Chapter Text
Back when you were children, when sparring still felt like a game and not a measure of worth, you were the one who had tugged at Neteyam’s arm and asked if he would fight you. You had been smaller then, quicker, too proud to be cautious.
You still remembered the way he blinked in surprise, the way he laughed like he thought you were joking before realising you weren’t. He had agreed anyway then, indulgent and curious, as if humoring a younger sibling rather than meeting a challenge.
And you lost, of course. As you always did.
But you were not reckless like Lo’ak, nor careful in the way the others were. You watched. You adapted. Where most fighters tried to match his force, you slipped around it, testing angles, pushing at gaps he did not expect someone your size to see. It unsettled him, just slightly. Not enough to threaten him, but enough to linger in his thoughts longer than it should have.
And from Neteyam’s side? You had never been forgettable.
As you grew older, you and Lo’ak shared a rivalry with him that felt half serious, half sport. Neteyam was jokingly cocky about it, despite his respectable demeanour. He was loud with his victories against you two, never missing a chance to remind you both that you were still behind him. It was frustrating, sometimes humiliating, but also funny in a way that only familiarity could make it.
But at some point, the pattern broke.
It wasn’t announced. There was no single fight Neteyam could point to and say this is where it changed. Just a slow, almost imperceptible tilt.
Neteyam noticed it first in the silences. In the way you stopped meeting his eyes before a match. In the way your movements went slightly out of tempo, like your mind was arriving half a breath too late to your body. You began to avoid him when you could, choosing different partners, lingering at the edge of the training grounds until Jake reassigned you anyway. The warrior stopped laughing as quickly when you challenged him. Stopped boasting when he won. And before you two knew it, the space between you two during spars grew tighter despite the widening chasm both of you refused to name.
“You know,” Lo’ak said casually once, leaning back against his hammock post with one leg hanging over the edge with eyes unfocused as if he were daydreaming. “Spider and I talk about you and Neteyam sometimes.”
You stiffened, just barely, the reaction small enough that you could pretend it was nothing at all. The page of the comic you were reading rustled under your fingers as you turned it, eyes skimming words you were no longer reading. Lo’ak let the words hang, tilting his head just enough to catch your reaction as his fingers drummed lazily against the wooden frame, like he had all the time in the world.
Spider, meanwhile, was fully absorbed in a crate of scavenged tools, clicking something open and shut with way too much enthusiasm.
“Talk about what?” you asked, voice flat.
“How you’re always at each other’s throats,” he replied. “Not just when you’re training. It’s like…” Lo’ak hummed, thinking it over. “It’s like… emotional too,” he added, squinting at you now, like he was trying to line up pieces that did not belong together.
You shut the book a little harder than necessary. Outdated. “We train.”
“Yeah,” Lo’ak said. “Angrily.”
Spider snorted. “With feelings.”
“There are no feelings!” you snapped.
“Relax, relax,” Lo’ak said, holding up his hands. “We just think it means something else is going on.”
Their teasing flattened it into something simpler, something almost trivial, when to you it felt like watching a familiar shoreline recede, knowing you were losing it and being unable to say why. You swallowed it down anyway. Let them think it was loud, messy, emotional. Let them believe it meant something was beginning, not ending. It was easier than explaining the dull ache that came with every avoided glance, every careful step back. Easier than admitting that whatever had shifted between you and Neteyam wasn’t growing sharper, but thinner, stretched until it hurt to touch at all.
You exhaled through your nose, feigning to be sharp through your disbelief. “You two talk too much.”
Spider glanced toward the tent opening, then back at you. “For what it’s worth,” he said lightly, “Neteyam’s a great guy.”
Lo’ak made an exaggerated gagging sound, “Okay, cut the glaze.”
Laughter and teasing drifted around you like wind through the trees, but somewhere beneath it, a quiet ache pulsed that was soft, insistent. You realized then that some truths were like shadows: shifting, unavoidable, and impossible to touch without wincing.
The night wrapped the camp in a warm, gentle hush. The air was soft with the scent of earth and distant smoke, carrying the faint sweetness of night-blooming flowers. Leaves whispered overhead in the slow stir of a breeze, and fireflies blinked lazily among the shadows.
