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It was the first time Neytiri had seen Lo’ak return with such a sulky look on his face, even though barely half an hour earlier he had rushed out with the other children, as excited as always.
She watched in growing concern as her son walked straight into the marui without a word. Kiri followed close behind, hesitation clouding her eyes. The girl glanced at her mother, then at her brother, clearly wanting to say something but unsure where to begin.
Neytiri rose and went after him. Since Neteyam’s death and the countless times Lo’ak had blamed himself, she had learned to notice even the smallest shifts in him. Lo’ak was a sensitive child, no matter how hard he tried to appear strong, and that frightened her more than anything.
She sat beside him and gently brushed her hand through his hair, the way she used to when they were little. Lo’ak only tilted his head away.
“He argued with Spider,” Kiri murmured, her fingers tightening unconsciously around her mother’s wrist.
Neytiri froze. She had prepared herself for many possibilities, but not this. Spider had never argued with anyone. The boy endured more than he should have, always stepping between Lo’ak and Kiri when they disagreed. Neytiri had never even heard him raise his voice, let alone seen him quarrel. The thought of Spider losing his temper startled her more than Lo’ak’s anger ever could.
Neytiri had never wanted to ask her son what had happened as much as she did at that moment. But Lo’ak was not only sensitive. He was stubborn. When he decided not to speak, no amount of coaxing would move him. Neytiri understood that. After a brief silence, she sighed and stood. Some anger needed to be left alone until it burned itself out. She stepped out of the marui and gestured softly for Kiri to follow, leaving Lo’ak the space he clearly wanted.
The moment she emerged, she saw Tuk and Tsireya lingering nearby, peeking toward the marui but not daring to enter. Whatever had happened, it must have been worse than she thought, enough to silence even this usually noisy group of children.
“Tell me what happened,” Neytiri said softly, drawing Tuk into her arms as she asked her daughters.
When she heard the whole story, she was even more surprised.
It had begun simply enough. Tsireya had said she needed to return home earlier than usual because Ronal had decided to make berry soup with honey that evening, a dish her family prepared only on one fixed night each week. It was elaborate and required many steps, and it was always treated as a time for the family to gather. They would go into the forest together to pick extra fruit, light the fire, and each take on a small task to help Ronal prepare the meal.
Tsireya admitted she did not truly like the taste of the soup. It was a little too sweet for her, and the honey sometimes overpowered the berries. But she loved sitting beside her mother, peeling fruit while listening to Ronal speak about her walks in the forest. She loved the scent of wildflowers her mother would bring back and tuck beside the fire. In the glow of the flames, evenings like that always made her feel as though she belonged somewhere warm and safe.
Spider had been unexpectedly enthusiastic after hearing that. He had even tugged at Kiri’s hand and said that the Sully family should have a night like that too. He had noticed how lonely Neytiri had become after Neteyam’s death, and with everyone constantly busy, he hoped something like that might bring the family closer again.
The idea survived only a few minutes before Lo’ak shook his head.
More than anyone, Lo’ak understood the quiet collapse his mother had endured in recent months. Neytiri had seemed steadier after saving Jake from the RDA base, but grief did not vanish overnight. There were afternoons when Lo’ak returned from the sea and found her hunched beside Neteyam’s hammock, fingers twisted tight in its woven cords, shoulders trembling in silence. Neytiri could not speak to anyone about it, and that silence drained her spirit more than tears ever could. Even their shared meals had grown muted, because any topic could turn fragile without warning.
Neteyam had always been there. He would sit beside his mother and gently ask about her day and his siblings’. Neytiri had been so proud of her eldest son, of the tenderness in him that surpassed anyone she had ever known. Jake and Neytiri had always been happy, until the one sitting at her side was no longer her firstborn, and beside Kiri there appeared a human boy instead.
Lo’ak said that even those brief meals felt suffocating to him. The thought of spending half a day together in that same strained quiet was unbearable. He did not want to watch his mother pretend she was fine, nor did he want to pretend that everything had returned to normal simply because they chose to call it a family night.
That was what made Spider lose his temper.
