Chapter Text
Jake doesn’t remember racing back toward the village.
One moment, he was out beyond the reef with Tonowari and two other Metkayina men, salt on his tongue and the heat of the afternoon sun still clinging stubbornly to the back of his stiff neck. One moment, his aching hands were raw from hauling and securing a line they’d been working on, and the next there was a shadow cutting through the water toward them fast enough that the new current itself seemed to split and recoil and fall back into itself.
Something is—
An ilu surged beneath the rider in an urgent line and the rider doesn’t slow properly. They pull up hard, allowing the water to spray as his breath tears out of them in short bursts. He clutches at Tonowari’s forearm like a secure post and his words flow out too quickly, not nearly as gentle as the currents they reside in.
Something is wrong.
Despite years of knowing the language, of understanding it just as he understood the forest and the water, Jake only catches fragments first. There's a name and a location and the mention of the tsahik.
Lo’ak.
The world and the ocean and the forest miles away narrows so violently Jake almost sways where he sits on the rocks. He hears his son's name and everything else becomes secondary to his instincts; the reef and the work and the faint calm of a day spent making himself useful in exchange for uturu. Every part of it falls away as if it never mattered; his son's name has split it all open.
Lo’ak.
The instinct in him starts moving before the rider even finishes speaking: his hands move for his own ilu, fingers clumsy with the sudden spike of adrenaline. His body floods with it so fast it feels like heat stretching up his spine.
Lo’ak is hurt.
That is all Jake knows and it is enough to turn the world into a tunnel and the expanse of the reef into one clear line toward the village.
But the instincts don't stop Jake’s fingers fumbling once on the harness strap and he hates himself for the weakness in his hands when they should be steady and capable. The ilu surges forward with its new command and the water is rushing past him, salt stinging at the corners of his eyes that still cannot adjust to all this time underwater. The reef blurs below him, bright colours flashing and dissolving and tangling; Jake’s mind does exactly the same thing, sliding away from the present into that brutal, awful place where fear lives.
Lo’ak is hurt.
The information repeats in his head with every inhale and every jolt of movement. It becomes something his mind clings to because it cannot yet hold whatever else is coming. Because hurt could mean anything. Hurt could mean a cut or a bruise or a stupid injury earned in some impulsive sparring match. But hurt could also mean something deeper, especially in a place they're still learning to call home. Broken bones or water in his lungs or eyes unfocused with his blue skin too pale. Hurt could mean—
No.
Jake shoves the worst thoughts down with the same harsh efficiency he uses to push down everything that threatens to push ache into his chest. He can't afford that now; he can't afford imagining his son lifeless in the water when he needs his own body to be steady and fast. Jake needs to do what he was built to do and what he was trained to do, what he always does when panic is trying to tear him apart from the inside: move.
The shore grows closer. The village comes into view and Jake’s eyes scan automatically, searching for signs he doesn't know to recognise yet and for trouble in the water as if it may rise up and announce itself just to make things easier on Jake's heart rate. He sees canoes being pulled in and figures turning and heads lifting as they notice the speed at which he and Tonowari are returning. He does not see his son. He sees movement on platforms and people running along the woven paths, calling to others, the chain of awareness already spreading across the reef. But Jake can hear nothing clearly; the world is too loud and his blood is too loud, so all sound blends into the same pressure.
He thinks, in a flicker that makes his stomach twist, of the last time he felt this kind of panic. He thinks of Lo’ak, always Lo’ak, always the son who moves faster than consequences because he believes they can't touch him. He thinks of that day with the RDA when Lo’ak was supposed to be spotting, supposed to be doing the simple job that kept everyone alive, and instead his reckless need to prove himself nearly got his brother killed.
Jake can remember the fury that had burnt through his jaw then, remembers the way it had tasted like fear disguised as anger on his tongue because fear is the one thing he cannot bear to spit out.
But right now he cannot afford anger. And there will certainly be time for it later, if there is a later, but right now there is only panic and the sick, endless questions that flow underneath it:
What happened?
