Chapter Text
The sea was certainly quiet tonight.
Almost reverent, it’s tide folding against the sand like a lullaby spoken in hushes. Moonlight filtered through a fine lace of drifting clouds, pouring silver across the water’s skin, turning the shallows to molten light.
Beyond the beach, the village pulsed with the dim warmth of slumber; woven lanterns casting low golden halos in the marui’s, the occasional rustle of cloth and the whistle of wind from the soft waves.
The day had ended in laughter. In the clatter of shell dishes, and the clamour of children playing past curfew. But now, the hush of nightfall blanketed the clan.
Two figures walked just beyond the edge of the village, where soft sand met the trodden path, and coral pebbles that got caught between toes. Their shadows stretched behind them, long, and side by side.
Ao’nung leaned just slightly closer with each step, his fingers brushing the back of Neteyam’s hand with calculated casualness. Their laughter, quiet and knowing, drifted between them like a shared breath.
Neteyam’s braids were still damp, the ends brushing the small of his back every so often. He smelled heavily of sea salt, and hints of pine. Ao’nung had caught that scent so many times by now, but tonight it seemed more permanent. Like a memory he didn’t want to lose.
“Careful,” Ao’nung murmured, guiding Neteyam around a small pool of tidewater with a hand on his lower back. He said it lightly, teasing, but his palm lingered for a second too long to be strictly playful.
Neteyam glanced over at him. For a moment, he didn’t smile, he just looked at him. Like he was memorising something.
Ao’nung’s skin glowed pale blue in the moonlight, his cocky demeanour long left behind the pair of them. His expression was open. Gentle.
“I am capable of walking by myself, you know,” Neteyam said, lips quirking.
“I know,” Ao’nung replied. “But I like guiding you.”
They kept walking. Their footsteps gentle and deliberate; a moment carved from borrowed time. No one else knew. No one else could. Not yet.
This was their secret.
And it had lasted, against all odds, for nearly three months.
They hadn’t meant for it to happen. Not really.
It had simply begun in glances, longer than they should have been. In silences, weighted, but not uncomfortable. In the small, almost imperceptible shift from animosity to curiosity. From tolerance to tenderness.
Somewhere between defending Lo’ak’s name, and Ao’nung offering Neteyam a small bracelet weaved in small shells and string in a show of something like an apology, it had grown. Quietly. Carefully.
The Sully’s had been in Awa’atlu long enough now that the salt no longer stung their eyes. Their fingers were calloused in new places. Their breathing now matched the tides. What began as tension between forest and sea had softened into coexistence. And in those soft edges, something more had formed.
The clan quietly accepted the Sully’s. Tentatively at first, then more surely, more easily. The war with the Sky People still loomed, but for a time, life had shape. Rhythm.
The ocean taught patience. The reef taught silence. Even Neytiri, still stiff with the weight of leaving the forest behind, had begun to unfurl, to find brief pockets of peace in the quiet.
But Neteyam?
Neteyam did not.
He bore it all.
Every unspoken burden. Every glance passed over dinner. Every cry in the night he soothed before his parents awoke. He bore it in his spine, held it in the deep set of his eyes. His title, the eldest son of Toruk Makto, clung to him like a second skin. One he could never shed. It draped over his shoulders; pulled harshly at his ribs. It reminded him, always, that he was not his own.
But still, he loved them. His siblings. His mother, even his father’s unrelenting expectations. Loved them enough to bleed himself dry for their safety. Loved them so fiercely that he forgot, often, that he too had bones that could break. A mind that could drown. A heart that could falter.
But not in front of them. Never in front of them.
Especially, not in front of Kiri.
It had been a couple of weeks since their argument.
She had come to him as she always did; curled into his side under the lull of night, her hair still wet from their evening swim, her fingers cold against his chest. They used to talk for hours like that. Soft, safe things. Thoughts too sharp for daylight.
That night was different.
She had seemed unsettled, restless. Her voice carried a tremor. Not sadness, not yet, but frustration. A thread pulled too tight, perhaps.
“You don’t always need to look out for me,” she’d said, quiet but firm, staring back at their family marui behind them. “I’m not a child.”
Neteyam had turned to her, voice patient. “I know you’re not. I have never thought that.”
“Yes, you do,” she snapped. “You still speak to me like I’ll shatter if you let go of your responsibility for a second. But I won’t. I can’t. Not when everyone else gets to grow and I’m still stuck wondering if I’m even one of you.”
He had stilled at that. Not because it wasn’t familiar; Kiri had often struggled to find footing between what she was and what she felt, but because there was venom this time. A bitterness he hadn’t heard before.
“I’m not trying to hold you back, Kiri,” he said gently. “I just—”
“You don’t get it,” she interrupted. “You never do. Everything I feel, about Eywa, about the tree, about being… different. No one understands. And now I can’t even go back. Because it’s dangerous. Because I might not come out the same. And you? You’re just there. Always. Being perfect. Being everything Dad wants. You don’t even realise how much space you take up.”
He hadn’t flinched. Not then. Not even when she said it. He just allowed her to continue, a familiar uneasy feeling settling in his stomach.
“You’ve always shadowed Lo’ak. You don’t even mean to. But you do. You smother all of us. It makes you insufferable. A terrible brother, if that.”
It hit harder than she could’ve known.
He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t even cry. Just waited, oh so quiet and still, until she turned her face away in shame, her anger already dissolving into something she couldn’t take back.
He had whispered his goodnight to her before he turned to re-enter the marui, later finding himself tossing and turning relentlessly, eyes open until dawn.
He hadn’t slept since.
The weight of the night pressed against Neteyam’s chest like the ocean’s depths. Dark, unyielding, and cold.
Restless, he slipped from beneath the woven covers of his sleeping mat, careful not to disturb the sleeping forms of his siblings. The village was silent but for the whispering palms and the distant sigh of the waves.
His bare feet barely made a sound against the soft earth as he moved toward the shadowed edge of the forest, where the air grew cooler; tinged with the scent of salt and damp wood. Somewhere beyond the trees, the world kept turning. But here, time slowed, measured by the rustle of leaves and the lull of nocturnal life.
He didn’t expect company.
Yet, as he rounded the curve of a familiar path, fingers clutching his own wrist in quiet frustration, he saw Ao’nung leaning against the smooth bark of a towering palm, eyes bright and watchful in the moonlight.
Ao’nung’s smile was small but genuine, a beacon in the night.
“Can’t sleep?” Ao’nung whispered, voice barely more than a breath.
Neteyam nodded, words caught somewhere between apology and relief.
Without hesitation, Ao’nung reached out, his hand warm and steady as it found Neteyam’s, weaving their fingers together like a silent promise.
”Neither can I. Want to walk with me?” Ao’nung asked gently, stepping closer toward him.
Neteyam nodded with a small smile as they fell into step with one-another, trailing around the shores in a comfortable silence.
They came to a slow stop as Ao’nung spun Neteyam carefully, gently squeezing his hand.
“I have an idea that I think you might like,” Ao’nung murmured, “Close your eyes, and follow me.”
Trusting the guidance of his steady touch, Neteyam closed his eyes, breath catching as Ao’nung led him deeper beneath the canopy.
The symphony of the forest enveloped them; murmuring ferns, the distant splash of water, the soft sigh of palm fronds swaying against the stars.
When Neteyam opened his eyes, the sight took his breath away.
Before them lay a secluded waterfall, it’s cascading waters glinting silver in the moonlight. Moss thick and velvety spread beneath their feet like a sacred carpet, interspersed with delicate ferns that trembled with the touch of night air. The sand nearby was cool and soft, kissed faintly by waves that whispered against the shore.
For a moment, the war, the expectations, the bitterness, all of it faded into the gentle music of falling water and the comforting clasp of Ao’nung’s hand.
