Chapter Text
The night air was cool, thick with the low hum of the forest and the flicker of flames dancing against the bark of the Kelutral, and some were going out for the night. Kits ran around, and parents counted their young for supper. He looked back to where Neytiri had strode in with Jakesully and where they disappeared. He exhaled. Slowly through his nose, head tilting to the sky where the stars shone and the leaves swayed. He needed to go. To the Tree. To see Sylwanin. He promised he would—every day.
His footsteps were already leading him toward the spiral bridge of roots when he heard it—that voice.
“Ma Tsu’Tey,” Mo’at called.
He stopped like he had been struck between the shoulder blades, hands tightening around his bow. He bowed, signaling, “Tsahik.”
Mo’at stepped out from behind the thick trunk of a pillar-root, quiet, just as she did with Jakesully. Her jewelry chimed softly as she gestured back. “You will train him well.”
What? He turned to her slowly. “I train warriors. Not demons who fall from the sky.”
Mo’at gave no ground. Her stare was like stone warmed by sun—unyielding, heavy. “He is a warrior. From the clan of jarheads.”
Tsu’Tey blinked at her. “That is not a clan.”
“Then make it one,” she pushed, eyeing him. Tsu'Tey felt his tail curl upward. “You will split every seven days with Neytiri. It is done.”
“Mo’at—Mother,” he stepped forward, bristling. Suddenly, he regretted even giving that smirk to Neytiri. “You saw him. He does not even know what a bow is. He cannot walk right. He is not even Na’vi—he can not see.”
“He is what Eywa has given. You will make him.”
“I do not want what Eywa has given!” The growl rumbled from deep in his chest, his control fraying like worn twine. “This is a waste of my time. I must prepare for tomorrow’s hunt—”
“You will still,” she interrupted, “but you will also train him.”
“I have duties—” He was exasperated. “Neytiri brought him in and should carry her own duties—he is her–”
“And as Olo’kram, he is now your duty as well,” she said with finality. “Balance. An Olo'eyktan and Tsahik must find equilibrium; just like Eywa—we take no sides.”
He closed his eyes and exhaled.
“Fine,” he said, the word cutting like a blade. “But I will not coddle him. Do not expect me to; I will not slow my pace.”
“I would expect nothing less,” she said, cupping his cheek.
The forest was loud—wind through the canopy, ikrans calling high—but between them there was a pocket of quiet. There always was, especially when near the Utraya Mokri.
Neytiri sat cross-legged, braiding a length of reed cord. She did not look up when she spoke. “I am sorry,” she murmured, voice hushed, like the words might have stung less if they were whispered. “It should not be your burden, too. He was given to me; I found and brought. It is not fair that you must carry him.”
Tsu’Tey let the silence stretch. He could let her think it, let her take on guilt that is not solely hers. But he glanced at her—the braid of her hair heavy across her shoulder, the shadows of memory always tucked behind her eyes—and he could not.
“I am not angry with you,” he pressed out at last, plain and steady. "It is our duty."
Her hands paused. She tilted her head, finally meeting his gaze. “You looked…angry.”
“I was,” He sat up, pressing his hand onto her own. “But not at you. Never you. At him. At those sawtutes. At this…insult. They have lived among us once,” His jaw tightened. The blood. Fire. Screams. Bodies. Then he shook his head. “Never again. Never. I...I am just afraid. I find myself feeling that lately.”
Neytiri’s throat worked, the corner of her mouth twitching like she wanted to comfort but could not find the words. She unwinded the half-finished cord, sets it aside, and leaned against his shoulder. It was not a dramatic gesture, not one meant for anyone else to see—just the old weight of her, pressed there.
✦
It began as it always did—with silence.
Mo’at sat alone in her sacred space, far from disruption, her fingers arranging the sacred items before her: three braids of vision thread, soaked in the sap of di’lywae.
She set the bowl of spiritwater in front of her.
Only Eytukan was with her, as always. He pressed a hand to her back, his knuckles gently stroking her spine, and she sighed at the familiar touch. A memory it would be soon—but it stilled her, kept her balanced.
A comb from Neytiri’s infancy.
A necklace from Tsu’Tey’s first kill as a hunter.
