Chapter Text
“There was a boy with them.”
“A boy?”
Tonowari shifts his eyes from the moving bodies of the Ta’unui approaching his village to the figures sitting in his family’s mauri, to the faces of a fellow Olo’eyktan and the Tsahìk, thankfully unharmed after their encounter with the Sky Demons.
Their people had been slowly evacuating the area after realizing very little could be done to salvage their homes. Everything had been burned to ash. With no shelter and unsure of what it was they were dealing with, Tonowari had agreed that, even though safety would not be guaranteed, it would at least give the semblance of security they all desperately needed.
Rola, Tsahìk of the Ta’unui, recounts the atrocities committed against her people with a heavy heart. When she mentions the boy, though, her eyes show conflict — a clash of emotions over something Tonowari is not yet privy to.
“A sky walker, but he was… strange. He spoke our language, and he dressed like us.” An alarming description, completely unheard of, and yet not entirely foreign. The Metkayina chief shares a look with his wife, concern folding in his stomach as he remembers the boy the Sully children would often speak of. A brother from another species “If I closed my eyes, I’d believe he was but another of our children.”
Ronal hisses at the thought, sharply shaking her head.
“What a thing to say.”
But Rola, balanced in ways Tonowari had always admired, shakes her head as well. Whatever turmoil had been in her eyes seems to settle, a sign that she has reached a conclusion. Whatever it is, it is obvious to everyone that it weighs heavily on her heart. After a moment, she nods resolutely, raising her head to meet their eyes.
“He saved us.”
This time it isn’t only Ronal who hisses. Tonowari does it involuntarily, confused by her statement rather than indignant, but most of those around them do so in anger. Even her husband, who is known for rarely finding himself in disagreement with his mate, bares his teeth in defiance at the idea. Yet the Olo’eyktan of the Ta’unui does nothing to contradict her. It is with an even deeper sense of confusion that Tonowari notes how, after a moment, he nods along with her words.
Ronal is not afraid to voice her displeasure, employing arguments that she hopes will rectify her fellow Tsahìk’s seemingly confused stance.
“They killed our people. They destroyed your home!”
Slowly, Rola nods. Once, twice, three times.
“Yes, they wanted our lives,” she says with great sorrow, hands balled in her garments. Tonowari wants to step in and take the conversation in another direction, to steady their thoughts away from these horrible memories. But Rola proves once more the strength that pulled her through dark times, making eye contact with all present. “We are still breathing because of the boy. He convinced the demons not to kill us. He kept apologizing, even though it was not in his power to do anything. But he kept trying.” Her words leave them speechless, unsure of what to think or say. In her disbelief, Ronal seems to be at a loss for words.
Then Rola’s eyes, glassy as they are, stare momentarily into the distance. “I would like to see him again, if Eywa allows it.”
—Eywa allows it.
The boy comes to their village covered in blue paint and war markings, a mask over his face.
Rola is happy to see him, even happier to express her thanks. He apologizes a thousand times, bending so low in front of her that his mask almost scratches the floor.
Nobody knows what to think of it. —
“And how is he?”
The evening is warm, silent. It is the sort of peace that can only come after such violence as the one with which they had fought the Sky People has taken place. Victory over such cruelty never brings any gratification, but at the very least, Tonowari will sleep soundly knowing his people have pulled through.
Tonowari has been watching the sky with a critical eye, half expecting a star to fall into their home — what Jake Sully had described as a sign of the Sky People’s arrival. He is not sure what he would do if it actually happened, but watching the blanket of stars with which Eywa covers her children every night has always brought him a sense of peace, ever since he can remember. He is shaken from his thoughts by his son’s question, but when he glances at him, it turns out it was not his father whom the boy had been addressing.
“Who?”
Aonung looks at his sister as if she were crazy for not understanding what he is talking about. Tsireya huffs, snapping at him with her tail before settling back down with her bowl of food. Her brother hisses when she actually smacks the side of his leg.
“The pink-skinned!”
Heavy air settles around their parents. They exchange looks — looks their children are oblivious to. Tsireya seems far more preoccupied with chastising her brother with a glare, while Aonung is too busy hissing at his sister to notice.
“His name—” she emphasizes her words with a sharp movement of her hands and a very pointed glare, “—is Spider. He is a selfless person who won’t think twice before helping those in need. Lo’ak is glad to have a brother like him at his side.”
Whatever comment Ronal had about the demon child walking amongst them immediately drowns in her throat. Whatever order their father is about to give — to stay away from him — dies before it can fully form in his mind. The reminder of Neteyam’s loss is enough to silence anything negative anyone might have said against the Sullys’ strange ward. The death of a child is deeply felt not only by the parents, but by the whole clan; no matter how short a time the Sullys have lived among them, they are brothers and sisters, and their pain is shared by the tribe.
“Hush. Eat.”
Both children hiss at each other, turning their heads away as they dutifully finish their dinner. Tall they have grown, but there will always be a corner of their hearts reserved for their sibling — the only other person with whom they allow themselves to be this childish. Tonowari huffs in fond exasperation at the sight, temporarily forgetting such matters as war and demon children.
—The Sully children delight in showing the wonders of sea life to their brother. They are seen pulling him this way and that, jumping from low ledges and climbing high poles. The boy laughs, and one bystander is rendered speechless when the demon child playfully hisses at Lo’ak, chasing after the other boy, reaching to tug at his tail.
“Like us,” they whisper — then shake their heads. No, not like them. Nothing like them. Never like them.
The boy goes hunting with Jake Sully. Together, they bring back plenty of fish to share among the village—
“Boy. What are you doing?”
Something clenches in his stomach when the child’s shoulders go as stiff as a log, a pair of terrified eyes glancing quickly in his direction. Tonowari had not meant to scare him, and regardless of the nature of the boy’s existence, he had not meant to sound so severe. It is conflicting to admit that he cannot help it; maybe it is the leader and the chief in him, the part that lives to protect his people and cast away threats to his clan.