Ao’nung exhaled softly, voice low as the night. “The trees here… they feel endless, don’t they?”
Neteyam’s gaze traced the towering palms surrounding them; their silhouettes etched sharp against the ink-black sky.
“They remind me of the forest back home,” he said, voice somber. “Tall, ancient. Like they’ve been watching everything since before we were born.”
Ao’nung shifted closer, sensing the shadow that lingered in Neteyam’s words, his concern gentle but unspoken.
Suddenly, with a playful grin, Neteyam asked, “Hm, have you ever climbed a tree?”
Ao’nung’s surprised laugh was nervous, almost flustered. “Uh… yeah? Of course I have. ”
Neteyam’s eyes sparkled with mischief as he turned to look at the other, teasing, “You’ve never climbed one, have you?”
Ao’nung protested, a blush warming his cheeks, but eventually surrendered with a shake of his head.
“Race you up the tallest one,” Neteyam challenged, already springing toward a broad-trunked palm.
Ao’nung groaned but followed, laughter ringing clear through the forests quiet.
It was no surprise when Neteyam reached the top first, a victorious grin lighting his face. Helping Ao’nung up after, they both leaned back, backs against rough bark, gazing upward into the vast, starlit sky.
Their breaths mingled in the quiet.
Ao’nung’s face twisted in exaggerated disgust as he complained about the climb, but Neteyam only laughed, the sound bright and easy; an unfamiliar weight lifting.
The laughter faded, leaving space for something tender and unspoken.
Their eyes met, bright, searching, and hesitant.
Ao’nung’s breath caught, a shaky inhale as he inched closer, Neteyam’s hands carefully finding his hips in a tentative embrace.
Neteyam’s fingers traced lazy and slow circles against Ao’nung’s skin, humming a soft, soothing melody that spilled from deep within.
“Neteyam…” Ao’nung whispered, voice trembling with vulnerability.
Neteyam looked up, meeting his gaze.
“Tell me what we’re doing.”
Ao’nung’s voice cracked softly. “Tell me what this is. What we are.”
Neteyam’s breath hitched. “What do you want this to be?”
The question hung between them, fragile as a soap bubble, shimmering with possibility.
Ao’nung’s resolve steadied as he breathed out slowly. “I want this to be real. I want this. I want you.”
Neteyam’s hands slowed, the gentle hum quieting as he dared to lean closer, inching the distance down by an inch.
“You have me,” he whispered, voice barely audible.
“Then show me,” Ao’nung breathed.
Neteyam cupped Ao’nung’s face, searching those earnest eyes for permission.
A nod.
Then, their lips met. Soft and precise, learning the shape of longing in quiet trust.
Ao’nung exhaled against the kiss, returning it with the fierce need of someone who had waited too long.
They pulled apart, smiles blooming in the dim light.
Neteyam tilted Ao’nung’s face gently and pressed a tender kiss to his forehead.
“I want this too, Ao’nung.”
And that, was how it began.
For two months, this had been their secret.
Their promise.
Their fragile, fierce love.
The soft padding of their footsteps mingled with the rhythmic murmur of the ocean as they traced their way back through the dense thicket, hands still intertwined, fingers laced tightly as if unwilling to let go. The glow of the moon filtered through the swaying canopy, dappling their skin with silver light and shadow, cocooning them in a private world suspended between reality and reverie.
Approaching Neteyam’s marui, the familiar structure rose quietly from the sand; woven reeds and polished wood warmed by the glow of woven bioluminescent plants, casting gentle pools of azure light onto the soft earth. The scent of salt and fragrant earth hung in the air, mingling with the subtle pulse of the sea.
Ao’nung hesitated just a moment, reluctant to sever the fragile tether that had blossomed between them beneath the stars.
Neteyam, sensing the hesitation, squeezed Ao’nung’s hand gently. A faint hum escaped him, a promise shimmering between them.
“I’m sorry,” Neteyam murmured softly, voice low enough that only Ao’nung could hear, “my father has called for a family discussion, and then an early night. But I promise, you’ll have me all to yourself in the early morning.”
Ao’nung’s lips pursed into a pout, playful yet edged with the ache of unspoken longing.
The silence between them stretched, filled with all the things neither dared voice. The world beyond their bubble was restless, unpredictable. The RDA’s shadow loomed larger with each passing day, weaving tension into the very fabric of their lives. Both families carried burdens heavier than words, and the clan itself braced beneath the strain of war.
Their secret, once a fragile spark of joy and escape, now flickered amid the growing storm.
Neteyam’s gaze dropped, clouded with guilt. He sought to reassure Ao’nung, to dispel the shadow threatening their connection.
“We’re okay, I swear it. I’m not going anywhere, Ao’,” he whispered, conviction threading through the softness. “Not yet.”
Ao’nung studied him, searching for certainty beneath the weight of the world.
“I want to believe you,” Ao’nung replied, voice rough with honesty.
Their hands lingered, the intertwining of fingers a tether to hold them fast against the tide.
Then, a small click sounded from inside the pod. Neteyam let out a soft sigh, gently letting go of Ao’nung’s hand as he prepared to walk inside.
“That’ll be my dad wanting to start his discussion, whatever it is.” Neteyam said at last, stepping back slowly, reluctant to break the spell.
”Get some rest, okay? Try not to worry, we’re going to be fine.” He continued, shifting the woven flap of the marui upwards to join his family.
“Goodnight, Tey,” Ao’nung breathed in reply, watching as the silhouette of his love slipped inside.
The flap fell quietly behind him, and the night sighed.
Ao’nung remained rooted to the spot, his gaze fixed on the dim outline of Neteyam’s marui as the sliding door whispered closed behind him. The soft glow of bioluminescent plants cast shifting shadows over the polished wood, but the warmth from inside could no longer reach him out here. The night air pressed cool and heavy against his skin, yet it did nothing to still the storm gathering within his chest.
He swallowed hard, heart pounding against his ribs like a war drum. This was more than fear for Neteyam. It was a deep, gnawing dread for all he held dear. For his people, fragile and vulnerable against the encroaching shadows of the RDA. For his family, whose fragile bonds threatened to fray beneath the weight of unspoken worries and impossible expectations. For the home they had all fought to protect, now teetering on the edge of chaos and destruction.
What if the burden was too much? What if the relentless tides of war and loss swallowed them whole, scattering them like leaves on a violent wind? What if Neteyam’s quiet strength broke, and with it, the fragile light that kept their world tethered?
Ao’nung’s fingers curled into fists at his sides, the ache in his chest deepening. He imagined Neteyam inside, carrying the weight of a prince, a protector; always putting others before himself, hiding cracks beneath armor too heavy to bear alone. He feared not just losing Neteyam’s love, but losing the man himself.
The symphony of the night played on; the gentle pulse of the ocean, the rustling leaves, the distant cries of nocturnal lifes. But none could reach the shadows twisting inside Ao’nung’s heart. He wanted to call out, to pull Neteyam back into the moonlight, to vow once again, fiercely and softly, that he would stand by him no matter what.
But words caught in his throat, fragile as a whisper lost to the wind.
So he stood, still and silent, a lone sentinel in the dark, clinging to a hope as fragile and fierce as the secret they shared. Because the thought of losing everything; Neteyam, his family, his people, his home, was a fear too vast, too raw, to voice aloud.
༄༄༄
The night deepened within the marui as Neteyam closed the door behind him, the quiet murmur of the clan settling into their resting rhythms drifting through the walls. The weight he carried still pressed heavily on his shoulders, the unspoken tension of leadership and expectation gnawing relentlessly at his resolve.
In the dim light of the communal space, his father’s presence filled the room, steady, unyielding, a pillar in turbulent times. Tonight, the gravity of their family’s future demanded conversation, a gathering to discuss the fragile threads holding their world together.