Lo’ak and Spider’s voices blurred, words dissolving and thinning into echoes, until only Spider’s words remained, repeating themselves like a refrain you could not silence.
Neteyam’s a great guy.
Your body twisted and turned against the invisible weight of the night, restless and tight, each shift in position bringing only the faintest relief. Every sound — the rustle of leaves, the distant crackle of fire, the soft sigh of the breeze — seemed sharper, closer, keeping sleep just out of reach.
You wanted to scream.
It didn’t help that earlier in the day, Neteyam had noticed your bruise during training.
Your wrist turned as you reached for your bow, the motion familiar enough that his eyes should have slid past it, but they did not. It was already fading, yellowed at the edges, older than last night, older than this morning’s drills.
His gaze flitted to the empty mat beside him, to the dust still clinging to the training floor. Nothing seemed out of place. Sparring had been clean. No falls. No hard contact.
“Strange,” Neteyam gripped your forearm and pulled you half a step back, earning several yelps from you to let go of his grip. “I thought you rested last week. That’s a first.”
“Yeah, well,” You yanked yourself away before dusting yourself off, even though there was barely any dirt on you to begin with. You snapped your head lightly, as if cracking some imaginary joint bubble. “Everybody has firsts.”
You tried to walk ahead of him then, but he grabbed your wrist again, earning a sigh from you as you turned back around slowly to look at him expectantly. He stayed firm on his feet where he was, his gaze lingering on the purple which housed itself on your ribcage.
Yet the other day, a large and deep cut found itself gracing your bottom lip, dried blood blooming around it.
It appeared one morning when just the day before your face had been unmarked, barely any imperfection at all, as Neteyam would have put it. When he saw it, his hand lifted instinctively, without permission, cupping your jaw as his thumb brushed the edge of your lip.
Too clean, too fresh… He thought.
Confusion flickered across your features at the sudden proximity, the way his presence seemed to fold into yours without warning. Your breath caught only for a mere moment, before your eyes dropped down and followed the line of his attention. Only then did you realize what he had been looking at. You yanked his hand away in one sharp motion, breaking the contact as if it burned.
“You know,” Neteyam said carefully, his hand falling back to his side. “As your training partner, I deserve to at least know what’s been getting you—”
“—Am I not allowed to get a few cuts here once in a while? I’m not a delicate syulang (flower).”
The word partner was deliberate. Not rank. Not authority.
The one thing he was allowed to be to you without overstepping. The one thing he started to become to you, the only thing.
You could not let yourself lean into it.
You straightened your stance quickly, forcing ease into your as you squared back up. He came at you slower this time, watching rather than pressing. You blocked the first strike, clean enough. The second cost you more than it should have.
But by the third, your breath betrayed you, shallow and uneven, chest lifting too fast.
It happened without ceremony. A turn you had done a hundred times before, muscle memory carrying you forward until it suddenly didn’t. The movement snagged halfway through, pain flaring so fast it stole the breath from your chest that you fell hunched over on your knees. You barely moved at all as you caught yourself on your palms, yet agonising sounds slipped out of you anyway. Low. Uncontrolled.
Honest in a way you had been avoiding.
You felt his attention before you saw it, the way the space between you shifted.
“You rested,” he said, quiet. “Four days.”
“I know.”
His next move was not an attack. Neteyam stepped in close and reached, eyes dropping to where your posture had betrayed you. “Let me see.”
Before he could lift the edge of your gear, before his hand could press or probe or confirm whatever his instincts had already begun to suspect, you caught his wrist.
Your grip was firm. Immediate.
“Don’t.”
The word came out sharper than you intended. Too fast. Too final.
Neteyam looked down at where your fingers held him in place, then back up at your face. Something shifted there. Seriousness giving way to something more focused. More concerned.
“You’re hurt,” he said.
Slowly, you lifted your head.
Your eyes met his.
For a moment, he didn’t look away. His eyes lingered on your face, searching, unguarded, as if trying to find something he had lost or never had. The weight of his attention pressed gently against your chest, warm but unreachable, and for a fleeting heartbeat, you almost believed it could stay.
