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Jake watched the fire burn low before he spoke.
“Lo’ak,” he said quietly. “Come walk with me.”
Lo’ak stiffened at the sound of his name— just as he had been, lately—but he didn’t argue. He followed his father away from the glow of the Metkayina fires, down a narrow path that led toward the water. The night air was cool, carrying the soft breath of the sea and the distant calls of creatures settling into sleep. Eywa felt close here. Jake felt her everywhere now.
They walked in silence for a while. Jake didn’t rush it. He’d learned, painfully, that words mattered more when they were given room to breathe. Finally, he stopped near the edge of the shore. The water reflected the stars like broken pieces of light.
“I didn’t bring you out here to scold you,” Jake paused, “or give orders.”
Lo’ak shifted his weight, eyes fixed on the horizon. Jake exhaled slowly. His chest felt tight, and it had for months now, ever since the world had cracked open and swallowed one of his sons whole.
“I should’ve talked to you sooner,” he sighed, “and I owe you the truth.”
That got Lo’ak’s attention. He looked up, confusion flickering across his face. Jake turned toward him. In the dim light, Lo’ak looked so much like Neteyam that the sight nearly knocked the breath out of him. Same strong lines, same dark eyes. Just a different fire burning behind them. Wilder. Apprehensive. Restless.
“I keep thinking,” Jake said quietly, “that if I’d said the right thing earlier… maybe none of this would hurt so much.”
Lo’ak swallowed. “You mean…Neteyam.”
Jake nodded.
The name still felt like a blade. “Yeah. I mean your brother.”
They stood there, grief settling between them like a living thing. Lo’ak’s jaw clenched, his shoulders drawn tight as if he were bracing for impact.
“I know you blame me,” Lo’ak said finally, voice rough. “Everyone does.”
Jake’s heart twisted. “No, Lo’ak. That’s not true.”
“It feels true,” Lo’ak shot back. “Every single time you look at me, that's what I see.”
Jake closed his eyes for a moment and quietly inhaled. When he opened them again, his gaze was steady, but his eyes felt damp.
“That’s what I need to talk about,” he said. “Why I look at you the way I do. Why I’m so hard on you.”
He gestured for Lo’ak to sit. After a beat, Lo’ak reluctantly lowered himself onto a smooth stone near the water’s edge. Jake sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touched.
“When I was human,” Jake began, “before Pandora… before any of this… I had a twin brother.”
Lo’ak turned sharply. “A twin?”
Jake nodded. “Identical. Same face. Same DNA. Same body, in a way.”
He stared out at the water, and for a second he saw himself on Earth again. Flat on his back in some filthy puddle, the world turned gray and uncaring. Hard to believe that man was ever him.
“Tom was everything I wasn’t,” Jake continued. “Smart. Careful. The golden child. He was the one chosen for the Avatar program. Not me.”
Lo’ak listened silently now, eyes wide.
“When he was killed,” Jake said, voice tightening, “they came to me. Told me I could take his place. Use the body that was grown for him.”
He let out a bitter breath. “You know what my first thought was?”
Lo’ak shook his head.
“I wished it had been me instead,” Jake said. “I wished I’d died so Tom could live.”
Lo’ak’s breath hitched.
“I didn’t say that out loud back then,” Jake went on. “But it lived inside me. Ate at me. I was angry–resentful. At myself, at the world. I felt like I was walking around in a body that didn’t belong to me, carrying a life that should’ve been his.”
Jake finally looked at his son. “That kind of grief… it doesn’t go away. It changes you.”
“When I look at you,” Jake continued, “I don’t just see my son. I see myself before I learned the cost of recklessness. Before I understood how fast someone can be taken from you.”
His hands curled into fists. “And every time you ran toward danger, every time you ignored orders, it felt like watching myself all over again. And I was terrified.”
Jake’s eyes glimmered, reflections of the waves moving across them.
Lo’ak looked down at his hands. They were trembling.
“You trusted Neteyam more,” he said. Not accusing. Just stating.
Jake’s chest tightened. “I leaned on him,” he admitted. “Because he reminded me of who I wanted to be—steady, responsible. I put too much weight on him.”