Neteyam’s steps were measured as he approached the circle where his parents and siblings sat, the atmosphere taut with the unspoken fears and responsibilities that war had etched into their lives. Kiri’s earlier words echoed faintly in his mind, a reminder of the cracks beneath his calm facade.
His father’s gaze lifted, sharp and probing, sensing the turmoil beneath Neteyam’s composed exterior. The clan’s welfare, the family’s unity, and the ever-present threat of the RDA’s shadow loomed over the room like an oppressive fog.
As the conversation began, voices low and earnest, each word weighed with the weight of survival and hope, Neteyam found himself torn between the role he was born to embody and the quiet, fragile yearning to be more than just a symbol. To be seen, to be understood, to find solace amid the storm.
Jake’s voice, calm yet resolute, cut through the stillness. “Our positions from here are tricky. The RDA’s actions have become… unpredictable. We don’t know when or where their next move will come, or what form it might take. This uncertainty is the most dangerous weapon they wield against us.”
He looked at each of his children, his gaze heavy with the burden of a father, and a warrior. “Me and your mother will be leaving for a meeting with Tonowari. You’ll be on your own tonight, with Neteyam in charge. That means you need to be more vigilant than ever. If you see anything suspicious, no matter how small, come find me immediately.”
The announcement settled like a weight, tightening around their chests.
Tuk’s breath hitched; her small hands trembled as the reality sunk in. She felt the growing knot of fear that she had been trying to suppress for days unraveling, and silent tears welled in her eyes. To her, the unpredictability of the sky people was no longer an abstract threat; it was a looming shadow over her home, and her family.
Neteyam, seated nearby, caught her hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze. His heart ached at the sight of his youngest sibling’s vulnerability.
‘ I have to be stronger for them. For Tuk, for Kiri, for Lo’ak. For all of them.’
But beneath the surface, a restless storm brewed. The title of the Omatikayan prince weighed on him like a boulder crushing his chest, and the relentless pressure to be perfect, for his parents, for his siblings, for his people, was a burden he felt slipping his grasp.
Kiri’s eyes searched Neteyam’s face, desperate for some sign of reassurance, but his expression was a fortress; his gaze distant. She longed to reach him, to ease the weight he bore, yet she knew he was trapped behind a wall that even she couldn’t breach.
Neytiri and Jake exchanged a quick glance, an unspoken understanding passing between them; the responsibility of leadership pulling them away from the sanctuary of family. With a final nod between them both, they stepped away from the family marui, leaving the children to face the night alone.
As the dusk deepened, Tuk’s eyelids slowly fluttered closed, her body finally surrendering to exhaustion in Neteyam’s arms. He lowered her gently to her sleeping mat, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead. The steady rise and fall of her breath was a small comfort amid the chaos churning within him.
Lo’ak’s voice cut sharply through the silence. “Why aren’t you talking to Kiri?”
Kiri’s eyes flashed, her posture stiffening in the process. “Stay out of it, Lo’ak. It’s none of your business.”
Lo’ak bristled, his frustration spilling out within an instant. “You always say that, but you’re the one making it a problem.”
Their voices rose, tension crackling between them like the sparks of a dying fire. The harsh words stirred unease in the quiet clearing, and Tuk’s eyes fluttered open once more, confusion clouding her gaze.
Neteyam’s voice softened, a steady anchor in the growing storm. “It’s okay, Tuk. Go back to sleep.”
As Tuk settled again, his gaze focused back onto his siblings. Their anger, their pain, their desperate need to be understood. He shook his head lightly, the weight of the evening pressing down on him.
Without another word, he simply turned, and stepped out of the marui.
Lo’ak called after him, anger still simmering beneath his tone. “Okay, so now you’re just running away.”
Neteyam’s reply was calm but firm. “Go to bed, both of you. And don’t wake Tuk again tonight.”
His footsteps faded into the night, leaving behind a fragile silence, heavy with the unsaid. The tangled threads of family, fear, and the uncertain path lay ahead.
Lo’ak frowned, Neteyam’s distant expression replaying in his mind. “Why won’t he talk to us anymore? Especially you?”
Kiri hesitated, biting her lip before sighing softly. “We fought a couple of weeks ago. He’s not really been himself since.”
Lo’ak blinked, surprised. “You two fought?”
She nodded. “Yeah, for the first time. And since then, he’s been so much more quiet, and withdrawn. He’s also been spending a lot more time with Ao’nung lately. They’re closer than usual.”
Lo’ak’s brow furrowed deeper. “Why do you think he won’t open up to us?”
Kiri looked away, voice low and troubled. “I think he’s carrying so much, with the pressure of his role, the expectations, the family…maybe he’s scared that if he lets us in, it’ll all fall apart?”
Lo’ak shook his head gently. “We’re his family. He doesn’t have to carry it alone.”
Kiri’s eyes softened. “I know. We just have to find a way back to him somehow.”
Lo’ak frowned, clenching his fists. “I don’t like seeing him like this. Neteyam’s always been the one who holds us together.”
Kiri swallowed hard. “Me too. But sometimes… even the strongest ones cracks. I think he’s just afraid to admit he’s breaking. He gives us his very all.”
Lo’ak’s jaw tightened. “We can’t let him break alone. If we can remind him that we’re here, always, he’ll let us in.”
Kiri’s eyes shimmered with a mix of hope and worry. “Mm, I hope so. For all our sakes.”
A quiet breeze stirred the palm leaves overhead, carrying the distant murmur of the ocean. Both siblings stood there for a few more minutes, caught between fear and determination, bound by the fragile hope of healing what had started to fray.
Kiri finally moved and settled onto her sleeping mat with a heavy sigh, but the silence around her felt suffocating. The rhythmic crashing of waves outside the marui only amplified the storm in her mind. She couldn’t shake the image of Neteyam’s expression; so closed off, so distant since their argument weeks ago. It was like he had buried himself beneath the weight of his crown and sorrow, and whatever had passed between them had left a deeper mark than either was willing to admit.
‘He’s not the brother I used to know, ’ she thought, eyes tracing the flicker of firelight dancing on the woven walls.
‘And he’s slipping further away. But, closer to Ao’nung than to us.’ The thought stung.
Part of her tried to understand; Ao’nung must be a secret comfort for her brother. A refuge from the heavy expectations Neteyam carried. She knew Neteyam would pose the same for Ao’nung. But another part of her felt abandoned, left in the shadows of their fractured family.
Across the room, Lo’ak stared at the ceiling, his mind too replaying the scenes from earlier. Kiri’s confession, the tense silence that followed. The unspoken words between them hung like thick vines he couldn’t quite cut through.
‘Why won’t Neteyam talk to us?’ he wondered.
’Is it the pressure? The guilt? Or is it something more?’
A pang of helplessness gnawed at him. His role as the younger sibling felt suddenly insignificant against the backdrop of their crumbling family ties.
He shifted restlessly, curling his fingers into a fist.
’I can’t just wait and watch. I have to know what’s really going on. He’s my brother. He’d do it for me.’
Kiri’s quiet breathing beside him was uneven, betraying her own unrest. After a long moment, Lo’ak rose silently to his feet, his eyes meeting Kiri’s. She nodded slightly after a moment, a shared resolve passing between them.
Without a word, they slipped from their mats, careful not to wake Tuk. Moving with practiced stealth, they carefully moved the flap of the marui aside, stepping out into the cool night.
The forest around them was alive with whispers; leaves rustling, distant calls of nocturnal creatures. The moon cast a silver glow that softened the sharp edges of their worry, but it did nothing to ease it.
