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Omatikaya; a clan from which stemmed the Sarentu, were most famed for their elaborate weaving, but their second biggest passion was undoubtedly music. Children learned cords and instruments and pitches practically since diapers, and compared to other clans, most Omatikayan prayers came in singing form. Growing up side by side with these Na’vi, Spider has been taught to express his worries through song just as any other clansman, and though he never saw himself as particularly a musician, those few who heard his voice had nothing but praise to give. He never knew how much he took it for granted.
There was little singing in the Mangkwan stronghold. Even on good, lighthearted days, no music was heard throughout the village; a stark contrast from Socorro’s home in the forest, where no matter the time or weather, you’d hear someone strumming an instrument or leisurely humming a melody. There was not a moment without tunes of some sort; it was the Omatikayan way of connecting with Eywa throughout the day, something that didn’t require plugging to the mycelium network and for Spider that was one of the few accessible options, so now, being forced to live in this dead land by his father, hopelessly awaiting rescue, trying to push it down felt like torture. He couldn’t feel Great Mother’s heartbeat under his feet, couldn’t hear her whisper in the wind, couldn’t feel the sheer energy of life coursing through the air. Things he barely noted before now left a chasm in his heart with their absence.
So who could blame him for this? For wanting to practice the very culture he was integrated into since birth?
When Varang awoke in the dead of night to a strange sound and found Spider absent from his fur bedding, she saw no choice but to go and investigate personally. Her eyes widened when she recognised the sound as singing she has never before heard.
There he was, a small distance away from the charred roots of what was once The Hometree, sat in a grove of burnt branches, twigs swirling around him. For a wild-child who spent most of his life sleeping in the cold dirt and hunting his own game, his voice had a surprisingly smooth and etherial sound and awed, the ash woman sat low, branches obstructing her as she pinned her ears to listen, observing her mate’s son’s musical talent. Somehow, it felt as though even the stars shone brighter, responding to his voice.
With a growing smile, Varang refrained from moving, focused on ingraining this moment in her memory. Finally, an event that was hers to remember, not Quaritch’s. He’ll have to bond with her to see it through her eyes, not the other way around. Sending him away on a raid was a good decision.
“May wind carry my voice to you…” Socorro sang, his Na’vi pronunciation as perfect as ever. “Hear me, sisters…hear me, brothers…” He closed his eyes. “Hear me, ma’Eywa.”
Suddenly, Varang saw nothing but red.
Spider didn’t hear her approach, just felt a red-painted hand close painfully around his bicep and all but yank him back towards the village. Next thing he knew, the Tsahik of the Mangkwan was above him, her hand around his throat, pining him to the woven floor of their yurt. Angry, no, rage-filled eyes bore into his very soul.
“After all I’ve done for you…” She spoke, low and terrifyingly collected. “After I’ve let you into our home. Into MY home, after I’ve fed you and gave you a soft place to land beneath my roof, after I accepted that horrid "blessing" of yours, after I’ve been so, so patient…” She hissed. “This is how you thank me?”
“I did nothing wrong!” Spider bit back.
“You sang praises, in our home!” She raised her voice, clearly shaken behind that angry facade.
“I didn’t!” Socorro protested. “I sang to my family!”
“I heard your words!”
“It’s how all Omatikaya songs are!” The boy yelled. “They all include the allmother, it’s our tradition!”
“You are not one of them.” Varang growled. “Never were.”
“…huh?” The boy’s eyes widened at the audacity.
“You were never one of the people. You will never be accepted by them.” The Tsahik kept going. “You are pathetic; grasping at a goddess that could not care less for your plight.”
“Me breathing this air says otherwise.” Spider smirked. “She proved her love. You can’t take that away from me.”
Breathing became progressively more difficult for both of them; for Varang, it was from all-consuming anger and for Spider, it was from Na’vi fingers closing around his throat, but he wouldn’t be of Quaritch’s blood if he knew when to quit.
