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gardenladysworld · 26 days ago

Text

Starbound hearts

Status: I'm working on it

Pairings: Neteyam x human!f!reader

Aged up characters!

Genre/Warnings: fluff, slow burn, oblivious characters, light angst, hurt/comfort, pining

Summary: In the breathtaking, untamed beauty of Pandora, two souls from different worlds find themselves drawn together against all odds. Neteyam, the dutiful future olo'eyktan of the Omaticaya clan, is bound by the expectations of his people and the traditions of his ancestors. She, a human scientist with a love for Pandora’s wonders, sees herself as an outsider, unworthy of the connection she craves.

Tags: @fanchonfallen, @nerdylawyerbanditprofessor-blog, @ratchetprime211, @poppyseed1031, @redflashoftheleaf, @nikipuppeteer@eliankm, @quintessences0posts, @minjianhyung, @bkell2929, @erenjaegerwifee, @angelita-uchiha, @wherethefuckiskathmandu, @cutmyeyepurple, @420slvtt, @zimerycuellat

Part 23: To break

Sorry for the long wait again. :') The time management is just not my cup of tea.

This part got quite long, so I had to split it into two. But I'll leave it up to you to decide which part to post next. Should this be a continuation, or should it be continued from Neteyam's POV, starting with Neytiri's appearance?

Part 24: To breath

The holoTV glowed softly in the dim light of the living room, casting flickering blue hues over your skin as you stared at the screen in silence. Pandora filled the frame—lush forests stretching into the clouds, bioluminescent plants lighting the forest floor like stars trapped in moss, direhorses galloping through the shallow rivers, graceful and strange.

Your heart ached.

The voiceover played on loop, all-too-familiar. “As efforts continue on Pandora, new teams of researchers prepare for deployment to the west quadrant of the Hallelujah range…”

You heard it, but it felt distant. Filtered. Like it was coming through water. The images hit harder than the sound—flashes of a world you lived in, breathed in. Bled in. But now they floated in front of you like old documentary footage from a planet no one had ever truly touched.

But not in the way you remembered from documentaries. You knew those trees. You had walked there. You had bled there. You slept in one of those rotted-out, rusting aircraft. You had eaten teylu with shaking fingers and cried over a wound that threatened to kill you.

“Sweetheart,” your mother said gently, a hand brushing your hair, “Come have breakfast.”

And now—your father was chuckling as he pushed up from the couch.

“Well, it’s about time Sleeping Beauty rejoined the land of the living,” he teased, stretching with a quiet groan before padding barefoot toward the kitchen. His voice echoed faintly behind you.

Your little brother hopped off the armrest, smirking. “You were out for hours. Thought you went into stasis for real.” He nudged your arm. “Come eat. Mom made waffles.” You didn’t move.

You turned your head slowly, almost mechanically, toward the source of their voice in the kitchen. The table was set—sunlight streaming in through the curtains, catching the sheen of syrup pooling on golden waffles. Everything was warm. Safe. Home.

And completely wrong.

They were all smiling.

Their voices reached your ears like static, muffled and warped by the white noise screaming in your head. You couldn’t process what they were saying. You didn’t want to. Because everything about this felt like a play being acted out in front of you.

You sat there on the couch, frozen, staring at them like they were ghosts.

It wasn’t a dream.

You knew it wasn’t. You had felt the weight of every heartbeat on Pandora. The hunger. The cold. The warmth of Neteyam’s hands cupping your face. The sting of that salve burning into your flesh. You had cried real tears. You had bled. You had fought for your life.

Your mother’s voice called again from the kitchen. “Breakfast, darling. Come, before it gets cold!”

Your palm twitched.

You lifted your hand, heart skipping, and turned it slowly. The skin was soft. Clean. Smooth. No crusted sap. No ragged gash. No blood. No pain.

You looked down at your palm again. Turned it over. Pressed your thumb hard into the center.

Nothing.

And that—that—almost broke you.

Because as much as you hated the pain, it had meant something. It had proved something. That what you lived through wasn’t a lie. That he wasn’t a lie.

Neteyam.

You remembered his smile. The way he cupped your face with calloused hands. The way his voice dipped when he said your name like it was so fragile. That couldn’t be fake. You didn’t make that. You couldn’t have invented something that vivid.

But they were right here. Your family. Alive. Laughing.

You should be happy.

You should be relieved.

But all you could do was stare.

Because in that moment, more than anything, you wished you could go back. Even if it meant the jungle. Even if it meant being broken, bleeding, lost in the middle of nowhere.

Because at least there… it meant something.

And here?

Here, you weren’t even sure you were real.

The holoTV keeps playing, but it’s a distant hum now. A series of flickering images without meaning.

“…though Na’vi tribes remain hesitant to fully cooperate with human researchers after the war, diplomatic strides have been made through Avatar programs and joint outreach efforts…”

“Sweetheart,” your mother called again, a gentle edge of impatience softening her voice. “Breakfast.”

You blinked. Third time.

The sound seemed to come from a thousand miles away, but something in you moved—out of habit more than awareness. Like your body knew how to respond even if your mind was still lost in fog. Like your muscles were on autopilot. You pushed off the couch, feet hitting the warm floorboards with no hesitation, no limp. No pain. You crossed the familiar hallway, through the doorframe that still bore the faint sticker marks from your childhood. Into the kitchen.

The table was just as you remembered it. The same wooden grain, the same little chip on the edge where you and your brother had knocked it over once playing hoverball. The scent of maple and warm butter clung thick in the air.

You sat down silently.

The plate was full. Waffles stacked high, golden and soft, syrup already melting down the sides. Butter curled in neat swirls on top. Strawberries. Real ones. Ripe, sweet, perfect.

You stared at it for a long time. Just looked. Like maybe it would vanish if you blinked. But it didn’t.

And then—slowly—you picked up the fork. Cut a corner. Took a bite.

The taste hit like a memory. Sweet. Soft. Warm. Like heaven.

Your eyes burned. You blinked fast, swallowed harder.

Because God—you missed this. You used to take it for granted, but now? This homemade waffle might as well have been a gift from Eywa herself. You ate slowly, reverently, letting each bite ground you, calm you, confuse you.

But then—your fork paused halfway to your mouth.

Your father’s voice broke through the fog. “So, next week’s gonna be a mess,” he said, tapping at his holopad. “I’ve got back-to-back meetings on Monday and Wednesday. And your mom’s working the evening shifts.”

Your mom nodded. “That’s right—double shifts at the hospital. They added another ER rotation.”

“So,” your father added, not looking up, “we’ll need you to pick up your brother after school Monday, Wednesday, and probably Friday. Can you do that?”

And you just sat there.

Fork still in your hand.

Staring at them.

They were so normal. So untouched. They looked exactly the same as the day you had left for to has the last exam for the RDA application. But you hadn’t just been napping. You had lived a life. A whole, breathing life. You had built something. Loved someone. And now…

Now you were here.

At a breakfast table. Whole. Young. Home. And you didn’t feel like you belonged.

Their voices blurred together—background static behind the roar of your thoughts. You couldn’t follow what they were saying. Couldn’t nod, or smile, or joke like you used to.

Because it felt like you had stepped into someone else’s memory. Like you were intruding on a life you left behind. And no one—not your father, not your mother, not your brother—had any idea.

Because to them, nothing had happened.

You had just been asleep. Dreaming.

You felt alien in your own skin. A stranger at this table. An intruder wearing the face of the girl they thought you still were.

Your mother looked at you expectantly, the edge of her voice softened only by the smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes anymore.

“So, sweetheart? You can get your brother after school this week, right?”

You blinked.

Her eyes were so warm. So familiar. Just like you remembered. Not a single wrinkle more. Just breakfast and plans and waffles on the table. And your father, still scanning his holopad with the same furrowed brow he used to wear when he was pretending to be more annoyed than he actually was. And your brother, chewing like the world might end before the next bite.

You swallowed hard.

“Yes,” you said, your voice so thin it barely made it across the table. “Yeah. I… I can do that.”

Your mother smiled, relieved. “Thank you, baby. We’re just swamped this week, and he still doesn’t trust the AI rideshare since that one took him to the wrong neighborhood.” She chuckled, glancing toward your brother.

Your brother snorted around a mouthful of waffle. “You better not forget me again like last time.”

You managed a laugh—tight, dry. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Inside, you were screaming.

Because this—this—was wrong.

This wasn't real. It couldn’t be.

You stared at your mother, her soft sweater sleeves, her delicate fingers wrapping around a mug. Your father muttered something about remembering to resync the school calendar to your holo, and your brother rolled his eyes like he always did when he heard the words calendar and school.

And you wanted to scream.

Because they were dead.

They died.

You remembered.

Clearer than anything.

The call came the same day your approval came in from the RDA. You were sitting in your room, alone, clutching the notification that said “Approved: Pandora Xenobotany Division, Cohort Departure: 5 Months.”

You had been crying with joy.

And then the phone rang.

You had picked up still smiling.

By the time you put it down, your whole world was gone.

A drunk driver. A wet highway. They never made it to dinner

You remembered the crematorium—sterile, cold, unforgiving.

You remembered the way your mother’s hands looked—burned, stiff, one ring still clinging to bone. You remembered your brother’s hair, blackened and curled from the heat. Your father’s glasses, cracked in half, perched on his chest like someone had laid them there as a joke.

You stood there. Signed the forms. Given the approval for cremation.

You remembered the way the air smelled at the funeral. Damp. Distant. You said nothing. You couldn’t. You signed the release forms. You nodded like a corpse yourself while they slid the trays into the chambers and closed the doors. That was the last time you saw them.

Then the paperwork. The grief that sat on your chest like lead and never really left. You sold the house. The furniture. Gave away their clothes. Boxed up the memories and stored them somewhere cold and forgotten—because you couldn’t look at them anymore. Couldn’t smell the remnants of their lives and still breathe.

You left nothing behind.