They followed the faint path that led deeper into the forest, hearts pounding with a mixture of fear and hope. Somewhere out there was Neteyam, their eldest brother, their anchor, and they would find and support him, no matter what it took.
Their footsteps were nearly silent on the soft earth, careful to avoid snapping twigs or rustling leaves that might betray their presence. The forest around them seemed to hold it’s breath as they ventured deeper, shadows stretching long beneath the moon’s gentle light.
Lo’ak’s eyes darted anxiously between the towering trees and the narrow path ahead.
’Where could he be?’
The question spun in his mind like a restless current, tangled with guilt for leaving him alone in this silence.
Beside him, Kiri’s hand brushed against a fern frond, the cool moisture grounding her swirling thoughts. She hated the distance between them all, and especially hated how their family’s quiet fractures seemed to deepen with every passing day.
They paused near a small clearing where a stream whispered softly over smooth stones. The air here was thick with the scent of damp earth and blooming flowers; a stark contrast to the turmoil in their hearts.
Lo’ak swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper. “Do you think he’ll even want to see us right now?”
Kiri’s gaze didn’t waver. “He needs us. Even if he won’t say it.”
They exchanged a look, equal parts determination and fragile hope, then pressed onward, deeper into the night; chasing the fragile thread of connection before it slipped away entirely.
The pair lingered in the shadows for a while, careful not to disturb the fragile quiet that clung to the night. The soft murmur of the waterfall mingled with the rustling leaves, a lullaby of the forest that belied the tension settling in their chests.
Their gazes finally focused on Neteyam, who was sat at the water’s edge a little further in front of the pair. He was as still as a statue, his hands skimming the surface with gentle, absent movements. His posture was heavy, shoulders bowed beneath the invisible weight they all sensed but none dared name aloud.
Neither sibling moved to break the silence. Instead, they watched, breath held, as a second figure emerged from the shadows.
Ao’nung stepped forward with cautious grace, his gaze steady and soft. There was a tenderness in the way he approached; slow and deliberate, as if afraid to shatter the fragile shell encasing Neteyam. Without a word, Ao’nung settled beside him, their knees nearly touching, fingers soon intertwining in a quiet confession.
Lo’ak exchanged a confused glance with Kiri, their unspoken question hanging between them: Since when were they that close?
From where they crouched, they watched as Ao’nung leaned closer, brushing a thumb along Neteyam’s cheek, and Neteyam’s tense shoulders softened, the smallest flicker of a smile breaking through the veil of sorrow.
The night held them in it’s embrace, two souls quietly healing in the hush of the forest, while the rest of the world seemed to hold it’s breath.
Lo’ak exchanged a quick glance with Kiri, both silently processing the scene before them. There was something about the way Ao’nung’s hand lingered against Neteyam’s jaw, the softness in their shared smiles, that didn’t sit right with the idea of mere friendship.
“Do you get the feeling there’s something that we’re missing here?” Lo’ak’s voice was low, almost uncertain.
Kiri’s eyes flicked toward Ao’nung, and then back to Lo’ak. “I don’t know. It definitely feels like it. Like, perhaps they’re holding something between them we’re not part of.”
Lo’ak’s gaze darkened. “Yeah, well, I’ve never seen them this close before. We’re definitely missing something.”
A sharp pang of exclusion tugged at Kiri’s chest. “Lately, it’s like there’s a sort of barrier between us. But it’s not all due to the altercation we had.”
They both fell silent then, mentally conflicted by their sense of distance from their beloved brother.
“Maybe we should listen,” Lo’ak suggested in a whisper, his voice threading between curiosity and worry. “Just to understand. To know what he’s saying to Ao’nung. Maybe then we’ll know what he’s really feeling.”
Kiri hesitated, a flicker of guilt shadowing her eyes. “I don’t want to invade his privacy, but, I want to know what’s making him so distant.”
They edged a tiny bit closer, careful to stay hidden in the soft shadows of the foliage, their ears straining to catch the low tones of Neteyam and Ao’nung’s conversation; hoping for a glimpse behind the wall Neteyam had built around himself.
Lo’ak shifted slightly, eyes narrowing as he watched Ao’nung’s fingers trace a slow, deliberate path along Neteyam’s forearm; a touch too intimate to just be casual. Neteyam didn’t pull away. Instead, his hand slid over Ao’nung’s, clasping it gently, as if seeking comfort.
“They’ve become physically close as well, it seems ,” Lo’ak muttered, voice low but laced with disbelief.
Kiri bit her lip, nodding silently but with a hint of surprise. “Look at how Neteyam leans in instead of shying away from it. He usually keeps people at arm’s length.”
A flicker of something raw flashed in Neteyam’s eyes when Ao’nung whispered something in his war. Kiri strained to hear but caught only the faintest murmurs. Ao’nung’s face was soft, full of something that looked like care, or possibly something deeper.
Lo’ak scoffed quietly. “I always thought Ao’nung was just civil with Neteyam. But now, I’m not so sure. There’s something possessive in how he watches Neteyam.”
Kiri glanced at Lo’ak, her voice barely above a whisper. “Do you think that they could be more than friends? Could Neteyam just be hiding this from us?”
Lo’ak’s jaw tightened. “If they are more than friends, he’s definitely keeping us in the dark. And after everything, I don’t know if I like feeling shut out.”
A small rustle from the branches behind them made them freeze for a moment, but the sounds of Ao’nung’s soothing words pulled them back in. The gentle pressure of Ao’nung’s hand on Neteyam’s cheek again, slow and deliberate, was impossible to ignore.
Kiri swallowed hard. “Whatever it is, it’s serious. And I think we need to hear what they’re saying. We deserve to know.”
Lo’ak nodded, eyes burning with determination. “Then let’s move closer. Just for a moment.”
The pair quietly moved closer once more, an uneasy tension settling between them.
Nestled in the soft moss near the edge of the forest clearing, Neteyam and Ao’nung were sat criss-crossed, sideways, their bodies turned toward each other and the vast expanse of trees beyond. The dense canopy above whispered with the night breeze, and faint moonlight filtered through the leaves, casting silver patterns on their skin. Their proximity was intimate yet unspoken, a quiet solace amid the uncertainty weighing heavily on them both.
Ao’nung’s voice was low, tinged with exhaustion as he confided, “The pressure from my family, from the clan, it’s like a weight I can’t shake. And i’m worried, ‘Teyam. I’m worried for my people, for our future.” His hands rested lightly on his knees, fingers twitching in restless agitation.
Neteyam’s eyes softened, and he reached out gently, placing his hand over Ao’nung’s once more. “I know,” he said quietly. “We all feel it. I understand. But I promise, you’re not alone in this. I’m here, with you.”
Ao’nung let out a long, slow sigh, the tension easing slightly from his frame. “Thank you, Neteyam. For being here, for being steady when I’m not.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the forest sounds wrapping around them like a protective cloak.
Then Ao’nung’s voice shifted, a cautious note entering as he said, “I noticed there’s some distance between you and your siblings this morning at training. Is it because of what happened with Kiri?”
Kiri’s whisper to Lo’ak was almost breathless. “Oh, he must have told Ao’nung about the fight.”
Lo’ak’s eyes flicked to Neteyam, noticing the slow, resigned hum escaping him; a sound weighted with quiet pain. Neteyam’s gaze was distant, troubled.
“I feel like I should be with them. Even now,” Neteyam admitted softly, “But, Kiri has made it clear that I’m not wanted in either her circle or lo’ak’s. Or, at least, it certainly feels that way.”
Kiri gasped silently at the confession, her hand fluttering to her mouth.
Lo’ak’s brow arched sharply. “Kiri, what does he mean by that?”
Before she could respond, Ao’nung interjected gently, “That’s not true, Neteyam. And what she said wasn’t true. You’re not a terrible brother. You try your best for all of them. You’re wanted. More than you know.”