The ilu hits shallow water and slows as Jake shifts it toward the nearest platform. He dismounts before the creature has time to even fully steady, his bare feet slapping against the woven fibre.
How bad?
Tonowari lands close behind him, barking orders to someone: to find Ronal, to clear the way, to fetch so-and-so.
Is he breathing?
Jake barely registers the words behind him because his focus has narrowed to whatever single point inside the village where his son is waiting, unconscious or bleeding or broken—
Where is he?
— and Jake’s body is already dragging him toward it.
People move aside when they see him, but their eyes follow and their murmurs flicker like candles. Jake doesn’t have time to look at their faces, to see the individual. He only sees the pathways and openings and the direction his instincts are pulling him toward. The platforms are swaying under all the movement of bodies making room, and Jake’s hands brush the railings as he passes; he's using them to ground himself through contact because if he does not anchor his body to something physical he will drift into his own head and his own head is absolutely the most dangerous place to be right now.
Ronal.
The name is heard once more, spoken by Tonowari, spoken again by someone else as Jake passes. Lo’ak is with Ronal, which means something terrible has happened. Jake’s mind tries to build a story from it but fails. Ronal is the tsahik, the healer, close to Eywa. If Lo’ak is with Ronal then it is serious enough to require her hands and knowledge. Jake’s stomach twists over.
He finally, finally, reaches the tsahik’s marui and his hand hits the flap hard enough to jolt the entire structure, he's sure. There's no waiting or announcement of his arrival, he simply yanks it aside and steps through.
The air inside is warmer and thicker, heavy with the scent of medicinal paste and crushed leaves and it reminds him of the eucalyptus-scented balm he'd use to open his sinuses when he'd get a cold as a teenager. But he can't focus on those memories, not now, because the marui is crowded. Far too crowded with bodies pressed close, both family and clan, silhouettes sewn in tight around the centre where the light is dim. Jake’s eyes struggle to adjust because his vision is already blurred with salt and sweat and panic, the sudden overload of his system. He manages to take one step and then another and the room tilts slightly because his focus locks on the body on the woven mat.
Lo’ak.
Jake can’t see him clearly at first, only a half-defined shape below him, but he knows. He knows because the body on the mat is the right size and the right shape and because even through the blur he can catch the line of dark eyebrows and one hand lies at his side unmoving; Jake can see the extra finger like a crime scene marker and it feels as if he's been struck.
His son.
Unconscious.
Jake’s hearing goes strange, as if the world has dipped underwater again. The voices become muffled and movement becomes slow and dreamlike. He can see Ronal bent over Lo’ak’s body with sharp motion, her hands moving quickly, pressing and checking and applying something with firm and efficient precision. For one sick second Jake thinks of his son's reckless actions and finding Neteyam within debris and scolding them both, but this can't be that, he cannot scold now, this is—
A body crashes into him.
Small arms wrap around his hips, squeezing so hard it almost knocks the breath from chest; the sound that comes with it is broken and wet and panicked because it is a child crying and pressed into him.
Jake’s hands move automatically; his body knows how to cradle without thinking, to anchor himself and to be one. His fingers curl around small shoulders and he doesn’t even have to look down to know who it is because of the height and the desperate clutching. Her sobs are high and overwhelming.
Tuk. Of course it’s Tuk.
His youngest, his baby, crying into him like he can fix it simply by waltzing into the marui and setting things right. He tightens his arms around to pull her in close and he know she’s trembling. He can feel it through his forearm, can feel her breath hitching against his stomach, harsh and uneven, and the sound of it makes his stomach twist over once more because Tuk shouldn’t be here like this. Tuk shouldn’t be crying in the tsahik’s marui or learning what bone-deep fear shows up as.
Jake tries to lift his eyes again and focus past Tuk’s head to see Lo’ak’s chest rising and falling, tries to see anything that proves his son is still here and not slipping away while Ronal works. But his vision won’t sharpen and it's like his own body is refusing to let him take in too much at once.
And then Neytiri is there.