“I’m done pretending.” He coughed spitefully. “I wont turn from my mother. Fuck you.”
At that, Varang’s expression softened, as if she remembered something. It unnerved the boy far more than her fury, for at least that he was familiar with. She pulled away from him and disappeared behind beaded curtains of her infirmary before returning with a vial, sitting beside him.
“Poison?”
“No. It won’t kill you.” The woman explained. “Drink.”
“Hell no.”
“You prefer I cut your kuru instead?”
A cold ran down Spider’s back. He only heard what it was like from stories and from assumptions of Hell’s gate scientists. A painful lobotomy that permanently damaged a living creature and sent it into a pit of madness.
Hand trembling ever so slightly, the blonde took Tsahik’s vial, opened it and drank the mysterious concoction inside. It tasted deceptively nice and familiar, like that Mo'at's cough medicine he used to take when he was a child. Perhaps it was something numbing?
Then, Varang took him by the arm and dragged him out of the yurt, towards a hut at the far end of her stronghold; the one where they kept prisoners. Socorro didn’t dig his heels into the ground, but oh how he waned to.
She didn’t bother to be gentle as she tied the rope around his wrists and the pole in the middle of the room. Spider didn’t like how it smelled of warm metal. “Think I’ll try to run?”
“No. These are not for me,” Varang began. “These are for you. Can’t have you tearing off your own skin.”
“…what?”
It was then Socorro felt his heart-rate increase to what seemed like a thousand beats a second, and soon began feeling dizzy, his knees eventually giving out.
“I’ll welcome you when you return. Hopefully more grateful.” She spat, closing the curtain behind her and before Spider could ask what he’d be returning from, the ground beneath him crumbled and with a scream, he fell into a dark abyss.
There was no telling how long he fell for, but when he hit the ground, he hit it hard. For a moment Spider thought he’d dislocated an arm even. Whatever dark wasteland he’d landed in looked cold and deserted, with surrounding darkness creeping in. Outside is not supposed to be this dark.
Then he heard whispers. Familiar voices of people he loves, but their tone felt off, malicious. He couldn’t see a thing, but heard them circling him, their cutting remarks getting louder and louder until he felt Jake’s presence right before him. The man, even down on one knee, towered over Spider like a mountain, his face tired and yellow eyes burning into brown ones.
“God you’re sad.” He rasped. “I gave you a chance after sixteen years and this is what you do? Run off with your daddy? Abandon your family? You were supposed to protect them.” His feline nose scrunched. “It was your one purpose in this life, and you failed.”
Spider gasped. “I didn’t run. They captured me, you must know that! I’d never abandon you!”
“You betrayed me and your siblings once again.” Jake’s voice grew louder. “First you saved that old bastard, and now you’re grovelling before the queen of bones. How could you?”
“It’s not true!” Socorro yelled to get his message across as the whispers evolved into a cacophony.
“I knew I should have killed you.” Sully’s voice was right in Socorro’s ear now, all too real. The boy felt his breath on his cheek. “I should have cleansed Pandora of you when I had the chance. This is what I get for being merciful to you. A snake in my home.”
“No!!” Spider shut his eyes and tried covering his ears but there was no use, the voice just kept speaking inside his very head — inescapable.
Suddenly, the blonde felt himself being pushed off balance and looking up, Lo’ak’s tear-filled eyes confronted him. “How could you?!” He yelled, voice cracking. “I trusted you! I loved you! And you let my brother die!” He wept. If Spider wasn’t so pre-occupied with this situation, he’d think it very out of character for Lo’ak to weep so openly.
“Ma’Lo’ak, I had no say in what happened!” He defended himself. “If I could…if I could go back—”
“I wish it was you!” Lo’ak screamed, his voice shaking the very air and ground. “I wish you died instead of him! Then I could get over it, move on with better friends! But no…I had to loose Netyeam. My actual brother.”