Lo’ak shot Kiri a fierce glare; a silent reprimand. Kiri trembled slightly, whispering to Lo’ak, “It was said in a fit of anger, nothing more. I truly didn’t mean it.”
He opened his mouth to respond, but the conversation before them pulled his attention back.
Ao’nung continued, “My parents and yours are in a meeting that will last all night, until early morning. We’ll be on our own.”
He looked at Neteyam with a softness that masked concern. “Maybe, we should take this time to let go of this stress. We could spend the night together. Again.”
Lo’ak caught the emphasis on ‘again’ immediately. He exchanged a startled glance with Kiri.
“They’ve done this before,” he whispered, incredulous. “How long has this been going on? Why hasn’t Neteyam said anything?”
Kiri’s conflicted expression betrayed her uncertainty. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “But I don’t like it. Not necessarily because of Ao’nung, but mostly because I don’t want to lose Neteyam.”
Lo’ak’s protective instincts flared, as his voice cut sharp, but low. “Well, what do you think they do on these nights? Whatever it is, I don’t want Ao’nung to hurt him.”
Kiri’s eyes searched the darkening woods, struggling with her own feelings. “I’m unsure. But we have to see for ourselves.”
They turned back to watch the pair before them.
Neteyam nodded slowly at Ao’nung’s suggestion, exhaling a breath thick with relief and longing. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I’d love to, honestly. I’ve missed us.”
Ao’nung’s eyes glistened in the moonlight as he whispered, “I’ve missed us too, Ma’Teyam.”
Kiri and Lo’ak exchanged another few startled, uneasy glances. The nickname, so intimate, so telling, only further confirmed the suspicions they both tried to deny.
“Ma’Teyam?” Lo’ak muttered under his breath, disbelief coloring his tone.
Kiri hissed, “Don’t say it so loud.”
They bickered quietly, each attempting to convince the other that it wasn’t what it seemed, but their expressions betrayed the truth; they were both shocked, and perhaps, a little hurt.
Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, Ao’nung inched closer to Neteyam, settling himself gently onto his lap. Neteyam welcomed the closeness as a soft hum followed, comforting and inviting, as his fingers began to trace delicate, irregular patterns on Ao’nung’s skin.
Ao’nung’s breath caught in a whisper, “Mm, Neteyam.”
Neteyam’s gaze lifted, attentive and tender. “Hm?”
“Kiss me,” came the urgent, barely audible plea.
Neteyam’s eyes softened as he looked down at Ao’nung, so vulnerable, so raw in this moment. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned in. Their lips met in a gentle kiss, tender and unhurried, like a quiet promise whispered between them in the night. Ao’nung’s hands found Neteyam’s shoulders, holding him close as if afraid to let go.
Lo’ak exhaled slowly, Kiri following pursuit with a small gasp of her own as the pair watched in pure shock as the scene unfolded before them.
They watched as Ao’nung pulled back slightly, resting his forehead against Neteyam’s. Their breathing slowed, a shared calm settling over them despite the storm outside. Neteyam’s lips met Ao’nung’s again after a moment. Gentle and steady; a kiss threaded with both tenderness and a quiet yearning. As they slowly parted, Ao’nung’s breath hitched, as he whispered, “Please.”
Neteyam hummed, a low, approving sound, and gently nipped at the sensitive skin of Ao’nung’s collarbone, his touch feather-light but intimate.
Lo’ak turned sharply to Kiri, eyes wide with disbelief. “Okay, so, they’re definitely more than friends. And Neteyam hasn’t mentioned it, not even once. With Ao’nung… I don’t even know how to feel about this.”
Kiri hummed thoughtfully in response, her voice low and uncertain. “I really did not expect this. But, what do we do?”
Before Lo’ak could answer, Ao’nung’s voice cut softly through the night air. “I’ll be back in a minute. I’m going to grab a spare mat from my marui.”
Neteyam whispered back, “Okay.”
Ao’nung hurried away, cheeks flushed, leaving Neteyam alone with his thoughts. He let out a small, almost imperceptible sigh, his fingers tracing apprehensive patterns in the sand. His face held a tangled expression, conflicted, yet content.
Kiri and Lo’ak remained crouched in the underbrush, the cool night pressing against their skin, muffling the rapid pace of their breathing. Crickets murmured softly in the underbrush. In the short silence left behind by Ao’nung’s departure, it was Neteyam’s stillness that spoke the loudest.
He was still sat cross-legged where Ao’nung had left him, facing the forest again. A single elbow braced on one knee, his cheek resting against his palm. His other hand shifted aimlessly through the sand beneath him, brows furrowed slightly as though caught somewhere far away. He looked oddly small in that moment, disarmed and vulnerable, the tension in his shoulders only now starting to unravel.
Lo’ak studied him with a mixture of protective frustration and unfamiliar guilt.
“I hate this,” he muttered under his breath. “I hate that he’s going through something and I didn’t know. That we didn’t know. And now he’s the one Neteyam goes to?” His voice dropped a note, rough with something that wasn’t quite anger.
Kiri sat quietly beside him, her own thoughts threading through the moment like vines. “I don’t think this is new, Lo’ak.” She paused, nervous to confirm anything, before continuing. “Especially with that nickname . The way they touch each other. Eywa, even the way they talk to one another.” She paused, and her gaze softened a little. “They feel safe with each other. But that doesn’t happen overnight.”
Lo’ak’s jaw tightened. “Why didn’t he tell us?” A beat. “And, why Ao’nung?”
Kiri’s lips pressed together, hesitant.
“Various different reasons, I assume. But, I think…” she began slowly, “I think because we’ve all put him on a pedestal. ‘Neteyam the eldest, Neteyam the protector.’ Maybe he needed someone who didn’t see him like that. Someone who just let him be.”
Lo’ak looked back toward his brother. “I thought we did that.”
Kiri didn’t respond. She didn’t need to.
Ahead, Neteyam shifted. The small firelight of a nearby torch caught his profile. His high cheekbones, the quiet downturn of his eyes, the way his fingers stilled against his leg. He looked tired, but ultimately softened. A strange, quiet peace had taken root in him while Ao’nung was gone.
Lo’ak exhaled roughly and stood, brushing moss from his knees.
“What are you doing?” Kiri hissed, reaching for his arm.
“I’m not going over there. I just,” He paused, jaw tight again. “I need air.”
“Lo’ak—”
But he didn’t answer. He stepped a few paces away, far enough to stretch his limbs but not far enough to lose sight of Neteyam.
Kiri remained behind, her eyes lingering on her brother’s silhouette. The jealousy, the hurt, still twisted inside her chest, even as logic told her it wasn’t deserved. But maybe, just maybe, part of her resented that Ao’nung had seen the cracks in Neteyam first. That Neteyam had let him.
She didn’t know whether she felt guiltier about the argument, or about the distance it revealed.
Then footsteps returned, quiet, unhurried. Ao’nung stepped back into view, holding a neatly rolled mat under one arm. He smiled the moment his eyes landed on Neteyam, the way someone smiles when coming home.
Neteyam looked up, smile blooming slow, tired, real.
Ao’nung dropped the mat to one side and eased down beside him, their knees brushing as they settled into the soft hum of night again.
“The walk from my marui was ridiculous,” Ao’nung said. “I tripped over like, three roots. The forest is out to get me.”
Neteyam chuckled under his breath, head tilting toward him. “That’s because you never lift your feet. You stomp like a tulkun trying to sneak around.”
“I’m connected to the sea, ‘Tey,” Ao’nung muttered dramatically. “These trees weren’t made for me.”
“You’ve lived here all your life,” Neteyam shot back with a crooked grin. “You still can’t climb anything over ten feet.”