She moves in front of him so suddenly that she blocks his line of sight completely; she grips his arm, hard enough that it should ache, but Jake barely feels it.
“Ma Jake,” she says, and it sounds like her voice is straining itself to fit around the term of endearment that is already swollen with fear.
Jake stares at her and for an endless moment his throat cannot remember how to speak; his mind is still stuck on the image of Lo’ak’s hand unmoving beside his unconscious body. There's an extra finger and dark eyebrows and an unnatural slackness to his son's face.
His youngest sobs harder, pressing into Jake’s hips as if she can fuse herself to him if she really tries her best.
Jake’s throat is blocked with something he can't quite swallow down until he forces air into his lungs. His body works on instinct and tries to step around Neytiri, but she shifts with him in an attempt to keep his vision blocked, as if he could focus his vision at all.
Eventually, the forced air transforms into something similar to his voice.
“What happened?” Jake asks, in an attempt to be commanding and secure whilst his youngest clings to him, but the words tumble out sharp and with panic. “What happened to him?”
Neytiri opens her mouth but nothing comes out.
Her fingers are still locked around his arm, her throat shifting, but no sound follows. Whatever explanation she had prepared clearly dissolves behind her teeth. Her eyes are too bright and wide, fixed somewhere over his shoulder instead of on him, like if she looks directly at what fear lies on his face it will solidify into something permanent and unmoving. Jake cannot bear the silence stretching between them; it is too thick and it feels like the precious seconds are slipping away while he stands there useless.
He tears his gaze past her and finds the next solid thing he can grasp onto.
“Neteyam,” he demands, sharper than he intends, but the command cracks through the marui anyways. “What happened?”
His first born stands just to the right of Ronal, hovering too close and not close enough, his posture all rigid in that careful way; Jake can tell he is trying to be strong but there is no time to comfort, there is only time for fear and answers. Neteyam's hands are clenched at his sides and his eyes do not leave his younger brother’s body. When Jake calls his name, he startles slightly, like he has been pulled from somewhere far away, like his mind was left back in the forest, back home.
“We were at the reef,” Neteyam begins, and his voice falters immediately. “We were just— there was a current—”
The words collapse in his mouth and instead of an answer, Jake watches his eldest son struggle to form something coherent, and he can feel the impatience surge in his chest. But it's not at Neteyam, never at him; it's at the unbearable slowness of it all.
Roxto steps in first, words spilling fast. “We were diving past the outer coral shelf. The current hit from below and the coral gave way—”
Aonung’s voice overlaps, urgent and defensive all at once. “He pushed Neteyam aside. The rock fell where he had been standing. He— he took the blow instead.”
Jake hears the part about the coral, the part about him pushing Neyetam. But he does not hear the rest because Ronal’s voice cuts through the marui with sharp authority.
“Enough. All of you must leave." She snaps, furious at the crowding. "Your fear is suffocating him and he needs space to heal.”
There is a moment of stunned silence and then movement: Roxto retreats immediately, Aonung hesitates only a breath before stepping back. Neteyam lingers, eyes fixed on his brother’s still body, before Ronal’s look forces him to turn. Neytiri’s grip does not loosen. Kiri is there, Jake only now realises she is there, tears streaming silently down her face as she reaches for Tuk, who is still sobbing into his hip and clinging like she is afraid her father will dissipate if she lets go. Kiri pries Tuk away gently but firmly, murmuring something Jake cannot hear, and guides her toward the exit. The others all follow behind. Jake does not move to comfort them and does not even watch them go. His second born lies unmoving on the mat and that fact devours every other fatherly instinct in him.
The marui empties until there are only three of them left; Ronal’s presence is still hovering over Lo’ak’s body. Neytiri still grips his arm and Jake can feel her trembling now. The tension is radiating from her fingers into his skin, but he cannot look at her. He steps forward because something inside him is dragging him closer, and the distance feels impossible and unbearable all at once.