Just one box. Pictures. Letters. A few old holos. That was all you carried with you when you boarded the outbound RDA ship five months later. When you signed away twenty years of your life in exchange for silence, and sleep, and a planet that had never heard your name. That was the deal. That was the cost.

You fled.

Because Earth was a graveyard to you. And Pandora—Pandora was your escape. Your salvation. The cryo tube was a coffin you welcomed.

Six years of sleep passed in a blink. You woke up on a different world, a different sky above you. Your body ached. Your mind screamed. The grief had followed you into orbit, curled up in the spaces between your cells.

That first year… was hell. Waking dreams of your brother’s voice. Reflexively reaching for a father who wasn’t there. Hearing your mother humming in the silence of your quarters.

You couldn’t even look at your family group photo without your chest fracturing open. So you didn’t. You worked. You buried yourself in roots and samples and language lessons and chlorophyll readings until the pain dulled into something manageable.

The Omatikaya had taken you in. Slowly. Carefully. Neteyam had changed everything. His siblings became your refuge. The forest your home.

And yet—here you were. Back in your childhood kitchen. Watching your dead mother slice a waffle with the same butter knife she always used. Watching your dead father scroll through the news like nothing happened. Watching your dead brother complain about syrup in his sleeves.

You forced yourself to take another bite. Mechanically. You chewed. Swallowed.

They were happy.

Smiling. Laughing. Your mother talking about her week. Your father grumbling about overtime. They looked so alive. So normal. Like your heart hadn’t once been shattered into dust and scattered across stars.

Why?

Why would your mind do this to you?

If all of Pandora was a dream—some final coping hallucination, some terrible, brilliant trick of the brain—why would it give you a life where you lost them? Why build four years of memories on a world filled with pain and beauty and healing, only to rip it away?

Why couldn’t it just be one or the other?

Why did it feel like you had truly lived those years? Why did you remember the weight of Neteyam’s hand in yours? The burn of sap on your skin? The bioluminescence lighting your face when you first saw Eywa’s tree?

Why did you still feel like you missed him?

The room was filled with laughter now. Someone told a joke. You didn’t hear it.

Their voices were like static against the screaming in your head. Your fork trembled slightly as it scraped the plate. The table felt too solid. The air too clean. You were an intruder in your own life—sitting at a table that shouldn’t exist, in a house that should’ve been sold years ago.

Your little brother's voice broke through the haze.

“Hey,” he said, nudging you again. “You promised you’d play that new holo game with me today, remember? Yesterday? You said after breakfast.”

His voice was so young. So him. That goofy, lopsided smile that never faded even when his teeth were missing. He looked exactly like he did before the accident. Like nothing ever touched him.

You turned slowly to face him. Managed a smile. It felt like glass cracking across your face. “Yeah,” you said, forcing the words out. “I… I remember.”

He grinned and turned back to his plate, already planning out the day in his head.

“But,” you added softly, “I need to check something in my room first, okay?”

He didn’t question it. Just nodded, mouth already full again.

You didn’t eat another bite.

You put your fork down gently, wiped your hands on the napkin, and stood. Your legs didn’t tremble—but only because your will held them straight. You walked to the sink, plate in hand. Rinsed it. Placed it gently in the basin.

And then… you turned.

Your mom laughing at something your dad said. Your brother practically inhaling the last of his strawberries. And for a second—just a second—you couldn’t breathe.

Because for years this had been your deepest wish.

To see them again. To hear your mother’s voice. To feel the warmth of your father’s terrible jokes. To ruffle your brother’s hair and see him grin. You’d cried yourself to sleep begging Eywa—anyone—to let you talk to them one more time.

And now? Now it felt like a punishment.

This wasn’t your life anymore. And the longer you looked at them, the more your chest fractured under the weight of it. A nightmare. A beautiful, terrible nightmare you couldn’t wake from.

Your fingers curled tight at your sides.

You turned away sharply and walked. Fast. Almost running.

You pushed open your bedroom door and slammed it shut behind you with a loud thud.

Your back hit the wood immediately, shoulders heaving. The air felt wrong. Too light. Too clean. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. Your chest began to tighten.

Your hands shot up, grabbing at your ribs, your collarbone, as though tearing your own skin would let the air in. But it didn’t. You gasped—sharp, broken. Your lungs seized.

You couldn’t breathe.

The walls of your childhood room pressed in like a coffin. Too small. Full of old posters and glitter pens and dusty books from a life that wasn’t yours anymore. You clutched at your shirt, shaking, heart racing, mouth open in silent panic.

Tears flooded your eyes as the pressure built.

“No…” you choked out. “No—no, no, no, no, no—please.”

Your knees hit the carpet, and you folded in on yourself.

Your mind screamed:

Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

But you couldn’t. Because if this was a dream, you were already awake.

And if this was real—

Then everything you remembered was a lie.

You slammed a hand into the floor, fingers shaking. Your nails dug into the wood.

Your chest heaved again, air shuddering in and out, your hands trembling uncontrollably. You wanted to scream. Wanted to beg whatever god or neural glitch or cruel hallucination had done this to you to let you go back.

Let you dream again.

Let you see him again.

Let him smile at you, just once more. Touch your face. Whisper your name in that voice like deep water and starlight.

Please.

If this was the price for loving him—then you didn’t want to wake up.

Not now.

Not ever.

You’d take the jungle. The pain. The hunger. The poison in your blood.

If it meant Neteyam’s hand in yours—just once more.

You slammed your palm against the floor, your voice breaking open.

“I want to go back,” you sobbed. “Please. Let me go back.”

But there was no answer.

Just the quiet hum of your childhood room.

And the sound of your own heart—shattered, gasping—

Still beating for a world four light years away.

You wanted him.

You wanted the vines. The sky. The truth.

And you wanted to wake up.

But you couldn’t.

You sat there on the floor, arms wrapped tightly around your knees, your back pressed against the wall like it was the only thing keeping you from collapsing entirely. The tears had slowed, though they still clung to your lashes—your throat raw, chest tight, limbs aching with something deeper than exhaustion.

You dragged in a breath—shaky, uneven—and lifted your head.

Your room was exactly as you left it.

Same soft blue walls. Same desk in the corner cluttered with holo-readers and a dusty data-pad charger. Same half-broken ceiling fan that creaked once every third spin. But it was the walls that made your heart seize.

Covered.

From top to bottom, plastered with everything your younger self clung to like lifelines.

RDA recruitment posters. Motivational slogans, all sterile optimism:

“BUILD A BETTER FUTURE — OFF-WORLD.”

“DISCOVER THE UNDISCOVERED. PANDORA AWAITS.”

“YOUR MISSION MATTERS.”

Logos shining silver against starfields. The kind of propaganda you used to believe in.

Pictures of the Hallelujah Mountains. Of bioluminescent forests, glowing brighter than city lights.

And beneath those slogans—pictures.

Pictures of the moon you had once called home.

The Hallelujah Mountains floating like miracles in a mist-drenched sky. The swirling depths of the ocean where the tulkun sang their ancient, mournful songs. A banshee frozen mid-flight, wings stretched wide over an alien sea. Even the Toruk—the last shadow—rendered in crimson and gold, its wings curled in a hunting dive. You remembered staring at that one every night before sleep. Remembered imagining what it might be like to see one in the wild.

You had seen one. You remembered seeing one.

You stared at the image now, printed and glossy and two-dimensional. Lifeless.

“No,” You whispered.

You used to stare at them and dream.

Every night, instead of sleeping, you’d read reports. Watch old documentaries. Study xenobotany texts you weren’t even qualified to check out from the archives. You’d memorized bios, creature logs, terrain assessments. You knew more about the moon’s soil composition than you did your own neighbourhood.

And when your eyes had finally given out, you’d fall asleep at your desk, drooling onto the pages with your screen still glowing—some looped footage of jungle light filtering through bioluminescent trees playing in the background.

You used to pray you’d make it there.

And you had.

You’d made it.

And now… now it was just a hallucination?

You pushed yourself off the floor on legs that barely held your weight. Every muscle trembled—not from exertion, but from grief. From disbelief. It felt like you were moving through water, like the air itself had thickened, grown hostile.

Your hand caught the edge of your desk for balance, and you stood there for a long moment, staring down at the mess scattered across it.

Books.

Stacks of them.

All worn at the edges. Highlighted, annotated, some corners dog-eared so many times they no longer held a fold. Titles like “Pandora Unbound: Bioengineering Beyond Earth Ethics” and “Ecological Systems of Alpha Centauri Prime”. Field studies. Hypotheticals. Classifications of flora and fauna. You reached out slowly, fingertips brushing the spine of one you knew by heart—“The Symbiotic Web of Eywa: Cultural and Biological Interconnectivity.” and you rested your hand on the worn spine of “From Earth to Eywa: The Next Step in Evolution”, and the breath caught in your throat.

Dr. Elias Veyren.

God, you hadn’t thought of him in so long—not really. Not in the quiet way you used to. Not the way you used to worship him.

He had been everything to you.

When you were young, and broken, and desperate for purpose, it was his work—and Dr. Grace Augustine’s—that lit the spark. Grace was the soul. The empathy. The bridge between worlds. But Veyren—he was the bones. The engine. The mind behind the movement. The one who didn't just ask if a human could live on Pandora, but how—and what price would be worth paying.

You had read every single one of his books by the time you were fifteen. Ordered old digital scans. Dug into archives. Highlighted passages until your tablet glitched. You quoted him in every school paper that would allow it. When your friends had celebrities pinned to their wall, you had recruitment pamphlets, RDA ecosystem maps, and a grainy black-and-white photo of Veyren speaking at a long-forgotten Earth Science Summit.

Those interviews were as much a reason you kept going as any scholarship or academic grant. You would make it to Pandora. You’d make your idols proud. Even if one was dead and the other had vanished before you were even born.

Or so you thought.

Because three years before your RDA approval came in, something strange happened.