At first he had tried to keep his voice steady. He reminded Lo’ak that there was no grief greater than losing a firstborn son, that Neteyam had not only been their brother but the one who had made Neytiri a mother for the first time. If Lo’ak understood how deeply she was hurting, then he should be the one trying hardest to help her.
But Lo’ak heard those words differently. They dragged him back to the reason things had become this way, back to the choice he had made that day, back to the guilt that still clung to him whenever he closed his eyes. The emotions of the two boys slowly slipped beyond control. Voices rose. Words sharpened. Soon neither of them remembered what they were arguing about in the first place.
In the end, Lo’ak only glared at Spider, anger and hurt tangled in his eyes, then turned and walked away, leaving the other children stunned.
And it was the first time Kiri had ever seen Spider not run after him to apologize.
Neytiri truly did not know how to react when she learned that Spider had been quietly watching her all along.
Their relationship had improved after they opened their hearts to each other in the forest, yet a certain awkwardness still lingered. Neytiri felt guilt and shame whenever she looked at the boy who was only slightly taller than her youngest daughter. That small child had been willing to use his fragile human body as a shield to save her husband, only to find Jake’s blade pressed to his throat the next instant. Some nights, she remembered that look in his eyes and felt her heart tremble. She did not know whether Spider resented her, but she herself had never forgiven what she had done.
Spider had always been a good boy.
He had never questioned or protested any of Neytiri’s decisions, even when those decisions were so cold that she herself later wished she could forget them. When he was younger, he had tried so hard just to earn a little of her attention. After a day of mischief in the forest, he would stubbornly trail after Lo’ak and Kiri back to their home. There, he’d hold out his scraped hands the way her own children did when they sought comfort from their mother. But Neytiri ignored him so often that even Jake began to feel uneasy for the child.
In the end, it was Jake who told Spider that Na’vi herbs would not work on a human body, that if he was hurt he should return to Norm instead. Neytiri did not know whether Spider believed it, but after that he stopped bothering her. Whenever their eyes met, he would shrink slightly, trying to make himself as small as possible to avoid her notice.
He learned quickly what softened her voice, as if all his instincts were devoted to reading her moods. He learned how to yield, how to accept blame even when it was not his. If there was a seat beside her to be shared, he would step back on his own and sit at the very edge, where the firelight did not quite reach. At dawn, he would leave the marui immediately, only sneaking home late at night to avoid making her uncomfortable.
Once, Neytiri prepared a kind of fruit for dinner that she believed all the children could eat. Spider said nothing. He simply sat down and finished his portion. Near midnight, he fainted in the hammock that had once belonged to Neteyam. The household stayed awake in panic while Jake ran through the dark to find Norm. When Spider regained consciousness, he apologized for worrying everyone and never mentioned that he could not eat that fruit at all.
At the time, Neytiri had only felt exhausted. Whenever she looked at Spider, she did not just see a child. She saw war. She saw humanity. She saw every choice that had led her family to tragedy. His presence felt like a silent accusation, a reminder of how cruel and unforgiving she had been. And that made her even more irritable, because she had not been granted a single moment to truly rest from the grief of losing her son. While she was still struggling to keep herself from collapsing, another child stood there, quiet and waiting to receive the tenderness she had once given to her firstborn. Neytiri refused to admit that she had been harsh with him. She told herself that she was not responsible for carrying every sorrow in the world.
But now, when she thought back on each of those small details, Neytiri felt only a dull ache spreading through her chest. That child had never demanded love from her. He had only tried his best to become as little of a burden as possible, bending himself around the sharp edges of her wounded heart so he would not trouble her further.
Spider was not her son, yet he had lived around her as though she were a part of his world. And now, knowing that he had been the first to think of how to ease her loneliness, she finally understood the place she had held in his heart all this time.
Suddenly, the image of Neteyam rose in her mind with such clarity that it made her chest tighten. Her eldest son had loved just as deeply. He had once seen her as his entire world too. Neteyam had always been the first to look for her when he stepped into the marui, always sitting close beside her to listen to even the smallest stories, as if nothing in the world mattered more than his mother’s voice.