He crouches slowly, as if he is approaching something volatile, not his son, never his son, but instead something that might explode if he moves too quickly. Jake's knees press into the woven floor and for a long second he cannot bring himself to look fully at his son’s face. When he does, the sight knocks the breath from his lungs, seeping out from between his ribs. Lo’ak’s features are slack in a way Jake has never seen before, his lashes still, his mouth slightly parted. His hand lies at his side and the extra finger on his hand catches his sight like a flare, like a cruel confirmation that this is his boy.
He forces himself to focus on the one thing that matters.
Lo’ak’s chest rises and it falls. It rises and it falls. It rises and—
Jake latches onto the rhythm of it as if it is the only solid thing in the reef; a marine, measuring time between detonations.
—it falls once more.
Ronal is speaking again. He knows she is because he can hear the cadence of her voice, low and controlled, muttering prayers or assessments under her breath as she presses at Lo’ak’s back. He sees the blur of her checking his pulse and adjusting the position of his limbs. Jake knows he should be listening. Really, he should be absorbing every word, should already be thinking of calling Norm and Max to plan, to think of everything they have learnt from two worlds about injury and survival. But the sound of Lo’ak’s breathing is all he can hold in the forefront of his mind.
“He will wake,” Ronal says, at last. “The blow stunned him, but his breathing is strong. His heart is steady.”
Jake nods once, almost involuntarily. Yes. Good. Wake up. That is enough.
“But his spine—”
The word catches him like the graze of an arrow.
Jake’s head snaps up so fast the movement makes his vision swim. “What?”
Ronal meets his gaze without flinching. There is no softness or sweetness in her expression, only honesty. “The coral struck low across his back. There is swelling internally along the lower spine. When I press below the injury, there is little response. His legs do not answer pain as they should.”
For a heartbeat, Jake does not understand what she is saying. The words exist, but they do not arrange themselves into meaning. But then they settle, straight and aligned and legible.
Lower spine.
Little response.
Legs.
An ache blooms at the base of his own spine, sharp and phantom and impossible; it is so violent it almost doubles him over, but it does not belong here. It does not belong in this body.
That ache belonged to another body: a human body. A body broken in a war that had nothing to do with a forest or coral or shifting currents. A body that never stood again and only held straight using metal and wires and assistance. A body that lay still under fluorescent lights and tried to move and could not. Yet it was not nearly as still as its twin, lifeless and cold and on its way to be cremated.
“This is not common,” Ronal continues, carefully. “The swelling is pressing upon the pathway of sensation. It is likely temporary. When the swelling subsides, the feeling should return. He must simply take time to rest.”
Temporary.
Jake hears the word and he knows he hears it. He even knows that Ronal would not say it if she did not believe it. But her previous words give no leeway.
Lower spine.
Little response.
Legs.
He knows exactly what that means. Jake Sully knows what a life looks like when legs do not respond and he knows the weight of that stillness, the humiliation of it, the suffocating loss of independence. He knows the way a room can change when people begin to look at you with pity instead of expectation.
This was not war and there is no enemy to blame. There is no RDA disguised as a new star in the sky to curse. There was only coral and a strong current and a son who moved instinctively to protect.
Anger surges through him anyway, burning hot and with nowhere to land, nowhere to go. He cannot blame Aonung or Roxto or Kiri or Neteyam. He cannot even blame Lo’ak’s recklessness, because from what little he caught, his son had pushed his brother out of harm’s way. The anger circles inward instead, colliding with his fear until it becomes something corrosive, grating against any sense of gentleness he still has.
Neytiri’s grip tightens on his arm and only then does Jake realise he has been pulling away from her without noticing. Still, Jake twists his arm free, not violently, but abruptly, because he cannot stand to be held steady whilst his world tilts. He cannot bear the contact from his mate when all he can see is Lo’ak’s still legs and the unnatural quiet from his body.
Ronal’s voice remains steady. “The swelling on his spine must go down. I have seen such injuries before. The body protects itself. He will need days, perhaps longer. But there is strength in him.”
Jake stares at Lo’ak’s legs and they are completely still. Jake does not touch them, cannot bring himself to, not even in an act to comfort. Because if he presses and there is nothing, if Lo'ak does not shift them in his sleep, if he confirms the absence with his own hands, something inside him will fracture beyond repair.