But then there is a murmur of reproach in his chest. It is, without a doubt, the softness of his heart that has, on more than one occasion, sparked his wife’s ire. Seeing the child so tense, so careful in the way he drops his eyes to the ground in respect, so harmless and so absolutely minuscule in comparison to any Na’vi he has ever seen, makes his stomach curl uncomfortably.
What is he doing to the child?
“Baskets, sir.”
Indeed, that is what he is doing — tiny hands busy with the intricate work of a patterned basket. Tonowari takes a moment to observe. Never had he seen a skywalker under the greys and blacks of their war skins. Never had he gotten close enough to notice how thin their limbs were, how perfectly unequipped they were for the dangers of Pandora. And somehow, the boy’s fingers seem incredibly adept at the task at hand, weaving with a dexterity that betrays his familiarity with it.
This, too, catches the chief’s attention. These are not weaving techniques used by the forest people among whom the boy had grown up, like the baskets he has seen in Jake Sully’s family home. These are Metkayina techniques.
“Which of our elders taught you to do this?”
The boy goes red in the face, making Tonowari startle. Was this a common occurrence among Sky People? Or had the boy suddenly taken ill? Was this an ailment that required immediate attention? Tonowari does not know where Jake Sully is, but perhaps he could find one of the children — maybe they would know what was the matter.
Before he can take action, Spider speaks up.
“I—” The word comes out in a sputter, like it is rushing to get past his teeth. He clears his throat, eyes downcast, a sense of shame hanging over his head. “I… watched, from afar.”
It takes a moment for the implication to settle. The intricate structure of their home provides not only shelter but also ample space for his people to share joy among themselves. Common activities take place in plain sight, close to where the communal fires are lit at night. During the day, it is where the elders teach their children the necessary skills for survival, knowledge passed down from generation to generation — how to make a net, how to craft a bead, how to weave a basket. Hadn’t young Tuktirey been ushered with the rest of the children toward the learning pods earlier that day? He can remember her laughter, her eagerness to learn new things as she asks loud, frequent questions. There is an involuntary twitch to his eyebrow.
“And why was that?”
This is starting to sound more like an unwarranted interrogation than the conversation the chief had intended to have. Tonowari is amply aware of this. Spider probably is too. The sky walker looks like he would very much rather dig a hole in the sand and bury himself in it.
“They were teaching the children.”
“And why didn’t you openly join?”
The way the boy shuffles in place, playing with the end of his unfinished basket, gives Tonowari an idea of what his answer will be. The softness in his heart spreads, his eyes not quite as hard as before, sadness pooling in his stomach. When the boy answers, his voice is barely above a whisper, almost as if he wishes the waves would carry the words far away.
“I did not wish to cause unrest.”
Of his soon-to-be three children, it is his daughter who has always proven to be the most sensible. Tsireya is an infinite source of pride and comfort to her father, a precious pearl he would protect with his last breath — attentive, smart, kind. She evokes in him nothing but the deepest sense of pride and the strongest desire to protect, making her parents thank Eywa every day for the child they have been given. But Tsireya has always been beloved. Never has she had reason to suspect her presence would upset those around her. Never has she had to remove herself for the greater good.
He does not dare to think what kind of person she would be now, had she been born in the unique position Spider has found himself in since infancy. Tonowari had learned the basics of his upbringing when Jake Sully first interceded for the boy, hoping he would be allowed to reside with them. “Not Na’vi,” the man had said with a shake of his head, “but not human either.” And Tonowari had been filled with the same sadness he feels now, watching the child being crushed under the weight of the very same sensibility his daughter receives praise for.
Tonowari takes a deep breath.
“This is very fine.” His beads sing against one another as he lowers himself to the sand. Pretending not to notice how the boy tenses once more at his proximity, the chief lets his eyes wander over the intricate work of the basket. It is not in his nature to give praise where it is not due. The basket is very fine, intricate in a way their children’s impatience would never allow. The boy had watched, he had learned, and he had learned well. Tonowari traces a finger over the patterns. “I see the forest treated you well.”
At the mention of his home, the boy visibly lights up. His smile is radiant indeed, even if it can only be seen behind the mask that allows him to breathe.
“I grew up there, sir. These are the only patterns I know.”
Tonowari returns the smile. He does not know what comes over him, but he finds it impossible to stop his hand from landing on Spider’s shoulder. At his touch, the child startles, eyes wide in surprise. The chief gives a short, reassuring squeeze.
“You do them honor.”
—He does not yet know how to catch crustaceans, so he makes nets instead. It is an elder who catches sight of his work and demands to know how he made it so fine. Spider shows his tiny, five-fingered pink hand and says that surely any child could do the same.
But no child wants to do it.
So Spider offers his net. The elder does not want to take it — not at first. It is only after Tsireya loudly compliments his handiwork that the elder comes back to ask if the offer is still open. —
The healing tents are busy with the sound of a dozen working hands — healers preparing concoctions and tending to the wounded, helpers carrying supplies to where they are needed. The Tsahìk stands in the middle of it all, a monument of strength, centered and determined to pull her people through these dark times. Ronal inspects herbs with a critical eye, guides healers in their treatment of patients, strolls the tent up and down without sitting for a second, a hand on her belly.
Her people’s pain wounds her heart. It is only the soft kicks of her unborn child that keep her centered on the mission at hand rather than the grief that has tinted the past few days. So much pain, so much destruction. So many in need of her help. There is not a minute to rest, so she doesn’t, busying herself with the preparation of medicine.
A stray basket catches her attention, not because it is of any special significance, but rather due to its seeming uselessness in the perfect order that reigns under her vigilance. With one hand she lifts the lid; with the other, she motions to the closest attendant.
“And what of these?”
A sudden, very suspicious blanket of silence falls over the tent. Ronal’s eyes flicker around in momentary surprise, looking for answers no one seems willing to give. Their unwillingness to speak does not anger her; rather, confusion is the only emotion visible on her face. Her eyes return to the basket and its contents, finding a generous amount of juvahu roots, precious beyond measure. It does nothing to help her understand the situation.
