Chapter Text
Spite, a form of sheer determination in the face of the insurmountable, humid calamity at odds against his life, is all that Jake Sully has to bargain with. Palm fronds swipe against his sweat-slick face as he pushes his way through alien flora, alert and scanning his surroundings with a white-knuckled grip on the bowie knife and spear in his hands that, logically, will do nothing if another thanator finds him.
He’s screwed, in short, and Jake gives himself a solid two days before he is inevitably torn to shreds or killed by some mutating Pandoran bacteria that will turn his bones into slush. Every laboured breath fogs his mask, and as the temperature begins to drop with the setting sun, the gouges and scrapes marring his exposed skin become progressively more painful with each step he takes.
The water on his clothes has dried since jumping off the cliff, yet Jake still feels damp from sweat or possibly blood that has soaked through his clothes. He prays against the latter, adrenaline still coursing through his veins and a dull penetrating throb ever-present at the back of his skull. He must have cracked his head on something at some point between being attacked by the thanator and now.
He doubts they will return for him or bother looking. In truth, Jake wouldn’t. He knows just as well as everyone else on this god-forsaken moon that humanity has no place on a planet not designed for them and that it will do everything in its power to kill them off. It’s a humbling reminder, but Jake has no intention of letting it.
Neytiri watches the tawtute crash through the brush, brandishing a gawky spear and the short blade in his tiny hand at every shifting leaf he hears. She has followed him since the uniltìrantokxolo came back in their metal ikran. Every creature scattered from the area long before they landed, and Neytiri knew they were coming long before she could hear the terrible noise their flying metal made.
Frustration tugs within her— he has wandered erratically for hours, yet draws closer and closer to Kelutral by the grace of Eywa as dusk wanes further into the night. He will not survive it, and it is merciful to kill him now before anything else can. Notching an arrow, she waits for him to turn again, and he does; she sees his strange dark eyes glint with the reflection of the bioluminescence surrounding him and raises her arms.
Her fingers twitch to release, but at movement in her peripheral, her breath hitches; an atokirina, a seed of the Great Tree, flitting down through the air, rests momentarily on the tip of her arrowhead before drifting away once more.
For whatever reason, he must live— and against her will, Neytiri will ensure it.
Jake’s heart pounds against his ribcage as if it threatens to break through his sternum. With steady hands, he tears his outer shirt to wrap around the head of his spear, winding the rugged canvas around and around while rapidly checking his surroundings. He’s struggling for a light after dunking the spear in the sap of a nearby tree, and the discarded ends of snapped matches lay scattered about at his feet.
At last, his makeshift torch lights and illuminates the darkness with a flash of fire and the viperwolves that are closing in on him. With a shout, he jabs the flaming torch at them while they yip and bare their jagged teeth.
One of them lunges toward him. He has just enough time to hit it with his spear, but the creature is the size of a coyote, and it will be only a matter of seconds before he gets knocked to the ground, and he knows this is it.
Yet, it isn’t.
A hairline scratch spanning the length of his mask strains his already heaving lungs, and Jake can do nothing but watch from the ground in shock as a Na’vi appears out of nowhere and scatters the viperwolves. She puts to death the one she had shot with an arrow, muttering something under her breath before her gleaming yellow eyes are on him, narrowed and scouring his face.
Ignoring his protest, she tosses his torch into a nearby pool, and Jake has to blink rapidly to adjust to the abrupt darkness before the bioluminescence takes over. It casts strange blue and purple hues across everything, glowing and reacting to every slight movement in the forest. The glow pulsates, almost as if it’s breathing. He has half the heart to lose focus and gaze in awe if not for his present company.
The Na’vi is tall. As Jake’s eyes flit from the bow slung over her shoulders to the knife as long as his arm that she clutches in her four-fingered hand, he understands instantly at that moment that it was not out of the kindness of her heart that she intervened.
‘Thank you’ sits in his mouth, but he dares not break the heavy silence between them, and all confidence that he had dissipates the second she stands to her full height and towers over him.
“They did not have to die,” she says curtly. Her voice is thick with anger— no, condemnation, and Jake isn’t dumb enough to misinterpret what goes unsaid. “Your fault,” she adds and contradicts the accusatory bitterness in her expression by stooping to pull Jake to his feet by his forearm with a startling gentleness. Malleable and unable to resist nor respond, he purses his lips and readjusts the grip on his knife as if it’s any comfort to him or a threat to the woman.
Jake gazes up at her with an imploring look. Undeterred, the Na’vi pivots on her heel and stalks away, baring her fanged teeth in a scathing hiss before she does.
Naturally, Jake does the smart thing and trails after her.
She should kill him. He will be lucky if Tsu’tey does not shoot an arrow through his small, weak body before he knows he is in danger. Neytiri could have lost him a long time ago— the tawtute’s legs are short, and he’s injured in many places, most likely in more than Neytiri can see. If she weren’t holding herself back, intentionally walking slower and choosing easy paths to take, he would have died.
He’s helpless without her, like a child. Gritting her teeth, Neytiri listens to his stumbling footsteps and pointedly refuses to look back and acknowledge his presence.
However, she is forced to. The man’s footsteps cease, and he speaks to her for the first time, instantly sparking outrage in her heart as soon as his words leave his lips.
“You don’t thank for this,” Neytiri seethes, taking a small step that cuts off the distance between them. She stoops, sinking herself to his eye level to make her point. His pupils are blown out, and his wide eyes flick back and forth between hers. He opens his mouth again, but she cuts him off. “This is very sad. Very sad only .”
“Alright, I’m sorry,” the man responds, raising his hands. He seems to mean it, but all sawtute believe the lies they speak. He doesn’t comprehend the severity of what he has done, and even if he begins to, his simple human understanding will not get him far. “I’d be dead if it weren’t for you,” he continues, and Neytiri nods in agreement. At least he can state the obvious.
“Yes,” she replies. “You should be.”
The man’s face twists strangely. “Then why didn’t you let me die?” he demands, and Neytiri scoffs, a guttural hiss received with a guarded flinch and tightened knuckles around the little knife.
“It is the will of Eywa.” Not mine, she wishes to add, but she doesn’t for reasons unknown to herself.
“I have no idea what that means,” the man retorts, and Neytiri would give him a smack upside the head if it wouldn’t completely knock the imbecile off the branch he stands on.
“Go back,” she says instead, pushing his chest with two fingers. Even with little force, he stumbles backward, and Neytiri wonders out of curiosity how far she could throw him, but only for a second.
“I can’t, and you know it,” the man retorts, indignant, and Neytiri’s frustration only builds further. She reaches to nudge him again, intending to push him over, but freezes with her hand in the air. She disregards his wary stance and glances at the dozens of atokirina descending from the canopy above.
Stupidly, her companion swats one away from his arm. Neytiri gasps and reaches for his wrist, enveloping his whole hand, but the skxawng tries to do it again with the other.
“No!” Neytiri rebukes forcefully, and this time, he listens.
The atokirina float down around him, each landing on his skin from all sides, and they ascend once more— just as the one that stayed Neytiri’s arrow.
Resigned, Neytiri releases his hand to bring his attention back to herself. He shifts his eyes from the atokirina to hers. “Come,” she says. “I must take you to the Tsahik.”