“Hey, ten feet is generous,” Ao’nung said, grinning now. “It was a miracle I made it up that vine the other day. My thighs still hurt.”
Neteyam leaned back on his hands, eyes glinting with amusement. “That’s because you’re all arms. No leg coordination. You swing like a wet eel.”
Ao’nung laughed, half-offended, half-impressed. “Did you just call me a wet eel?”
“I said what I said.”
They both dissolved into quiet laughter, something unguarded and easy falling between them. The kind of laugh that filled up cracks Neteyam hadn’t even realized were forming. The kind that settled heavy in Ao’nung’s chest.
When it faded, their shoulders remained pressed together. The forest hummed.
Ao’nung glanced at him, voice low now. “You know, as much as I dislike the trees, I don’t dislike being here. Not at all. Not when I’m with you.”
Neteyam looked back, eyes soft, unreadable.
And then Ao’nung reached out and brushed his fingers gently over Neteyam’s knuckles; a small touch, but full of weight.
“You make the forest easier to love,” he added, quieter.
Neteyam’s breath hitched, just a little. His fingers turned slowly beneath Ao’nung’s touch, so their palms met, skin to skin.
They held there for a long moment, stillness stretching around them.
Ao’nung stared at him for a breath longer, as if trying to memorize the curve of his face, the dip of emotion in his eyes before whispering, “Come here.”
Without hesitation, Neteyam leaned in once more; their lips brushing slow, warm, familiar.
Kiri’s hand trembled against her lips. She didn’t dare breathe. The look on Neteyam’s face, unmasked, open, so deeply soft, was something she hadn’t seen in years, maybe ever.
Beside her, Lo’ak shifted, stunned silent. His arms hung stiff at his sides, his thoughts loud enough to feel. Not just shock, but the ache of absence. Of not knowing.
They weren’t watching a beginning.
They were witnessing something well in motion.
A shared secret. A stolen peace.
And Neteyam, Neteyam was happy . Not the version they saw in daylight, polished and dutiful. But this quieter joy, this quiet boy, kissing someone who didn’t need him to lead or protect or explain.
Just be.
Lo’ak exhaled hard through his nose. “I feel like an idiot.”
Kiri’s voice was barely a breath. “You’re not. We just, didn’t see.”
“Should we tell him we know?”
She shook her head. “Not yet.”
Lo’ak narrowed his eyes. “But, why?”
Kiri’s gaze softened again, not without pain. “Because right now, he’s okay. And maybe, maybe he needs that more than he needs us.”
The truth landed between them like a stone.
Ahead, Neteyam tipped forward again, forehead gently brushing Ao’nung’s. Whatever words passed between them were too soft to catch. But the smile that followed, wry and sleepy, was unmistakably Neteyam.
The real one.
Kiri let her hand fall. “We’ll talk to him. Just… not tonight.”
Lo’ak nodded slowly. “Yeah. Not tonight.”
So, they stayed hidden, two shadows folded in the bushes, watching their brother love and be loved, quietly reckoning with the distance that had grown without them noticing.
In the space between them, something new began to shift.
Something like understanding.
They slipped quietly back to the marui, careful not to disturb Tuk, who was fast asleep in the corner. Inside, the dim, familiar shapes of their mats lay waiting, the faint rustle of leaves whispering through the open walls.
Lo’ak’s voice broke the silence, low but sharp. “Did you really tell Neteyam that he’s a terrible brother?”
Kiri’s eyes snapped toward him. “Lo’ak…”
“Shit, Kiri, seriously?!” He ran a hand through his braids, frustration thick in his tone.
“Lo’ak, keep your voice down.” Kiri’s gaze flicked toward Tuk’s sleeping form. “If we wake Tuk, Neteyam will kill us. Plus, she’s tired. She needs rest.”
Lo’ak exhaled, quieter now. “Okay, sorry. But, I just don’t understand. Why would you say that?”
Kiri bit her lip, voice softening. “I was just, angry that day. I know that’s no excuse. We were talking, and I said he doesn’t need to watch over me anymore. He said he understood, but then I just snapped. I felt misunderstood, like he wasn’t listening. I took it too far. But I was stubborn. I thought he’d understand I didn’t mean it. But, he’s been avoiding me since. Makes sense now. I never wanted to hurt him.”
Lo’ak nodded slowly. “Okay.”
A silence settled between them. The weight of words said and unsaid hung in the air.
Then Lo’ak finally said, “We’ll just see what happens in the morning.”
“Yeah,” Kiri whispered. “I guess we will.”
༄༄༄
The first light of dawn slipped softly through the canopy, brushing the leaves with hues of pale gold and gentle pink. The forest slowly stirred awake, birdsong trickled in from the treetops, the air smelled of damp earth and fresh moss, and the warm glow kissed the horizon as the sun began its slow rise.
Lo’ak and Kiri woke a little earlier than usual, their eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering into the marui. They lay side by side for a moment, listening to the soft chorus of the jungle morning and the faint breathing of Tuk, still curled in peaceful sleep nearby.
Lo’ak’s voice was barely above a whisper. “How do we even start? Do we say anything?”
Kiri shook her head slowly. “Not yet. We don’t know how he feels. Maybe we just wait.”
They spoke in hushed tones, careful not to disturb Tuk, who lay curled in the corner, breathing softly in her sleep.
The soft crunch of sand by the mauri’s entrance caught their attention. Lo’ak and Kiri exchanged a quick glance, then rose silently, padding over to where Neteyam stood, the early morning light casting long shadows across the clearing.
Neteyam looked up, eyes half-lidded, surprise flickering across his face. “You two are up early,” he said, voice casual but with an edge.
Lo’ak cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice steady. “Yeah, couldn’t sleep. Just… thought we’d get a head start.”
Kiri nodded, biting her lip. “You?”
Neteyam shrugged, glancing away. “Walked around the shore for a bit. Just thought I’d take dad’s alert on board. Make sure everything’s as it should be.”
There was a beat. Lo’ak wanted to ask where exactly, but the words stuck. They didn’t mention the night before. Neither of them dared.
“Where exactly?” Kiri tried, voice careful.
Neteyam’s eyes sharpened, and he stepped back slightly, defensiveness rising like a shield. “Just around. Nothing specific.”
Lo’ak and Kiri exchanged a glance, unsure how to push further, how to break through without shattering something fragile.
Then a soft waddling sound interrupted the tension.
Tuk, still sleepy, shuffled over and nuzzled into Neteyam’s side.
Neteyam crouched, picking her up gently. “Morning, little one. Did you sleep okay?” he murmured as she buried her face against his neck, mumbling something that sounded like a mix between “hungry” and “sleepy.”
Lo’ak swallowed hard. Kiri’s fingers curled at her sides.
Neteyam looked back at them, slowly swaying Tuk, eyes steady now. “So… why are you two really up so early?”
Lo’ak glanced at Kiri before answering. “We just, really couldn’t sleep. Dad’s alert had us a little worked up.”
Neteyam let out a slow breath, his thumb tracing circles into Tuk’s back. “Yeah, I get that. But hopefully, we can put their worries to rest soon.”
“Yeah…” Kiri echoed quietly.
Her and Lo’ak shared an uneasy glance. It lasted too long. Too obvious.
Neteyam raised a brow, his tone shifting. “Lo’ak.”
Lo’ak straightened instinctively. “Yeah?”
“What’s going on?”
Lo’ak blinked. “What do you mean?”
Neteyam’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I mean, you and Kiri are shifting from one foot to the other like you’re waiting for a storm to hit. You’re creeping me out. What’s going on?”
“Nothing’s going on, really!” Lo’ak said, too quickly.
Neteyam tilted his head. “So both of you are going to look me in the eyes and tell me nothing’s happened?”