Then the shadow passed. Something closed off behind his eyes, a wall sliding into place. His jaw set, resolve hardening where concern had been, and the quiet between you grew heavier.
“That’s enough for today,” he said, voice even, distant, a line drawn in the space between you. “Go rest.”
You opened your mouth, unsure whether to speak or to let the silence swallow you whole, but he was already stepping back, turning as if the moment had never existed. As if helping you had been instinct and showing care a luxury he could not afford.
You lingered a second longer, body aching, chest tight with a longing you could not name. The air smelled of dust and sweat, the fading light casting long, restless shadows across the training ground. For a fleeting moment, you wondered, was this all there would ever be between you? This careful distance, this quiet restraint?
Your feet moved slowly, reluctantly, carrying you away. Behind you, the training ground exhaled its quiet.
He did not look back.
The ravine opens to you like a familiar wound, narrow and shadowed, the stone cool beneath your palms as you descend. You count your steps automatically. Twenty-seven to the bend. Five more to the overhang. Left foot first. Always left. The world narrows to angles and sound, to breath and timing.
Behind you, you sense them fall into place. Not by sight, but by absence. No snapped branches. No uneven footfalls. Good.
You signal once. Two fingers. Down.
The forest swallows you whole.
This is where you excel. Where the noise of the clan fades and your thoughts sharpen. You feel lighter here, unburdened by questions you refuse to answer. Out here, you are not someone’s responsibility.
You are not being watched.
At least, that is what you tell yourself.
You pause at the ridge, exactly where the map said you would. The valley below lies still, too still, but the scanners show nothing unusual. No patrols. No heat signatures. The kind of quiet that usually means safety.
Neteyam’s a good guy.
You sprint faster, letting the wind whip your hair into your eyes, burning them, making it impossible to think about anything else.
You’re hurt.
You don’t slow. You refuse to. Thoughts swirl, unbidden, clawing at your mind, and you push them down.
I’m not a delicate syulang (flower).
Branches whip past your face as you cannonball-dove into the riverine, water cold and unforgiving just like your mind. And for a moment, beneath the surface, the world felt like it slowed. The rush of the stream became muffled and the wind and forest noises reduced to a distant hum. Thoughts that had clawed at you vanished, leaving only the steady pulse of water around you and the rhythm of your own heartbeat.
Then you broke the surface, gasping for air, lungs burning, eyes stinging. The current tugged at you, relentless, but your grip on the rocks steadied you as you pushed forward, slicing through the water toward the far bank. Every stroke was a defiance, every breath a reminder that you were still here, still moving, still refusing to be caught.
Finally, you reached the far bank, drenched and shivering, but alive. You hauled yourself onto solid ground, peeling away stubborn vines that had latched onto your arms and legs, each tug leaving a sting.
Then you froze.
Tracks.
Footsteps that shouldn’t have been there, too deliberate, too measured, stamped themselves on the undergrowth, winding between mossy trunks and tangled roots, leading deeper into the forest.
Your stomach dropped. Sky people.
Instinct took over. You sank low behind a thick fallen tree trunk, branches scratching at your arms as you crouched, barely daring to breathe. Your ears strained, catching every shift of leaves, every muffled footfall. And then you heard them, their voices carrying through the damp air, low but unmistakable.
“You think they remember their fallen soldiers?”
“Of course they do, knowing how spiritual they are. They’re Na’vi!”
“Hmm..” The man pulls out a clear glass. You learned from the comics that it operated almost like a device, flashing illuminations like what they call a ‘TV’. “Do you think they remember this guy?”
You squinted at the screen, unmirrored and angled toward you. At first, it was just shapes, colors, movements that didn’t make sense. Then your eyes locked onto the unmistakable forms of the Na’vi, their bodies familiar and alien all at once.
And then the name.
Your father.
The words seemed to echo in the hollow space behind your eyes, reverberating through your chest. “Nine years ago. Almost as old as my kid.”
What were the chances?
