Chapter Text
It's not until the third day that it hits him. Everything was happening so fast after... well.
So, it's not until the third day.
The first: treating the wounded and getting ready for the burial.
The second, the second day was goodbye. Numb, still, letting go of his brother's cold body and watching it slowly sink to the bottom of the ocean. Not feeling the searing pain anymore and not even trying to.
And on the third? The dread came accompanied by a dead, dreamless sleep shattered when Lo'ak woke up drenched in sweat and shaking from the worst nightterror he ever experienced in his life.
He did not close his eyes for a week after that. Would have gone longer, if his body could have held itself together for more.
---
Everyone went to the tree on the fifth day, except for Lo'ak. He refused to, found the excuse of cleaning out one of the ships, searching for weapons they could use in case of another attack.
Speaking, did not yet come back, but to move his body, to follow orders framed as instructions, that much he could do.
It was a soulless job for a soulless boy. Exactly what he needed.
It wasn't till Jake insisted on joining the group Lo'ak worked in that the false sense of numbness and safety started to crack.
---
"Hold the door open for me, will you?" Dad says, and Lo'ak pushes with his entire bodyweight against the cold metal. The doors jagged edge is digging into his side, pressing against delicate skin. He pushes more, widening the gap so his dad can fit through, desperately trying not to think about another time his dad had to squeeze through a narrow space while nearly drowning.
"—’ak? Lo’ak!"
"Huh?" He shakes his head, making his surrounding come into focus again, seeing, which feels like the first time in weeks, his dad's frowning face.
"What's wrong?" Dad asks, but why would anything be wrong? Lo'ak doesn't answer, because he doesn't know how.
They work in silence after that, digging through anything and everything they come across, trying to spare anything that could be useful. Lo'ak tries not to look too closely at what ends up in his hands, and just passes everything over to dad, trusting that he'll take care of whatever it is.
"Okay. That's enough for today, everyone," Tonowari shouts from the reef, signalling for everyone to start getting back to the village and call it a night.
All Lo'ak has heard from Tsireya, Ao'nung and even Ronal these past week was to take it easy and allow himself to rest even when that feels like the harder option. But, like always, Lo'ak looks to his Dad for guidance first and foremost. And as long as his father can do the work without showing any sign of weakness he can too.
---
They're going to the tree again. It's Kiri that lets him know. He nods when she asks him to go with her. He doesn't have to think about it, just a single look at her eyes welling up with tears is enough for him to agree.
She cannot connect to the tree, Lo'ak stupidly remembers, only when they're already at the sacred sight. She squeezes his hand, maybe waiting for him to disconnect from his Ilu and just go. Go to him.
He doesn't know how much longer he just stares ahead of himself before finally sliding off, and starting to swim down down down.
Dad is to his left, he can see him from the corner of his eye. Mom could be at the tree already. Lo'ak didn't see her, hear her.
She's been the most quiet out of all of them, and Lo'ak should probably be worried about that. If he could be, he would.
It's just that worrying requires his mind and his soul to work together, but, as it is, Lo'ak can access neither.
---
The tree was a mistake. Seeing him was a mistake.
Lo'ak can barely manage to get back on his Ilu, even with the help of Kiri and Spider.
When they finally get back to their mauri, he can't stand up, can't take the few steps he'd need to get to his sleeping hammock.
Dad has to half-carry him inside, has to lay him down gently and tug him in like he's 3 years old again. When he doesn't even feel a smidge of embarrassment at that, that's when he knows.
He knows that this is it. That this is how he'll be now. How everything will be. Forever and ever for the rest of his life on Eywa'eveng.
He wonders, suddenly what his dad's star looks like right now in this miserable moment. Whether men and women with guns and weapons, greed and pointless revenge keep on living and breathing on that cursed planet or whether they've all suffocated in their poison already.
He thinks it should be over by now. He thinks—what happened to me should never happen to anyone. What I had to feel, noone should have to feel.
And so on the seventh day, he cries. Finally, he cries.
---
It's been a few weeks and he hasn't said more than a couple of words, scrambled half-sentences.
He knows that it's not okay. That his parents worry. That Kiri and Spider worry.
And he tries, for them, to be better. To participate more, if not with words than with actions. Tries to help more with food, and sustaining their space, but it's not. It's just not enough?
It doesn't feel enough, but then, how could it.
When there is only one there'll never be two once more.
And he knows that. He knows that.
---
It starts because of something stupid. Lo'ak being with Payakan for an entire day, not letting anyone know when he'll be back.
He was trying to think of ways to integrate Payakan back into the clan, and maybe also trying to work out a way for the Tulkun to forgive his soul brother and to see things his way.
Lo'ak comes home furious that day, after the council meeting, angry at the Metkayina for their short-sightedness, for exiling Payakan and unwilling to change their perspective.
He never expected dad or mom to stand up for him, but the sting still hurts, even if just softly, pushing against the numbness that's been sitting on his body.
---
Lo'ak knows dad regrets what he said the moment he said it. He knows, can see it on his face, can read him like an open book.
But still, a swirling rage, begins to boil and boil and, surprising himself the most, finally erupts.
"That's not my fault," a scream tears out of him as he shoves dad, hard.
itsnotmyfaultitsnotmyfault
He's trying to prove something but he doesn't know to whom. Himself, dad or maybe Neteyam? Either way it's no good. There's nothing left to prove.
Oh but it is.
It is my fault.
myfaultmyfaultmyfault
---
Dad says nothing, after. And that's fine. Lo'ak didn't except him to say anything so it doesn't really hurt.
Nothing hurts.
And so, nothing will ever hurt again, because. Because Lo'ak can't be hurting anymore. He just can't.
---
He doesn't remember how he ends up on that shore.
He feels heaving sobs rocking his body, he feels the liquid that streams down his face. He feels his palms starting to sweat and he feels his trembling fingers adjusting the gun right beneath his jaw, so it's just right, just where it should be.
His shaky breaths rattle the beads in his hair, the sound tinkling, a small reminder of light in the darkest night of Lo'ak's life.
He closes his eyes and he doesn't think. Just disconnects as two tswins forced apart.
There's only one thing in his mind. Barely a thought.
It's over.
The nightmare's finally over.