Neither of them answered.
Instead, they both looked around the marui, eyes catching on anything but Neteyam’s face; the fire pit, the half-folded mats, a stray bit of fruit someone had left out the night before.
Tuk mumbled again, something unintelligible and drowsy.
Neteyam’s expression softened.
Without another word, he adjusted her carefully in his arms and turned toward the entrance of the marui. His steps were quiet, measured.
He didn’t glance back.
Kiri and Lo’ak watched him go, the silence hanging thick between them until the distant crunch of sand faded down the path.
Only then did Kiri finally speak, voice low. “He knows something’s off.”
Lo’ak’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Yeah. And we didn’t exactly help.”
Kiri let out a shaky breath, sitting slowly on the edge of a woven mat. “What do we even say if he asks again?”
Lo’ak didn’t answer right away. He sat beside her, elbows on his knees, staring at the empty space Neteyam had just left behind.
“…I don’t know.”
They sat there for a while, caught in the weight of things unsaid, and in the quiet distance growing where their brother used to stand.
The early morning quiet stretched between them, thick as fog.
Outside, the light shifted slowly. Cool blues warming to soft amber as the sun lifted above the treeline. Birdsong flickered through the canopy, low and cautious, like the forest was still shaking sleep from its shoulders.
Inside the marui, the silence was heavier.
Kiri sat with her knees drawn to her chest, head tilted toward the doorway Neteyam had left through. Her mouth opened once, then closed. Whatever she was about to say didn’t quite form.
Lo’ak shifted uncomfortably beside her. “Do you think he believed us?”
Kiri’s eyes flicked over to him. “No. Not for a second.”
“Yeah,” Lo’ak muttered, running a hand over his face. “Same.”
They both fell quiet again.
“I hate this,” Lo’ak said eventually.
“Hate what?”
“That we’re lying. And that he’s lying. All of us, pretending we didn’t see what we saw.”
Kiri didn’t answer right away. Her gaze was distant, still tracking the patch of light where Neteyam had stood.
“I think he’s scared,” she said softly.
Lo’ak frowned. “Of what? It’s us.”
“Exactly,” she said. “It’s us.”
That settled into his chest like a stone.
“I don’t know if it’s about Ao’nung,” Kiri went on, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Or about hiding it. But whatever it is, he’s afraid of what it means to let us know.”
Lo’ak leaned back on his hands, blowing out a long breath. “I thought we were his safe people.”
Kiri looked down at her knees. “We were.”
Another quiet beat passed between them.
Then Lo’ak pushed himself to his feet. “I’m gonna go grab some fruit or something. Want anything?”
Kiri shook her head.
He paused at the entrance. “If he comes back…”
“I’ll talk to him,” she said, though the words came a little too flat to be convincing.
Lo’ak nodded once, then stepped out, leaving her alone with the morning light and a thousand unspoken things.
Kiri sat still for a long moment, eyes fixed on the mossy floor. She didn’t cry. But the ache behind her ribs deepened.
Out beyond the clearing, she could hear footsteps faintly returning.
But they weren’t heavy enough to be Lo’ak.
And they weren’t fast enough to be Neteyam.
She didn’t move.
Not yet.
༄༄༄
Lo’ak stepped out into the crisp morning air, the sun now draping long, golden fingers across the village paths. The scent of damp leaves and salt lingered from the night before, and somewhere in the distance, a few early risers were already setting nets along the shallows.
He didn’t really want fruit, he just needed to breathe.
His feet moved on instinct, carrying him down the slope toward the thicket-lined edge of the clearing where the trees thinned and the view opened into morning. He expected silence, maybe a few fisher calls, a distant bird’s cry.
Instead, he heard a soft laugh.
He paused.
Just ahead, near a cluster of flat rocks warmed by the first slant of sunlight, Neteyam was crouched low beside Tuk, who was now fully awake and babbling in soft, happy tones. She had a small stick in one hand and was using it to poke curiously at a beetle crawling across the stone.
Neteyam watched her with the kind of gentle patience Lo’ak had seen him give others, but rarely to himself. His shoulders were relaxed. The tightness usually stitched into his brow was gone.
He wasn’t smiling, not exactly. But his mouth tilted every time Tuk asked a question or made up some silly story about the beetle’s “family back home.”
And the way he looked at her, present, full of something quieter than joy but deeper than duty, unsettled Lo’ak more than anything else had.
Because it was real.
It was peace.
And yet, he still hadn’t told them.
Lo’ak lingered in the brush, half-shielded by a broad-leafed plant, fingers curling loosely around a hanging fruit he wasn’t really planning to pick. The guilt from the night before returned like a weight.
Tuk giggled as Neteyam offered her a tiny yellow flower. She tucked it behind his ear instead of her own.
“Hey!” Neteyam said softly, pretending to pout. “That’s not how this works.”
“Yes it is,” she insisted with the certainty only little sisters possess. “Now you’re the flower boy.”
“Oh no,” he groaned playfully. “Not again.”
Tuk burst out laughing, full and free.
Lo’ak’s lips twitched upward despite himself. But it only lasted a second. Because beneath that warmth was still the ache. The one Kiri had named earlier.
He is scared.
Not of Tuk. Not of Ao’nung.
Of them.
Lo’ak stepped back, branch crunching faintly under his foot.
Neteyam looked up, startled. For just a second, their eyes locked.
Lo’ak hesitated.
But then Neteyam smiled. Small, distant, polite. Not the smile from a second ago. The other one. The version meant to keep people back.
Lo’ak raised the fruit half-heartedly. “Found some.”
Neteyam nodded once. “Thankyou.”
He didn’t say anything else.
Lo’ak turned, swallowing the lump in his throat, and headed back to the marui.
Behind him, Tuk was still laughing.
But the flower behind Neteyam’s ear had already fallen.
༄༄༄
The evening slipped in with a deceptive calm. The air was thick with warmth, the lull of seaweed weaving through the hushed sound of waves kissing the shore. The sky bled from gold to ink, the first stars shimmering as though in warning. Firelight glowed dimly in scattered marui pods, shadows dancing low and still. Everything felt too poised, too fragile; like a held breath before the plunge.
There, in the same hidden nook by the forest-fringed sand, Neteyam and Ao’nung sat as they had the night before. But the tension that once hovered between them was gone. Now, their posture was relaxed. Ao’nung’s head rested in Neteyam’s lap; their fingers twisted tight together. They spoke quietly, words too soft to hear, but the gentle ease of their closeness spoke louder than anything said.
From their vantage slightly behind the palms, Kiri nudged Lo’ak, voice low and tremulous.
“I feel wrong watching,” she admitted, eyes never leaving the pair. “But it hurts that he’s still shutting us out. Why won’t he just, let us in?”
Lo’ak closed his mouth but didn’t take his eyes away. “I know,” he whispered. “I feel it too. Betrayed, even. But look at him. He looks safe here.”
Indeed, Neteyam’s chest rose in calm rhythm. His shoulders slipped free of that rigid tension; his expression soft, almost light. Ao’nung chuckled at something said, and Neteyam’s eyes lit up in silent response. There was no solemn mask, no distance. Just the truth of them in a quiet world of their own.
A faint ache knotted in Lo’ak’s chest. “I don’t know how to feel about it. About any of it.”
Kiri’s brow creased. She inhaled slow, steady breaths, then nodded. “I think, maybe, we should just give him more time. But I don’t know how much longer I can stay silent.”
Lo’ak placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. They turned, leaning back against the rough bark of the tree, drawing comfort from each other’s warmth as they watched.
Suddenly, Neteyam’s spine stiffened. He sat up, eyes darting into the darkened water beyond the sand. Ao’nung’s head rolled back toward him, concern flooding his face.