Then came the words that stole your breath entirely. “Status: Experimented.”
What?
Time seemed to slow and your stomach pitched, a sharp twist that made your knees threaten to buckle. Memories, half-remembered stories, everything you thought you knew about him. All of it collided in a blur of disbelief and fear. Trembling hands, the air around you felt suddenly too heavy to breathe. The forest noises, the distant calls of birds, even the rushing water from earlier — all of it faded, leaving only the cold, clinical reality staring back at you.
Experimented.
Unwarrentedly, your foot landed on a branch with a sharp snap and the sound ricocheted through the forest, and your stomach lurched. Your chest tightened, throat dry, and for a fraction of a second, you froze, calculating your next move.
Run.
You shoved off the ground, flinging yourself forward before your mind could catch up. Legs pumped, arms slicing through branches, mud spraying under your feet.
Tears burned behind your eyes and you pressed your face to your palms, trying to swallow down the sobs that clawed up your throat. But, the dam broke and knees gave way. Once you were far enough, you collapsed onto the ground, body wracked with crying that shook through you like a storm. Even with your hand over your mouth, the sound came out in choked, ragged bursts as forest wrapped around you like a silent witness.
One year later…
Neteyam dragged his knife along the whetstone with steady, deliberate strokes, its sound controlled and calm. The blade didn’t need sharpening, but he did it anyway, a quiet ritual to clear his swirling thoughts.
Communal dinner at High Camp was always the same kind of beautiful. Voices carried warmth. The night was filled with the scent of smoke, cooked fish, and the comforting aroma of home. Laughter threaded easily through the firelight, rising and falling like breath.
Yet, Neteyam sat amidst it all, feeling none of it truly settle.
Across the fire, his family was close, lively. Tuk leaned into Lo’ak, whispering something cheeky that made him snort with amusement. Kiri sat between Spider and Neytiri, her hands sticky with fruit, her smile so wide it was almost painful to look at.
They were all here.
Except you.
It felt wrong tonight.
A shadow crossed his hands, interrupting his thoughts.
“Hey Neteyam.”
He looked up, and for a brief, moment, he thought it might have been you.
It wasn’t.
Instead, a Na’vi girl stood before him, close enough that he could detect the subtle sweetness of the oil in her hair. Her posture was relaxed yet purposeful, her weight slightly shifted forward as if used to being greeted warmly. Neteyam instinctively mirrored the gesture, a reflex ingrained from youth and repeated countless times.
Yet, it faltered, crumbling under the sharp realisation that he was smiling, at the wrong person, at the wrong moment, for all the wrong reasons.
"Hey," he offered, voice tentative.
“Would you like to…”
Movement, sudden and off-beat, caught the corner of his eye in the background in an instant.
A warrior urged through flickering flames, one hand clutched against their side, each step a frantic dance. Dark crimson coursed between their fingers, splattering onto the ground behind them, marking their chaotic escape.
Blood.
You.
The whetstone fell from Neteyam’s hand and cracked against the stone floor. Someone called his name. But Neteyam was already on his feet, heart slamming so hard it drowned everything else.
Feet stumbled over uneven ground, but he didn’t care.
All that mattered was you.
“[Y/N]!” His voice cut through the firelight, ragged and urgent. He crossed the distance in long, precise strides, every muscle coiled, every instinct firing. You looked at him, eyes swimming in and out of focus, lips parted, breath uneven.
Then, you crumpled, knees hitting the ground hard. Hands grabbed at you, voices shouted your name, the scent of smoke and sweat and blood hitting him all at once.
“Shit.” Neteyam shoved through the crowd, arms parting bodies like water. Finally, Neteyam reached you and knelt down, hands sliding under your body and knees instinctively. Then, he lifted you, cradling you against his chest, bridal style. Your weight was frighteningly light, like you were already half gone.
“Is anyone with you? Did anyone follow you?”
“No…”
His hands shook slightly as he adjusted his hold, tilting you against him so your head rested against his shoulder. He blinked fast, trying to swallow the sting in his eyes. But you kept slipping, words spilling in murmurs. “I’m… sorry… I’m sorry…”