Chapter Text
Ley’vani was born without life.
The moment would come to define everything that followed, but for now, no one yet knew it. For now, there was only the wet heat of birth, the scent of herbs and smoke, the sound of labored breathing and the thin, furious cry of a newborn who had arrived moments earlier.
Neteyam had come first. Slick with blood and life, wailing into the world with lungs full of fury. Mo’at had lifted him with practiced hands and placed him into Jake’s arms, and in that instant, the world narrowed to the small, trembling weight of his son. Jake barely registered the noise around him, barely heard the murmured sighs or Neytiri’s exhausted sob of relief. All he could see was this tiny being—his firstborn—his chest rising and falling, his fists clenched like he was already ready to fight the world.
Pride swelled painfully in Jake’s chest. Love. Sudden and overwhelming. He cradled Neteyam close, brushing a thumb over the soft curve of his cheek, his eyes burning as he stared down at him. Their son. Their child.
Across the space, Neytiri lay panting, sweat-soaked and trembling, but her eyes were bright with fierce joy as she looked at them. Even through exhaustion, her smile was radiant. They had done it. Their first baby had been born.
And they were not done yet.
Twins.
It still felt unreal to Jake, even now. Jake was a twin. He knew what that bond meant. He had known it since before he could remember, and he had lost it in a way that never truly healed. Tommy’s absence was an old ache, one that dulled with time but never vanished. They had been two halves of the same whole, mirrors of each other, (mostly) inseparable. The thought that his children might share something like that, that they might grow up with a piece of themselves walking beside them, filled him with an unexpected mix of longing and gratitude.
Jake adjusted his hold on Neteyam as Neytiri’s body tensed again, another wave of labor wracking her frame. Her cry tore from her throat, raw and unrestrained, echoing. Jake winced in sympathy, helpless, his heart pounding as he watched her endure pain he could never fully comprehend.
Mo’at moved with calm authority, her voice steady as she guided her daughter through it. “You must stay strong and push,” she urged, one hand firm at Neytiri’s back.
Neytiri snarled in response, the sound sharp with pain and frustration. “Do you not think I am trying?” she snapped, her fingers clawing at the weaving beneath her.
Mo’at huffed, more patient than offended, long accustomed to the sharp tongue of her daughter in pain. She said nothing more, simply continued her work.
Jake couldn’t help the small, sheepish grimace that crossed his face at the exchange. He shifted closer, careful not to get in the way, and reached for Neytiri’s hand. When their fingers intertwined, her grip was crushing, desperate, but he welcomed it. This, at least, he could do. Be here. Stay steady.
He leaned close without speaking. He’d learned (often the hard way) that words were dangerous right now. Sometimes he said things that made sense in his head but came out wrong, especially when she was hurting. Earlier, he’d made the mistake of suggesting they call for Norm and the other science guys to help. The look she’d given him had been enough to teach him better. Very bad idea.
Neytiri was a warrior. Strong in ways that humbled him. He trusted her strength, believed in it completely, even as fear twisted in his gut. He held their son in one arm and his mate’s hand in the other, caught between life newly begun and life struggling to enter the world.
Jake watched, aching on her behalf, as Neytiri bore down again and again, her breaths coming in ragged huffs, every push carved from what little strength she had left. Time stretched strangely, each moment bleeding into the next until it felt endless. Her body trembled with the effort, muscles locked in a battle she refused to lose.
Neteyam shifted in Jake’s arms, his earlier cries long since faded into soft, uncertain sounds. The baby squirmed against his chest, as though sensing the tension that filled the area, as though waiting for the other half of himself to arrive.
When Neytiri gave one final, desperate heave, a cry tearing from her throat, Jake felt a rush of relief surge through him.
It’s over, he thought. It had to be over now.
But the relief did not last.
Something was wrong.
The difference was immediate and unbearable. When Neteyam had been born, his voice had filled the space instantly. He was loud, indignant, alive. Jake hadn’t cried then, but his vision had blurred all the same, pride and awe crashing into him all at once. A strong cry. A strong spirit. He had known, without doubt, that his son would grow into a warrior.