Miyra, who grew up alongside Ronal, seems to gather enough courage to step forward with an answer — and a very awkward expression.
“It was not us who brought the roots, Tsahìk.”
Ronal frowns.
“Then who?”
Another silence, heavier than the previous one. Miyra looks away as she answers, creating an obvious distance between herself and the situation.
“The skywalker whom Jake Sully protects.”
Now there is something Ronal had not expected to hear — not from her friend, not from anyone. Confusion still present in her expression, she turns to Miyra.
“The demon boy?”
“Yes.”
Well.
Well.
Her first reaction is not to recoil at the intrusion of a demon in her most sacred place of work. It is an emotion she has already had, many times, back when Jake Sully dared ask her husband for permission for the demon boy to stay. Back then, outrage had flown intensely through her veins, a visceral reaction to the pain the pink-skinned demons had inflicted on their world. It was not possible, as simple as that. It was inconceivable.
Every argument had fallen on deaf ears. Neither her daughter nor her husband, armed with tales of how the demon had aided the Na’vi during the battle, had been able to convince her to accept the boy in their reef. That task had been valiantly taken up by the Great Mother herself.
For when Ronal asked for guidance in such a time, inquiring about the best way to face the many challenges before them, what crossed her mind had been a brief image of the boy. It was with clenched teeth that Ronal asked Jake Sully about him, and it was with an air of defeat that he told her of the human baby who had been born and raised on Pandora — no parents, no direct family.
It seemed the Great Mother did not look kindly upon the mistreatment and abandonment of children, regardless of race.
So the boy stayed. Ronal did not like it. She imagined another hundred misfortunes would fall on their shoulders. But the boy stayed quiet and mostly out of sight. With so many important things to worry about, the Tsahìk had been content to ignore him.
Now, though, comes the moment to think about him once more.
This time, she does not know what to think.
Juvahu roots are hard to harvest, even harder to clean properly. They grow deep in the forest, where the Metkayina seldom venture — a rare commodity that, even if found, does not necessarily mean it can be brought home. If one makes a cut an inch higher than required, a potent toxin runs through every part of the plant, certain death to whoever touches it. The ones in front of her are in pristine condition: no unnecessary cuts, no signs of being pulled too harshly from the ground. They will make vital medicine, treating the worst of wounds.
Ronal breathes out very slowly, standing to her full height.
“It is against Eywa to waste that which the land gives us.” Her voice carries over the tent, firm and unwavering, leaving no space for rebuttal of any kind. “Use them as you would.”
“Yes, Tsahìk.”
— “You are making a home,” Tonowari explains patiently, hands working alongside the boy. Spider had asked how to mend the holes in the mauri. The chief is happy to show him the way. “Just like the village — everyone works together to make it whole.” —
Ronal welcomes her husband as he returns from his usual patrol, hands on her belly, lightness in her step. It is a habit of theirs to stroll through the village on their way back home, checking on their people and their needs — the nets, the communal baskets — making sure everyone has what they need.
Peals of laughter echo throughout the pods, children rushing from every direction. Tonowari raises an amused eyebrow. In their hands, he sees a fruit that grows only from the highest palms, brown on the outside, white on the inside, and he wonders who was tasked with collecting them today. Every child has one, and their village has been blessed with many children. Whoever it was surely dedicated a great amount of time to accomplish such a feat.
Beside him, his wife lets out a soft laugh, brushing the hair of a little boy as he runs by. A tranquility like no other fills her heart. With a hand on her chest, Ronal feels it beat in rhythm with the children’s laughter. Tsireya joins them, their sweet, sweet child bringing fruit to share with her parents.
“Spider got many for the village. I think he was at it all morning!”
The name startles her parents. It is not spoken in the Sky People’s language, and it is the first time they hear the Na’vi equivalent for it. Spider. A small, dexterous animal capable of fitting through the tiniest of crevices.
“Spider?”
“Yes. Lo’ak’s brother.” Tsireya misunderstands her father’s question, busily preparing the fruit for her mother. Her smile is radiant as she offers it to Ronal. “That’s what his name means! Spider — a spider. You should have seen him climb those trees! What a fitting name.”
The water inside the fruit is refreshing, exactly the kind of sweetness Ronal has been craving throughout her pregnancy. Her husband sets a hand on her shoulder.
They stare at the fruit for a long time.
— “You didn’t sleep well, Lo’ak.”
“No. Spider had an accident last night. He almost died.” —
“I heard you had an incident, boy.”
Spider scrambles to his feet instantly, a startled scream already halfway out of his mouth.
When he sat down on the sand, right where the water could brush his feet, there had been no one around. That was exactly what he had been looking for — a place with no one else except him and the sea, somewhere to breathe, to calm his stammering heart. He had done great in front of the Sullys, assuring them that almost dying in his sleep hadn’t affected him in the slightest, but everyone has a breaking point, and Spider was trying to run as far from his as possible.
So he found a place with no one else.
But now the Tsahìk stands right behind him, like a statue.
Her eyes are gratefully fixed on his mask and not on the idiotic expression he is making, following the curve of the tubes, ears twitching at the sound of recycled oxygen. She knows what happened last night, how he almost died because of a stupid mistake — and he has no idea how she knows.
The Tsahìk gives him no time to compose himself.
“How are you faring?”
It is the first time they have spoken to each other. He knows for a fact that she has been watching him; the familiar glare of a Tsahìk following his every move has burned the back of his neck before — Eywa knows Mo’at had done the same while he grew up among her grandchildren. Always silent. Always watching. Always waiting for something to happen.
Ronal is much more direct in her approach than Mo’at ever was, her eyes set on him like daggers. He had figured she was biding her time.
Sucks to be right.
“I—” Under her green gaze, it is so much harder to remember how to speak properly. Spider forces himself to clear his throat. “I am well.”