You were researching in a forgotten sector of the Global Academic Archive, chasing a footnote you weren’t even sure was real, when a paper popped up—unsigned. Unpublished. Buried in layers of outdated indexing like it was never meant to be found.

But you knew the voice immediately.

Veyren.

Even after all those years, you knew it. The syntax. The structure. The strange metaphors he used for neural-link resonance. It was him.

It wasn’t like the others. Not the polished, surgically precise essays he’d published in the years before the war. This paper was… raw. Unfiltered. The sentences were long. Tangled. Beautiful in their mess. His voice was rougher. Less polished. Frayed at the edges like he’d written it in isolation, not for publication, but just to get it out of him.

It was called Project: Syeha – A Transgenic Pathway to Independent Respiration in Non-Native Genomes.

Your breath had caught the moment you read the abstract.

He was talking about breathing.

Without a mask.

Back then, even the idea was science fiction. Everyone knew the rules: Pandora’s atmosphere was poison. Lethal to humans within minutes. The exopacks were mandatory. That was the truth printed on every RDA doc, carved into every field regulation.

But there it was.

A detailed theory on genetic reprogramming. A proposal for a serum. A map of altered lung pathways and glandular shifts, designed not just to neutralize Pandora’s toxins, but to process them. Use them. Breathe them.

Your hands had trembled as you read it.

Because it was impossible. And also… maybe not.

The RDA never brought it up in training. It was never mentioned in orientation, or in the endless health and safety briefings. Not even in restricted-level access. Like it had never existed. Like it was forbidden.

And maybe it was.

Because if he was right—if there was a way to breathe on Pandora without exo gear—then everything changed. The boundaries. The belonging. The walls between human and Na’vi.

But even then, even buried in revolutionary science, you saw the shift in his tone.

He wasn’t writing to the RDA anymore. Not like before.

He sounded… angry.

Not loud. Not violent. But cold. Done. A scientist who had once wanted to bring the stars to humanity—and now saw humanity for what it was. A virus. A mistake.

You never stopped thinking about that.

And now, with your hand pressed against the same worn book that first lit your fire, you wondered—

Had he really vanished?

Your thumb traced the faded RDA library stamp on the inside cover once again. Your throat tightened.

You studied these for years. These books had been your religion. The desk had been your altar. This dream—no, mission—had consumed you so thoroughly, there hadn’t been room for anything else.

And it had worked. You made it to Pandora.

You had.

Hadn’t you?

Your fingers curled into a fist on top of the paper. A low breath escaped your chest, full of frustration, grief, and something sharper now—resolve. The idea flickered in your mind like a flame in the dark:

If this is real—if this is Earth again—then I will do anything to go back.

Even if it took years.

Even if it took everything you had left.

You would claw your way back to that moon if it killed you.

You would find him again.

You lifted your gaze slowly toward the corkboard above your desk, and the breath caught in your lungs.

There they were.

Your drawings.

Sheets tacked unevenly with old pins and thumbtacks; their edges curled from age and handling. Your own hands had made them, years ago. Na’vi silhouettes crouched in the canopy. Leaves glowing with symbiotic spores. Vines twisting around trees in impossible patterns. Sketches of direhorses mid-run. A banshee with outstretched wings.

And plants—so many plants. You recognized them all, even now. Names whispered themselves into your mind: helicoradian, panopyra, spiny whips... You could still smell them. Still feel them. The ink wasn’t just pigment—it was memory.

But then your eyes landed on one in particular. A portrait.

Drawn in pencil. Detailed. Clean lines and shading so careful it looked like it might lift off the paper.

You stepped closer.

And your heart nearly stopped.

His face.

Strong jaw. High cheekbones. Eyes you remembered more vividly than your own reflection. Braids falling just over the shoulder. The necklace. The scar near his collarbone.

Neteyam.

It was him.

You drew him.

But you didn’t remember doing it.

You lifted a shaking hand toward the paper. “No,” you breathed. “No, no, no—this is him.”

The thought was so loud it nearly drowned everything else.

You didn’t imagine him.

You couldn’t have.

He was real. You saw him. You held him. You kissed him. You bled for him. You dreamed of him before sleep and whispered to him in the dark. He couldn’t be a figment of your imagination. He couldn’t.

You reached for the thumbtack holding the drawing in place—but then—

Click.

The door creaked open behind you.

“Sweetie,” your mother’s voice drifted in, soft and careful, like you were something fragile. “Can we talk?”

You froze.

Your body half-turned toward her. Your eyes flicked to hers—warm, gentle, loving.

Then back to the drawing.

And your heart cracked.

Because the portrait no longer looked like Neteyam.

The face had softened. The details blurred. The scar was gone. The necklace was wrong. The braids shorter.

It was just… a generic Na’vi.

Someone you couldn’t name.

A stranger.

Your lips parted. No sound came out. Your chest squeezed tight.

The heat behind your eyes returned like a rising tide.

Because the drawing was gone.

Because he was gone.

And now all that stared back at you was someone you didn’t know. A drawing without meaning. A face without memory.

Your mother stepped softly across the carpet, the floor barely creaking under her familiar tread. She came to stand behind you, close but not crowding, like she somehow sensed how fragile you were. Her hand rested gently on your upper arm—warm and grounding, a weight that should have brought comfort.

It only made you feel more lost.

She leaned forward slightly, her gaze following yours to the corkboard, to the drawing.

“Oh,” she breathed, smiling faintly. “I always loved how good you are at these. Your drawings. They’re beautiful.” Her voice was so proud, so full of gentle nostalgia it made your knees wobble. “They look so real.”

They were real, you wanted to say. He was real.

But the words caught in your throat and stayed there, heavy and bitter.

Your mother turned slightly and reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face, her thumb grazing your cheek with the kind of love you hadn’t felt in years. “What’s wrong, love?” she asked quietly, her smile tinged with concern now. “You were so quiet during breakfast. You looked so… stiff.”

Her eyes were searching your face now, her thumb still against your skin. Her touch was so familiar, it nearly broke you.

You opened your mouth. Tried to speak. What came out didn’t sound like you. “I…” Your voice cracked, thin and shaking. “I just… I think I’m a little disoriented still.”

Your mother’s brows pinched slightly. She tilted her head, gently coaxing more from you. “From the nap, sweetheart?”

You swallowed hard. Your eyes burned. “Yeah. From the nap.” The words came mechanically, like you were reading from a script you didn’t believe in. You hated how rehearsed it sounded. How false. But you couldn’t say the truth. You couldn’t say I think I’m going insane.

She smiled again, sweet and sympathetic. “Well, if you need to lie down again, that’s okay. You’ve been working so hard lately. Maybe you just need a day to reset.”

No. You wanted to scream. I need to wake up. I need to get out of here.

You turned your head slowly, looking into her eyes. Eyes that were warm and full of love. That shouldn’t exist.

Because you remembered them being closed. Burned. Gone. Your lips trembled. And then, without meaning to, the words slipped out—barely a whisper. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Your mother blinked. “What?”

“I…” Your throat closed around the words. Your body trembled. “I shouldn’t be here.”

The room went very still.

Her hand dropped from your cheek, hovering uncertainly near your shoulder. “What do you mean, honey?”

You shook your head, hard. “This isn’t—” A sob wrenched from your throat. “This isn’t real.”

She stepped closer. “Sweetheart—”

But you backed away. Just one step. Enough to put space between you. Enough to stop her from touching you again. Because you didn’t trust yourself not to fall apart if she did.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, trembling like a leaf. “I don’t know what’s happening,” you whispered. “But I was there. I was on Pandora. I lived there. I—there was someone—and I—” You choked on the words, trying to keep your voice steady, to make it sound rational.

But it wasn’t rational.

It was breaking you.

“I remember the jungle,” you said, louder now. “I remember the air. I remember the smell of everything. I’m not—”

Your mother stepped forward, her hands raised gently. “Honey, you’ve always loved space. Maybe you just—maybe you had a vivid dream. A very vivid one, and that’s okay—”

“No!” You gasped. “No, don’t do that. Don’t talk to me like I’m crazy—please—” Your knees nearly gave out. You caught yourself on the desk again, your knuckles hurt with strain. Tears streamed freely now. “I buried you,” you said, voice hollow. “All of you. You died. You died before I left. I remember the carcrash. The morgue. The urns. I lived without you for years.” You looked at her like you were begging her to remember too. “Please,” you whispered, “don’t make me think that I imagined all of it.”

Your mother didn’t answer right away.

She just looked at you—for a long, still moment—with something in her eyes you couldn’t name. Not disbelief. Not confusion. Something quieter. Warmer. But sad. A melancholy that curled at the edges of her smile like smoke.

Then… she turned away.

You blinked, your breathing shaky, heart racing as you watched her cross the room with calm, unhurried steps. She moved toward the shelves on the far wall, fingertips grazing the edges of old souvenirs and childhood relics. And then she stopped—her hand resting lightly against a small figure tucked between books.

Your brows pinched slightly.

She lifted it from the shelf.

A toy.

A plastic model of a banshee—its wings splayed in mid-flight, painted in shimmering tones of blue and violet. One of the cheap RDA-brand replicas from their post-war “reconciliation merchandise” era. You forgotten you ever owned one.

They made toys of them. Toys of the creatures that had fought for their lives when humanity came in fire and greed. Toys of a world that bled for decades. They turned sacred things into collectibles. You remembered hating that. Even before you knew.

Your mother held the little banshee in both hands now, brushing away a thin layer of dust like it was something precious.

You stared.

“I always knew you’d make it there,” she said softly, eyes on the toy. “To Pandora. Even when you were little—you talked about it like it was already yours. Like it was a place you remembered.”

Your stomach twisted. You blinked hard. “Mom… what are you—?”

She turned back to you, still holding the banshee in one hand.

“You never left Pandora,” she said.

You stared at her.

Your breath caught.

She looked calm. Peaceful. As if she were telling you that the sun would rise tomorrow.