And then Neytiri realized that within Spider’s small frame lived the same kind of gentleness. If Neteyam were still here, what would he think? Neteyam, who had always stood between conflicts, who had always shielded his siblings, would surely grieve to see his mother so cold toward a child who was only trying to love in the only way he knew how. The thought that she herself had wounded a child with a heart so much like her son’s hurt more than any accusation ever could.
Neytiri closed her eyes and, for the first time, allowed herself to face the truth that while she had been drowning in the pain of losing a child, another child had been growing up inside the emptiness of losing a mother.
Neytiri found Spider near a line of trees to the west, far from where her family lived. The path was not difficult to follow. Small footprints pressed into the damp sand were clearly visible beneath the fading light, set apart from the deeper, broader tracks of the Na’vi. They were light and shallow, as if their owner always walked with the awareness that he should not leave too much of himself behind in this world.
The sea that evening was quieter than usual. Waves rolled onto the shore in long, weary breaths, then withdrew, leaving the sand washed in the amber glow of sunset. Wind drifted in from the open water, carrying the taste of salt. In the distance, bioluminescent creatures began to flicker among the reefs, a gentle light that usually delighted the children, now only deepening the stillness.
Spider sat alone on the sand, his knees drawn tightly to his chest. He was staring at the horizon where the sun was slowly sinking into the water, and the fading light spilled across his slumped shoulders in pale gold. He looked so small that against the vast stretch of sea and sky, he seemed like a forgotten speck left behind.
Neytiri slowed her steps as she approached. She tried to make her movements as soft as possible, yet Spider sensed someone behind him. He turned quickly, a flicker of alarm crossing his face before he could hide it. When he saw it was her, he immediately straightened, his back stiff like a child caught doing something wrong. His small hands fidgeted unconsciously with the edge of the loincloth at his waist. Only then did Neytiri truly notice it. The cloth was simple and plain, neatly tied but lacking the woven patterns and ornaments her own children wore.
“Be at ease,” Neytiri said gently. She raised her hand slowly so he could see every movement before she reached out to smooth his wind tangled brown hair. “I did not come to scold you about Lo’ak.”
She saw his shoulders loosen, if only slightly. In that moment, beneath the wide darkening sky and the endless ocean, the child before her looked unbearably small and fragile.
Neytiri gestured for Spider to sit beside her again. He hesitated, then slowly obeyed. They sat together on the sand still warm from the sun, the sea before them deepening into shades of violet as evening settled. The wind swept past once more, stirring fine grains of sand around their feet.
She lifted her hand and gently brushed back his hair again, the same way she had done for her own children when they were small. This time, Spider did not pull away. He remained still, and after a brief pause, he let his head lean lightly into her palm.
“You miss your mom very much, don’t you?”
The small body beside her trembled. Spider did not answer at once. He kept his gaze fixed on the sea, where the sun had become only a faint smear of light along the horizon.
“Lo’ak can run to his mother after an argument,” Neytiri continued, her hand moving in slow circles at the nape of his neck. “You wish you could do the same, right?”
This time Spider drew in a deep breath. His shoulders tightened, then fell. It took him several seconds before he managed to speak. “Yes.”
The word dropped between them, heavier than the sound of the waves.
“I thought I would stop missing her once I grew older,” he went on, his eyes never leaving the water. “I thought that if I never met her, if I did not have any real memories, the longing would grow smaller.”
His voice faltered slightly, but he continued. “But even though I have never met her, every time I see other mothers, I just miss her more. I keep wondering what my life would have been like if I had grown up with her. So I end up missing her every single day.”
Neytiri remained silent. She listened as the child’s murmuring voice against her slowly broke into trembling breaths. Her hand continued to smooth his wind tangled hair, stiff with salt, hair that had never been carefully braided like her own children’s. She realized this was the first time Spider had ever spoken to her so much.
“At that moment, I was just angry that Lo’ak could think about his mother that way. But I was wrong. I can’t force him to feel the same way I do just because I don’t get to have a mother.”