A strip of cloth from Jakesully’s tawtute cloth—stained with his dried blood.
She held the comb and necklace between her fingers longer than she should have, but she could not help it.
She bound the threads and whispered her intentions to Eywa, she wondered what Tsu’Tey saw in his own visions. What Neytiri felt when the atokirina' landed on Jakesully. What Jakesully truly was—what his intention is and what his soul sought.
She coiled another sacred thread around each token and entangled them two at a time, letting the roots of the tree pulse around them. This was something she had done this many times—learned it from her mother and her mother’s mother before her. It was simple but finding the futures and delving into the fates was never not a tiring thing. It required a strong will and strong devotion.
If there was a future, the threads would entwine.
If there was strife, they would knot.
If there was no path—they broke.
She started with the simplest: Jakesully and Neytiri.
She wrapped the carved comb from Neytiri’s infancy with the blood-marked cloth Jakesully gave her when he first accepted proper clothing. She lowered the bundle into the water and the roots pulsed, while the leather and braid entwined almost eagerly—youthful, fiery.
Mo’at exhaled, briefly stunned. Then the coil began to darken—twist—the braid frayed and split while the fire spat at the leather, smoking at the edges.
The visions washed over her:
A dense fog.
An altar.
Jakesully sobbing and Neytiri—painted in warcolors and pain—kneeling beside a body—Tsu’Tey’s body.
A scream echoed in the background.
The threads burst.
The vision unraveled.
They have love, Eywa whispered. But it begins in tragedy and ends in guilt. You will gain, but only from many losses.
Mo’at’s throat tightened. Neytiri was strong—her beautiful, brilliant daughter—but this pain…it was too deep. Pain Mo’at no longer wished to bear, not even as a witness. She pressed her palm to her forehead, steadying herself before she separated the items—Jakesully’s and Neytiri’s items. She laid them aside.
A union that begins in passion and ends in fire. They survive. They have children. But they do not live. The bond is one of fire and ash.
Mo’at wiped a tear from her cheek with an annoyed flick of her fingers and steeled herself. The next bond was one that the people have expected—the honored match.
Tsu’Tey and Neytiri.
She wrapped the comb and necklace slowly, with reverence. The braid and sinew twist with grace—elegant, almost ceremonial, but they do not pulse. The moment they hit the water, the vision struck hard—
A child, weeping.
Tsu’Tey, crowned Olo’eyktan, bleeding from between his thighs.
Neytiri, regal and silent, never touching him.
Jakesully was nowhere to be seen.
A council of elders, their voices rising in fury:
“He carried? As Olo’eyktan?”
“Bred by another Omega—this cannot stand!”
“Enough of this facade!”
The people riot. Their union fractures, but the two of them remain side by side. Not out of love—but out of grief. Grief for the life they were never allowed to choose—grief because the people were never satisfied; always questioning—never listening.
Neytiri smiled, but it did not reach her eyes.
Tsu’Tey’s face was drawn, permanently weary. He clutched the bundle of blue, crying in his arms.
There is love—but not true. Not freedom. Not a choice.
This is the path of peace, Eywa murmured. But not the path of truth. They exist. But they do not live.
Mo’at exhaled, slow and tight. The vision ached with longing, with everything withheld. A spirit mourned in the water.
At the final thread, Mo’at hesitated.
She...did not want to know, yet she did it and bound the necklace and Jakesully’s shirt, fingers trembling, and lowered them into the water with the braid.
She braced herself for the pain, for the force that would knck her into the roots, but when the bundle touched the surface the roots shiver.
The threads do not just entwine.
They merged.
They glowed.
The vision crashed into her like a wave:
Tsu’Tey’s hands cupped Jake’s jaw, both of them painted in ceremonial ochre.
Two pups—not twins, but close enough—tumbling in the sun. One with Jake’s grin. The other with Tsu’Tey’s sharp eyes.
A little girl on Tsu’Tey’s shoulders, giggling, calling Jake “sempul.”
More visions—brighter, broader:
Three kits, older, laughing—two boys and a little girl tumbling through the forest. A baby girl swaddled in Neytiri’s arms, alseep. Tsu’Tey seated beside Jake, one hand on his thigh, a ceremonial staff behind them, carved with their likenesses.