This time, there was nothing.
No cry. No sound at all.
Jake felt his heart drop so sharply it left him dizzy. He didn’t need to look at Neytiri to know she felt it too. But he did anyway, and the sight of her nearly broke him.
She pushed herself upright despite her weakness, eyes wild, skin slick with sweat, her hands shaking as she searched Mo’at’s face. Panic bled into her voice. “Mother?” she gasped. “What—what is happening?”
Mo’at’s hands moved quickly, urgently, but her face had gone tight, drawn with a fear she did not try to hide.
She pressed two fingers to the tiny infant’s chest, then again, as if hoping she was mistaken.
“She is not breathing,” Mo’at said at last, the words forced out on a thin breath. “I cannot feel her heart.”
The sound that tore from Neytiri then was not a scream—it was something deeper, more primal. A raw cry of agony that seemed to rip straight from her soul. Jake froze, his arms tightening instinctively around Neteyam as the baby stirred and whimpered, his small face scrunching as if he already sensed the terrible absence beside him.
Neytiri surged forward despite Mo’at’s attempts to steady her, grief and terror blazing in her eyes. Jake had seen that look before, had sworn he never would again. It was the same horror that had filled her gaze after her father fell, when her Home Tree burned and the world she knew shattered around her.
“Mother,” she begged, her voice breaking, words tumbling over one another. “Mother, no. Oh, Eywa—please. You must save her. Find a way. You must. Please, please, please—you must! Give me my daughter—” Her hands shook as she reached out, desperation pouring from her in waves.
Jake felt his chest cave in. He stepped closer, lowering his voice, trying to calm her even as he felt himself begin to panic. “Baby, you gotta calm down,” he whispered, though the words felt useless even as he spoke them. “You’re—you’re stressed, and you’ve been through so much. You need to—”
“No!” Neytiri cried, turning on him, grief flashing hot and bright. “No, ma Jake! Look at her! Our daughter—our daughter!” Her voice cracked completely. “We have to do something. Ma Jake, please—”
Neteyam chose that moment to wail, his cry sharp and piercing, filling the hut with painful life. Neytiri’s gaze dropped to him, to the living child in Jake’s arms, and she broke. A sob tore through her, her body folding in on itself as the truth crashed down.
Jake could no longer tell where his heart ended and the pain began. He looked to Mo’at, to the impossibly small figure in her hands.
His daughter.
She was so tiny—smaller than Neteyam, impossibly fragile. Her skin was pale, her limbs slack, her face utterly still. No rise and fall of breath. No protest at the world.
Just silence.
“Mother—mother, please,” Neytiri begged, the word breaking apart in her mouth as her hands trembled, reaching, grasping for something she could not bear to lose.
For a moment, Mo’at did not respond. She stood frozen, the small, lifeless body held against her chest, her face tight with a grief she could not afford to give in to. Then she drew in a sharp breath, as though forcing herself back into the present.
“I am thinking,” she snapped suddenly, her voice edged with strain. “Be silent—I am thinking.” She turned away, pacing once, her eyes unfocused as her mind raced through knowledge old as her bones.
Then she stopped.
Her head tilted, ears twitching slightly, as if she had caught some distant sound or felt a pull unseen. Her spine straightened with sudden resolve. “I must go.”
Neytiri’s panic ignited instantly. “What?” she cried. “No—no, you cannot take her!” She lurched forward, weak but desperate. “Give her to me. Do whatever you must do here—right here, mother. Give her to me!”
Mo’at turned back, anguish flashing across her face. “I am trying to save her life, daughter!” she said sharply, clutching the infant closer.
“She is my daughter!” Neytiri screamed, her voice raw, cracking apart with grief and fury.
Mo’at’s gaze flicked to Jake then, a silent plea and command all at once. He understood immediately.
Jake moved quickly, lowering himself beside Neytiri, careful, gentle. He spoke softly, the way he did when the world felt like it was collapsing. “Hey,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. “Hey, Neytiri. Baby. Look at me.” Her breaths were coming too fast, too shallow, her chest hitching with each sob. “You gotta calm down, okay? Just for a second.”