He told her that Norm had once shown him old recordings, fragments of his mother’s smile, her voice, the way she held him. Since learning that she was gone forever, whenever he could not sleep, Spider would hold the small toy aircraft she had left behind. Paz had gone before she could keep her promise to teach him to become a brave pilot like her. The toy aircraft in his hands could never truly take flight, because it remained grounded inside his heart.
Norm had also told him that he had been born premature. Tiny, fragile, crying without end in his first days of life. Yet his mother had never seemed weary of it. She used to joke that his cries were proof that he could not live without her, that he had grown so used to the rhythm of her heartbeat that he could not accept any distance at all. And yet Spider had truly lived without her for sixteen years.
Neytiri listened without interrupting. Her hand continued its slow path from the crown of his head to the nape of his neck, again and again, a rhythm as gentle as a lullaby without words. Sometimes she felt his breathing falter as he tried to hold back tears, and each time her touch grew just a little firmer.
When her own children were small, she always sat like this every night. Neteyam would lie pressed against her side. Lo’ak would toss and turn before finally settling. Kiri liked to hold onto her mother’s braid before drifting to sleep. Tuk had been so tiny then, burying her face against Neytiri’s stomach and giggling before she fell asleep. On nights like that, Neytiri had believed her arms were wide enough to hold the whole world in place.
But time had passed, and her children’s worlds had slowly stretched beyond that embrace. Neteyam had grown into his responsibilities. Lo’ak had become restless for the sea and long journeys. Kiri wandered through thoughts Neytiri could not always understand. Even Tuk now seemed more eager to run with her friends in the daylight than to remain by her mother’s side.
Neytiri knew it was natural. They had reached the age where they would step beyond their mother’s shelter and use their own hands and hearts to touch the world. She had once felt proud watching them grow strong like that. Yet in quiet moments, when she remained alone in the marui with only her thoughts, she could not escape the emptiness.
Gradually, Spider’s sobs faded in her arms. The trembling breaths settled, the sound in his throat softening into little more than a shadow. His voice grew fainter as darkness spread across the sea. The exhaustion of a long day was finally claiming him.
Neytiri did not withdraw her hand. She let his head rest in her palm, unwilling to break the warmth between them. She waited until his small chest rose and fell more steadily, his breathing slower and deeper. In that quiet space, between distant waves and wind threading through the trees, she asked the question that had lived inside her for so long.
“Have you always wanted me to be your mother?”
Spider did not answer at once. He lay still, eyes half closed, so still that she thought he had fallen asleep. But just as she prepared to let the silence remain, his small hand tightened faintly around her wrist.
“You don’t have to feel guilty about me,” Spider said slowly. “You don’t have any responsibility to become my mother, or to love me like your own child.”
His voice was so gentle that it made her chest ache. It reminded her of Neteyam, of the way her eldest son used to comfort her whenever she blamed herself too much.
“I only have one mother,” Spider continued, eyes still closed but his words clear. “I don’t need someone else to replace her. I don’t want anyone to replace her.”
He drew in a deep breath.
“Every day, I try to live well and be happy because I think… my mother didn’t abandon me. She’s just preparing a home for me in the next life. The way she came ahead of me to wait in this life.”
The hand clutching her wrist slowly loosened. Spider’s breathing grew even, deep and quiet. This time, he truly slept.
Neytiri did not wake him.
She remained there for a long time, until the sun had fully set and the sky turned a deep blue. Far out at sea, the water reflected the thin crescent moon like a ribbon of silver. Spider slept peacefully, his head resting in her hand, his small fingers loosely curled around her wrist as if afraid she might disappear if he let go.
Neytiri bent down, her forehead brushing lightly against his hair. For the first time, she did not think about war, or guilt, or the boundaries between human and Na’vi. She only wanted to hold this child close and soothe the pain inside him.
When she lifted him onto her back, Spider did not wake. Neytiri supported his weight with steady arms, feeling how light he was against her. She walked slowly toward the marui, her own footprints pressing over the smaller ones that had led her there.
Outside, the waves continued their steady rhythm against the shore like the heartbeat of the ocean. Inside the marui, Spider’s breathing blended with the night wind. And for the first time in a very long while, the emptiness in Neytiri’s chest did not feel quite so vast.