The words cut deep, deeper than skin and bone, striking directly into Spider’s heart. Then, out of nowhere, the dry soil beneath him caught ablaze and the world became illuminated by fire as far as the eye could see. It bit and scratched and smothered his body, plunging it into agony real and clear as day, but before Socorro could jump up to try and avoid the embers, familiar bony hands pinned him down.
Netyeam loomed above him now, eyes glassy and rotten blood oozing out of his grotesque bullet wound. “How dare you do this to me?” He croaked. “You were supposed to protect me! Give your life for me! It was your one task!”
The fire somehow grew hotter; hotter than should be feasibly possible, but even in agony, barely able to move from the pain, Spider cried apologies to the brother he’ll never see again. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” He repeated between screaming from lashing flames, straining his vocal cords beyond limit.
***
The eerie quietness of the yurt never felt so irritating.
Varang didn’t know she took sound for granted; being completely alone now felt unnerving, unnatural, and uncomfortable. She got used to Quaritch’s and Spider’s chaos far quicker than she’d like to admit; their constant banter, Miles doing chores with no breaks just to busy himself or Spider annoying both of them…the Tsahik thought she’d be happy to have that peace of mind returned to her, yet felt nothing except growing emptiness. Silence brought out a strange ringing sound Varang couldn’t place the source of.
The "terror trial" was her invention; she combined several types of hallucinogens and added herbs that had an invigorating effect, with some additional secret ingredients known to her only, thereby creating a dangerous cocktail that resulted in a powerful trip which forced its overly energised and aware victims into waking nightmares. Most of her warriors preferred physical punishment to having experienced it.
The warriors who were forced through such trial to repent, usually came back with horrific stories of their loved ones turning their backs on them or even hurting them, or being consumed alive by viperwolves or night-wraiths. Luckily for them, the effect would almost entirely wear off by the twelfth hour.
…with a Na’vi, that is.
Because noon of the second day was nearing, and yet Spider still actively hallucinated.
Varang cut faster, collecting a tiny portion of simple porridge into a pouch. The boy hasn’t eaten or drank for almost thirty hours, and according to guards’ reports, hasn’t slept either.
Spider’s crumpled form was a sad sight to behold. His body had clearly tired itself out, but his mind couldn’t let go, throwing Socorro from one night-terror to another in quick succession, which resulted in his muscles convulsing in feeble attempts to get away from whatever he thought was hurting him.
Varang sat elegantly next to him, undoing the ropes as at this point, he clearly had no strength to accidentally hurt himself. The binds did however leave purple bruises, formed as result of Spider pulling at them in panic. She touched his shoulder, feeling how sticky it became with sweat in spite of the cool and well-ventilated environment in this hut. His eyes were open to slits, sight unfocused, and heartbeat still that of a frightened yerik.
***
A broad-shouldered form appeared from the blood ocean, taking Spider’s face into its hands and smearing amber all over it; Miles Quaritch, the scar-faced demon who haunted him.
“You keep running from your destiny and where’d that lead you? Back to me.” He grinned, revealing sharp fangs. “Because you cannot escape me, Junior.”
Spider thrashed in his iron grasp. “LET GO!”
“You are mine.” He growled, sharp smile growing wider, too wide, revealing gums and muscle tissue as it stretched upwards right up to the man’s eyes. “You are my continuation. My legacy.”
The blonde scratched at the muscled arms as he felt the claws pressing into his cheeks slowly crush his head with inhuman strength. “DONT TOUCH ME!!!”
“All mine.” Quaritch’s eyes turned smaller and smaller, caving into his head as he applied more and more pressure to Spider’s chin. The boy felt his skull crack under the tension and screamed an animalistic roar of pure, white hot pain hitting every nerve in his body.
This was death. Surely, this time, it had to be.
***
Varang leaned in. “Spider.” She whispered softly into his ear, but no reaction came, for while the boy’s body remained here, his mind wandered far out of her reach.
Trying to stamp out her growing concern, the Tsahik took out a dry cloth and patted it over Spider’s face and back as to avoid a possible cold, but knew she couldn’t do much more than that. In this state, Spider won’t be able to take in food or water, which meant he’ll have to "tough it out", as Quaritch says, until the drug finally wears off.