She shook her head violently, tears streaming down her face, eyes locked on Mo’at. “No—Jake, no—”
“Your mother’s the tsahik,” he said quietly, firmly. “She knows what she’s doing. She wouldn’t leave unless she thought there was a chance. You gotta trust her. Please. Look at me.”
Slowly, reluctantly, Neytiri’s gaze flickered toward him. Her breathing stuttered, then faltered again.
Jake gently shifted Neteyam in his arms and held him out toward her. “Here,” he whispered. “See? This is your boy. Your baby boy. He’s here. He needs you right now too.”
Neteyam let out a small, trembling sound, his tiny fingers curling instinctively as he was placed against his mother’s chest.
“Neteyam…” Neytiri breathed, the name breaking her open. She gathered him close, her arms wrapping around him protectively, her tears soaking into his soft skin. Her sobs softened, though they did not stop, her body shaking as she clung to him.
“Yeah,” Jake said gently, resting a hand on her back. “That’s Neteyam. Focus on him right now, okay? Just him. He’s alive. He’s here.”
He stayed with Neytiri only long enough to be sure her breathing had slowed, that her grip on Neteyam had steadied into something protective rather than frantic. She rocked their son gently now, murmuring to him through tears, her focus pulled inward. When Jake was certain she would not chase after Mo’at, he carefully pulled away.
The moment he stood, dread flooded him.
He turned in a slow circle, scanning the trees, the undergrowth, the darkening paths around them. No sign of Mo’at. No sound of chanting. No flicker of light.
Panic clawed up his spine.
He took off running.
Jake tore through the forest without thought for noise or footing, branches snapping against his arms, wet grass slick beneath his feet. His heart hammered violently in his chest, every worst possibility crashing through his mind at once. He told himself Mo’at knew what she was doing. She was the tsahik. She had delivered countless children. She had saved lives.
But this was his daughter.
He expected to find Mo’at surrounded by herbs, maybe crouched in some clearing, whispering prayers to Eywa with practiced movements and gestures—something familiar, something he could recognize as healing.
What he found instead stopped him cold.
Mo’at stood knee-deep in the river, moonlight reflecting off the rippling water. Her eyes were closed, her lips moving in low, rhythmic chanting. And in her hands—
Jake’s breath left him in a sharp, strangled gasp.
His baby girl was submerged beneath the water’s surface.
His mind went white.
“What the hell—?” he shouted, sprinting forward, panic exploding out of him. “Hey! Hey—are you drowning her?” His voice cracked as he splashed into the river. “What are you doing? Hey!”
Mo’at’s eyes snapped open, sharp and furious. “Back!” she snapped, her voice cutting through the night. “Back, Jakesully! I am not finished. It is not done!”
“No!” Jake shouted, surging closer. “This isn’t helping her! You’re drowning her—give her to me!” His hands were already reaching, instinct screaming at him to take his child and run. “That’s my daughter!”
He was ready to fight, ready to tear her from Mo’at’s grasp, when a sound broke through the panic.
A thin cry.
Mo’at lifted the infant from the water, and Jake froze where he stood, breath caught painfully in his throat. The baby’s face scrunched, her mouth opening as another weak sound escaped her—small, trembling, but unmistakably alive.
Crying.
Jake collapsed to his knees in the river, water soaking into his clothes as the reality hit him all at once. “Oh,” he breathed, tears spilling freely now. “Oh, God… oh my God.”
Mo’at stepped toward him and carefully placed the tiny, shivering bundle into his arms.
Jake clutched his daughter to his chest like she might vanish if he loosened his grip. She was impossibly small. She was lighter, fragile as glass. Her skin was cool, her cry faint, but she was breathing. She was alive.
“Hey,” he whispered, voice shaking as he pressed his forehead to hers. “Hey, baby girl. Hey, sweetheart.” His hands trembled as he cradled her, one palm shielding the back of her head. “You’re okay. You’re here.”
She whimpered softly against him, her tiny body warm and real and so very perfect.
Alive.
She was alive.
Jake held her there in the river, sobbing openly now, repeating the truth to himself because he needed to hear it, needed to believe it.
