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The day had eventually come.
The day they had to give Neteyam back to the sea.
When she had painted the white line in the middle of her children's bodies, Neytiri hadn't let any emotion appear through her. She was apathetic, devastated by the loss of her first born. She had found herself in front of Lo’ak, just a few inches away, the brush running down his face, his neck, his chest, spreading the white and cold mourning paint on his skin.
His mother hadn't looked him in the eyes even once.
She hadn’t said anything, nor reproved him for anything.
At this moment, even his father, the Marine forged in war, would have been more expressive.
But Lo’ak saw only one thing in this mutism.
It’s your fault.
They might never admit it out loud, but his parents, the clan, everyone on this moon thought his brother was dead by his fault.
Lo’ak wouldn’t offer them another reason to blame him.
He obediently followed the funeral procession under the gaze of the Metkayina. A hand on the body of his brother, he was swimming, staring at the back of his father, head of the household, leading them to the place of the burial. Spider, his sisters and his mother followed closely, but Lo’ak wasn't paying attention to them.
When Jake stopped, he dismounted his ilu, joined their line and started to pull Neteyam out of his sled, bringing the pink flowers slid in his coffin with him. It was at this moment that Lo’ak allowed himself to look at his brother.
He was still there. Eyes closed, limbs tied by woven vines, he could have only been sleeping. Maybe he was going to wake up, crack a joke, and make this little shy smile he had gotten from their mom.
No.
Lo’ak had had his blood in his hands, and he had stared at them in horror for several long minutes. It was like a sign from Eywa herself, reiterating that the death of his brother would stain his actions forever and ever.
The boy placed his hand on Neteyam’s forehead. He did not notice he was crying. Maybe it was just the sea. His tears like the body of water surrounding them were salty by nature.
Lo’ak dove under the surface. He watched his parents drag his brother to the bottom, until the golden algae swallowed his body. He stretched an arm towards him, as if trying to touch him one last time. But Neteyam’s form disappeared under the plants, without further goodbye.
Lo’ak let out a sob only he could hear, underwater, masked by the air bubbles created by his cry.
The Metkayina say that the energy we use by living is only borrowed. And that one day, we must give it back to the sea.
Lo’ak didn’t feel like he was returning Neteyam to the Great Mother. He rather thought that he was being ripped away from him. His time hadn’t come yet.
And it was his fault.
Once the ceremony was over, Lo’ak slipped away from the camp.
He had no desire to talk to his father, nor his mother, nor Kiri, nor Spider, no one.
He kneeled on a remote corner of the beach, from where he could sweep the horizon with his eyes.
Freed from the pressure of the people around him, Lo’ak expected to cry, scream, or kick the sand with his feet.
But all of a sudden, he was unable to do any of it. He felt empty. As if his emotions had been sucked up in a black hole, and that they would never come back to him anymore.
Waves were collapsing on the shore regularly, their rumble making its way to the boy’s mind, as if to fill the void inhabiting him.
Lo’ak’s thoughts drifted away like a raft out at sea. What was he going to do, now that Neteyam wasn’t here to look after his sisters and Spider? What was he going to do now that his brother wasn’t here to look after him?
He was so alone. So alone that the only living being by whom he felt truly understood was a tulkun. Not even his own family.
Lo’ak clenched a fist and sent it on his leg, furious.
Stupid. You were so stupid, Lo’ak!
The boy opened his hand, but after seeing his five fingers, he folded them back and started hitting his thigh, again, and again, and again.
Maybe his skin was turning purple, he didn’t give a thing.
He was a demon, a mixed blood, an outcast. Nobody had ever wanted him. His parents had never wanted him. His father looked at him with such disappointment… And his mother didn’t look at him at all anymore.
Neteyam, on the other hand, had always been perfect. He gave the right example, he made a good impression.
Not him. On the contrary, as soon as he meddled into something, it ended wrong.
Tears were peaking in the corner of Lo’ak’s eyes now. He refused to let them fall until he had finished inflicting the pain he should have felt for his brother’s death to himself.
It was only when his arm grew stiff and he couldn’t feel his leg anymore that the boy stopped his own martyrdom. A searing pain was spreading through his flesh, more intense every second.
It didn’t matter.
Because it was what he deserved.
He had no choice.
Muffled steps in the sand pulled Lo’ak out of his thoughts. He raised his head and covered his wound with his palm.
The boy recognised Tsiyera’s breath and scent when she came to sit next to him. He was ready to interrupt her if she dared say something. He didn’t want to hear anything, and absolutely not pity or condolences.
But the young girl didn’t pronounce even a word. She stood by his side quietly, contemplating the sea just like he did. She made her presence light, discreet. In this moment, Lo’ak was infinitely grateful to her.
After a few minutes, Tsireya reached for his hand. She squeezed it gently, then rested her head on his shoulder. Lo’ak couldn’t help but rest his cheek in her hair in return. He closed his eyes and focused on the contact she was offering him, her warmth. He slowed down his respiration, like the young girl had taught them upon their arrival at the reef.
- It was not your fault, Lo’ak.
Even by clenching his teeth and scrunching his nose, the boy wasn’t able to hold back his tears this time. A hiccup escaped from his throat against his will to repress it.
Tsireya put an arm over his shoulders and tightened her grip on his hand.
She was wrong.
Lo’ak killed his brother.
And he had to live with it now.