“Ao’, something’s wrong,” Neteyam murmured.
Before Ao’nung could answer, a shrill twang sliced through the stillness. An arrow whizzed past, snapping the night.
It landed mere inches from Neteyam’s face, slicing a small gouge in the wood beside him. Sand sprayed as Ao’nung jolted backwards, barely dodging the shot himself. His chest tightened, breath coming fast.
Neteyam’s grip on Ao’nung’s wrist was instant and fierce. “Come on!” he snapped.
He hauled Ao’nung beneath his arm and ran toward the village, sand crunching beneath their feet.
Behind them, more arrows hissed through the night, and the unmistakable sounds of distant shouts. Orders were barked in unfamiliar accents, rising like thunder from the water’s edge.
“The sky people,” Neteyam pressed out. “Go, get our parents. Tell them. I need to get to my siblings. Now!” His voice was taut, urgent.
Ao’nung didn’t hesitate. “Okay,” he gasped. He clutched at Neteyam, eyes reflecting the flicker of torches now gathering along the beach.
Neteyam darted ahead, toward where their village glimmered under the last of the dusk’s embers.
Their sanctuary, everything they had, shivered under the first strike of the storm.
Neteyam shook Tuk gently, his voice low but urgent. “Tuk? Tuktirey, wake up. We’re under attack.”
Her sleepy eyes blinked open, clouded with confusion and fear. “Mm, what? ‘Teyam?”
He pressed a calming hand to her cheek. “It’s okay. We’re going to be fine. But you have to listen to me very carefully, alright?”
She reached out instinctively, and Neteyam scooped her up into his arms, holding her close against his chest.
Just then, the woven flap of the marui rustled violently as Kiri and Lo’ak burst in, their faces pale and eyes wide with alarm. Behind them, the sounds of chaos filtered through the thin walls, the sharp crack of gunfire, the distant shouts and orders, the sharp clatter of falling branches and disturbed wildlife.
The village was erupting into frantic motion: voices yelling, feet pounding on dirt and wood, children crying, and the angry roar of engines from approaching RDA machines echoing over the trees.
Lo’ak’s voice was tense as he said, “Neteyam, we—”
Neteyam cut him off sharply, anger and fear twisting his features. “Where the fuck did you both go? And you left Tuk by herself?”
Kiri’s breath caught. “Shit, we’re sorry, we just presumed that—”
“No, we don’t have time for this,” Neteyam snapped, voice hard as steel. “Come. We have to move quickly.”
He tightened his hold on Tuk and stepped toward the flap, ready to push back into the madness that was swallowing their home.
Neteyam led them swiftly to a small hollow tucked safely beneath the shelter of thick roots and ferns; a natural bunker from the chaos. He gently settled Tuk down, cradling her close until tears began to slip from her lashes. Her small body trembled with fear, but his voice was soft, steady.
“It’s okay, Tuk. We’ll be safe soon. Everything will be alright.”
Her sobs slowed after a while, and her breathing evened out. Kiri, watching quietly, noticed the sharp darting of Neteyam’s eyes, never resting, always scanning. His gaze swept the burning village, catching their parents standing firm amidst the turmoil, alongside Tonowari, confirming Ao’nung had made it safely to the meeting place. Relief flickered in Neteyam’s chest.
But his eyes immediately searched beyond that safety, seeking Ao’nung himself.
Then, there he was. Ao’nung, steady and strong, helping the younger children from the burning, cracked pods, flanked by Tsireya and Rotxo.
Neteyam let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. Ao’nung was alive. Safe for now.
But the moment shattered in an instant.
Behind the group, concealed just enough to blend with the chaos, stood Spider, his expression, although at first appearing apprehensive, was cold, and ruthless. Next to him was another RDA soldier, one Neteyam barely recognized but knew well enough from the few brief encounters. Both stood with weapons trained on Ao’nung and the children.
Shock slammed into Neteyam’s chest like a physical blow.
Spider. He was here. Standing on the other side of the war, fully loaded gun aimed at innocent children. The thought was a twisting dagger of betrayal and rage. How long had Spider been working with them? How many times had he been a step ahead?
Kiri and Lo’ak saw the change immediately; the way Neteyam’s face paled, his body stiffened, his eyes narrowing with fierce resolve.
“Neteyam?” Kiri whispered, concern sharpening her voice.
He barely acknowledged them. Gently, carefully, he placed Tuk into Kiri’s arms.
“Stay with them. Don’t move. Promise me,” he urged quietly. Kiri opened her mouth to protest, but Neteyam was already turning away.
Without hesitation, he bolted toward the beach, heart hammering.
Reaching the marui, he grabbed his bow and arrows. The call for his ikran left his lips, sharp and urgent. Moments later, she appeared, wings slicing the smoky air. Neteyam mounted swiftly, rushing tsaheylu, fingers finding his bowstring.
From the sky, he became a silent hunter; his arrows flying true, striking down soldiers with deadly precision.
His gaze locked on the RDA soldier beside Spider, rifle still leveled at Ao’nung, and the children that surrounded him and his sister.
He pulled the string back, muscles taut, breath steadying—
“NETEYAM!”
The shout startled him. The arrow slipped from his fingers, skimming past and embedding in a soldier’s leg nearby, who collapsed with a painful cry.
Time seemed to slow as Neteyam twisted to locate the voice.
Ao’nung’s wide eyes locked on him, fear and urgency raw and sharp.
Before Neteyam could react, a hail of gunfire erupted from a boat mere meters offshore.
Ao’nung stood frozen, eyes wide with terror as a sudden hail of gunfire erupted from the boat just offshore, bullets ripping through the air with ruthless precision.
Neteyam’s ikran let out a sharp, pained shriek as she faltered, wings beating wildly in distress. Time seemed to slow for everyone. Lo’ak, Kiri, Spider, Ao’nung, and even most of the clan.
Lo’ak and Kiri, clutching little Tuk tightly, stared in horror as their brother and his beloved ikran spiraled downward, the world tilting violently beneath him. The graceful flight reduced to a rapid, uncontrolled collapse.
Ao’nung’s breath caught in his throat. His eyes never left Neteyam’s falling form, his heart pounding painfully in his chest.
Neteyam hit the water with a rather harsh blow, immediately swallowed by the cold sea. Then rough, determined hands dragged him from the waves onto the cold metal floor of an RDA ship.
The siblings and Ao’nung watched helplessly, their faces drained of colour, minds reeling with shock and fear.
As the ship’s door slammed shut behind the soldiers, darkness swallowed Neteyam whole.
Neteyam’s lungs screamed for air as the chill of the water clung to his skin. Pain radiated through his body, sharp and unrelenting, but it was the weight in his chest that crushed him most. The suffocating, unbearable heaviness of failure.
His vision blurred at the edges, the sharp outlines of the village and sky melting into an indistinct haze. The sounds around him, shouts, gunfire, the frantic rush of water, faded into a distant murmur, swallowed by the pounding of his own heartbeat.
‘I was supposed to protect them.
To keep them safe.
And now…’
His fingers clenched instinctively into fists against the cold metal beneath him, searching for something, anything to hold onto. But there was nothing but silence pressing in from all sides.
His mind raced desperately, flickering through memories of his siblings’ faces, Kiri’s steady gaze, Lo’ak’s worried frown, Tuk’s trusting smile, and the quiet moments with Ao’nung, moments that now felt impossibly distant.
‘Don’t give up. Not now.’
A faint pulse of defiance sparked within him, fragile but fierce. Even as darkness curled around the edges of his vision, threatening to swallow him whole, Neteyam fought to stay conscious, to stay present.
Because no matter where he was, no matter what chains might hold him next, he would find a way back. For them. For his family. For the future they all deserved.
But for now, he was lost in the shadows.