“She’s alive,” he murmured brokenly. “She’s alive. She’s alive.”
When they returned, Neytiri felt it before she saw it.
She looked up quickly, breath catching, her eyes searching Jake’s face with naked fear. And then she saw the tiny bundle in his arms. For one suspended heartbeat, she did not dare believe it. Then the baby moved. A soft sound slipped from her lips.
Neytiri cried out, the sound breaking free in pure, stunned joy.
She reached for her daughter at once, carefully passing Neteyam back into Jake’s arms as though afraid the moment might shatter if she moved too quickly. Her hands trembled when she took the small, living weight of her daughter against her chest. The baby whimpered softly, her breath fluttering against Neytiri’s skin.
“Oh,” Neytiri breathed, laughter and tears tangling together. “Ley’vani…”
The name fell from her lips as though it had been waiting there all along, carried on relief and devotion. She cradled her daughter close, pressing her cheek to the soft crown of her head, sobbing openly now from overwhelming gratitude.
She lifted Ley’vani gently, raising her toward the light filtering through the trees, her smile radiant, renewed strength lighting her features as if the world itself had been given back to her. “My perfect girl,” she murmured reverently. “My sweet girl. Ma Ley’vani.”
Jake watched, heart swelling painfully in his chest, Neteyam held securely against him. When Neytiri lowered their daughter again, he stepped closer, and together they leaned in until their foreheads touched.
They did not speak.
They did not need to.
Tears slipped freely down both their faces as they stood there, each cradling one half of their miracle. Two tiny lives, warm and breathing. Two heartbeats steady against their chests.
Neteyam and Ley’vani.
For now, there was no fear, no loss, no shadow waiting beyond the moment.
Only breathtaking peace.
—
The births of Toruk Makto’s firstborns, his twin children, were celebrated by the entire Omatikaya clan, deep within the heart of their home. Voices filled the clearing, layered with song, laughter, and murmurs. Jake and Neytiri stood at the center of it all, surrounded by their people. When the moment came, Jake stepped forward, lifting his son high with careful hands.
“Neteyam!” he called, his voice loud and sure.
The baby responded with fierce little kicks and an indignant cry, his lungs strong, his presence impossible to ignore. The clan echoed the name in unison, voices rising and circling back around him like a blessing, smiling, laughing, welcoming him into the world.
Then Neytiri stepped forward, lifting their daughter toward the sky. Ley’vani was quieter, her movements gentle, her breathing soft and steady as she gazed around with wide, curious eyes.
“Ley’vani,” Jake announced, his voice thick with emotion.
The name rippled outward through the clan, spoken with awe and tenderness. Neytiri smiled through tears as she held her miracle close, pride shining brightly on her face. Ley’vani cooed softly, unaware of the moment—only that she was warm, safe, and loved.
No joy Jake had ever known compared to this. No victory, no battle, no triumph in the sky. As they lowered the twins and cradled them close, Jake and Neytiri exchanged a look that needed no words. Against all odds, both their children were alive. Breathing. Whole.
Nothing, they believed then, could ever take this happiness away.
Much later they would journey to Hell’s Gate, stepping once more into the cold sterility of the biolab. They would hear words they were not prepared for. Learn truths that would fracture the fragile peace they now held so tightly.
Max spoke gently, as if afraid that even the wrong tone might break something fragile between them. “It’s… it’s something that happens with human twins,” he explained, hands folded together as he looked between Jake and Neytiri. “Mostly identical twins, but not always. The fact that it happened to Ley’vani is—” he hesitated, searching for the right word, “—a little baffling, yeah. But not unheard of.”
Neytiri listened intently, her arms wrapped protectively around their daughter. Ley’vani rested against her chest, small and light, her breathing soft and steady. Neytiri barely blinked.
“It was most likely something called selective fetal growth restriction,” Max continued carefully. “Basically, because of the way the placenta—or placentas—were positioned, Ley’vani probably received fewer nutrients than Neteyam while they were developing. It happens naturally. It’s not something you caused, Neytiri. It’s not something anyone could have prevented.”
