Chapter Text
his word is in my heart like a fire,
a fire shut up in my bones.
I am weary of holding it in;
indeed, I cannot.
Jeremiah 20:9
The day the sea claimed him, Neteyam felt the forest slip from his bones.
The sand was too pale, the air too sharp with salt, and every wave seemed to push him farther from the place he once called home. He stood behind his father, jaw set, while the Metkayina Olo’eyktan spoke in low, measured tones. Words carried like stone sinking into still water.
Uturu.
A place to rest. A place to be safe.
The reef clan’s people watched from the shallows, their eyes curious, some hostile. But it was Ao’nung’s gaze that burned. Broad-shouldered, skin glistening with the sheen of saltwater, the Olo’eyktan’s son looked at him not as a guest, but as a bargain struck.
The condition was spoken simply by the reef clan’s Tsahik, as if it were nothing.
“Our son, Ao’nung, has come of age. Your eldest is an omega. He will be his mate.”
Neteyam’s blood ran cold.
He’d heard the whispers of such arrangements in distant clans, but never had he imagined his life bound by someone else’s vow. His father’s hand tightened on his shoulder, a silent command to stand tall, even as the air seemed to grow heavier.
Ever the son of Toruk Makto, Neteyam willed himself to step forward. With a sure hand against his forehead Neteyam motioned to Ao’nung.
“I see you.”
Ao’nung did not smile, his wide tail swung lazily at his side, and said nothing. His cerulean eyes spread heat along Neteyam’s body as the impending heir gazed over his future mate. And though the ocean stretched endlessly around him, Neteyam had never felt so trapped.
That day replayed in Netayam’s memory often. Before the sky people closed in on them much quicker than they all anticipated.
And then, the night Neteyam almost died was chaos—fire in the water, smoke in the air, and the sharp, ringing crack of gunfire. Neteyam hit the deck of the burning ship with a grunt, his body rolling to shield Lo’ak.
Then the impact, white heat blooming in his chest.
He heard his mother’s scream before he registered the pain. Lo’ak’s hands pressed hard against the wound, his voice frantic, stay with me, bro, stay with me—
He remembered Ao’nung’s face at that moment—eyes wide, mouth agape as if the sea itself had been ripped from beneath him. Then darkness swallowed everything.
After something like that, no one expected Neteyam to honor the agreement. Many took it as a sign that Eywa did not approve of their union. An omega seeking uturu only to be left hovering between life and death. Surely, this was an arrangement destined to fail.
The Great Mother had spoken.
As Neteyam recovered, the war ended. Tsyeyk Suli and his family were finished outrunning the danger that had shadowed them all their lives. Quaritch’s body lay on the ocean floor, an arrow fletched with yellow feathers buried deep in his right eye.
On the shore of Awa’atlu, the restless wings of their ikrans stirred the sand, whipping Neteyam’s braids across his face. Relief welled within him, sharp and bittersweet. A tug at his core held his gaze on Tonowari and Jake as they spoke for the last time. Ao’nung had not come to see them off. Neteyam swallowed against the dry lump in his throat, his arms instinctively wrapping around himself.
The day they left Awa’atlu was beautiful. Every day there was beautiful, but that day the sea seemed calmer, the wind carrying them gently back home. As Neteyam cast one final look toward the island’s shore, he spotted a lone Na’vi astride an ilu beyond the reef. Still. Motionless. Eyes lifted to the sky.
Neteyam opened his eyes. The forest’s chorus rose around him, a cacophony that sank into his bones and reminded him he was home. Ten years among the Omatikaya, and still he dreamed of that moment on the sands of Awa’atlu. He did not understand. It had been years since the alpha’s presence last haunted his memories, or visited him in his sleep.
He sat up slowly on his mat. Dreams like these meant there would be no going back to sleep. His hand rubbed absently at the back of his neck, skin damp with a thin sheen of sweat. How long had he slept? Around him, his family’s breathing lifted and fell in the hush of slumber. Outside, the light had thinned to blue. Dawn.