There is no spare body for Lo'ak; there is no lab-grown avatar to be accepted by Eywa.
Time stretches and warps. Ronal moves away briefly to prepare more medicine, to murmur something to Neytiri in a tone Jake cannot understand; there is no effort in his body to listen in and translate it in his head. He remains crouched beside his son, counting the breaths. In. Out. In. Out. The phantom ache at the base of his spine intensifies, sharp and electric, even though he knows that ache belonged to another body entirely. It belonged to a human body he left behind years ago, buried near high camp. But the memory does not care about biology, and it blooms anyway, vivid and merciless.
The sky darkens fully outside; the eclipse has given way to night and the glow inside the marui shifts softer. At some point, Ronal withdraws to allow them space, returning only occasionally to check on Lo’ak’s condition. At some point, Neytiri moves to sit near their son’s head, her fingers hovering over him like she is afraid to touch him too hard or risk causing more harm.
Jake is achingly unaware of how much time passes. He only knows that eventually he is no longer crouched but seated against one of the support posts, his back pressed to it and his legs drawn slightly forward. He also knows he cannot look directly at Lo’ak now, nor can he look at Neytiri. Instead, he looks at the woven floor, at the faint shimmer of light along the wall from the fire, at the entrance flap shifting with the evening breeze.
He is still and he is silent. And he is terrified.
The ache at the base of his spine burns fresh; it's a memory that refuses to remain buried back on Earth. Jake Sully does not know how he will survive watching his son risk losing something he has already grieved once before.
*
His family's designated marui is not something Jake expected to miss.
When the Metkayina had offered them uturu and Tsireya had guided them across the woven paths to the hollowed shelter that would be theirs, Jake had stood in the doorway with the salted air in his lungs and thought, briefly and bitterly, that he could live anywhere if it meant his family was safe. He had looked at the low-hung hammocks, the open gaps in the woven walls that let the sound of the sea in from every angle, and he had not felt anything settle. Because it wasn’t the forest. It wasn’t the height and the leaves and the way the world used to cradle them from above, the steady canopy and the familiar chorus of animal noises that had once been home. The hammocks were the same shape but certainly not the same feeling, slung close to the ground and closer to the sea than the sky, and Jake had told himself he would never become attached because they had already learnt what attachment cost.
Now, two days into staying in the tsahik’s marui, he misses that other shelter like it is a living thing he left behind, as if it is miles away, just like their forest.
He misses Kiri’s shawls gathered in careless piles near her hammock, always shedding white sand no matter how many times she shook them out. He misses Tuk’s collections of shells stacked in each corner, bright and strange little treasures that appeared overnight and were defended fiercely if anyone tried to tidy them away, out of the risk of being knocked over. He misses the way Neteyam's and Lo’ak’s comms hung from the same post every evening, always 'accidentally' forgotten no matter how many times Jake reminded them; it was that same small rebellion, repeating until it became a rhythm of its own. Jake misses the clutter and the mess and the soft evidence of a family learning to live inside the space, displaying traces of themselves everywhere.
He misses it, but Lo’ak cannot be moved.
His son lies on the woven mat with his spine held as still as Ronal can keep it set, the tsahik’s hands and knowledge having turned his body into something far too dangerous to disturb. Jake has been told what the swelling means and what time might heal and what patience will do. Still, the sentence that matters most has been the same since the first day: do not move him. Jake knows that command, that order. It is the only instruction that has made sense since the moment he saw his son slack and silent.
So he stays.
When Aonung and Tsireya arrive, sent by Tonowari, carrying their own quiet discomfort into the marui like they do not quite know where to put their hands, Jake barely registers them at first. They hang hammocks along the edge of the space with quick efficiency, weaving new supports and adjusting the knots until they are tight enough to hold a hefty weight. They do it as a kindness; they do it because the tsahik’s marui is not meant to house a family for days on end. Comfort, apparently, is supposed to be allowed even in fear.