This, apparently, is not the right answer. Ronal rewards him with the meanest scowl he has ever seen.
“Foolish boy, hiding your ailments.” Disapproval carries in her voice. Her eyes run down his body, looking for Eywa knows what. He is a mess of salty water and sand, and surely his hair could benefit from some maintenance, but that cannot possibly be what the Tsahìk is searching for. She nods to herself after a moment, apparently coming to a conclusion. “I will look over you.”
He isn’t sure what he expected her to say, but that definitely was not it. Spider blinks, dumbfounded, vaguely aware that looking this stupid is not the first impression he wanted to make.
“Pardon?”
She makes a sharp gesture with her hand, beckoning him to follow her toward a log on the sand. The Metkayina speak with their hands — this he learned from Kiri — and although Spider doesn’t know how to communicate the same way, he understands her body language well enough.
“I will look over you. It is my duty as Tsahìk.”
This is what she expects: refusal. For her abilities to be doubted, perhaps even dismissed. Maybe for the boy to say that whatever she can do will not work on pink skin like his. The strange machines the Sky People had brought when Kiri lost consciousness were foreign in every sense of the word, clearly more suited for humans than for a Na’vi.
“Yes.”
That is why his answer takes her by surprise.
Ronal does not let it show, of course, merely nodding for him to sit on the log, but she would be lying if she said the boy’s voice, full of respect, did not spark a small, pleased warmth in her chest as she begins to examine him.
Her exploration proves interesting. Ronal had known humans to be thin, weak, small — the boy is no different — but the muscles under her hands speak of a childhood in no way different from that of a Na’vi child, well formed after hours of training. The callouses on his hands are a testament to his skill with the bow.
Maybe he would be well suited to carry a spear.
“You are strong.”
“Not nearly, Tsahìk.”
She makes a sound — not quite a hiss, not quite a tsk.
“It was not a compliment. Only an observation.”
“Yes, Tsahìk.”
How perfectly polite.
She had been unnerved when her husband compared the boy’s attitude to their daughter’s, snapping at the impossibility of it, at how ridiculous it sounded. Now she can see it.
She hums, pressing her ear to his back, listening closely to his lungs.
“I have heard, though, of your prowess in battle.”
“I contributed very little.”
The boy is uncomfortable; she can feel it in his tense muscles and rigid spine. Straight as iron.
“My daughter speaks of how you went back to the demon ship to save others. It was engulfed in fire, taking on water quickly, and yet you did not hesitate to volunteer.” With a huff, she straightens. Her center of gravity has shifted greatly, her baby growing stronger with each passing day; moving has started to feel taxing. She does not miss how he turns, hands lifting as if to steady her in case she falls.
It is a funny thought. Ronal is sure she could squash him.
“If you say these contributions are not significant, then you would be calling my daughter a liar.”
He turns red. The famous blush blooms right before her eyes. It is a fascinating thing to witness.
“I did what anyone would do.”
“You speak like Jake Sully.” Now she does tsk. “He would benefit from learning your manners.”
A beat.
Two.
The wind brushes across their brows.
A short cough escapes him, then another, and another — until he is laughing. It is a satisfying sound. Young people look better with smiles on their faces. This boy is no different.
The shadow of a smile flickers across her own face, quickly replaced by a stern scowl.
“Though hopefully he takes better care of himself than you. Your lungs are weak. I know our air is poison to you, and this is a poison you were exposed to yesterday. Silly boy, not coming to see me sooner. Come now — my equipment is not with me. We will fetch it and treat you properly.”
—He climbs the palm trees, higher and higher, sweat pooling on his forehead before rolling down his face. He doesn’t stop. The top is in sight, and with expert movements he secures the fruit.
Cheering erupts from below. The children are waiting. He waves; they laugh.
“Do you have no fear of falling?” the Tsahìk asks when he runs her way, eager to share his harvest. Tsireya had told him how much her mother likes this fruit.
“I am a forest boy, Tsahìk,” he laughs, showing the thick callouses on his hands.
Her tail sways behind her.
“And the sea,” slips from her lips.
She is as surprised as he is.
Unsure whether she meant to say it, Ronal quickly looks for something else to add, something that might soften the understanding in those words.
He flushes, looking impossibly pleased.
“It is a great honor.”
She keeps her mouth shut. —
“Hey. What’s wrong?”
Slowly, Spider lets out a shaky breath.
What was it with this family and their ability to find him whenever he tried so hard to disappear? Maybe it was genetic.
As much as he enjoyed Tsireya’s presence, as much as he learned from Tonowari, he could hardly endure dealing with Aonung right now. Raising his eyes, he finds the young Metkayina standing no more than two feet away, staring at him, almost unblinking.
Aonung cannot be blamed. It had been a windy day, the water colder than usual; very few had chosen to venture outside under such conditions. By the same logic, finding someone sitting alone on the beach after eclipse seemed unlikely — and definitely unpleasant.
And yet, here he was, staring at the skywalker sitting under a palm tree, looking shaky and pale.
The only reason Aonung himself was out at such an hour was because Tsireya’s birthday was approaching, and he had been secretly working on a seaweed shawl for her, hiding it inside a hollow log not far from where Spider sat.
The human boy looked sandy white, lips chapped as if he hadn’t had water in days, eyes wide and unfocused.
Something was clearly wrong.
Aonung feels his frown deepen.
“You don’t look okay. I’ll call Jake Sully.”
Panic rises in Spider’s throat.
“No!”
The sudden shout surprises both Aonung and Spider himself, who hadn’t felt capable of speaking above a whisper. He jerks upright so fast it’s a wonder his head stays attached, reaching toward Aonung without actually touching him.
The idea of bothering the Sullys is almost as horrifying as them finding him like this, after he had snuck out of their marui while everyone was asleep.
“No, don’t — I’m okay. I’m okay.”
Aonung frowns. He looks an awful lot like his mother when he does that.
