crush?” she repeated, her voice dripping with mockery. “No, sky man. I crave her. I crave the fight, the struggle, the heat. For a few moments, I believed she was more than a weak warrior of Eywa in our fight. And when I saw her in your memories, when I saw the fire in her when she wiped out your people and came for your little airbreather…" Her voice trailed off, her gaze distant, as if she could still see Neytiri with fire in her eyes. “She is worth being conquered."
Quaritch watched her, his smirk returning, though it was tinged with unease now. “You’re nuts, you know that?”
Nuts… she searched in his mind. Crazy? It wasn't the first time she was called that. The children of Eywa couldn't fathom even the thought of someone like her existing, calling her a fallen, a witch, a demon for leaving their weak mother behind. Varang embraced all that they said she was with pride.
She had chosen freedom, power, and fire over their suffocating reverence.
Varang huffed, "You knew that before you came for me."
"Fair enough." Quaritch nodded and shrugged, “But what’s in it for you?”
For her?
Varang’s grin turned feral. “The fight. The fire. Her.” She stepped back, her gaze lingering on him. “I’ll give you Jake Sully. I’ll give you the airbreather. But Neytiri… she’s mine. Do you understand?”
Quaritch stared at her, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he raised his hands. "Alright, alright. You win. Have your fun with Mrs. Sully." His finger jabbed toward her, "But don’t forget, Jake Sully’s the priority.”
Varang let out an exhale through her nose. Of course, he would be the priority. Wherever he was, his wife would be. And that was all that mattered.
She closed the distance between them in two strides, her grin returning as she dropped into a crouch beside him. "Oh, I won’t," she drawled, reaching out to tilt his chin up with her fingers. His pulse jumped beneath her touch, and she savored the way his breath hitched—just for a second. "In fact, I think we’ll work quite well together." Her thumb brushed the stubble along his jaw, deliberate, testing. "After all, we’re both hunters…" She tilted her head, studying the way his pupils dilated. "Aren’t we?"
"Yeah," Quaritch smirked, leaning into her touch. "I guess we are."
She was alive.
Varang’s focus narrowed to a single point: Neytiri.
From the moment they landed on the sand, the other woman had lured her attention. Hearing Quaritch’s claims was one thing, seeing the proof with her own eyes was another. Neytiri stood tall, her bow gripped firmly in her hands, her posture unyielding. There was no trace of the agony Varang had meticulously inflicted, no shadow of the deep, soul-carving scars she had sworn to leave behind.
It was infuriating.
Varang’s lips curled into a silent snarl, her tail flicking sharply behind her. How could Neytiri appear so untouched, so defiant? The wound she had left should have lingered, a constant, visible reminder of her dominance, her unforgiving power. Yet here she was, untouched, unbroken.
It filled the flame that burned inside of Varang, her will to destroy, to tear apart, to burn until there was nothing left. But there was something in her, something new, a dark, ember-like spark of satisfaction. The sheer, galling possibility of finding someone whose spirit could not only endure her fire, but perhaps even reflect it back… that possibility ignited a dangerous, exhilarating heat of its own.
Quaritch and Jake Sully exchanged words in their foreign language, but Varang didn’t bother to decipher their conversation, her gaze remaining locked on Neytiri. Every line of the Na’vi’s body screamed fury: the predatory arch of her spine, the quiver-string tautness of her arms as she leveled the arrow at Quaritch’s heart.
Varang’s breath caught for a moment, a thrill coursing through her.
She almost hoped Neytiri would release the arrow, just to see the raw satisfaction on her face as Quaritch fell. But no. Varang tilted her head, her sharp eyes flicking between Neytiri and Quaritch. The colonel was still valuable to her, still a pawn in her game. A blunt instrument, yes, but one that fit too comfortably in her grip now.
Memories flickered: the yielding heat of his throat beneath her finger, the ragged gasp he’d bitten back when she’d mounted him. Well, she had grown oddly fond of him after she used his body for her pleasure, more than she cared to admit, and she couldn’t afford to lose him.
Not yet.
Then it happened.
All those weaklings knelt before them as Quaritch had promised her, a pathetic sea of submission. But not Neytiri. No, she didn’t falter. Her bow was drawn taut, the arrow aimed squarely at Quaritch’s chest, her golden eyes blazing with a fury that made Varang’s blood sing. A wave of heat coursed through Varang, pooling low in her belly.
Quaritch was talking, his voice grating against her ears, but she barely listened. She didn’t care about Jake Sully’s fate, didn’t care about the whimpering airbreather, didn’t care about any of the pathetic bargains being offered.