And all you could do was stare at her like she’d lost her mind.

“What?” you said, your voice barely audible.

“You’re still there, sweetheart,” she said with a gentle smile. “You’re in the forest. You’re still on Pandora.”

Your knees almost buckled.

You opened your mouth, closed it again. The words didn’t fit inside your head. “That’s not possible,” you rasped. “I’m here. In my room. With you.”

She chuckled then—light and fond—and looked down at the little figurine still nestled in her hand. “Do you remember how obsessed you made your brother?” she said, her voice soft with memory. “You were so full of it—books, maps, lectures at dinner. He wanted to be just like you. Said he’d work with you one day. That he’d help you collect plants and protect the forest. He used to draw those big blue people with you. Said they looked like heroes.”

She stepped closer now, the statue still cradled in her hand. She stood in front of you like the mother you remembered—safe, soft, steady. She reached up and touched your cheek gently, her thumb brushing just beneath your eye.

“Are you happy there?” she asked.

And you broke.

Your chest collapsed.

A sob burst from you so violently, you stumbled forward into her arms before you realized what you were doing. You clung to her like a child, like a drowning thing, and you cried.

Hard.

Ugly.

Your whole body shook with it—sobs that came from the deepest parts of you, grief and confusion and heartbreak tangled in every breath. “Yes,” you choked. “God, yes—I’m happy.”

She held you, rubbing your back with one hand, murmuring gentle nothings into your hair. You pressed your face to her shoulder, shaking. Like she had waited years to do this again.

“I want to go back,” you cried. “I need to go back.”

“To what, sweetheart?” she whispered.

“To him,” you breathed.

She leaned back just enough to look at you, her brows lifting. “There’s a him?”

A tiny, watery laugh escaped you, despite everything. You sniffled, cheeks soaked, and nodded, sheepish. “I… I fell in love with a Na’vi.”

Your mother stared at you for a heartbeat—then broke into a soft laugh, shaking her head in disbelief. She laughed like someone who had always known her daughter was destined for something strange and beautiful. “Of course you did,” she said warmly. “My brilliant, beautiful daughter… I always knew you’d never fall for an ordinary boy.” She smiled, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Does he make you happy?”

You closed your eyes and whispered, “He is my happiness. He’s—he’s amazing,” you said, smiling through your tears.

“Oh, I bet he is,” she said with a grin. “Though I imagine he’d be a bit too tall for our kitchen.”

You choked on a laugh. “Yeah. Dad would probably faint if he saw him duck through the door.”

She laughed harder now, brushing your hair back from your face. “He might pretend to faint just for dramatic effect. Then ask him if he could ride that bird-thing of theirs.”

You both laughed again, your head leaning against her shoulder. The banshee figurine rested between you, forgotten for a moment.

Then, softer, you said, “I have to go back.”

Your mother stilled, her expression softening again. “Why, baby?”

“Because I promised him,” you said quietly. “I told him I’d come back.”

Her voice was softer now. “Why? What happened?”

You trembled again, the memory dragging itself from the depths of your mind like a stormcloud.

“I was lost,” you whispered. “In the forest.” You looked around your room. At the drawings. At the plastic stars on the ceiling. “This isn’t where I’m supposed to be.”

“But you’re here now,” your mother said gently. “In your room.”

“I know,” you whispered, throat raw.

She nodded slowly, her thumb still stroking your cheek. She didn’t argue. She didn’t try to tell you it was all in your head. “Then go,” she whispered. “Go back. Keep your promise.”

“But—” you broke again. “If I go, I’ll lose you. I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone again.”

Her forehead rested gently against yours. Her voice was like breath. “That’s okay. You already carried us with you all this way. You’ll keep carrying us. But now you have someone else waiting, too.”

You didn’t want to cry again.

But you did.

You threw your arms around her, burying your face in her shoulder, holding her as tight as your dream would allow.

And her voice, through the static of your sobs, whispered: “You’re not lost, baby. You’re just finding your way back.”

Your mother’s breath hitched softly.

You pulled back just enough to look at her—and then you saw it too.

She look at you again.

And she smiled.

“Look at you, sweetheart,” she whispered. Her voice was warm, full of wonder and pride. “You’re so beautiful.”

You blinked at her, confused at first by her tone—but then something shifted in you. A pulse of awareness that rolled through your body like heat rising through skin. You looked down.

And saw it.

The bandage on your palm. The faint ache throbbing under the wrapping. The worn utility belt around your waist. The mud-stained cargo pants. The weight of your satchel pulling at your shoulder. You touched your own chest—your breath shallow, real, tight.

You weren’t seventeen anymore.

This was your body. Your real body. The one from Pandora. Not the dream version. Not the memory.

You were you again. An adult woman. A researcher. A survivor. “Mom,” you breathed.

She stepped closer again, reaching out to tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re perfect,” she whispered, smiling so softly it nearly undid you all over again. “I mean, I’m not even surprised anymore. Of course someone would fall for you. Even a man living on an alien planet.” She chuckled, eyes sparkling.

“Mom—” you started, your cheeks flushing despite yourself.

“What?” she teased. “Am I wrong?”

You shook your head with a grin. “No, but—‘a man living on an alien planet’ is not how I’d describe him.”

“Oh?” she tilted her head playfully. “Then what would you call him?”

You took a breath. And then, softly, you said, “Neteyam.”

Her eyes lit up at the name.

You swallowed thickly, looking out your desk as you spoke. “He’s the eldest son of the Olo’eyktan—the leader of the Omatikaya. That means… one day, Neteyam will lead them too.”

Her brows lifted. “So you’re dating a future chief?”

“Mom,” you laughed, embarrassed.

She smirked. “Oh, excuse me. A warrior prince of the forest moon. You really don’t do anything halfway, do you?”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning.

She took a step closer and nudged your arm. “Tell me about him.”

You smiled, something soft and fragile settling in your chest. “He’s brave. Loyal. Too serious sometimes. But he smiles at me like I’m the only thing he sees. He was patient—when the others weren’t. He never treated me like I didn’t belong. And he’s kind. Even when he’s tired. Even when he’s angry.” You swallowed hard, blinking up at the ceiling above. “I love him, Mom. I love him so much it scares me.”

Your mother’s eyes were glistening. She reached out, cupping your face in her hand. “Oh, sweetheart.” Her voice trembled slightly. “I’m so glad you found him.”

You leaned into her touch. “I wish you could meet him. You’d love him. I know you would.”

“Well,” she chuckled, brushing your cheek with her thumb, “as long as he doesn’t break my little girl’s heart.”

You grinned. “Never.”

“Promise me he treats you right.”

“He does.”

“And that he’s not afraid of your temper.”

You laughed. “I think he secretly likes it.”

She laughed too, pulling you into a hug. You clung to her again, the room spinning gently around you.

Tears welled in your eyes again, and you let them. Everything felt right. Everything felt real. You stepped forward, wrapping your arms around her one more time. She hugged you back, hard. “I love you,” you whispered against her shoulder. “More than I ever said.”

“I know, baby,” she murmured. “And I love you more. I always will.”

You wanted to stay like that. Just for one more breath. One more minute. But the light changed again.

Your mother’s warmth began to fade. You held her tighter, feeling the pressure of her arms weaken, her form growing lighter in your embrace. You blinked—but when you opened your eyes again, she was gone. Vanished. Like mist scattered by the breeze.

The space where she’d been was filled instead with blinding light.

It wasn’t harsh. Not painful. But it was pure—a brilliance that washed over you like sunlight reflected on water. You raised a hand instinctively, shielding your eyes as the room dissolved into something beyond form.

And then… You saw them.

Golden tendrils—delicate, radiant—stretching outward in every direction like veins of light across the air. They spiralled through the void, glowing and curling, flickering gently like stardust caught in breath.

Each thread seemed to move—not in chaos, but with purpose. They reached through space, through you, brushing softly against your skin like whispers. You could feel them. Not physically—but deeply. Inside your chest. Your memories. Your blood.

And in the distance, far beyond the weave of golden light, there it was.

A brilliant pulse of energy. Luminous. Unfathomable. Alive. You didn’t know what it was—but your heart knew. The way roots know water. The way fire knows air.

Eywa.

You didn’t need anyone to tell you. You felt it. The very soul of Pandora. The ancient heartbeat of the forest. A presence so vast, so beautiful, so gentle it almost brought you to your knees.

And it was looking at you.

You felt it—not with eyes, but with being. Her warmth wrapped around you, spreading through your bones like the embrace of a mother who had waited a long time to hold her child again.

Tears filled your eyes. Because it felt like her—like your mother. Like all mothers. All life. Welcome home, she seemed to say. Not with words. But with light.

You felt it, radiant and endless and so soft it broke you. You wanted to rest. To curl into that warmth like a child into blankets and sleep forever. You could. You were so tired. So broken. She would take the pain. The grief. She would wrap you in light, and you would never hurt again.

It felt like the burning desire to go back to him had disappeared. As if it had just been cut off.

Your body leaned forward, the golden threads curling around your arms like soft silk, inviting.

You stepped toward her.

Closer.

Closer still.

And then— A voice.

So soft at first, you weren’t sure you’d heard it. But then it came again. Your name. Whispered like prayer.

You froze. Your name again. Stronger this time. Familiar. You turned, heart leaping into your throat. It was his voice.

Neteyam.

It wasn’t possible. You were alone. There was only the light. The great mother. The warmth. But it was him. Every part of you knew it. The way his voice curved at the end of your name. The way it settled in your chest like a promise. You looked behind you—spinning, searching through the golden glow. “Neteyam?” you whispered.

No answer.

Only that feeling. That pull. Like a thread wrapped around your ribs, tugging you away from the peace. Away from the light. It didn’t hurt.

But it ached. Because it meant leaving. It meant turning away from everything Eywa was offering. Rest. Safety. Her arms.

You looked back toward the radiant core. And you wanted to go. God, you wanted it. But the voice came again.