“But you aren’t.”
And he isn’t. Spider knows this. He hasn’t been okay for a long, long time, and only in the privacy of his own mind does he admit how close he feels to losing it.
He has wondered more than once if calling Norm and asking them to scan his brain would help. Maybe they could find whatever the RDA had done to him and undo it, bring him peace. But that would mean adding to the Sullys’ already full burden, mobilizing aircraft that could be spotted and tracked back to their home.
Spider prefers to suffer in silence.
So he shakes his head.
“It is of no concern.”
Silence.
The chief’s son studies him quietly. It would be unnerving if Spider had the energy to feel unnerved. Instead, he stays curled in the sand, legs drawn to his chest, feeling the shallow rise and fall of his ribs, barely aware of the eyes scrutinizing him.
Then—
“Is it a soul wound?”
Spider bites the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes blood, shame pooling in his stomach.
A soul wound was not shameful.
And yet, Spider prays no one finds out.
Maybe it isn’t the wound itself, but how he got it that makes his insides twist. Just thinking about it makes him nauseous — the memory of bright lights and restraints biting into his limbs enough to blur his vision with tears.
But Spider will not cry.
He didn’t die, even though so many others did. Shouldn’t that be consolation enough?
“Did something happen?”
For a moment, he forgets Aonung is still there.
A small part of him — the orphan raised on scraps of parental affection and the steady loyalty of friends — wants to break down. Finally, finally, finally someone is asking. But oh, the shame that someone is asking.
Spider had never been one for conflicting emotions, couldn’t afford to be, never allowed himself to go down that path. He glances up at Aonung.
He has always kept his distance, always held Spider at arm’s length, only sharing space with him because he always happened to share space with Lo’ak. Spider appreciates the lack of hatred in his eyes more than anything, if he is being honest. Disinterest is easier to deal with. He prefers it to the distrust most adults carry around him.
Aonung doesn’t care much for him.
And Spider is grateful for that.
They aren’t friends. There is no world in which Spider spills his sorrows here, crying on the other boy’s shoulders while he narrates his sorrows. There isn’t a version of the story in which Spider answers his questions in the way Aonung is probably expecting him to. It simply won’t happen.
Somehow, Aonung doesn’t understand this. He stays, unmoving, waiting, and very much there.
Isn’t he going to leave?
Spider exhales shakily. He is too tired to wait him out. Maybe if he answers, Aonung will lose interest and go home, to the fire his mother probably kept burning for him, to the home his father had built for them, to the sister who would do his hair every night.
“I had a nightmare.”
“Huh.”
More silence.
Spider closes his eyes, trying to steady his racing heart. There’s some rustling, shifting sand, and when he opens his eyes, Aonung is crouched beside him, the frown still etched on his face. He has not left. He is very much still there.
“What was it about?”
“What?”
“What was it about?”
Spider heard him the first time. He just doesn’t understand why this person is asking this particular question.
What was the nightmare about?
What they are always about.
Being taken prisoner by the ghost of his biological father. Strapped to tables. Wired into machines. Tortured for hours that never end. Being asked information no one could ever torture out of him. In his dreams, it never stops. Quaritch never presses the bottom to pull him out. It just goes on until there’s nothing left in his skull but noise, and jelly instead of a brain. Other times Quaritch does intervene, and then the screams of a dying ilu fill his ears while he watches the animal bleed into the sea.
Other times, Neytiri doesn’t pull the knife away.
She presses it to his throat and slashes. Spider never feels the pain — there is only the moment of not knowing how it would have felt, every time, and he wakes gasping, clawing at his neck to make sure his head is still attached to his shoulders.
What was it about?
“Why are you asking?”
But Spider will never speak of it aloud.
Aonung seems to sense the shift, the way Spider closes in on himself like a frightened turtle, clamming tight.
“Never mind,” he mutters, pushing to his feet. There’s no need to waste time on this, or on the pink skinned that didn’t seem to care for his questions. If the boy doesn’t want help, then he doesn’t need it, and it would be better for both if they left it at that. Aonung turns on his heel, ready to head back toward the communal fire where the night watch sits, back to his family, away from the empty beach and the lonely figure trembling in the sand, still shaken by whatever nightmare he had had.
I think Spider hasn’t been sleeping well these days.
Lo’ak’s voice echoes in his mind, uninvited.
Tsireya had said something similar — dark circles under his eyes, signs of poor sleep. Humans had thinner skin than them, such things showed more easily. Had it been nightmares keeping him awake? Was this not the first time he had hidden himself away like this?
Once, when Aonung was younger, he stepped on a stray hook buried in the sand and cut his foot. He had been tucked in a corner with no one else, having been looking for a secluded spot to practice with his spear. He decided not to tell anyone — warriors endured worse, and the chief’s son would not cry over a scratch.
Then the blood wouldn’t stop. The sand turned red. His leg went numb.
He panicked. He screamed. People heard and came to help.
His father carried him to his mother, and the lecture that followed was unforgettable. His mother made sure he understood the importance of relying on others — that a child, no matter how strong or proud, must go to their parents. This was the way. And the way was good.
Spider has no parents.
Spider is alone.
Maybe not in life — but here, on this beach, right now.
Aonung huffs, this time for a different reason.
With a frustrated groan, he turns back, sits beside Spider, and avoids eye contact, staring determinedly at the sky. He starts counting. Surely by the time he reaches a thousand, Spider will feel better, and then he can leave, and they can forget this ever happened.
One star. Two stars. Three stars…
He can feel Spider staring at him, burning holes on the side of his head. Aonung refuses to acknowledge it.
Finally, the boy asks, voice hoarse:
“What are you doing?”
Yes, what are you doing, Aonung?
Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have an answer?
He doesn’t. He feels foolish, sitting there digging his toes into the sand like a child.
Without looking at him, Aonung shrugs.
“Nothing.”
“Are you going to… stay there?”
His eye twitches.
“Are you going to keep asking so many questions?”