Careful not to disturb them, Neteyam rose and reached for his bow. Quiet as a shadow, he slipped beyond the woven walls and into the waking forest.
Growing up in the forest of Pandora, he had made this trek often. Letting the cool, damp air of dawn into his lungs as he skillfully walked away from their village and into the dense canopies to where the yerik passed. Spotting a sizable tree, he climbed and perched high in the canopy, hidden among the leaves. He willed his heart to calm as he waited, counting his breaths. After a while, the midnight tip of his arrow slid between the branches, sighting the beating heart of his prey. Its ears twitched, sensing something unseen. Before its gills could flare, Neteyam exhaled and released. The arrow struck true. A heartbeat later came the dull thump of the fall.
Neteyam rested his palms on his thighs, pausing before beginning his descent. His steps were silent on the forest floor as he moved toward the kill, the faint gleam of the arrowhead marking his path. The yerik’s blue coat emerged from the shadows. Kneeling, Neteyam ran a hand along its flank before gripping the shaft of his arrow.
“Oel ngati kameie, ma tsmukan, ulte ngaru seiyi irayo. Ngari hu Eywa salew tirea, tokx ’ì’awn slu Na’viyä hapxì.”
The prayer finished, he drew the arrow free; quick, precise. No suffering. An honorable kill. His betrothed’s family would be pleased.
With practiced hands, he tied the ropes, fastening the yerik’s body to his back. He sighed, then began the trek toward the Omaticayan village.
Returning to the forest after Awa’atlu had been a slow adjustment. As soon as their ikrans crossed the floating mountains, they were met with shouts and calls from their clan. Some rushed ahead to High Camp to tell their grandmother they had returned.
They flew in formation: Jake leading with Bob, Tuk with their mother and Kiri in the center, Lo’ak and Neteyam closing the rear. The rhythm was familiar, their squad falling back into old patterns with ease. Soldiers returning from war, eyes misted, hearts heavy with loss.
Neteyam’s chest had tightened when he spotted his grandmother waiting at the edge of High Camp. Mist gathered around her, clouds rising beneath the cliffs, the abyss stretching far below. How different it was from Awa’atlu, the endless blue crevasse, the salt spray, the gentleness of sea wind. Here the air cut sharper, the wind whistling high above the world.
And yet, this was home.
They landed with ease on the edge of camp. Since the Sky People’s return, Jake had led the clan to a network of caves and cliffs hidden high in the mountains. Neteyam’s ikran gripped the rock before edging forward. Sliding down, Neteyam released the bond and ran a hand along the creature’s neck, ending at the ridge of its brow. A quiet thanks for carrying him home.
Behind him, Neytiri broke free and ran toward their grandmother. Shouts rose across the cliffs, voices lifted in joy at Tsyeyk Suli’s return. Yet this was no longer his place to lead. Jake had passed the title of Olo’eyktan to Tarsem, a young warrior forged in the first wars, wise beyond his years, as Jake often said.
Now the two stood face to face. By Omatikaya tradition, one leader dies before another is chosen. They did not fight. Instead, they held each other’s gaze in silence, heavy with meaning. Here, Jake was no longer Olo’eyktan. Respected, yes. But the clan was Tarsem’s now.
At last, Tarsem’s shoulders eased. His hand rose to his forehead.
“Tsyeyk Suli,” he said. “I see you.”
A breath seemed to escape the entire camp at once. Neytiri came quickly to Jake’s side, bowing her head, murmuring words of respect. The two leaders embraced. Men returned from the dead.
How many times now had Eywa spared them?
Neteyam pressed his palm to his ikran’s brow one final time. With a sweep of wings, it lifted back into the sky, leaving him in the dust and mist of the cliffs. All at once, the dread of the past months crashed down on him. His wound ached, burning with the strain of their flight, burning with the weight of everything that had passed. Neteyam thought of how he had once called himself a warrior, insisted on it. The word turned bitter on his tongue. What did he know of war then? What did he know of it now? Eywa had spared him, but his lungs still shook with the truth of how close he had come to death.