Despite his reassurance, Neytiri’s expression tightened, guilt flickering painfully across her face. Her fingers curled slightly into Ley’vani’s wrap, pulling her closer as if instinctively trying to make up for something long past. Her ears drooped just a fraction. Jake noticed immediately. He shifted closer, one hand coming to rest at Neytiri’s back in quiet support.
“Okay,” he said slowly, forcing steadiness into his voice. “But what does that mean going forward?” He leaned in just a little more. “Is this gonna affect her life? Like—are we talking long-term health problems? Restrictions?”
Norm cleared his throat and stepped in. “Honestly, you’d be surprised how similar human and Na’vi internal biology actually is,” he said. “Obviously, Na’vi bodies are stronger overall—denser bones, better healing, higher efficiency—but the fundamentals aren’t all that different.”
Jake nodded, bracing himself.
“So,” Norm continued, choosing his words carefully, “it’s possible Ley’vani could face some challenges. Respiratory issues, especially early on. Maybe metabolic instability—trouble regulating energy. She might be more vulnerable to infections or injuries.” He paused, then added quietly, “And there’s a chance, just a chance, of early-onset heart issues.”
The room fell silent.
Jake looked at Neytiri, and she looked at him, and for a moment neither of them spoke. The joy they had clung to so fiercely since Ley’vani’s first breath trembled.
Neytiri lowered her head, pressing her forehead to her daughter’s soft hair. “Will she suffer?” she asked quietly, the question barely more than a whisper.
Max shook his head gently. “Not necessarily. A lot of children with these conditions live full, happy lives. Especially with monitoring and care. She’s alive. She’s breathing. And she’s strong enough to fight. That alone says a lot.”
Jake swallowed hard, his hand tightening at Neytiri’s side. Would their daughter run through the forest like the other children? Would she climb, hunt, laugh without pain? Would she live without fear shadowing every step?
“Eywa gave her this life,” Neytiri said softly at last.
Her voice was calm. She held Ley’vani close as she spoke, one hand resting over the baby’s back, feeling each small breath, committing it to memory.
“My mother told me,” Neytiri continued, eyes distant now, turned inward. “That day—when Ley’vani was… lifeless… in her arms.” Her breath caught before she steadied herself. “She said she heard Eywa’s call. Told her to go deep into the forest. To bring my daughter into the waters of the river.”
Jake listened quietly, his gaze fixed on Neytiri.
“I did not understand it then,” she admitted. “I wondered why not the Tree of Souls. Why not the place where we speak to our ancestors.” She lowered her eyes to Ley’vani, brushing her thumb gently along the baby’s cheek. “But I do not need to understand. Eywa does not ask us to understand. She asks us to trust.”
Her ears lifted slightly, resolve settling into her posture.
“Eywa has a plan,” Neytiri said. “Eywa gives, and Eywa takes. She gave us our daughter. She gave Ley’vani her breath, her heart, her life. And only Eywa has the right to take that life away.”
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Norm shifted slightly, clearly unsure. When he finally spoke, his voice was gentle, careful. “If you notice anything out of the ordinary with her,” he said, offering a small, reassuring smile, “you can always call us. Anytime.”
Neytiri glanced up at him, her expression sharp and tense.
Before she could speak, Jake placed a steady hand on her arm, pacifying her. He gave Norm a small nod. “Thanks, Norm,” he said sincerely.
Max cleared his throat, drawing in a breath as though bracing himself. “Uh—yeah,” he said carefully.
“Speaking of… out of the ordinary. Grace’s avatar—”
—
Their family grew.
And it grew faster than either of them ever expected.
A short period of time after the twins’ birth, Grace’s avatar gave life to a child no one had been prepared for. A miracle born of mystery and Eywa’s will. They named her Kiri. There was never any real discussion about what would happen to her. Jake and Neytiri simply took her in, without hesitation, without question. She was theirs as surely as if Neytiri herself had carried her.
Kiri grew nestled between Ley’vani and Neteyam, three infants side by side, breathing the same forest air, wrapped in the same woven slings. They shared their first connection at the Tree of Souls together. From the beginning, Kiri was different, quieter, as though she listened to things no one else could hear.