Spider laughs — quiet, weak, barely more than a breath.
Aonung finds he doesn’t feel as annoyed anymore.
—“Do these still work?”
Jake looks back, then does a double take. Tsireya and Aonung had been gathering more than weapons, piling items into a smaller boat. He almost snaps at them, the urgency of their task weighing heavily on his mind — They need weapons, not interesting trinkets. Then he notices what they are holding.
Masks.
“Why are you gathering those?”
He expects Tsireya to answer, but it is Aonung who does.
“For Spider!” The name makes Jake startle. “It’d be better if he had extras. Do they still work?”
Pooling shame fills Jake’s chest as he realizes he hadn’t even thought of salvaging spare masks for the boy. He looks away from their bright, earnest faces and nods once.
“Yeah.” —
“I heard you’ll be leaving soon.”
Spider startles.
Tsireya had been quiet in their little corner, where she had found him carving small blocks of wood. It wasn’t the first time. A few weeks ago she had discovered his hobby, and ever since, whenever she found him carving, she would sit beside him with a basket of beads, colored strings, and tools in her lap. Everyone their age preferred the more exciting activities — hunting, swimming, racing ilu — and she rarely had companions of her own age willing to sit in silence and work with their hands.
Spider understood that better than anyone.
Kiri preferred wandering off to observe the world. Lo’ak never sat still long enough to try. Even Neteyam, despite his best efforts, had sometimes dozed off from boredom. Thinking of him sends a sharp pang through Spider’s chest. He shakes his head and focuses on the present.
Tsireya is watching him with wide, sorrowful eyes. She wears her emotions openly, a girl who truly carries her heart on her sleeve, as Norm would say. Spider gives her a small, involuntary smile. She shakes her head.
“Nobody wants you to go.”
Privately, Spider can’t help thinking everybody wants him to go.
He doesn’t say it.
“We will miss you,” she continues, not giving him space to deflect. How used he has become to acting like an older brother without truly being one. He has to stop himself from reaching out to pat her head the way he does with Tuk. “I wish you didn’t have to leave.”
And despite everything, Spider wishes the same. He wishes — not for the first time — that he could breathe without a mask, that he could live among the Na’vi as one of them, that his existence wasn’t constantly threatened by the planet he loves.
He lowers his head, fingers brushing over the small carving in his hands: a simple ilu figurine modeled after Kiri’s mount. It isn’t bad, just plain and badly in need of paint.
“Do you want to keep this, then?”
He holds it out before he can overthink what a poor gift it is. Tsireya’s eyes shine in the morning light as she takes the figurine carefully, lifting it for closer inspection. He really wishes she wouldn’t.
She finds it wonderful all the same.
“It’s lovely.” She traces the fins, the eyes, the curve of the head with gentle fingers. Then she cradles it and breaks into peals of giggles, shoulders shaking. Spider raises an eyebrow, amused.
“Hey, what’s so funny? Is it that ugly?”
But it isn’t the carving.
“I was making this for you.” She laughs, holding out the armband she had been working on. The confession leaves him stunned, his gaze jumping between the green ornament and her sincere smile. “My brother has one like it. And my father too. I made theirs.”
Spider has seen the green armbands both father and son wear with pride. For a second, he wonders if he should accept something like that. He bites his lip, hesitating.
One look at Tsireya’s hopeful expression chases the doubt away.
What the hell. He might as well take whatever scraps of happiness he can.
Spider accepts the armband.
“It’s awesome. You’re really good at this. Thank you.”
Her smile is blinding. Lo’ak had better treat her right.
Then Tsireya grows shy. She fiddles with the beads in her basket, colorful little pieces gleaming in the sun. There’s a confession forming somewhere in her chest, and Spider waits patiently to hear it.
Slowly, she lifts an unfinished beaded bracelet, turning it in her fingers.
“I wanted to be a crafter when I was little.”
“What happened?”
Something flickers across her face — not quite a grimace, not quite a frown. Something like resignation.
“Then I realized I would one day become Tsahìk.”
Ah.
Greatness can be a heavy burden. Not that Spider would know from experience. Neteyam had never said it outright, but Spider and Lo’ak had seen the strain of expectation on him. It wasn’t only being the golden child or the perfect son — it was being the firstborn of an Olo’eyktan, the weight of leadership looming over every breath he took. Spider never speaks of it, but he thinks Neteyam had felt a guilty kind of relief when they left the forest and that future slipped from his shoulders.
Spider rubs his thumb along the smooth edge of the armband, frowning slightly. He hopes Tsireya isn’t living with the same quiet dread.
“Can’t you do both?”
“Privately, I suppose.” She shrugs, then straightens her spine. “It is an honor to dedicate my life to Eywa and our people.”
It is. She already gives so much of herself to others, to the happiness of everyone she meets.
Spider smiles.
“You’ll make a great Tsahìk,” he says sincerely, slipping on the armband. It fits perfectly. He flashes her a crooked grin. “But if you ever feel like multitasking, you’d also make an amazing jeweler.”
She laughs, bright and light, like the wind chimes the scientists used to hang around the lab when he was small.
—Spider leaves. —
“What happens if they don’t have enough of the food he can eat?”
Tonowari leans over his children, fixing blankets, tucking stray braids. Tsireya had been pensive ever since the Sullys left, promising to come back soon. All of them, except for Spider. His daughter’s troubled expression is a painful sight for his soft heart.
“Hush, child,” he tries to alleviate her worries. Then he adds, “I made sure to comment on the importance of properly stocking safe food for him.”
Because it was not only her who was worried about it. Once, the boy had tried a particular kind of fish that had him breaking out in painful-looking hives. Ronal had spent three whole days lecturing Jakesully for his carelessness, for whose fault was it if not the one who was supposed to care for the child, tending to the boy with devotion. It is his son who speaks next.
“But—” And Aonung scrunches his nose. It is an exact copy of his mother’s habit, an enchanting view for sure, if it weren’t for his preoccupied frown. “He is so tiny, who will protect him?”
