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It was by the grace of Eywa that they found him alive.
As Jake held you in a comforting embrace by the shore, with Tuk clinging to your leg and Kiri leaning on your shoulder, you stood by with other members of the Metkayina as they surveyed the horizon line, looking for any sign of your son. After a short, clipped conversation with the Tsahìk, Ronal, you were made aware that Lo'ak, Tsireya, Rotxo and Ao'nung had gone out beyond the reefs without permission.
Jake nearly went insane. The two of you already were struggling to hold yourselves together, after the loss of your son, Neteyam, and he had taken it harder than most. But you knew Lo'ak was the one who was truly warring with himself. Many nights were spent in his hammock, holding him as you both cried yourself to sleep, his head buried in your chest as he held onto you tightly, just like he did as a baby.
He looked to his sa'nu [mom] for comfort, just as he looked to his father for inspiration. Yet the latter had failed him, called him a disappointment, berated him and embarrassed him all for the sake of upholding a reputation. Blamed him for his brother's death.
So it did not surprise you that he went out with the few people he knew he could trust, the three Na'vi his age that he made peace with, that would be able to help him on this cause he sought out. It was just heartbreaking, as a mother, that he did not feel a need to tell you where he was going. Because in all honesty, you were supportive of his cause. He followed in the footsteps of his father, changing the history of the Na'vi to protect their peace, to protect Eywa'eveng [Pandora]. He brought you pride, even if your soul was too broken, too fragile to let you admit that while still in this new place, with these strangers watching your every move.
When Lo'ak walked upon the shore, followed by The Olo'eyktan's children and Rotxo, you gently took Tuk's hands from around your leg and handed them to Kiri, breaking free from Jake's hold and running to wrap Lo'ak in a tight hug, the unusual patches of heat on his skin not bothering you as you held him tightly, your eyes glossy with tears.
"Ma Loakur [{Lo'ak's 'government' name; Toruk Makto Amulet}], ma yawntutsyìp [my darling], you are safe, and you have returned. Please, show my spirit mercy and tell me when you leave next time, yes?" Finally pulling back to observe him, that's when you realized those odd patches of heat on his body were bluish-purple splotches of skin that had been exposed to the sun for too long, or as Jake would call them, sunburned.
"Forgive me, Sa'nu. I just...wanted to go and find Payakan again. I miss him. He understands me. And I understand him." You could see the defeat on Lo'ak's face, realizing that he hadn't been able to find the tulkun that he bonded with, his spirit brother. And, after another once-over, his skin had a sickly pallor to it, the usually deep blue that most forest Na'vi possessed turning closer to the color of the seas. Before you could get out another word, Jake walked up behind you two, a stern look tainted with disappointment that you were not bothered to face. Unfortunately for Lo'ak, it was directed right at him.
"What the hell were you thinking, Lo'ak? Going out there, leaving your mom and I scared to death looking for you? No one around here knew where you were or what you were doing, and you think it was fine to just go out and—"
"Ma Jake. Enough. I have to tend to my son and his sunburned skin. We can speak more with him in private. Away from the Tsahìk and her prying eyes." Nodding your head as a signal for Jake to glance behind you, he can see the Olo'eyktan and Tsahìk watching on, the former showing genuine concern for both Lo'ak and his children, while the latter was much harder to read, yet it was evident she was judging harshly.
Keeping an arm wrapped around Lo'ak's shoulders, you gently lead him away from the eyes of the Metkayina, your face masked by the fresh mourning paint and veil that you put on that morning, its weight you bore feeling suffocating even still. You could tell by the way Lo'ak had his shoulders slumped, he, too, still felt the pain, that hole within your family that could never be filled.
Just beyond the flaps were the few possessions you and your family had brought during the voyage to the village of the Metkayina, as well as Neteyam's things laid out neatly on a small blanket near the praying fire, smoke still drifting in lazy swirls. You motion for Lo'ak to sit on one of the woven mats that lined the floor, and Jake moved to do the same, before you stopped him.
"Muntxatan [husband], it is best if you go and check on the girls. Speak to the Olo'eyktan about this matter as well. My son went out there for a noble purpose. And you tell the chief I said that. Do not bring my name into this matter otherwise." Your tone was harsh, and clipped, lined with a sense of urgency. Jake let out a scoff of disbelief, but he didn't protest as he stood and left, exchanging a look with his only son, before stepping back out into the light outside the marui [home].
Turning your attention back to the issue at hand, you gathered some salves and a clear soothing paste from the sap of the mangrove trees that made up the village of Awa'atlu, the smooth substance perfect for calming irritated skin. Setting the jars down, you take a scoop in your hands, starting to massage the sap paste into Lo'ak's back.