A year later, Lo’ak burst into the world loud and furious, already stubborn, already fighting. He had his father’s four-fingered hands and his defiant spark, and from the moment he could walk, he tried to keep up with his older siblings (usually failing but always trying again.)
Six years after that came Tuktirey. Tuk was laughter made flesh. She arrived small but unstoppable, all bright eyes and endless curiosity. Where the others tested limits, she shattered them without realizing there were rules at all.
They grew.
They ran barefoot through the forest, climbed roots taller than themselves, scraped knees and learned how to fall and get back up. They were fed stories and songs and the steady love of two parents who had once feared losing everything.
And for the most part they grew up healthy.
Neteyam was the first to show what kind of warrior he would become. Responsible almost to a fault, he learned quickly, listening closely, watching carefully. He mastered the bow early, his aim precise, his movements disciplined. When the day came for Iknimaya, he did not falter. On his first attempt, he climbed, fought, and bonded with his ikran, earning his place with pride. Jake saw himself in his son. More than that, he saw someone better.
Lo’ak followed in Neteyam’s shadow, chasing it with equal parts admiration and frustration. He was strong too—reckless, impulsive, driven by heart more than patience. He failed his Iknimaya the first time, and the shame nearly crushed him. But he did not quit. He climbed again. He fell again. And then, finally, he rose, earning his bond through sheer stubborn refusal to give up. Jake, although he didn’t verbalize it, was extremely proud.
Kiri walked a different path entirely.
She gravitated toward Mo’at, toward the gentleness of healing and spirit. She learned the names of herbs and felt Eywa’s presence in ways that others did not. Animals trusted her. The forest seemed to listen when she spoke.
And Tuk was joy.
She was everywhere at once, clinging to shoulders, laughing loud, asking endless questions. She loved fiercely and without fear, bringing light even into moments shadowed by worry. Where the others grew into who they were meant to be, Tuk simply was. Bright and unapologetically alive.
Ley’vani did not grow along a path that could be named easily.
Where her siblings seemed to step naturally into roles the world had already prepared for them, Ley’vani moved through life with the constant feeling of being watched, hovered over, measured, braced for disaster. Every breath she took felt like it was being counted by someone else. Every stumble turned into alarm. Every risk, no matter how small, was intercepted before she could decide for herself whether it was worth taking.
She tried to follow her mother’s footsteps first.
Neytiri placed a bow in her hands with care, patience and hope. Ley’vani loved the way it felt at first. She loved the pull of the string, the focus it demanded. But it took only one misstep, one overextension, and the sharp pain that bloomed in her arm lingered for weeks. After that, the bow disappeared. So did knives. So did anything that could be called a weapon, even the old human guns Jake sometimes cleaned. It’s for your safety, they said gently, as though safety were the only thing that mattered.
She followed Neteyam and Lo’ak next, trailing after them as they climbed and leapt through the trees like they belonged there. She wanted to belong there too. She told herself she could keep up. Until her breath betrayed her. Her lungs burned too quickly, her vision swam, and when she fell, the impact left her shaking and hurt. It took her weeks to properly heal.
Neteyam never forgave himself for that day.
He carried the guilt everywhere, convinced (despite Ley’vani’s protests) that he had stolen something from her before either of them had even taken their first breath. “You’re ridiculous,” she told him, over and over again, half-smiling, half-begging him to let it go. He never did.
Ley’vani learned early what it felt like to wake on the forest floor with ringing ears and fading vision. She learned how it felt to pass out when her body demanded more air than it could take in. That fear became a line no one was willing to let her cross.
So when the time came to speak of Iknimaya, the decision was already made without her.
It was too dangerous. Too risky. Too deadly.
She watched from the ground as others prepared to bond with their ikran, felt the absence of that future settle into her bones. Without an ikran, she felt incomplete, especially as the daughter of the Olo’eyktan. Of Toruk Makto. It was a quiet shame, as if the clan did not quite know where to place her.
But she was loved. Fiercely.
And yet, she felt suffocated by that love. She was wrapped so tightly in concern that there was no room left for her to breathe on her own. She existed in the margins, protected to the point of invisibility. Not fragile enough to be pitied outright. Not strong enough to be trusted fully.