Desperate now. Pleading. “Please…” And your chest shattered.

You stumbled backward, the warmth faltering slightly around you as your breath hitched. “I-” your voice cracked. “I can’t…” You reached toward the light again, wavering. But the pull behind you grew stronger. Your heart chose for you. “…No.” You stepped back. Away from the light. “I’m not ready,” you whispered. “He’s still waiting.”

The golden tendrils began to fade. And everything fell away.

Only light remained—so bright it burned your eyes.

And beneath it… A voice.

Low. Muffled.

And then—your body jerked.

You breathed. Air flooded your lungs in a gasp so hard it hurt. You weren’t in the dream anymore. You were waking up. You gasped so hard your throat seized.

The air was sharp and cold—too cold. It stung going in, like your lungs weren’t ready for it. You jolted upright, heart thundering in your chest, eyes flying open.

White. Everything was white.

Your breath caught in your throat as you jolted upright, heart hammering.

The room around you was blinding—white walls, white ceiling, a ceiling lamp too harsh and humming with a mechanical buzz. Everything smelled like antiseptic and cold metal. Clean in a way that made your skin crawl.

Your chest heaved, air shuddering harshly into lungs too tight, too weak to fully expand. Your vision swam with white—the sterile glare of walls that shouldn't exist.

You blinked rapidly, heart racing.

The memory hit first—Neteyam’s voice, raw and desperate, calling out to you. You remembered it so vividly, so clearly that it might as well have echoed in this room. His plea had been the last tether, pulling you back from Eywa’s embrace.

Neteyam.

You pressed your uninjured hand over your heart, feeling the rapid, erratic rhythm beneath your palm. His voice still lingered like a phantom warmth, threading through your veins and settling deep in your bones.

And Eywa.

Your throat tightened, tears stinging behind your eyes again. You’d seen her, felt her—a presence so immense, so gentle and nurturing that the Na’vi reverently named her Great Mother. A being you'd only studied from afar, through research notes and scientific theories, always distant, untouchable to someone like you—a human outsider.

Yet she'd wrapped you in golden warmth, had brushed your skin with whispers of memory and promise. You understood now, truly understood, why the Na'vi worshipped her so deeply. Eywa had felt like… home. Like a mother’s embrace.

Like your mother.

Your breath caught painfully. Your own mother’s face, smiling softly, swam before your eyes once more, and the ache sharpened in your chest.

But you weren’t in the dream anymore. You weren’t in your childhood room, with its old posters and flickering lights. This was real—painfully, undeniably real.

You shivered, forcing your gaze to refocus. The white room pressed in around you, sterile and clinical, foreign in every sense. Too bright. Too quiet. Your limbs were heavy, the pale blue gown thin against your skin, cold and unfamiliar. A hospital gown. Something you hadn’t worn since you’d left Earth.

Panic clawed sharply up your throat, choking you.

This was wrong.

You had been in the forest, injured, stumbling toward some kind of shelter before the full darkness. You remembered slipping on damp roots, falling—your body hitting something sharp, hard, the world spinning dark around you—

But now, this—

An unfamiliar room. White walls. A medical bed beneath you, sterile sheets rustling under trembling fingertips. Your eyes darted to the machinery beside you. An EKG chirped rhythmically, its cadence accelerating sharply as your heart rate spiked.

You were not at the outpost.

This was not your team’s facility. This was somewhere else entirely—somewhere unknown. Somewhere you didn’t recognize.

The thought sent fresh terror racing through your veins, your fingers clawing at the edge of the mattress. You jerked your arm instinctively, wincing as pain lanced sharply through the bend of your elbow. You stared down, breath catching at the IV line taped to your skin, the clear fluid dripping steadily into your veins.

“No—” you gasped, panic surging wild and uncontrolled. You reached clumsily, pulling at the line, tape tugging painfully at tender skin. The needle shifted, a sharp sting blooming beneath your flesh.

Where were you?

Who had put this here?

You swung your legs off the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the cold tile. Your knees buckled instantly, muscles weak, trembling. But you forced yourself up, gripping the edge of the bed for balance.

The movement sent a jolt of pain spiking through your neck and straight into your skull.

Fuck.

You clutched your head.

A dull, throbbing ache pulsed at the base of your skull—just beneath the surface, deep and slow, like a war drum sounding from inside your bones. You hissed under your breath, teeth clenching as your fingers reached up instinctively to the back of your head.

And froze.

Your fingertips met fabric—not skin or hair.

A bandage.

Thick, rough gauze wrapped low around your scalp and neck. You touched it gingerly, trying to map the size, the shape, the damage. Your head ached worse now that you were aware of it. Not sharp—not bleeding. But deep. Dull. Like something hard had slammed into you, or you’d fallen fast and didn’t land clean.

Your vision blurred again, heart hammering violently as fear and confusion took over completely.

This was wrong.

You shouldn’t be here.

You shouldn’t be alive—not if you'd collapsed in the forest, alone, weak and injured.

Someone had brought you here.

Someone human.

Your breathing hitched, and you fought down nausea, forcing yourself to stand straighter. The gown hung loosely, offering no warmth, no security—just thin fabric between you and the unknown.

But then, louder than your racing thoughts, louder than the shrill chirp of the machinery, his voice returned—soft, firm, steady.

Neteyam.

The memory of him wrapped around your chest, grounding you. You could almost feel his strong hand gripping yours, hear his low voice murmuring calm reassurances, steadying your breathing, anchoring you.

Breathe, you heard him say clearly in your mind. You’re stronger than panic.

Your eyes squeezed shut, fingers curling into fists.

You would not let fear overtake you—not now, not when you needed clarity.

Slowly, painfully, you forced your lungs to expand. Once. Twice. Three times. Your pulse steadied just a fraction, enough to clear your mind.

You opened your eyes again, scanning the room carefully, clinically, the scientist within you clawing for control. White walls. Medical equipment, unfamiliar but undeniably human. A single steel door across the room. Locked or unlocked—you couldn't tell.

But one thing was clear:

You were not alone.

Questions surged sharply, instincts warring.

Was this rescue—or captivity?

You forced your shaking legs to move forward, hand outstretched, desperate to reach the door. You had to know who was here, who had taken you—

And if there was still a chance, any chance, of finding your way back to Neteyam.

To the only home you had left.

Your knees wobbled again, threatening collapse beneath the weight of your own body. Dizziness gripped you, blurred your vision, but determination pushed you forward.

You scanned the room frantically. Your satchel—your knife, your clothes—they were gone. Nothing here belonged to you. Nothing familiar. Just a worn chair slumped tiredly in the corner and a stained, half-empty coffee mug abandoned on the floor.

Your stomach twisted sharply. Nausea surged, hot and bitter. Someone had been sitting there, watching you sleep. Watching you breathe.

Your throat clenched painfully.

Someone found you. Dragged you here from the forest. Saved you, yes—but that meant they had watched you, touched you. Human hands. Unknown intentions.

You couldn’t stay here.

You glanced back at the IV still embedded in your arm, the sterile tape and needle suddenly unbearable against your skin. Without hesitation, you grabbed it and yanked it free with a sharp hiss, pain lancing brightly as blood immediately welled, dripping freely onto the white tiled floor.

You ignored it, staggering toward the steel door, every step weak and uncertain. Your palm slapped against cold metal as you grasped the knob. You braced yourself, fully expecting resistance, a lock, a barrier—

But the door swung open easily beneath your shaking hand.

You took a stumbling step into a dimly lit corridor—

And crashed straight into a solid chest.

You jolted back instinctively, nearly collapsing as your weakened legs struggled for balance. You raised your injured hand defensively, heart hammering in violent panic, eyes wide and wild. Immediately, you grabbed for the door to slam it shut—

But an arm blocked your attempt effortlessly, bracing against the doorframe. Your desperate shove barely budged it.

Your breath froze in your chest as you stared up into the face of the man before you.

Human.

Older. Over sixty, easily. Grey hair fell haphazardly around a face lined deeply with exhaustion, framed by a thick grey beard that gave him a weathered, isolated look. His stature was intimidatingly tall, shoulders broad beneath a rumpled, white lab coat, unbuttoned to reveal a plain shirt beneath. Dark circles carved hollows beneath pale eyes, stark evidence of countless sleepless nights.

He looked…broken. Hollowed out by something heavy, grief or guilt etched sharply into his features. But his eyes—those pale, steely eyes—were sharp, clear, focused entirely on you.

“Stay back!” you rasped, voice shaking, nearly falling backward as you scrambled to put distance between you and him.

He didn’t move toward you aggressively, just stood silently in the doorway, watching you with quiet intensity, as though assessing how much of a threat you posed—or perhaps how much harm you’d already caused yourself.

Slowly, his gaze dropped to the floor, landing on the trail of blood dripping steadily from your injured arm. His brows knitted together slightly, concern momentarily flickering through his exhausted expression.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he murmured softly, voice rough-edged but quiet, gentle enough that it startled you.

Your heart stumbled, confused by the sudden tenderness in his tone.

But you knew better.

You’d learned long ago—Pandora’s beasts were deadly, yes. But nothing—nothing on this moon—was more dangerous than humans.

“No,” you gasped, breath hitching painfully as you edged farther backward, fingers grasping at the nearest wall for balance. “Don’t—don’t come any closer.”

He lifted both hands slowly, palm open, empty, carefully showing you, he had no weapon. He took another cautious step into the room, movements measured, deliberate.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said quietly, his tone more tired than threatening, eyes never leaving your face.

Yet his very presence was threat enough—human, unknown, isolated in this hidden place.

You pressed your back against the wall, trembling, every nerve screaming at you to run, even as your body struggled just to stand.

He paused again, his voice gentle, almost apologetic. “You need to sit down. You’ve lost blood. You’re weak.”

Your pulse hammered desperately in your ears. You didn't respond, couldn't respond. You just stared back at him, eyes wide with fear and distrust, hand pressed tight against the bleeding wound, your blood dripping steadily to the cold, sterile floor between you.