Jake watches the hammocks sway slightly when they finish and feels something in him recoil.
His son must lay against the ground, unmoving, because moving him could make everything worse. So why should Jake allow himself the luxury of swaying in a hammock above him? How can he let his legs climb and settle and rest when Lo’ak’s legs may not answer him at all? How can he accept comfort in his own body when his son’s might be turning against him?
Jake does not say anything. He nods once at Aonung’s stiff glance, once at Tsireya’s aching expression, and that is the only acknowledgment he offers. When Neytiri finally sinks into one of the hammocks later, exhausted and rigid with grief that cannot rest despite her frustration, Jake does not follow her. He gestures for her to lie down, presses a hand briefly to her shoulder to steady her, and then he returns to his place against the familiar post. His back has memorised that shape now. The post is solid beneath his spine, a point he can lean into when the hours stretch and blur and his mind tries to drift into the places it shouldn’t.
He sits there like he is guarding them both, as if watching hard enough can keep the worst from creeping ever closer.
The children have come and gone during the day, quiet and subdued in a way that makes Jake’s stomach twist over and over. They sit in a small circle near Lo’ak’s unmoving body when food is brought, eating with their careful hands and lowered voices, as if their brother might wake to the smell of fish and broth and join them in the next breath. As if this is a pause in routine and not a defined fracture. Jake watches Neteyam chew without tasting, watches Kiri’s eyes flick toward Ronal as if she is listening for something beyond sight, watches Tuk reach out once to touch Lo’ak’s hand and then pull back as if she is afraid to disturb him.
And Jake does not speak because he does not know what to say. Comfort feels like a language he never learned properly, and his throat has been locked tight around everything since the word legs was first spoken.
By the time they near eclipse on the second day, Jake still has not said a single word that matters.
Tuk has curled into his lap, worn out by waiting and worry, her small body heavy against his thighs. His youngest sleeps with her face pressed into his chest, her fingers still curled in the edge of his vest like she expects him to leave if she doesn’t hold on. Jake keeps one arm around her automatically, holding her. He knows she is waiting for her brother to wake up and poke her and make some rude joke about her sleeping while he’s 'dying' or 'bleeding out,' because Lo’ak has always been mean in the gentle way siblings are mean, and Tuk loves him for it. He knows she is waiting for normal to return, even if she doesn’t have the words for what that means.
Neteyam and Kiri are not here now and Jake tells himself that is good. He tells himself he is relieved. He cannot do fatherhood properly when he is drowning in the absence of his son’s stubborn voice. He cannot hold everyone at once and he can barely hold himself.
Outside, eclipse begins to draw the light thin, the reef’s glow sharpening in the dimness, and the marui breathes with the slow, tense stillness of people waiting for something to change.
Then, a sound comes from the mat beside him.
A soft groan, broken and hoarse, like someone climbing to stand after they have fallen a great height.
Jake startles so hard the post digs into his spine and for a fraction of a second, he is convinced the world has jolted under him. His arm tightens reflexively around Tuk, who stirs and makes a small noise in her sleep, confused by the sudden tension. Neytiri is already moving, the hammock swaying as she rises with a speed that certainly does not belong to exhaustion. Her breath catches when she hears the sound again and she is at Lo’ak’s side before Jake has even formed a thought.
He can hear his mate call out, her voice sharp and urgent, pitched to carry.
Ronal does not stray far and she appears almost immediately, as if she has been waiting just outside the flap for this moment, her expression tight with focus. Tuk wakes properly then, blinking up at Jake with wet lashes and confusion, her small body lifting off his lap as if she can levitate toward her brother by sheer will.
Jake does not move.
He feels himself detach in a way that is too familiar, like something inside him has stepped sideways and is now watching through a pane of glass, an observer. His body remains against the post but his mind drifts, hovering just above the scene as if it cannot bear to inhabit it fully, to feel it fully. He watches Neytiri crowd the mat, watches Ronal kneel and press careful fingers to Lo’ak’s neck, watches Tuk try to scramble closer and then be gently held back by her mother’s protective hand.