There’s a hiss from over the fire. Ronal is taking care of their leftovers, hands busy with the evening task but eyes and mind busy with something else entirely. She had been restless the whole day, moody and unbalanced, heart uneasy.
“Jakesully is tasked with this duty.”
If she says this with a bit more sting than necessary, nobody is the wiser for pointing it out, so nobody does. Then their daughter whispers into the evening air.
“I wish we had had more time with him.”
She is hushed again, comforted by big hands.
“Eywa will provide.”
—Spider comes back.
He comes back with no mask, and a queue. Eywa has provided.
They include him in their prayers that night. Thank you, they say. Thank you.—
Ronal insists on looking him over. This is no surprise—she is Tsahik, and no one had ever seen anything like a queue appendage growing on a pink skin. It was unheard of.
“How does it feel?” She prods around his neck, looking at his new addition from all possible angles. Matted hair gets in the way more than once. She frowns at its state of disarray—she had never allowed her children to go around in a similar state; she also didn’t know of any mother who would do so. Someone needed to take care of this boy’s hair and she didn’t know of anyone around with the inclination to do so. Maybe she should take a knife to the knots herself. His grin interrupts her thoughts, looking at her from over his shoulder; the boy is bouncing, joyous, so full of life. Her heart thrums pleasantly.
“Like it was always supposed to be there.”
“That isn’t what I’m asking,” she snaps, incredibly fond. Nobody notices how she squeezes his shoulders. Or maybe they do notice, they just don’t speak of it.
Spider laughs loudly, clearly, openly. The other children are around him, following his lead in a chorus of laughter.
It is a joy to hear.
“Now he doesn’t have to go.”
Both Tonowari and Jake stand at some distance, watching the exchange. It is a conversation Jake had been dreading to have, almost as much as the topic of the war they would soon be facing. Would Tonowari come to the same conclusion as him? That Spider was a danger to them? That he could be taken hostage and used to gain an unprecedented advantage for the RDA? He doesn’t want to raise his knife against his brother, dreads having to fight over his right to keep the child by his side.
To his absolute surprise, Tonowari is unmistakably happy—eyes shining, smile spread wide across his face. “Good. That’s good.”
For a long moment, Jake doesn’t know how to answer. Relief should be obvious, whatever speech he had prepared in defense of Spider crumbling to dust.
“Yes.” But there was something that didn’t sit right with him. Tonowari is watching his wife and the children, but Jake is watching him, calculating his thoughts. “Very good.”
Aonung throws an arm around Spider, pressing their brows together. He is saying something about the boy not looking half as bad with no mask on, and Spider is saying something about wishing he could say the same about Aonung. Everyone laughs. Tonowari lets out an unmistakable chuckle.
Jake stares.
An uncomfortable feeling rises in him. It starts from his stomach, spreads towards his lungs. By the time it reaches his heart, he is almost certain he doesn’t want to know.
And, because he is Jake Sully, of course he has to ask.
“I didn’t know you liked him that much.”
It was supposed to be a passing comment, amiable conversation between two brothers of war. Jake doesn’t know why the words feel so heavy on his tongue.
“He is a great contribution to the village.” Tonowari doesn’t seem to notice. He turns to face Jake, a still-present smile on his face. “Strong, brave, responsible. He learns fast and acts faster. Our children have come to love him, our elders have come to enjoy his presence. He provides. He brings honor and pride to us.”
In the background, there is a heated debate going on of what Spider should be taken to do first; Ilu riding is Tuk’s suggestion, though it sounds way more like a demand. But Jake is not focusing on that right now.
He thinks Tonowari has given a very telling compliment. Spider is a great kid, Jake knows this—he likes to joke, but his first instinct is always to help. He carries out chores that were not even given to him by anyone. He listens to almost everything Jake tells him to do, or not to do, which was so very different from his other children. The short time the boy had been living with them in Awa’atlu he had proved to be a reliable member of the village, weaving baskets and making nets and bringing fruits for the children and fishing more than the Sullys could eat, if only to share it with others. He knows it, he has seen it.
Had he said something about it, though?
Jake doesn’t seem to remember.
He does remember Tonowari’s back as he taught the boy how to throw a net, the correct position to pull it in. He remembers Ronal inquiring after his food intake, the things he could and couldn’t eat, and Jake knowing nothing but only the basics. The couple had shown an interest in Spider that wouldn’t be surprising at all, especially when taking into consideration how much the Metkayina appreciated effort and hard work, but now that he thought about it, really thought about it, it made Jake incredibly uneasy.
It didn’t make sense.
“Yes. Yes, he is.”
It was probably just the nerves.
— “What are these?” Ronal points to the vest he had been told to wear, obviously alien in design and material. At first she thinks they are weapons, and scowls disapprovingly at them.
“Medicine.”
His answer is like a peace offering to her aversion. She watches the little pockets with renewed interest, observing intently when he takes out a cylindrical object no larger than her finger. But before he can explain, she frowns again.
“Are you ill?”
It is Tsireya who asks, concern written on her face. Her mother’s hands reach out to him, demanding an immediate answer; Ronal turns him and pats him and squeezes him and pinches the skin under his eyes. Spider laughs, good-naturedly, shaking his head.
“No. No. It’s for injuries — not that I’m injured!” At their disdainful expressions, he is quick to clarify, launching himself into a much-needed explanation. “In case of injuries. The guys back in the lab — er, my friends — they worried I would go over my head now that I can breathe,” he admits, somehow sheepishly. “The air can’t hurt me anymore, but there are many things that can. If I get injured, this will close the wound.”
Aonung takes it from him, examining the object closely, holding it carefully against the light. His mother nods approvingly.
“A precaution. Good.”
After she stands, she reaches out for Spider. With a hand on his shoulder, she gives quiet instructions. “I would like to talk with these ‘lab people.’ I shall learn how to care for you.”