And he simply watched, silent and patient, waiting to see what you would do next.

You stared at him, your vision blurring around the edges as panic and weakness tightened their hold on you. You swayed, knees trembling violently beneath you, the room tilting sickeningly as you finally gave in. Your legs buckled, sending you down heavily onto the cold floor, the tile biting sharply against your knees.

Blood dripped steadily onto the white tiles, crimson bright and vivid, staining the clinical sterility around you. You barely registered it—your eyes locked numbly onto the spreading red pool as if it belonged to someone else.

“Am I… am I still dreaming?” you murmured brokenly, voice thin and distant even to your own ears.

Soft footsteps drew your blurred gaze upward. The older man moved carefully toward you, his steps slow and measured, as if approaching a wounded animal that might bolt at any moment.

You flinched instinctively, body trembling harder as he knelt down slowly before you, his joints creaking softly in the silent space between you. His eyes, pale and weary, studied your face with an intensity you didn't understand.

“No, dear,” he said quietly. His voice was soft, unexpectedly gentle—and distinctly British. The sound of it curled oddly around your ears, startlingly cultured and calm amid your panic.

Your breath hitched sharply in your throat as his hand reached out toward your injured arm. You tried weakly to jerk away, muscles too drained to obey you properly, your strength waning fast.

“Don't—” you choked out, trembling violently, heart hammering in a wild rhythm against your ribs. “Please don't—”

He paused only briefly, his expression calm, though something like weary sadness flickered briefly in his pale gaze. Slowly, he reached again, gentler this time, carefully taking your injured arm into his large, calloused hand. You shuddered at the careful warmth of his touch.

His gaze flickered down, lingering first on the half-healed gash across your palm, already wrapped with new bandage, but it was blood, like it opened again. His brows drew together faintly in concern. Then his eyes moved up your trembling arm, settling on the raw, bleeding puncture wound where you'd ripped out the IV.

He sighed softly, shaking his head, a weary look crossing his weathered features. “We should put that back in,” he murmured quietly, nodding toward the discarded IV tube still hanging loosely by the bed.

A fresh wave of terror shot through your chest at his words, adrenaline flaring hot and desperate through your veins. Your eyes widened, locking onto his in panic, your voice coming out raw, strained.

“No,” you whispered fiercely, pulling weakly at your captured arm, breath quickening. “Please don't. How—how would I know you won't drug me?”

He looked at you then, his pale eyes steady and calm, holding none of the menace you feared—only exhaustion and quiet understanding.

For a moment, silence stretched between you, broken only by the uneven rasp of your breathing and the faint hum of the room around you.

“You don't,” he finally said, quiet and honest, voice heavy with something that felt like sadness. “But you’re losing blood. And you won't last long without help.”

You stared at him, heart still hammering painfully against your ribs, struggling to see deception behind his weary, patient eyes. But all you saw there was the careful gaze of a man who, for reasons you couldn’t yet fathom, seemed genuinely concerned yet surprised with your survival.

Minutes later, you sat silently on the bed, watching numbly as he carefully slid the IV needle back into your bruised arm. You didn’t resist this time—you couldn’t. Your limbs felt impossibly heavy, drained, barely responsive. A chill had settled into your bones, a weariness that went deeper than skin, deeper even than exhaustion.

His movements were quiet and precise, practiced in a way that spoke of years of careful, deliberate work. He sensed your apprehension—the way your muscles tensed involuntarily beneath his touch—and glanced briefly up at your face.

“This is just saline,” he murmured quietly, his voice calm and steady. “You were dehydrated when I found you. I didn’t think you would make it.”

You flinched slightly at the word—found.

“Find me?” Your voice was raw, barely audible even to your own ears. Slowly, you lifted your gaze, studying his face carefully for the first time, truly taking him in.

He was older—lines etched deeply around his pale eyes and weathered across his brow. Grey hair and beard framed his tired features, lending him the appearance of someone who had seen too many days, too many weary nights. Yet those eyes—piercing, icy blue, sharp and intelligent despite his obvious exhaustion—felt undeniably familiar. You searched your memory, the fragments slipping just out of reach each time you tried to grasp them.

You’d never seen him at the outpost. Never at Hell’s Gate when the Venture Star had docked, unloading fresh cargo and rotating crew members. Yet your mind insisted that you knew him—those eyes, that voice. But from where?

He adjusted something on the machine next to your bed, a soft beep marking each gentle calibration, before he finally spoke again.

“You fell into a thanator den,” he said evenly, voice quiet, matter-of-fact.

Shock surged through you like ice water. Your eyes widened slightly, breath hitching painfully in your throat. Thanator. The word alone was enough to spark a primal, gut-deep terror. Few things on Pandora were as deadly as a Thanator.

His gaze flickered briefly toward you, catching your startled expression.

“You were lucky,” he murmured, a hint of something almost like amazement creeping into his tired voice. “It was empty.”

Your chest tightened painfully, breath stuttering out in stunned disbelief. Empty. Your survival hadn’t just been improbable—it had bordered on miraculous.

“You hit your head badly,” he continued softly, breaking your reverie. “But you didn't lose as much blood as you should have. Something... intervened. Some mycelia tangled in your hair helped clot the wound at the back of your head.” He shook his head slightly; eyes shadowed with quiet astonishment. “You’re lucky indeed.”

He finally looked at you then.

His eyes were sharp, pale and unblinking, but there was something else buried deep behind them. Not just scientific curiosity. Not just clinical observation.

Something he wasn’t saying.

You opened your mouth to ask—but he spoke first.

“Eywa must love you,” he muttered, almost too quietly to catch. “Keeping you alive like that. Even you, little human.”

The words should have stung.

But the tone didn’t match the content. It wasn’t cruel or mocking—it was... distant. Detached. Like he was speaking more to himself than to you. His gaze flicked away again quickly, almost as if he regretted saying it out loud.

You watched him carefully, something tight winding in your chest.

That wasn’t a joke.

Not really.

It felt more like a slip.

Like something had cracked open—just a hairline fracture—but enough to show you there was more behind those tired eyes than he wanted to admit.

He didn’t elaborate.

He hummed quietly to himself, a low sound of approval that resonated strangely in the silent, sterile room around you.

You stared at him, your mind spinning with confusion, disbelief, and an inexplicable sense of familiarity. Nothing about your situation made sense—least of all the man tending your wounds with quiet patience.

Yet even as your thoughts raced, one truth remained achingly clear above all others:

You were still alive.

The older man turned his head slightly, watching you for a brief moment. His pale blue eyes narrowed faintly, considering.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, his voice rough with age and fatigue. "Am I right?"

You opened your mouth to reply, but before a single word could escape, your stomach answered for you—a loud, protesting growl echoing through the sterile white room. Heat rose to your cheeks, embarrassment blooming across your face, but he didn't mock you. Instead, the corner of his mouth twitched into a faint, barely perceptible smile.

"I'll take that as a yes," he murmured dryly. He rose slowly, his joints creaking gently with the effort. Turning toward the door, he cast you one final look, raising an eyebrow in gentle warning. "Don't run away. I'll be back."

The absurdity of his words hit you—like you could run in this state, as though he hadn’t been the one to scoop you up from the floor only minutes earlier after your legs had betrayed you. You watched quietly as he slipped out the door, the metal clicking softly shut behind him.

The silence closed around you once more, thick and pressing, broken only by the hum of machines and your own breathing. Your mind spun in dizzying circles, each thought chasing its tail.

How could this be anything but a dream?

Just moments ago, you’d been stumbling through the forest, weak and starving, injured and desperate for shelter. Now you were tucked neatly into a clean medical bed, an IV dripping quietly into your arm, rescued by a man whose existence alone felt impossibly surreal.

You pressed your palm gently against your forehead, careful of the dull ache still throbbing beneath your scalp. None of this made sense. It couldn’t be real.

The door opened again, startling you from your thoughts. He stepped back into the room, a metal tray balanced carefully in one hand—the kind they still used in the outpost’s tiny mess hall.

He approached silently, placing the tray on your lap with care. You blinked down at it, surprise flickering across your features at what you saw. Vegetables—steamed and bland-looking, yes, but fresh, not freeze-dried—and meat. Actual meat. Your stomach clenched at the sight, hunger suddenly sharp and undeniable.

For a moment, Norm’s voice echoed in your memory—clear, amused, nostalgic—as he’d told you stories about what life had been like back in the days when Hell’s Gate had been fully operational. How they’d eaten meat almost daily, bred tapirus in carefully maintained slaughterhouses within the colony walls. Norm had spoken bitterly about the RDA’s current dietary restrictions at the outpost, how they'd blamed everything on the shrinking budget, forcing scientists to survive on rehydrated synthetic crap. You'd eaten scrambled eggs that tasted like cardboard pulp, half-joking to your colleagues that the RDA’s version of scrambled eggs had never seen an actual chicken.

But now, here on your lap, sat real food. Cooked meat, pale vegetables—still bland and overcooked, perhaps, but more nourishing than anything you’d tasted in the last days.

You glanced up at the man, confusion clear in your eyes, but he offered no explanation. He simply pulled the chair from the corner, setting it quietly beside your bed and sitting heavily, as though even that small action drained him.

Carefully, cautiously, you picked up the fork, poking experimentally at the vegetables first before lifting a bite to your lips. Bland, yes, textureless and without seasoning, but still—it was edible. Far better than the days you’d been surviving on raw teylu worms and jungle fruits that left your stomach twisting painfully in protest.

Your gaze returned warily to the meat, suspicion gnawing at the edges of your mind. How had he gotten it? The scientists at the outpost only ever received meat as a rare gift from the Omatikaya, and only then when their hunts had been exceptionally good. Jake had made sure of that, despite being Na'vi now for decades. He’d never completely forgotten his human friends. He’d always made sure Norm, Max, and the handful of humans they trusted stayed alive. But meat was still a rare luxury, one they savored like treasure.