Around High Camp, the reunion carried on. His siblings dismissed their ikrans. Clan members circled them, joy bright in their voices at Toruk Makto’s family’s return. To them, their presence was a gift of Eywa in itself.
But inside, he felt hollow. Carved out. Empty. The stone beneath his feet pressed sharp against him, a reminder of how he longed for the wet, forgiving earth of the forest floor.
Slowly, the noise of the camp dulled, as though muffled under water. Then, his grandmother’s hands, light on his shoulders. Steady. Grounding.
He let out a shaky breath.
“Ma’teyam.”
As Tsahik, Mo’at knew better than anyone what it meant to walk through the spirit world and return.
He lifted his gaze to her. Golden eyes met his, piercing, eternal, framed by the wisdom of age. He had not seen such yellow eyes in a long time, not outside his family.
And then—a flash. Cerulean. Teal skin, light caught beneath long lashes. A memory flared so sharp it jolted him. He blinked hard, trying to scatter it. Shaken.
Mo’at only nodded, as though she too had seen it.
“Your cycle has begun, yawntutsyip.”
The words cut through him. Suddenly he noticed the fire crawling through his skin, the dryness of his throat, the weakness in his knees, the threatening wetness between his thighs. His body was clammy, trembling on the edge of collapse. Of course. All these months surviving on the edge, his heat had buried itself deep, waiting for a moment of safety. Now, freed, it surged back with the fury of a lover scorned.
He recalled the faint scent of his mother, comforting, though sharp in contrast to the sudden change in him. Tuk’s soft voice calling his name, Kiri’s gentle hands guiding him through the cave. His father’s strong silhouette ahead, weaving between tents until they reached their own.
Neteyam remembered everything that followed only in shades of red. The soft glow of the lamp, casting orange shadows against the cave walls. The longing ache for open skies, for waves crashing endlessly against the shore. The fire that burned within him and through his core, empty, and wanting to be filled. His heat had lasted seven days. Mo’at and Kiri lingered like shadows, uncertain whether it had come as nature intended or to finish what the bullet could not.
When the fever broke, Neteyam remembered being drawn upward by the faint click of metal. His father sat nearby, his broad frame a blur until Neteyam’s eyes adjusted to the dawn. Jake worked steadily, cleaning the barrel of his gun. The weapon gleamed in the new light, his practiced movements betraying the comfort he sought.
Neteyam cleared his throat and Jake’s head snapped up, the gun lowering to rest across his lap.
“Son.” His voice was scraped raw.
“S-sir.” Neteyam tried to speak, but it felt like shards of glass had clawed down his throat.
“It’s alright.” Jake set the gun aside and came to sit beside him. His hand reached for the bowl of water at his side, lifting a small cup to Neteyam’s lips while bracing the back of his neck.
The water cooled his raw throat, tasted divine against his parched tongue, washing away the bitter trace of herbs Mo’at and Kiri must have forced down.
“You were gone for a while,” Jake said quietly.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Neteyam whispered.
Jake’s brow tightened. “Don’t call me that.”
Neteyam blinked.
“You’re my son,” Jake said, the words rough, almost choked. His hands twitched as though he didn’t know whether to hold Neteyam or keep still. “Not my soldier. Not here. Not anymore.”
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant sounds of morning and the soft murmur of clan life outside the tent.
Neteyam turned his face away, eyes burning though no fever remained. “I failed everyone.”
Jake’s jaw clenched, but his hand moved, hesitant at first, then steady, resting against the back of Neteyam’s head. He pulled him in, pressing his forehead to his son’s temple.
“Neteyam,” he whispered, voice trembling at the edges. “What are you talking about?”
Neteyam’s chest hitched, his breath shuddering as though his ribs couldn’t contain it. For the first time since the fire of his heat, he let himself lean into the weight of his father’s embrace.