There was only her.
Only Neytiri.
She wanted to ruin her, to devour her. She could almost feel the phantom press of her dual blade against Neytiri’s skin, the imagined warmth of her blood spilling over her hands. Oh, she would enjoy this. She would peel her apart, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but the raw, trembling core of her, then put her back together so that she could do it all over again.
Yes, Varang would take this woman's fierce heart, her blazing fire, and make it her own possession. She would drink it down like the finest, most potent poison, let its scorching defiance burn through her veins until nothing else existed but the intoxicating taste of Neytiri’s spirit.
Varang’s lips curled into a smile as she glanced at Quaritch. The colonel was reveling in his moment of triumph, his face alight with sadistic pleasure as he spoke to Jake Sully. There was a smugness in his posture, a satisfaction that Varang found amusing.
He was finally seizing what he believed belonged to him, just as she was about to claim what was rightfully hers.
But then weaklings rose to their feet, their submission fleeting, their defiance crawling back like animals. Varang’s patience, already stretched taut, wore dangerously thin. The tedious conversation dragged on, Sully’s defiance grating on her nerves. She turned sharply to Quaritch, the command a low, venomous hiss. “Burn them all.”
He paused mid-gloat, his gaze flickering towards her, a flicker of surprise or perhaps calculation in his eyes. Instead of immediate obedience, he let Jake Sully surrender on his own terms. Varang’s brow furrowed, confusion flickering in her golden eyes. Why wasn’t he listening? Why wasn’t he following her lead? Fury started to take over her, but she glanced at Neytiri and noticed she hadn't surrendered either.
She tilted her head, focusing on how her chest heaved with barely contained rage, on the subtle, almost imperceptible tremor in Neytiri’s long fingers—not the shiver of fear, but the violent vibration of energy strained, of the monumental effort required not to lunge forward and tear Quaritch’s throat out where he stood. The raw, untamed fury radiating from Neytiri was a far more fascinating spectacle than Quaritch’s disobedience.
And then—
Thwip.
The arrow buried itself in the sand between Quaritch’s feet, and Neytiri’s scream of fury echoed across the beach. Varang’s breath caught. The sound was beautiful. Raw, untamed, alive. It sent a shiver down her spine, her pulse thundering in her ears.
For a heartbeat, two, she was utterly hypnotized, lost in the primal perfection of it.
Then reality snapped back when she realized there would be no surrender from this woman.
Varang faced Quaritch, her voice a hiss. "What is happening? Why isn’t she coming with us?"
Quaritch barely glanced her way, his smirk widening as his eyes remained locked on Jake Sully. "Just follow my lead, cupcake."
Varang’s lips peeled back in a silent, vicious snarl, baring the points of her fangs. The dismissal grated on her, the smugness in his tone igniting a fury she hadn’t felt in a long time. Her pride bristled, but she couldn’t show it, couldn’t let him see how much it itched under her skin. She was no subordinate, no pawn in his schemes, and she would make him regret treating her as such.
Her eyes met Neytiri’s, and for a moment the world narrowed to just the two of them, the beach blurring at the edges until only the Omatikaya woman filled her vision, all sound muffled.
Varang hissed—a sound full of promise, of threat, of hunger.
Soon.
First, she would get her answers.
As they retreated, Varang cast one last glance over her shoulder at Neytiri. The woman hadn’t moved, hadn’t faltered. She stood tall, her gaze locked on her husband. A different kind of flame ignited within Varang, hotter and more possessive than mere anger. It should be focused on her, and only her.
What would she have to do to seize that devotion?
"Hey, baby," Quaritch entered her tent, a wide smile on his lips, unaware of what was about to happen, "What are we gonna try today—?"
Varang didn’t wait.
The moment Quaritch stepped into her tent, she moved. Silent as a shadow, she lunged from behind him, her hands gripping his shoulders with a force that caught him off guard. Before he could react, she twisted, using his momentum against him, and threw him onto the low bed with a thud that reverberated through the tent. He landed flat on his back, his breath huffing out in surprise.
Before the disorientation could clear from his eyes, Varang straddled his abdomen, her weight pinning him down. Her dual blades were already in her hands, the cold metal nestled against the pulse points on either side of his neck before he could even think to resist.
She leaned forward, her face inches from his, her golden eyes narrowing as she hissed, the sound low and predatory.