Just there.
Some days, Ley’vani wondered what use she was to anyone at all. She could not fight. She could not fly. She could not prove herself the way her siblings did. In the end, she felt as though she was only one thing.
Useless.
Not because she lacked love. But because she had never been allowed the chance to become anything else.
And sometimes, it didn’t even feel like she was Neteyam’s twin at all.
He hovered over her constantly. Watching her steps, reaching for her arm when she stumbled, stepping in before she ever had the chance to prove she could handle something on her own. He meant well. He always did. But to Ley’vani, it felt like being smothered beneath kindness she had never asked for.
Their mother did the same. So did their father, perhaps worst of all. Their concern wrapped around her like vines, tight and inescapable. They saw her injuries, her limits, her moments of weakness.
They loved her deeply. She never doubted that.
But they did not see her.
They saw a version of Ley’vani that needed protecting. Preserving. Sheltering. A fragile thing to be kept safe rather than a person allowed to grow.
All she could be—all she was allowed to be—was the gentle daughter. The careful sister. The one entrusted with their youngest, who watched Tuk with patience and soft smiles while the others trained or flew. The one who wove baskets and necklaces, whose hands learned patterns instead of weapons. The one who prayed to Eywa, who sat with the injured and whispered comfort while others fought.
Like a doll placed carefully on a shelf. Loved. Admired.
Still.
The only place she ever felt strong was in the water.
In the deep bend of a river, where the current wrapped around her body and carried her weight for her. In the rain, when the world softened and the sky seemed to breathe with her. There, her lungs did not betray her. There, she did not feel watched or measured.
In the water, she could hear Eywa.
In rhythm, in the pulse of the current, in the hush beneath the surface, in the steady beat that matched her own heart. It was there that she felt whole. Capable. Alive.
And the only person she could truly speak to about it was Kiri (And on occasion, Spider. But mostly Kiri.)
Kiri listened without trying to fix her. Without fear clouding her eyes. She understood in a way no one else did, understood the way Eywa spoke. Sometimes, sitting together by the river’s edge, their feet in the water and their thoughts drifting elsewhere, Ley’vani felt closer to Kiri than she ever did to Neteyam.
Sometimes, Kiri felt more like her twin.
Not because they shared blood or breath in the womb, but because Kiri saw her.
But her escape did not last forever.
When Ley’vani was fifteen, the sky people returned. The RDA came back to Pandora in fire and noise, tearing through the sky like an old nightmare given new teeth. The forest trembled beneath their arrival, and her rivers were no longer safe. What had once been sanctuary became something dangerous, watched, threatened, vulnerable.
They would flee.
The Omatikaya were forced to abandon their home and retreat into the Hallelujah Mountains, establishing a high camp hidden among stone and cloud. It was chosen to protect the people, to shield the sacred willows, to keep Eywa’s heart safe from those who would tear it apart again.
But for Ley’vani, it meant something else entirely.
It meant being torn away from the rivers that had held her. From the deep, steady currents where she felt strongest, most herself. Water had been her refuge, her breath, her prayer. And now it was gone, replaced by stone paths and endless heights that left her lungs aching and her body weary.
With the return of the sky people came new rules. New fears. New layers of protection wrapped tightly around her. She was watched more closely than ever, kept nearer to camp, reminded constantly of the danger beyond its borders.
Loved. Guarded.
Isolated.
The distance between her and the others grew quickly. Training continued without her. Plans were made without her input. She became someone to be sheltered rather than someone to be relied upon.
At night, when the wind howled through the mountains and sleep would not come, she lay awake and wondered.
Not why she was different, she had long since accepted that.
But when.
When would anyone look at her and see more than something to guard?
When would they see strength instead of risk?
When will someone finally see the strength within her?
And while she wondered, while she stared out at the distant horizon, longing for something she could not yet name—
Somewhere far away, beneath an endless stretch of open ocean, a Metkayina boy swam through the blue, unaware that his path was already bending toward hers.
Unseen. Unknowable.
Destiny, waiting.