“The mating,” he rasped. “I didn’t do it. I didn’t honor the arrangement. I failed you.” His voice cracked apart, words dissolving into sobs. Hot tears streamed down his cheeks, soaking into Jake’s chest as he hugged him closer. He breathed his father’s scent, petrichor and earth, grounding him, even as shame gnawed at his raw, flayed soul.
Jake’s embrace tightened around him, shifting until Neteyam was fully on his lap. Strong hands cupped his back, holding him together as if by force alone. For a moment, Neteyam felt young again, small in the safety of arms that had carried him through storms and fire.
“Baby boy,” Jake murmured, and his voice wavered with a crack Neteyam had never heard. “You’re alive. To hell with customs and tradition. None of that matters. You’re here. That’s all I care about.”
Neteyam shook his head weakly against his father’s chest. “But I broke what you needed of me. I should’ve—”
Jake cut him off, his hand firm against the back of his skull. His own breath stuttered, uneven. “Stop. Stop, son.” His throat worked around words that faltered. “Do you know what it was like when I thought I lost you? When you went still in my arms?” His voice broke, sharp and wet. “I would’ve given everything—the war, the clan, Eywa herself—just to feel you breathing again.”
Neteyam froze. His father’s body shook beneath him, tremors running through the arms that had always felt unshakable. Jake’s breath hitched once, then again, until the sound of it cracked open into something more. His tears slipped hot against Neteyam’s temple.
“I’m supposed to protect you,” Jake rasped, clutching him tighter. “And I couldn’t. I couldn’t stop it. I almost buried my son.”
Neteyam’s sobs broke harsher, torn from deep in his chest. “I didn’t mean to make you—”
“You didn’t,” Jake interrupted, pulling him back just enough to look into his eyes. His own were red-rimmed, wet. “You and this family, you’re the reason I keep fighting. Don’t you ever think you’re a failure to me.”
And then Jake pulled him close again, no space left between them. No commander, no soldier. Just a father and son, both undone, clinging to each other in the fragile light of dawn.
The first tents finally began to appear among the forest. Neteyam’s brow was damp with perspiration, the yerik’s lingering heat searing his back as he moved between the trees. He had been gone only a few hours at most, yet already the morning sounds had risen over the Omaticaya village.
A cluster of tents spread across the grounds near Hell’s Gate. After the fall of Hometree, Jake had moved the people to the forest floor. Some chose to build among the roots, others to climb into the dense canopies, spreading themselves out instead of upward. They had hidden for a time in High Camp among the floating mountains when Quaritch returned, but after his death, they resettled here. Rebuilding, piece by piece.
As Neteyam entered the village, his clan greeted him with nods and murmurs. He reached the entrance of his family’s tent and exhaled, cutting the strap across his chest so the animal fell with a heavy thud behind him. Pushing aside the woven flap, he sighed as he stepped into his home.
Kiri and Tuk were still curled in sleep. Neytiri and Jake sat by the hearth, voices low, eyes lifting toward him as he entered.
Jake smiled faintly. “Early morning, it seems.”
“Ma’teyam,” Neytiri said warmly, her lips curved in a smile. “Come, eat.”
Jake’s gaze flicked past him, to the shadow of the yerik lying outside. “Carried that all on your own?”
Neteyam sank down between them. “Yes, sir.”
Jake rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath at the honorific, “This kid…”
“It is an honorable gift for Seytak,” Neytiri said gently.
Neteyam only hummed in reply, taking the bowl she offered and eating slowly.
Seytak te Tarsem’itan. A year ago it had been decided that Neteyam would mate with Seytak, an arrangement meant to bind the Sullys’ legacy with Tarsem’s. Seytak was a strong alpha, honorable and kind. Young. He had not yet presented when Neteyam left for Awa’atlu, his spirit still untouched by war. But he had grown into a mighty warrior, respected by the clan, the next Olo’eyktan. The closest to that title Neteyam himself would ever stand.
Jake had refused Tarsem’s offer at first, but Neteyam had been eager for a chance to redeem himself. To restore his father’s title somehow. Perhaps this arrangement would be blessed by Eywa, if nothing else.