"Hey, baby," Quaritch's smile stayed in place, his hands settling on her thighs as if this were just another one of their games. "I'm liking where this is going, but are the blades really that necessary?"
Her lips curled into a feral smirk, devoid of any warmth. She was in no mood for games with this sky man, not when his selfishness led her to lose her chance of facing Neytiri once again. Without hesitation, she tilted one blade ever so slightly, the edge catching his cheek in a clean, shallow cut. Blood welled up immediately, a thin line of crimson that she watched with fascination.
"You promised me two things," she growled, low and dangerous. "You didn’t give me any of them today." She traced the tip of one blade down his chest, stopping just above his heart, the cold metal a stark contrast to the warmth of her breath as she leaned closer. "So give me one reason not to eat your heart right now, Quaritch."
Her fingers flexed around the hilt, not enough to break skin, yet, but enough to make him understand how easily she could. She didn’t plan to kill him now, not after he had shown her the devastating power of his weapons, not after she had glimpsed the possibility of bending the sky people to her will, of making them kneel before her as her own clan did.
But she had to show him that disobeying her had consequences, that if he defied her again, she would have to hurt him in a way he wouldn't like.
Quaritch chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated beneath her. His hands tightened slightly on her thighs, but he made no move to push her off. "You’re forgetting something, cupcake," he said, his tone casual, as if he weren’t pinned beneath her with blades at his throat. "You and your blues wouldn't come out of this place alive once I’m gone. You need me. My tech, my intel... me."
She understood all of that perfectly. She wasn't a fool, as her Father had been. No, she recognized raw potential and strategic advantage when it was pinned beneath her. But that hard truth didn't mean he needed to know the full extent of her restraint, that the killing blow wouldn't fall today.
Varang tilted her head, her smirk twisting into something darker, more feral. She giggled, the sound unnervingly playful. "Maybe," she purred, her tongue darting out to catch a drop of his blood where it trailed down his cheek. Oh, his heart would be delicious. "But as long as I taste your heart, I’d be satisfied."
Quaritch’s smile faltered for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he studied her. Then he leaned back against the bed, his hands still resting on her thighs, unbothered. "Come on, Varang," he said, almost placating. "I let you burn all those blues before. Isn’t that enough?"
Enough? As if anything would ever be enough for the hunger coiled deep inside Varang. No, she wasn't satisfied with the scraps Eywa deigned to provide. She wanted more, and more, and more. The fire, the fear, the dominion.
And now Neytiri was one of those things.
Varang’s eyes flashed, her tail flicking sharply behind her, "We should have burned that village," she snapped, her voice rising with each word. "And taken Neytiri. As you promised me."
Quaritch sighed, his shoulders lifting slightly in a shrug despite the blades still pressed against his neck. "I gave Sully my word as a marine to leave them alone," he said, his tone tinged with exasperation.
The word of a warrior. She had heard it before, wielded it herself like a blunt instrument to fool the weak, bleating children of Eywa who clung to such empty notions. The only rules she followed were her own. She expected Quaritch to be the same.
"You gave your word?" she drawled, the sound thick with visceral disgust, dragging the flat of her blade down his chest and pressing just hard enough to tease the threat of another cut. "To Jake Sully?"
Quaritch’s smirk didn’t waver. He shifted beneath her, a subtle roll of his hips and shoulders, his hands still resting possessively, insolently, on the curve of her thighs. His fingers flexed against her skin as if testing her patience. "A marine's word is his bond, baby. Even a wild thing like you gotta respect that."
Varang hissed, her grip tightening on the blades. "I respect nothing." She leaned down until their noses nearly touched, her breath hot against his lips. "Especially not when it costs me what I want."
Quaritch raised an eyebrow, "You’re really worked up over this, huh?"
She pressed the edge of her blade harder against his throat, watching the way his pulse jumped beneath the steel. "You promised me Neytiri," she snarled. "And instead, you let her walk away."
Promises were poison. Varang knew that better than most. She had believed Eywa would come for them, had believed with a child’s desperate faith that the Great Mother would shield her own and save her mother. She had believed mercy existed. She was wrong, and that mistake had carved itself into her bones, a lesson etched in blood. She had guaranteed she would never be wrong again. And yet here she was, steel against skin, staring into the eyes of another liar.
She should have known this sky man would disappoint her.
For a moment, they only stared at each other. The only sound was the frantic drumbeat of his pulse against her blade and the ragged pull of her own breath.
"You’re really gonna kill me over this?" Quaritch finally asked with scorn, gesturing between them, a jagged motion that made the blade kiss his throat harder. "Over her?"