Spider feels himself go speechless, then red, then shaking his head while hurried objections fall out of his mouth. “It is of no need—”
“It is of every need. And it is decided.” —
The war comes. It isn’t the only thing to come.
Ronal is going to die.
It takes a moment for her to understand this. The only worry in her mind when she does is her unborn child. Her wound is deep, the blood coming out of it abundant, the enemy just a whisper away. There’s nothing at hand with which she can treat her injury, nor anyone she can entrust her baby to.
Ronal is going to die; she just prays her baby doesn’t have to follow right behind.
Neytiri is a sight she never thought she would be happy to see.
“The baby is coming.”
This is all the other woman needs to hear. Immediately she takes position, adjusting Ronal into what could pass as a correct position. There’s little to do on top of a rock in the middle of the sea, surrounded by blood and gunpowder.
“I—”
Neytiri hisses at her, forbidding the Tsahìk from saying a single negative thing. “You have to be strong.”
Ronal closes her eyes, feels her strength leaving her body, feels herself slipping into Eywa’s embrace. Try as she might to push, she feels it’s not enough, never enough. She tries and she tries, and her despair only grows stronger.
Please, Great Mother. Please.
“Are you okay!?”
“What are you doing here, boy!?”
There’s a chance she’s almost dead already, for there’s no other reason why she would be having auditory hallucinations. Ronal opens her eyes to Spider’s face hovering over hers, dirt on his cheek, dried blood on his forehead. She wants to reach out and wipe it away, ask what he was doing now to get such an injury, why he couldn’t be more careful. She has no awareness of actually lifting her hand until he has intercepted it with two of his own, holding tight.
Ronal blinks. It isn’t a hallucination.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
He isn’t looking at her. His eyes scan her wound and her belly, not daring to look down to where the baby’s head is almost crowning. The boy shakes his head once, twice, three times, fear and panic present on his face and in his entire body.
“Kiri told me you were going into labor.”
Her ears are ringing; she can barely hear him.
“You should have said something. You shouldn’t be here.”
It is him who shouldn’t be there. All children should be safe and away from the fight. How can she go in peace if she knows he is out there, a target for pain?
She shakes her head. “I am Tsahìk.”
I’m supposed to protect, she wants to say. You. Everyone. I’m Tsahìk.
His voice almost breaks. “You are hurt.”
He doesn’t cry. Tears don’t fall. It is probably to her benefit that they don’t.
A thought makes him widen his eyes. He turns to Neytiri, hands flying to his vest pockets, a wild look in his face.
“Would this work on her?”
The woman’s eyes widen when she understands what he means. It is the first time she looks like there’s hope. “Yes. Quick, now!”
Ronal has closed her eyes again. Someone is prodding at her wound, but she is already going numb. Then, as if to prove she’s still alive, a sharp pain shoots down her back and shoulders, followed by an oddly cool sensation. She hisses, snapping her eyes open.
The boy is throwing away the already used canisters, holding out a different one, a small needle sticking from one end. She has no idea what it is, but there’s almost immediate clarity of mind after he injects her with it, as if breath had been pushed into her lungs.
“You have to push.” Neytiri is still holding her bow, on the watch for whoever dares to get close. “There’s one more push in you. It’ll be okay.”
It’ll be okay.
Ronal dares to hope. That woman wouldn’t say a single nice thing to her if it weren’t absolutely necessary or completely true.
Something gets a hold of her hand — it is the boy. He is staring at her with big, pleading eyes, for her not to go, for her not to leave them, for her to hang on. Even then, as she is pushing life into the world and fading, Ronal is thinking she could break his hand if she squeezed too hard, and tries not to. Spider probably knows this too, but he doesn’t let go. He never lets go.
“She’s here!”
A half sob escapes Ronal, relief ever so present in her heart. A warm bundle is passed onto her, fitting perfectly into her arms.
“Hold her, hold her tight!”
Oh, her precious baby. Oh, her beloved child.
The newborn cries loudly, a sign of healthy lungs, kicking her little legs with vigor. Already so strong, Ronal thinks with tears in her eyes, bringing the baby’s face to hers. She thanks Eywa for the chance of meeting her daughter, prays to the Great Mother to protect the child, for maybe her own mother won’t be there to do so.
She feels arms going under her, shifting her into a sitting position. The boy stands behind her, arms trying to secure her weigh with his comparatively meager frame. His legs don’t give out, his arms don’t shake; neither does his resolve.
“I’ll take her to the caves.”
Neytiri nods, helping to move Ronal. Her eyes snap open almost instantly.
“Boy—” she gasps, reaching out for him. “Take her.”
He shakes his head, looking both like the brave warrior and the young child that he is. “I’m taking you both.”
“My arms, I have no strength. I fear I’ll drop her.”
This he seems to accept. Ronal’s arms feel empty when her daughter is given to him, but strangely enough, there is no fear in her heart when Neytiri ties the baby to his chest. Even Na’vi babies are bigger than humans’ heads. She is large and probably weighs him down, but he stands straight, adjusts the baby for her comfort, determination in every line of his body.
The thing is, Spider is physically weaker than any of them. He wouldn’t win against another Na’vi if unarmed, and yet Ronal feels it in her heart that there is no safer place for her daughter anywhere else in the world.
“Be fast. And be safe,” are Neytiri’s orders as she pushes them toward the water.
He has an ilu with him. The creature responds well to the boy’s needs, waiting patiently as they mount it. There’s a battle cry from behind — someone has found them, and it is Neytiri who is fighting them off. An arrow flies by their heads and into the water, another two following suit, but they are already off to safety.
Whatever it is he had treated her with seems to be wearing off. By the time they reach the caves where the children and elderly are hiding, Ronal can barely stay conscious. Everything is blurry; no sounds seem to penetrate the thick fog surrounding her brain.
There are screams as she is laid on her back, people rushing about, hands on her shoulders, on her wound. The last thing she remembers before passing out is the boy’s silhouette.