They were older, calmer—at peace.
Neytiri—married to Peyral—smiled. The families are together. The children are loved.
Jake was Olo’eyktan.
Tsu’Tey wasTsahik.
And they are balanced.
“They lead together,” Mo’at breathed. “They raise…they nurture…they love.”
The vision shifted.
It darkens.
Grays.
Tsu’Tey was walking away.
Again and again, over and over—rejecting it, turning from it. Always too soon.
Mo’at subconsciously reached out and burned dried flowers, breathed in the smoke, deeper this time, slipping into a trance.
What is the true choice Eywa would wish him to make?
Eywa was a goddess of balance. Of becoming. Of offering—not guarantees, but guidance.
A shape emerged, growing closer and closer until Mo'at could not deny it anymore and there, in the glowing lattice of Eywa’s spirit web—Sylwanin appeared. Radiant, just as the day they sent her to the Almother. Her hair gleamed silver in the light, as did her earrings and feathered chest piece. Her voice was soft, gently amused.
'Oel ngati kameie, Mother.'
Mo’at trembled but bowed her head. “My beautiful girl…Oel ngati kameie.”
'You saw it,' Sylwanin stated plainly. 'You saw what he has seen for three seasons—what has become clear, and he does not want to accept.'
Mo’at bowed her head, her hand covering her mouth.
'Eywa does not give the same gift twice—Great Mother knew it would take time for him to accept, so She gave him time, I asked Her—glimpses and dreams.' Sylwanin sat cross-legged. 'She gave what was needed; now it is wanted. He must see this reason. Help him know that he is not bound to suffer just to serve honor. There is another way. There will be pain, but…Eywa knows he will endure. He always has. Eywa has a path for him.'
Mo’at pursed her lips.
'Mother, make him see to reason—do not let him avoid this, avoid a life.'
Sylwanin faded. The roots calmed.
Mo’at gasped as she returned, her throat raw with weeping. Salt crusted her cheeks, and Eytukan was still behind her, hand steady on her spine. She looked around; the three bundles lay beside her, dried now, smelling briefly of smoke and herbs and Sylwanin—all tangled.
“What did you see, Syulang?” he pressed gently.
“What must be done.” She murmured.
They were not to force fate.
They were not to steal choice.
They must endure.
Eywa was not cruel and She had shown. She was balanced—all-knowing, all-seeing, and all-hearing—and balance had also meant always listening and changing, even if it was unexpected, painful, and different.
She sat in silence. Eytukan did not leave her, even though his face was somber, brows drawn low. “Syulang—Mo’at?”
“I have seen Eywa’s Will,” she murmured. “The path of duty has now become the path of the soul. The Great Mother revealed and has asked that we support it.”
Eytukan pulled her close, letting her rest against him. She fell limp, drained and she found herself consumed with everything, tired—exhausted.
“Shh, mawey—mawey.” He kissed her head. “You need not explain; rest, yawnetu. You have carried your weight with Eywa.”
Her mind wandered—to Tsu’Tey, at sixteen, trembling after his first vision, asking for a cleanse. Trembling because he had just presented, not even a month out—it had been hours after Sylwanin’s body went cold. Days before his trial of the beast.
Neytiri had been softly snoring in his spot in the nest—she had not wanted to let him go after he walked in, dragging the carcass of a matriarchal palulukan, cut and bloodied; she sat with him as he skinned the beast and dried her pelt. He had passed out after the rites, twitching, and woke up with a scream.
Mo’at had cradled his head, running her fingers through his braids like he was still a child—he begged for a cleanse later and she gave it, pressed a kiss to his skull, said that it was a gift—a gift in this strife—and gave him a sleeping tonic.
He slept well that night, but they came back—stronger, harder, and more persistent. Later, she found out from Neytiri that he had visions, moments where he would stare into the forests, similar to the one he told of before—during his heat, whining about a name—a name Neytiri could not remember—happiness, fire, and lights; a fall, then heat and anger. He passed out.
Mo’at could only sigh.
Tsu’Tey barely wanted to discuss them now, barely wanted help—but all she knew was that they became clearer and the faceless alpha was no longer without a name.
She prayed—prayed that Eywa would guide again, as She had done before.
✦