Jealousy. Was it what she could see hidden beneath his words? Interesting.
Varang tilted her head, considering. "Maybe. Or maybe I’ll just remind you who you belong to."
Quaritch’s breath hitched, just slightly, but she caught it. His fingers dug into her thighs, his grip tightening. "Is that what this is? A fucking lesson?"
Varang’s smile turned feral. "Call it whatever you want."
She moved fast, flipping the blade in her hand and slamming the hilt against his temple, hard enough to stun, but not hard enough to knock him out. Quaritch growled, a raw animal sound ripped from his throat, his powerful body jerking violently beneath her weight. But she didn’t let him recover, didn't grant him a second.
In a quick move, she wrenched his arms above his head, pinning his wrists to the bed with one hand while the other brought her blade back to his throat.
"Listen carefully, sky man," she snarled, "You don’t make promises to me you won’t keep. You don’t defy me. And you never let what’s mine slip through your fingers again."
If he was to be her new general, her weapon, she had to carve this understanding into his bones, guarantee he knew his place in her clan’s brutal hierarchy.
Quaritch’s chest heaved, his pupils blown wide. Not from fear, but from something else. Something that made Varang’s excitement grow.
"Or what?" he challenged, the word rough, scraped raw. A dare.
She held back a laugh. Oh, this man amused her dangerously, a flicker of genuine delight that almost let her forget she would have to get rid of him at some point.
Varang leaned down, her lips brushing his ear. "Or I’ll remind you why you must fear me." She bit down on his earlobe, sharp enough to draw blood, then pulled back to watch his reaction.
Quaritch’s jaw clenched, his breath coming faster. "You’re a crazy bitch, aren't you?" he muttered.
Varang laughed, low and throaty. "You didn't complain when I made you scream a few days ago."
She released his wrists, sitting back just enough to admire the marks she’d left—the drying blood smeared on his cheekbone, the bite mark on his earlobe, the thin, raised red lines scoring his pectorals. Hers. Every inch of him bore the brutal signature of her claim.
"How about we do some more screaming then?" Quaritch smirked, his hands moving from her thighs to her hips.
Of course, he would want more of that. More of the exquisite torment. More of her.
Varang mirrored his smirk, leaning in until their noses brushed. "Oh, baby," she purred, mocking his word. "You will be the only one screaming tonight."
Quaritch’s smirk widened as she tossed her dual blades onto the bed beside them, the clatter of metal sharp in the tent's quiet. His hands trailed up her sides, rough and calloused, but Varang’s mind didn’t linger on his touch. Instead, it wandered far beyond the confines of this tent, beyond this man beneath her.
She imagined Neytiri’s hands. How they’d feel gripping her waist, clawing her back, the strength in them. She thought of Neytiri’s mouth, sharp teeth bared in a snarl, her lips pressed against Varang’s skin, leaving marks that would burn hotter, deeper, truer than any flame.
The thought sent a wave of heat through her, her tail flicking sharply behind her.
Quaritch’s hands moved higher, his fingers brushing the curve of her neck. Varang leaned into it at the same time her hand shot out, grabbing his throat with sudden force, her own teeth finding the corded muscle at the side of his neck. She bit down hard, a brutal punctuation, letting him feel the pressure of her need, but her focus remained distant, her mind consumed by the thought of Neytiri.
She’d take Quaritch’s desperation.
For now.
She’d let him satisfy her, distract her, until the moment she could claim what she truly wanted.
Varang woke to the cold press of metal against her throat and the hissed command, “Make no sound, witch.”
Her eyes snapped open, and for a moment, she didn’t recognize the figure leaning over her. Then the dim light of the tent caught the sharp angles of the woman's face, and Varang’s breath caught. She wore her painting, the stripes of black and red stark against her blue skin, and Varang was struck by how breathtakingly fierce she looked. The paints accentuated the sharpness of her jaw, the intensity of her golden eyes, and the defiance etched into every line of her expression.
Varang’s lips twitched into a slow, almost reverent smile. “You came for me,” she purred, low and husky, despite the blade at her throat.
Neytiri’s eyes narrowed, her grip tightening on the knife. “Where’s Jake Sully?”
The words sliced through Varang’s brief elation like a blade. She almost rolled her eyes, a flicker of annoyance sparking in her chest. Of course, Neytiri wasn’t here for her. She wasn’t here to face Varang, to challenge her, to burn with her. She was here for her husband.
Always her husband.