And Neteyam…

Your heart clenched painfully in your chest. Even in your weakened state, even through your confusion, the memory of him made you smile faintly, bittersweet and longing.

He had always been eager to show you Na’vi dishes alongside with his siblings, even back when you’d just been another random scientist visiting his village as part of your job. But after you’d become something more, after you’d both stopped pretending that what existed between you was casual, Neteyam had practically made it his mission to feed you properly—to introduce you to every delicacy of his world, to watch your expression as you tasted something new and alien, eyes gleaming with pride whenever you smiled or hummed with pleasure.

He’d learned your tastes with gentle, patient determination—committed every detail to memory until he knew exactly what would make your eyes widen, what would coax that delighted little hum from your lips. He’d filled your belly and your heart with equal care, like feeding you was a quiet promise of love and protection.

And now you were here, on this sterile bed, in this strange room, eating meat given to you by a man who should have been a ghost.

"How did you get meat?" you murmured softly, unable to hold the question back. Your voice trembled slightly, rough and strained.

The man lifted his head, those tired ice-blue eyes meeting yours for a quiet moment, unreadable. After a long pause, he shrugged slightly, leaning back in his chair.

"There's still some... resources left," he said quietly, choosing his words carefully. His gaze flickered away briefly before returning, steady and guarded.

You frowned faintly at his answer—vague, evasive—but your hunger overtook curiosity, and you quietly resumed eating.

As you chewed slowly, savoring even the blandness, you felt his gaze resting gently on you, watchful but not intrusive, assessing but not harsh. He said nothing else, content to simply sit there in quiet silence as you ate.

But your mind refused to be quiet. It whispered questions, doubts, confusions, and through it all, the aching pull of longing tugged at your chest:

Neteyam. Where are you?

You needed to find your way back to him.

No matter what.

You watched him cautiously, your fingers fidgeting nervously with the fork in your hand. The silence stretched again, the hum of machines filling the quiet void as you finally summoned enough courage to speak.

"Where is this place?" you asked, voice tentative but firm, eyes scanning his weathered features for any hint of deception.

He exhaled softly, shoulders sinking slightly as though the question itself exhausted him.

“We’re in the territory of the Omatikaya,” he replied simply, his voice rough and measured.

You blinked in surprise, brows pinching together. “But—the outpost is the only human settlement in their territory,” you said hesitantly, trying to mask your rising unease.

He shook his head slowly, the faintest, weary smile pulling at the corners of his lips, though there was no warmth in it. “On the surface, yes,” he murmured, voice dry and bitter. “I'm not surprised that the RDA isn't shouting my lab’s coordinates around.”

“On the surface…” you repeated, confusion deepening into suspicion. Then realization struck hard, cold and unsettling. “We’re underground?”

He just nodded slowly, eyes heavy and unreadable, watching carefully as you took another cautious bite from your tray, chewing slowly as you processed the revelation.

Finally, you swallowed thickly, throat tight. Another thought rose sharply to the forefront of your mind. “How many days was I asleep?” you asked quietly, voice trembling slightly.

He hesitated, then exhaled quietly. “Almost two days, since I brought you here.”

“Fuck,” you whispered immediately, the word slipping from your lips before you could think better of it. Panic prickled coldly up your spine. Only two days here, yes—but counting your lost days wandering the forest, that made it over a week since you’d last reported back.

You winced sharply, pressing your fingertips hard against your temple as you pictured Norm’s expression. Your absence would have sent him into a frenzy by now. After five days missing, RDA protocol dictated you be declared dead. Officially, you’d already been written off. You could almost see Kate, carefully lighting one of her precious electric candles, placing it in the quiet of her quarters as a small, solemn memorial to you.

Your stomach twisted painfully at the thought, guilt flooding you like poison. And Neteyam—

Your throat tightened painfully. You could barely imagine how he’d be handling your disappearance. You prayed silently to Eywa—who you’d now somehow felt, impossibly, intimately—that Neteyam was alright. That he wasn’t breaking, wasn’t losing himself, wasn’t falling apart as you would have been if your roles were reversed.

If Neteyam vanished, you knew without question you wouldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, wouldn't think clearly until he was found safe again. Your heart clenched at the thought, a fierce ache blooming inside you.

You promised yourself—swore silently into the sterile silence of the room—that when you finally returned to him, you’d kiss him until you couldn’t breathe, cling to him desperately for days and refuse to let go. You’d hold him until every cell in your body understood that he was safe, he was yours, and you were his.

"But," the older man’s quiet voice interrupted your spiraling thoughts, pulling you roughly back into the present, "I don't know how many days you were in that den. You were dying."

Your gaze snapped sharply to his pale blue eyes, searching for the truth, the honesty behind his words. You found no deception, only quiet, exhausted sincerity.

You drew a shaky breath, your thoughts spinning again. Perhaps that was why you’d seen your family, why Eywa herself had reached out to you. Perhaps your body had been shutting down, your life bleeding slowly out—and Eywa, somehow, had called to you. Welcomed you.

But you were human.

Just another alien invader, no real connection to her, to the sacred network she wove through every living creature on Pandora. Humans weren’t welcomed into Eywa’s embrace. They didn’t live on within her after death, not like the Na’vi.

Yet you had felt her. Deeply. Completely. Her presence had felt like home, like family, like your own mother—gentle, warm, compassionate. Why had she embraced you, if only briefly, in that golden, radiant peace?

And then Neteyam’s voice—your beloved Neteyam—had shattered that tranquility, dragging you back, forcing air into your lungs, tethering you to life again. His voice had saved you, even in its quiet desperation.

You glanced back up to the older man who now sat quietly across from you in the corner chair, watching you thoughtfully as you silently grappled with these impossible questions. His pale blue eyes studied you, patient yet wary.

"You seem to have more questions," he said softly, the faintest ghost of a smile appearing beneath the exhaustion in his gaze. "I imagine you want to know more than simply how many days you were unconscious."

You exhaled slowly, nodding as your hands trembled slightly around your tray. Your voice felt raw as you finally forced it from your throat.

You looked at him for a long, silent moment, your tray resting in your lap, the fork idle in your hand. The question burned its way up from your chest, raw and aching.

“Who are you?”

He didn’t answer at first. He bent down, picked up the half-empty mug that had been left cooling beside the chair, and took a slow sip of the now-cold coffee. He settled back into the seat, his body sinking like it had known too many days without sleep. His shoulders slumped, bones tired beneath his loose shirt.

Then, finally, he looked up at you. “You knew me,” he said, “didn’t you?”

You didn’t answer. You were still analyzing him—his voice, his posture, the lines carved into his face like a map of isolation. But there was something unmistakable about those eyes. Piercing. Ice-blue. A mind always moving.

“I’m Dr. Veyren,” he said simply.

The fork slipped from your fingers, landing with a soft clink against the metal tray.

Your thoughts spiraled, the name spinning like a storm through your mind. Elias Veyren. The man whose work ignited your obsession. The man you’d written essays about, quoted in your thesis, revered like a myth. The man you’d believed had died decades ago, way before your birth.

“How?” you breathed. “How is that possible? Everyone thought you were dead.”

He didn’t flinch. Just watched you as if he’d expected this question for years.

“Not quite dead,” he said, voice dry. “I’d say… forgotten.”

“Forgotten?” You stared at him in disbelief. “How could anyone forget someone like you?”

He gave a small shrug and looked away. “If your methods are unorthodox enough, it doesn’t matter how brilliant you are. They don’t tolerate outliers for long. And scientists love their martyrs until those martyrs start stepping out of line.”

Your gaze dropped to the tray still in your lap. You held it tighter now, grounding yourself in the weight of it. “Unorthodox?” you scoffed quietly. “You?” You laughed once, the sound more disbelief than amusement. “I read every research paper you ever published. Every book. Every theory you presented. Half the xenobotany community built their careers standing on your shoulders.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly, amused.

“That so?” he murmured.

“You were everything to me,” you admitted. “I wanted to be you.”

That made him blink, a small, unexpected reaction breaking through the mask of detachment. Then, to your surprise, he chuckled—low and gravelly.

“What were the odds,” he muttered, shaking his head, “that I’d find someone in the Pandoran forest who liked my work?”

Your expression sharpened immediately.

“Why were you in the forest?” you asked, voice quiet but firm.

He didn’t answer right away. He stared at you like he was weighing the truth—measuring how much to give you. Then, eventually, he said it flatly.

“Searching for test subjects.”

You froze, searching his face for a joke, or at least a trace of irony. But his expression remained still. Serious. Unflinching. Yet something felt off.

“In a thanator den?” you asked.

He nodded once, as if that were the most natural thing in the world.

The silence thickened in the small room, the soft beeping of the EKG now louder than it had ever been.

You sat straighter, pushing the tray off your lap and onto the bedside table. Your voice was steady, even cold. “I presume you know where I belong. I want to go back.”

He glanced at you. “Now?”

You nodded once.

He gave a quiet snort. “It’s almost midnight,” he said, gesturing loosely to the small screen on the monitor beside you. “And you can barely walk to the other side of this room. I don’t think you’ll make it to the other side of my lab.”

“So what?” you snapped, jaw clenched. “I’m your prisoner now?”

Dr. Veyren’s eyes met yours again, that same exhausted intensity lingering just beneath his expression. But this time, it softened slightly—just a flicker, but enough to make you pause. “No,” he said quietly. “You’re not my prisoner.”

You waited. Tensed.

“You’re free to leave,” he continued, voice rough. “I won’t stop you. I don’t lock doors.”

You exhaled, tension in your chest loosening—but only slightly.

“But,” he added, leaning back in his chair with a sigh, “you should keep in mind—you’re barely alive.”

His words landed like a quiet warning. Not a threat. A fact. A reluctant truth spoken with clinical detachment. But it didn’t make your resolve falter.

“I need to go back,” you said.

Your voice was strong.

Your body… wasn’t.