Lo’ak’s eyes flutter. They open halfway.
His mouth moves as if his tongue is too dry to function, and Ronal brings water quickly, lifting his head just enough to let him sip. The sound he makes is raw and confused, a rasp pulled out of him against his will, and Jake’s chest tightens so painfully he thinks it might crack open, bare.
His son is awake.
And then Lo’ak’s face contorts.
The expression shifts in real time from confusion to fear, from foggy awareness to something sharper and more immediate, and Jake feels the change like a five-fingered grasp closing around his throat. Lo’ak’s hand claws weakly at the mat. His breathing turns shallow and quick, his eyes widening as he tries to orient himself, to make himself whole.
“My—” he gasps, the word breaking apart. “My back— what— what happened—”
Neytiri leans closer, murmuring his name, trying to soothe, but Lo’ak isn’t looking at her the way he usually does when he’s hurt, isn’t whining or complaining or attempting to bargain his way out of discomfort. His eyes flick down, down, as if he is searching for something that should respond.
“I can’t—” he tries again, swallowing hard. “I can’t feel—”
Jake’s hearing goes strange.
The words reach him but they don’t land cleanly. They arrive muffled, distorted by the rush of blood in his ears and the sudden spike of panic flooding his system. Ronal is speaking now too, her voice low and firm as she checks Lo’ak’s back with careful pressure, as she tests responses and watches his face. Neytiri’s hands hover over Lo’ak’s shoulders, her expression begin to fracture with fear that she is trying to keep contained.
Lo’ak’s breath comes in ragged gasps. “My legs—” he says, and the sound of it is small; it is an aching horror. “I can’t feel my legs.”
The sentence hits Jake like a physical blow.
The phantom ache at the base of his spine flares hot and immediate, bright enough to steal his breath. For a second he is no longer in the marui, no longer on Pandora, no longer blue-skinned and tall and capable and a father. For a second he is back in a hospital bed with numb limbs and sterile light, back in a world that told him he would never run again, back in the body that was broken and left behind.
Neytiri turns her head toward him then, her eyes finding him across the space, and there is something in her gaze that begs. Step in. Be here. Hold him. Speak. She is looking at Jake like he is supposed to anchor them both, like the father should know what to do when his son says those words. Especially this father.
Jake can't.
His body finally jolts into motion, not toward Lo’ak but away, as if some survival instinct has decided proximity to the boy is lethal. He pushes himself up half-standing, half-crouching, his knees stiff, his hands clumsy. He takes one step, then another, the marui tilting slightly as if the floor has become water, as if the marui had sunk into the sea from the heft of his grief.
He can feel Neytiri’s gaze burn into him, can hear her voice call his name, maybe she does, maybe she doesn’t, but Jake’s mind fills it in anyway, and he cannot turn back.
He slips out through the flap with haste, air hitting him cooler and sharper, the outside world too bright in its dimness. The village hums with new awareness; he can already hear voices stirring, hear the ripple of commotion spreading as Neytiri’s call for Ronal has clearly done its work and people have realised Lo’ak has woken. Jake moves without aim, walking faster than he means to, straying further from the tsahik’s marui and the sound of his son’s voice.
His spine aches; his legs feel wrong.
He isn’t sure if they are truly working or if this is a dream, if he is walking on borrowed memory alone. He stares down at the sand as he moves, watches his feet sink and lift and sink again, watches the proof of his motion and still does not believe it. The phantom sensation crawls under his skin, the old fear blooming in his bones as if it has been waiting all along, years on end.
He reaches a quieter stretch between marui, where the woven paths thin and the glow from fires is weaker, and the air tastes like salt and something bitter.
His stomach clenches.
He barely has time to bend before it happens.
Jake folds in on himself, one hand braced against his thigh, the other against the sand, and whatever has been building in his throat and chest and stomach for two days finally forces its way out. He retches hard, the sound ugly and violent in the quiet, and then he is sick, bile and half-digested food striking the sand beneath him; his body has decided that this is the only way to empty out the terror it cannot hold.