When to expect it, Varang didn’t know.
How strange; in her fury, she considered this to be mercy compared to all the ways she wanted to take her revenge on the child; to hurt and scar and punish him for his insolence and carve obedience into his very soul, but the sight of the usually spunky and sunny boy laying on the ground, eyes filled with tears, weakly convulsing akin to a fresh kill, has cooled that anger.
The noon of the second day has arrived and Varang saw no improvement in her ward prisoner.
She loathed being wrong, so she placed great effort into never making mistakes. She prided herself on being perfect, the idol her clan was to look up to…but perhaps she might have made too quick of a judgement; given Spider too big of a dose.
And so, not knowing what else to do with herself, she chose a corner in the yurt and sat there, hugging her knees, tail curled around her, waiting for something, anything, to change, while thanking the flames that no one saw her like this. She did fear onto others, and never felt it herself; it was her identity, her front.
… except, perhaps, for now.
***
Spider was unsure when exactly he became conscious. He just grew aware, at some point, that his body wasn’t being burned or stabbed or torn into shreds over and over again as the voices of his loved ones preached that he deserved every second of it. He noticed waning light through crevices in the yurt’s woven fabric, establishing it to b evening time, but feelt numb, not yet fully present. How long has it been? It felt like a while. A century perhaps?
Then, Varang was above him once again. For a moment, Socorro expected her to torture him in some way; to plunge him back into darkness, but shockingly, no pain came from her touch as she gently turned him over on his back and cupped his face.
“You’ve returned…” She uttered, her expression soft, relieved, eyes nothing like the ones he witnessed that night. There was no malicious glow, no promise of violence, no hatred.
Could it be…?
Socorro prided himself on being a tough kid, but holding back tears after all he’s been through was beyond even him, so he broke into a cry then and there, coughing when attempted whines came out as whispered hisses.
Varang gasped at this reaction and pulled the blonde up into her arms, tucking him into the crook of her neck. “Shhhh…” She stroke his hair. “You were brave, child.”
Before Spider knew it, he was returned to his soft fur bedding, woven covers over him and feeble firelight illuminating the familiar, cluttered room of Varang’s yurt. He then felt sharp nails gently graze his cheek as Vara cupped it, turning his face toward hers again. He eyed her wearily, as mere sight of her wrecked his nerves with anticipation of something horrific.
“Can you drink?” She simply asked.
A shiver ran down Socorro’s back. He won’t fall into the Tsahik’s trap again, won’t drink anything she gives him, won’t go back to that place where everyone he’s ever cared about hurt and abandoned him as the flames raged. “I’ve-” He coughed, trying to croak out a I’ve learned my lesson, but Varang didn’t need his words; Spider’s expression of fright and apprehension spoke clear enough.
With slightly sagged shoulders and a strange…sadness(?) in her eyes, she leaned away, walking towards the hearth and closing the lid on it, the yurt falling into darkness. If Spider couldn’t drink or eat, he’d have to at least get some sleep.
However, the second she put out the embers, a loud gasp and more coughing erupted from the bed, alerting her.
He got scared of the dark? That was new.
Placing a hand on his trembling back, Varang felt Spider lean into the touch and before her mind caught up with her, lied down onto the furs, enveloping and pulling him close. Eywa wasn’t here to comfort him, but she was. She was here, a real and tangible goddess, generously lowering herself to Spider’s level for a reason she did not wish to admit. Just as she did not wish to admit that it stabbed at her heart to hear Spider cry again, quiet grunts and ragged breaths coming from her embrace.
Instead, the Tsahik focused on telling herself that this was a necessary measure. That it was either this, or her hurting his body. That now, he’ll know better than to spark her wrath again.
She held him tighter with increasing desperation, clawed hand carding his hair.
That now, there won’t be any treacherous singing. Or laughter. Or quips and jokes.
Only obedient silence.