You sat straight in the bed, spine stiff with resolve, chin tilted stubbornly upward—but you made no move to rise. Somewhere deep down, beneath all the willpower and fear and stubbornness, you knew. You wouldn’t make it past the threshold in your current state. You could barely stand ten minutes ago. Your arms ached just holding the blanket off your legs. And your head was like a war drum.

You weren’t going anywhere.

Not yet.

Dr. Veyren simply stared at you for a moment. Then exhaled deeply, long fingers coming up to rub the bridge of his nose in what looked like equal parts frustration and bone-deep weariness. He looked—fragile. Not in body, but in presence. Like whatever kept him upright wasn’t muscle or discipline, but routine. Habit. And maybe even that was wearing thin.

“The outpost,” he said finally, “is at least a ten-hour hike from here. If you were fully rested. Hydrated. Uninjured.”

He didn’t need to add: You are none of those things.

You looked at him, and for a second, something flickered between you—shared knowledge, unspoken understanding. The forest was unforgiving. Even the strong could vanish in it. And you… weren’t strong right now.

Still, your eyes searched his face. Weighing options. Considering, briefly, what it would take to vanish back into the jungle. To drag yourself through brush and mud and predator tracks for the chance of seeing a familiar face again. To see him again.

But Veyren didn’t give you the chance to spiral.

“You should rest now,” he said simply, and stood.

It was such a small action—just rising from a chair—but it looked like it cost him everything. His joints creaked. His movements were slow. He didn’t stretch or roll his shoulders the way most men might after sitting for too long. He just moved like someone used to being tired.

Like someone who had forgotten what not being tired felt like.

He walked to the door without another word, his lab coat brushing quietly behind him. You watched his back—broad, weathered, hunched ever so slightly under an invisible weight—and felt a pang of something unexpected.

Loneliness.

Not yours. His.

How long had this man been alone?

You wondered—had anyone spoken to him in weeks? Months? Years?

Was this—this quiet room, this metal chair in a sealed lab, this flickering monitor—his entire world now?

And were you the first person to break the silence in all that time?

He reached the door and paused, resting one hand against the frame. The other stayed curled at his side, clenched slightly, like he’d spent too long holding things in—words, emotions, memories. His head tilted, not quite turning back. Then he did glance over his shoulder, his voice low and raw.

“We’re alone in this settlement,” he said. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

You stared at him.

And he meant it.

There was no flicker of malice behind his eyes. Just weariness.

And truth.

You nodded once—barely.

He gave no reaction. Just turned, stepped into the dim corridor beyond, and pulled the door closed behind him with a soft click.

Silence settled again.

But it felt… different this time.

You looked around the room slowly. The IV still dripped beside you, the monitor gave its steady little beeps, the metal tray of half-eaten food sat beside your hip.

You were alone.

But not imprisoned.

Not exactly safe, either.

You still didn’t know where you were—really were. Underground, yes. Hidden. Somewhere far enough from the outpost that no one had stumbled across this place in decades.

But still in Omatikaya territory.

That mattered.

You stared at the door, heart pounding a little slower now.

Because it meant… Neteyam was near. Somewhere in the forests above. Somewhere in this region. Maybe even just a day’s walk from here, if your body could hold together that long.

You let your head fall back against the pillow, exhaling shakily.

You didn’t mean to fall asleep.

But somewhere between the ache in your body, the lingering adrenaline in your veins, and the low, rhythmic beeping of the monitor beside you, the world tilted sideways.

Maybe it was the exhaustion finally catching up to you. Maybe it was the IV drip pulling you back from the edge of dehydration. Maybe it was the strange, heavy peace in this underground place—so far removed from wind and jungle and threat.

Or maybe it was the man. Dr. Veyren. A name that once felt mythical—now flesh and blood, bone and shadow. A ghost you had studied in classrooms. Whose voice you’d listened to in flickering, archived lectures like scripture. Whose face you'd memorized from the worn covers of academic journals. And now, here you were—sleeping in his lab, under his care, like a patient. Or maybe like a guest. You didn’t know yet.

But you slept.

And you dreamed.

But your sleep wasn’t peaceful.

It began fractured—sensory flashes without form. You saw roots twisting in wet soil, felt the sting of mud in open wounds, heard the scream of a banshee overhead before it dissolved into the mechanical whine of RDA engines. Norm’s voice. Your mother’s laugh. The sharp, pulsing panic of being lost.

Then the dreams shifted.

Everything fell away.

And you were standing in the forest.

You knew this place.

You could feel it in your bones. In your blood. The forest was alive—throbbing with energy, pulsing with something older than any science could ever measure.

And ahead of you…

The Tree of Souls.

Vitraya Ramunong.

It stood bathed in ethereal light, its roots spiraling outward like the fingers of a sleeping god, its tendrils swaying gently in a wind that didn’t touch the leaves. The air was warm and wet with life. The ground beneath your bare feet hummed softly with a frequency that made your ribs ache.

It was sacred.

You could feel it. Every fiber of this place called to something in you—not your human body, but your soul. You didn’t belong here.

And yet…

You stepped forward slowly, drawn by something deeper than understanding. Your breath hitched as you rounded one of the root-pillars, and then you saw him.

Neteyam.

Kneeling.

His back to you, his massive shoulders bowed low, head hung in a posture of prayer or grief—you couldn’t tell which. His long hair was swept over one shoulder, his kuru connected to one of the Tree’s glowing pink tendrils. It pulsed where their bond met, soft and slow, like a shared heartbeat.

His lips were moving.

Murmuring.

Na’vi words, quiet and rhythmic like a chant. You didn’t recognize them. But the sound was filled with longing—raw, aching. He wasn’t speaking to the Great Mother.

He was pleading.

Your chest cracked open.

“Neteyam,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

His breath caught.

You saw it—his whole body stiffened like lightning had passed through him.

And then—

He turned.

Slowly.

As if afraid he’d imagined you.

As if daring to look might shatter the illusion.

But his eyes—when they found you—lit like a forest fire. Gold and wide and full of disbelief and something deeper, something wounded, that unraveled you completely.

“Yawne?” he whispered.

You took a step toward him.

He didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Still kneeling. Still connected to the Tree.

But he was looking at you now—really looking. Like you were the breath in his lungs. The blood in his veins. Like you were life, standing before him in impossible form.

And then his expression changed.

Panic.

Real panic.

And you saw it—the moment his heart broke all over again.

Neteyam yanked his kuru free, the tendril snapping back as he stumbled upright. He ran to you in three long strides, dropping to his knees with such force that the ground beneath him trembled. His massive frame folded low, bringing him to your height, eyes frantic, hands already searching.

His eyes dropped, scanning your body—and you saw the moment it hit him. The sharp intake of breath. The way his jaw clenched. How his eyes locked on your face and went wide. His hand flew to your mouth and nose, large fingers pressing gently but urgently over your face, trying to cover your airway, trying to block the air before it could hurt you.

“No,” he breathed, voice cracking. “No, no, no—don’t breathe, don’t—”

You reached up quickly, grabbing his wrist, your voice soft, trying to calm him.

“Neteyam,” you said gently, placing your hand over his.

He didn’t let go.

“Neteyam,” you whispered again, “I’m fine.”

His eyes locked on yours. Desperate. Disbelieving.

“No,” he said again, voice thick with fear. “You’re not. You can’t be. You can’t breathe this air. Hold your breath please!”

“I’m not dying,” you said quietly, gently wrapping both hands around his wrist and lowering it from your face.

He let you.

Barely.

His chest was rising fast now, his breath ragged, his eyes wide as he stared at you. One hand still cradled your cheek like he didn’t trust that you were really there.

His thumb brushed your jaw.

He leaned in closer, as if needing to feel your breath against his skin. His nose hovered near yours. His lips parted.

You didn’t cough.

You didn’t choke.

You just breathed.

His voice dropped to a whisper, like a prayer he didn’t dare finish.

“How?”

You shook your head slowly, eyes never leaving his.

Your throat tightened as the weight of his presence settled over you—warm and solid and impossible.

Tears welled in your eyes, blurring the edges of his face, but you didn’t look away. Not from those burning golden eyes. Not from the way he stared at you like you were a star that had fallen into his hands.

Your hands drifted up—slowly, shakily—from his upper arms to the sides of his face, fingers trembling as they pressed into the soft heat of his skin. You felt the way he leaned into your touch, like he couldn’t help it. Like his body had a memory of you, and it clung to it, desperate and raw.

“I finally see you,” you whispered, voice cracking.

His breath hitched.

“I thought I’d never see you again.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, and you felt him flinch at the sight of it. His hands tightened at your waist as if afraid you might vanish if he blinked.

For a long, quiet second, you simply looked at each other—memorizing what time and fear had tried to erase.

And then, in the soft hum beneath your ribs, in the pulsing air that seemed to shimmer with unseen life, the truth rose like mist:

You hadn’t dreamt of him.

Not once.

All those days alone in the forest—lost, bleeding, clinging to each gasp like it might be your last—you’d prayed for sleep to bring him to you. But your nights had been full of silence. Full of cold and pain and nothingness.

He had never come.

Until now.

Until tonight.

It felt like your mind had waited—waited until it was safe to feel. Safe to breathe. Until your body, stitched together and half healed, could finally rest. And in that rest, it gave you him.

Neteyam.

His name echoed like a heartbeat across the sacred air between you.

He was here.

Your forehead dropped to his. Your noses brushed. His hands came up to your face again, cradling it, grounding it—like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go.

And all you could think—through the tears, through the stillness, through the sacred hush of the Tree watching over you—was that maybe this was Eywa’s mercy. Maybe this was your soul catching up to his.

Maybe you were finally home.

Even if only in a dream.

Thank you for your patience!

Part 25: To thread

#avatar 2022 #avatar the way of water #avatar twow #neteyam #james cameron avatar #neteyam sully #neteyam x reader #neteyam x you #neteyam x human reader

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