Yet he no longer bore the mantle of Olo’eyktan, Jake had settled comfortably at Tarsem’s side. He still advised, still served as the bridge between the Sky People and their allies. The years had pressed that burden heavy upon him, and stepping aside seemed to grant him a breath of ease he had not known before. His shoulders carried less weight now.
Neteyam recalled the faint memory of his first heat after their return from Awa’atlu, the rasp of his father’s desperate whispers, you’re alive, you’re alive. After they had both calmed down, Jake had told him that while he had been recovering in Awa’atlu, he often visited the Cove of Ancestors and Eywa had shown him a vision of Neteyam as a child on the banks of a stream. What it meant, Jake never said. But Neteyam believed him, because from that day forward Jake turned his gaze more to his family than the clan.
“Tarsem and I are speaking today,” Jake said between bites of food. “They hope to hold the ceremony by the next moon cycle.” In six months.
Neytiri clicked her tongue, hissing for him to close his mouth while chewing.
Neteyam only nodded, his voice even. “That is fine.”
“Any preferences?” his father asked.
“Whatever they decide. It is fine,” Neteyam replied.
Jake exhaled, leaning back slightly. “You know…on Earth, brides usually wear a white dress.”
Neteyam arched an eyebrow. Neytiri’s lips curved in amusement, clearly anticipating where this was going.
“And sometimes there’s a…person called a maid of honor. The men have—well, best men. But you’re a man, so I’m not sure what that would even translate to here, given the whole alpha and omega thing—which, by the way, isn’t really a thing on Earth. Just saying,” Jake rambled, hands gesturing in the air.
“Dad, you’re rambling,” Kiri grumbled from the corner, voice thick with sleep. Neytiri covered her mouth to hide a laugh.
“Good to know your hearing works, baby girl,” Jake shot back with mock exasperation.
“Is Neteyam wearing a white dress?” Tuk chimed in, her voice bright and teasing. She had been awake for a while it seems. Neteyam hid a smile behind his bowl.
Tuk had grown quickly. Now seventeen, she reminded Jake of Neytiri when they first met, lean limbs, braids that fell past her shoulders, strong and poised. A skilled hunter, clever and kind, with a humor that often caught them off guard.
Neytiri shook her head, smiling. “Leave him be, Tuk. Your brother is not wearing a dress.”
Jake grinned, waggling his eyebrows at Neteyam. “Yet.”
Neteyam scowled slightly, but there was no real anger, just the quiet patience of someone used to his family’s teasing.
“I do not even know what a dress is,” Neteyam quipped. Sure, he had seen pictures of Earth brought by the humans who shared their borders. Norm and Max had plenty strapped to their person at all times, tucked in leather pouches called wallets, but it was an abstract concept to him, Earth. Nevertheless, he treasured when Jake spoke of it. His father seldom spoke fondly or playfully about his planet.
“What do the men wear?” Neteyam asked.
“They were black suits most of the time,” Jake answered.
Silence fell across the room. Jake coughed, realizing he needed to clarify. “I—er, they’re pants and a long jacket, usually an itchy polyester fabric…” His gaze shifted as he realized he was losing his audience. Clearing his throat, he resumed eating. “Actually, whatever you decide to wear is fine. Your mother and I didn’t have anything formal, we just happened to be at the Tree of Souls—ah!”
Jake rubbed the back of his head where Neytiri had slapped him, snapping him out of oversharing.
“Skxawng,” she muttered under her breath.
The room erupted in laughter.
“We have to send word for Lo’ak to attend,” Tuk chirped.
Kiri huffed. “If you can get him away from Tsireya long enough.”
“She must come, too,” Neytiri exclaimed. “The children would enjoy the forest. They must connect with the Tree of Souls,” her voice was fond.