He swallowed hard. “And now he’s….”
Jake’s gaze drifted to the water again. The tide was low, the edge uneven, broken. He paused, letting the silence stretch as he gathered the courage to say what came next.
“There was a time after Tom died,” he said slowly, “when I didn’t care much whether I woke up the next morning.”
Lo’ak’s breath caught, just slightly.
“I wasn’t brave enough to admit that to myself back then,” Jake continued. “Didn’t think I was allowed to feel that way. I told myself it was just anger. Just grief.” He shook his head. “But really, I just didn’t want to be there anymore. Not like I was.”
He glanced at Lo’ak then, not sharply, not accusingly, just… seeing.
“That’s a dangerous place to stand,” Jake said quietly. “When you start believing the world would keep spinning just fine without you in it.”
Lo’ak felt his chest tighten. He didn’t speak. He wasn’t sure he could.
Jake didn’t push.
“I pulled myself back,” Jake said. “Not because I stopped hurting, but because someone needed me. Your mother needed me. The Omatikaya needed me. My family needed me. And because, eventually, I realized that wanting the pain gone isn’t the same thing as…” he paused, “as wanting to be gone.”
Lo’ak stared at the water. He thought about how quiet everything looked from far away. How tempting it was to imagine slipping out of the noise, the expectations, the constant feeling of being a mistake, of being the wrong son left behind.
“I think,” Lo’ak said finally, choosing his words with care, “that sometimes people just want the hurting to stop.”
Jake smiled subtly, knowingly. “Yeah. That’s exactly it.”
Their eyes met, and something passed between them—unspoken, understood.
Jake’s voice softened. “If you ever find yourself standing too close to that edge, son… you don’t do it alone. You hear me?”
Lo’ak swallowed and nodded once. “Yea, I hear you.”
Jake rested a hand on the back of his neck, grounding, steady. “Good. Because losing Neteyam damn near broke me.”
His hand tightened, just a little. “Losing you would finish the job.”
Lo’ak spoke suddenly, voice wavering. “I tried to help. I really did.”
“I know,” Jake said immediately. “I know that.”
“Then why does it feel like I’m still failing?” Lo’ak demanded, tears starting to spill over. “No matter what I do, it’s never enough. He was better. He always will be.”
“Listen to me,” Jake said firmly. “Neteyam was not better. He was different.”
Lo’ak shook his head. “He listened. He followed you.”
“And you question me,” Jake said. “You push back. You take risks. And yeah, that scares the hell out of me. But it also means you see things I don’t.”
He leaned toward Lo’ak, making sure his son saw the truth in his eyes. “You’re not a replacement for your brother. And you’re not a mistake.”
Tears slid down Jake’s face, unhidden. “I just…miss my sons.”
Lo’ak broke then. He leaned forward, shoulders shaking, and Jake pulled him into his arms without hesitation. The boy clung to him like he was afraid he might disappear too.
“I miss him,” Lo’ak sobbed. “Every day.”
“I know,” Jake murmured, holding him tight. “So do I.”
They stayed like that for a long time, the sound of the waves wrapping around them, Eywa listening. It was the moment neither of them had been able to reach until now, the one they both desperately needed.
When Lo’ak finally pulled back, his voice was quieter, steadier. “What do we do now?”
Jake wiped his face. “We remember him. We learn from him. And we stop letting his death turn us against each other.”
He met Lo’ak’s eyes. “I’m still going to push you. I’m still going to expect more from you.”
Lo’ak huffed weakly. “Figures.”
“But I’m going to try,” Jake continued, “to see you for who you are. Not who I’m afraid you’ll become.”
Lo’ak nodded slowly.
Jake stood and offered his hand. Lo’ak took it, rising to his feet.
As they walked back toward the lights of home, Jake felt something unfamiliar settle in his chest. It wasn’t peace, not yet, but the fragile beginning of it. Grief didn’t vanish. It wove itself into the story of who you became. But for the first time since Neteyam’s death, Jake felt like he and his son could finally carry that weight together.