Varang’s smile turned cold, her tongue clicking in mock disappointment. “The wife. Loyal to her man.” She couldn’t keep the sneer back, the jealousy coiling tight in her stomach.
Neytiri’s blade pressed harder against Varang’s throat, a thin line of warmth trickling down her skin. “Speak, or I cut.”
Varang met her gaze, her golden eyes gleaming with defiance. She saw the truth in Neytiri’s eyes—she would do it. She would cut her without hesitation. So Varang moved fast, twisting her body and ducking low, her hand flashing up to knock the blade away from her throat. She surged to her feet, but Neytiri was faster, rising to the challenge.
Before Varang could react, Neytiri grabbed her kuru, and wrapped her blade around it. The shock of it froze Varang in place, her breath hitching.
“Where?” Neytiri snarled, tilting her head. “I will not ask again.”
Varang’s lips peeled back in a silent snarl, her tail flicking sharply behind her. She narrowed her eyes, weighing her options. Would Neytiri actually cut her kuru? The weaklings of Eywa didn’t have the courage for such brutality, but Neytiri had already proven she wasn’t like the others.
Still, Varang hissed.
Neytiri tugged her kuru sharply, and Varang's body tensed as a spark of panic cut through her. The blade pressed harder, and Varang felt the edge of it dig into the sensitive flesh. Her heart raced, the vulnerability of her position hitting her like a punch to the gut. She hated it, hated how it made her feel like that scared child again, surrounded by flames, powerless as they engulfed her mother.
“No, no, wait,” Varang said quickly, her voice strained as she raised her hands in a gesture of appeasement. “Pass the camp… a cage for an animal.” She couldn’t stop herself from huffing, her pride stinging at the admission.
Neytiri’s eyes narrowed, her grip tightening on Varang’s kuru, "Take me there." She jerked her head to the tent's back. "Move. Which way?"
Varang started to move, her body tense with anticipation, when Quaritch’s voice sliced through the tent. “Hey, sugar, you’re missing the—”
Neytiri’s head snapped toward the entrance, her grip faltering for the briefest moment. Varang didn’t hesitate. She twisted sharply, yanking her kuru free from Neytiri’s grasp and lunging for her dual blades. The cold metal slid into her hands with familiar ease, and she hissed, her golden eyes locking onto Neytiri’s.
The other woman hissed back, her lips peeling away from her teeth, her own blade gleaming in the dim light. Varang’s tail flicked sharply behind her, her chest rising and falling with the thrill of the moment. Finally. Finally. She would have her trial of fire.
But then Quaritch stepped into the tent, his towering frame filling the entrance. Neytiri’s eyes widened, and with a snarl, she spun on her heel and bolted, slipping through the tent flaps with the speed of a shadow.
“Was that…” Quaritch started, gesturing toward where Neytiri had disappeared, his brow furrowed in confusion.
Varang didn’t let him finish. “You idiot!” she hissed and shoved past him, taking her dual blades with her.
The camp was alive with activity, warriors moving about, commemorating their victory. Varang’s sharp eyes immediately caught sight of Neytiri, already sprinting toward the edge of the camp.
"Mangkwan!" Varang raised her hand, pointing at the fleeing figure with a sharp gesture. “I want her! Alive! She is meant for a trial of fire!”
Her warriors looked at her in shock, then screamed in excitement. They moved swiftly, trying to stop her, but Neytiri took them down with ease and leapt onto her Ikran. Beautiful. The creature’s wings unfurled with a powerful snap as it launched into the sky. Varang hissed, her fingers flexing as she watched Neytiri slip away once more.
She spun on her heel to Quaritch, who had followed her out of the tent. “She came for your Jake Sully,” Varang spat, “Give me her alive.”
Without waiting for a response, she strode toward her Nightwraith, the creature’s glowing eyes meeting hers as it crouched low, ready for flight. Varang mounted it smoothly, her grip tightening on the reins as she snatched a fire gun from the weapons rack. The weight of it felt right in her hands, the familiar hum of power coursing through her veins.
She urged her Nightwraith into the sky, the creature’s wings beating against the air as it rose with a guttural screech. Varang would claim what was hers this time, and no one, not Quaritch, not the sky people, not Jake Sully, would stop her.
This night, she would take a child of Eywa for herself. One way or another.
Hey, dear readers! So, this is a new kind of story for me, so I don't know whether I should write more, or not. Please, if you enjoyed this, tell me in the comments what you think of it, what you would like to happen, your favorite parts, and if you would like more. I'll take every opinion in consideration, promise.