Neteyam’s smile faltered. Lo’ak had returned to Awa’atlu within the first year after they came back. That first year, however, he did not leave Neteyam’s side. Another shadow that followed him everywhere, he all but peeled Neteyam’s fruits and hand-fed him. Lo’ak’s guilt ran deeper than the roots of Hometree during that time; he seemed to harbor more shame than Neteyam himself. Eager to please Jake, yet still prone to fights, they were two sides of the same coin after all.
One morning, perched high in the canopies on a thick branch, arrows at the ready, Neteyam spoke.
Tsireya is a nice girl.
As if electrified, Lo’ak nearly dropped his bow, almost betraying their position. He flustered for words until Neteyam released him from his stupor.
I like her…for you.
Lo’ak stared, a barely registered wetness in his eyes, before clearing his throat. They sat there in silence for a while. They returned home empty-handed, but everything had changed. Lo’ak had spoken with his father shortly after, then with Tarsem, and finally with Mo’at and Neytiri. Neteyam was the last to know, perhaps because he had always known this would be the outcome.
This time, they bade farewell to Lo’ak’s ikran from the rebuilt village. His figure climbed higher until he blended with the sky. Jake had sent him off with his routine comms and an added satellite device. They could communicate occasionally, though still careful to limit the frequency, wary of the wrong ears, even though the threat had long dissipated.
Through the static waves of their device, they heard of the birth of Lo’ak’s first child, a boy. Two years later, a girl. Neytiri and Jake seldom braved the long flight to Awa’atlu, but when they did, they returned with gifts—small, delicate shells and fabrics woven from raffia palm leaves. They smelled of salt, of the cerulean sea, and of memories Neteyam often tucked away. He kept his features schooled and busy during those days, though his mind wandered to family, to the forest, and to the paths of his own life.
Cutting him from his thoughts, Jake spoke. “I’ll call out to him today.”
The mashed roots Neteyam had been eating hardened in his stomach. He frowned, years had passed, yet his body still recoiled at the memory of the failed arrangement all those years ago.
“Do you need help skinning the yerik?” Jake asked.
At the mention of the deer, Kiri and Tuk perked up, squealing in delight.
“Must every piece go to Seytak?”
“Can you save some meat for us?”
Neteyam smiled. “I must use the whole animal to accept the bond.”
Neytiri chuckled as Kiri and Tuk groaned in unison. “You are a skilled hunter, Tuk. You can hunt one yourself.”
“Oh, yeah,” Kiri said, shoving a playful hand against Tuk’s shoulder. “Why don’t you ever bring big, delicious animals home?”
Tuk rolled her eyes and murmured something about that’s why we have Toruk Makto at home.
The Sullys had not stayed in Awa’atlu long enough to fully accustom themselves to the Metkayina courting rituals, but it was the Omatikaya way for the omega to present an offering to their alpha. For Neteyam, he had chosen to hunt a yerik, honoring the animal by fashioning garments and jewelry from its hide, curing the meat, and carefully burying the bones. It would take time, but the effort revealed not only the skill of a hunter but also the care of a provider, a homemaker for their future family. The thought of his belly round with a child sent a shiver down his spine. Regardless, he had six months to prepare his gifts, giving Seytak enough time to court him before the next moon cycle.
Neteyam rose from the fire, brushing the remnants of his meal from his hands. Neytiri’s eyes followed him with a quiet fondness, while Kiri and Tuk chatted about the day’s tasks, their laughter light and unburdened. Jake leaned back against the woven wall of the tent, a faint smile tugging at his lips, as if he understood the weight pressing on his son even without words.
“You’ll do well,” Jake said softly, his voice carrying the steady confidence that had guided Neteyam since birth.
Neteyam nodded, swallowing the knot of nerves in his chest.
“Yes, sir,” he said, earning a scoff from Jake at the insistent honorific.
“Make sure you are back for dinner,” Neytiri added with a gentle smile, reaching out to squeeze his hand.
For a moment, the worries of duty, ceremony, and Eywa-blessed bonds faded. He was simply Neteyam, son, brother, and soon, perhaps, mate. The warmth of his family settled around him, steadying his resolve as he stepped toward the door, the first rays of sunlight spilling across the forest floor.