"How does it feel, my baby? It should help—"
"Sa'nu, I—I do not like it here. It feels like everything I do, no matter the reason, it is wrong. Always. Am...am I wrong?"
That made your hands still in their ministrations, moving quickly to crouch at a point where Lo'ak could look you directly in the eye. Behind that amber gaze he shared with his father, you could see a shell of the child you raised for years in the comfort of the forest, the boisterous, outgoing young warrior who now seemed so distant, like his body was here, but his mind was everywhere else.
"Ma 'itan [my son], what makes you say this? You have never been wrong, not in my eyes. Everything that you do, even if...it causes trouble in the short-term, holds a greater purpose than even you may realize." You cup his face in your hands, pressing gentle kisses to his nose and his forehead, tracing the curve of his eyebrows, and the familiar pattern of his syuratan [bioluminescent pattern] and his stripes. It was painful enough to grieve the loss of one child, but now, in this moment, you could see that maybe, you have lost two.
"Father, he always—there is always something new to get upset at me for. He does not understand what I was doing. I want to help the tulkun, help the People, I want to...to—"
To avenge Neteyam's death.
To finally be seen as good enough in his father's eyes.
To be able to live without the guilt and shame of having his actions be considered the reason for the catalyst that burned his family's life to the ground.
"Lo'ak. Look at me, my child. My beautiful son." Your hands slowly moved to apply more of the salve onto his arms, legs, and face, wiping away unshed tears as you rubbed it in gently on his cheeks. "There is nothing more that I want to know than the fact that I love you. And your brother's death is not your fault. It was," you paused, your voice breaking and its tone lowering, pain seeping back up your throat, already raw from nights of praying, grieving, longing. "It was the will of the Great Mother. And that is something that your father has not come to terms with yet. I understand this pain that you feel, that we all feel. It has been so, so difficult on us all. But you are perfect, tìyawn [beloved]. My perfect Lo'ak, in every form that he is."
Your son averted his gaze from yours, looking down and shaking his head softly. He wanted to believe, he almost did, but there was a voice in the back of his mind telling him that he wasn't perfect. That whatever you believed was perfect about him was a lie. His father's voice.
"No, Mom, I am not perfect. I am a mistake, a freak. Just like always. I have this extra finger, my eyes are different, I walk different, talk different. I can never fit in. Not like he did." Before the last word could even leave his lips, Lo'ak collapsed into your arms, his sobs coming out as anguished cries, pleas for help. He held on to you tightly, like a vice, almost like you'd disappear if he let go. You returned his embrace with equal force, tears rolling down your cheeks, leaving streaks in your mourning paint. Rocking back and forth, to attempt to bring comfort to the both of you, there was a temporary moment in time where you forgot about his sunburn, until he winced slightly. Pulling apart, you hold his hand again, four fingers laced in three, you use your free hand to apply the second batch of salve, the purple skin already peeling away to reveal the new, pale hue underneath. Bringing his hand up to eye level, you give each finger a kiss, one on each knuckle, before cradling it in your lap.
"My sweet boy, you do not know how wrong that is. You are not a mistake, not at all. When...when you were born, and I held you for the first time, your tiny hand curled around my finger, and just as I did now, I—I gave each little finger a kiss. All five of them. And I cried tears of joy. I thanked Eywa for blessing you. For being different than all the other children. Because you are different. Because those hands now," motioning to Lo'ak's little finger, one of your favorite unique parts of him, "are changing the history of every clan on this moon. I need you to understand that. Regardless what your father says, regardless of what others say. My baby is the Tulkun Makto [Rider of Tulkun {think: similar to Toruk Makto, leader of the people}]. And I am honored to be his mother.
So do not think of your being as shameful, to me or your father. It is everything but. And do not, ma Loakur, blame yourself for what happened on the ship. I need you to promise me that, okay?"
For the first time that day, Lo'ak gave the smallest of smiles, looking at his hand not with contempt, but with happiness. He was truly able to look you in the eye again, and you could see that same baby that you cradled in your arms, that innocent joy, not yet touched by war or sorrow, was still there all along. His breathing sounded lighter, the weight momentarily lifting off his chest, still littered with purple. It was endearing, childish. Something you missed dearly.
"Thank you, Sa'nu. I guess, we should finish taking care of my sunburn? Next time I promise to wear more of the salve. Tsireya said she would bring me some to keep later."
"Yes, my love. I will finish and then you need to rest, hm?" Giving Lo'ak a playful squeeze on his shoulders, the two of you laughed together for the first time in years. True laughter, free, wild, loud and unbothered. It was just like when he was young, in the forest, sat on your lap while Jake, Kiri and Neteyam would play in the stream. Only this time that little boy was growing up to become a fierce warrior of Eywa's children.
This happiness was temporary, you understood that.
But it felt good, even if only for a short while.
You would relish in that feeling for as long as you lived.