Chapter Text
The flight back felt longer than the one there. The wind cut across Tsu’tey’s face as he guided his ikran through Ayram alusìng, and the distant roar of waterfalls echoed like a reminder of the solitude that pursued him. For an entire month, he had crossed the skies of Pandora, visiting one clan after another, carrying with him the voice of the Omatikaya — a plea for unity, a call to resist the Sky People.
But each encounter left a bitter mark. Some leaders received him with distrust, others with fear. There were those who said the humans were too powerful, that they fought in earnest or even sought death. Others, blinded by the hope that the invaders would leave on their own, pretended nothing was happening. Their indifference irritated him; their fear, even more.
Tsu’tey had tried to argue, to remind them of the attacks, the dead, the fallen trees — but his words had scattered like dust in the wind. Each refusal was a blow to his honor, and each silence, a reminder that perhaps he was fighting alone. Now, as the sun set behind the floating rocks of the mountains, all he carried with him was the weight of failure. And that weight was harder to bear than any battle wound.
There, silence was constant — a silence that seemed to press against his chest and, at the same time, brought a strange sense of peace. It was the kind of living silence only Pandora could offer: the distant sound of nocturnal creatures, the rustle of leaves suspended in the thin air, the soft echo of wind passing through the floating stones. Tsu’tey needed that. He needed to breathe before returning to the Mother Tree, before facing the eyes of his people and the weight of the answers he had failed to bring.
He made his ikran land on one of the smaller stones, where the air was stable and small trees grew twisted, stretching their branches toward the sunlight filtering through the clouds. The animal let out a low growl, sensing its rider’s anguish, before folding its wings and letting the bond break. Tsu’tey slid off its back, feeling the ground vibrate slightly beneath his feet — a reminder that even the mountains there were never truly still.
He took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill his lungs, and sat at the edge of the stone. Below, the abyss disappeared into a bluish mist, and he thought of how beautiful Pandora was, even under threat. His muscles were still tense, his body heavy after so many days of travel. With every memory of failed negotiations, his jaw tightened. So many paths had crossed, so many words spoken to the wind, and no one seemed to listen. No group had understood the urgency, the danger.
It was like speaking to stones — and in that moment, Tsu’tey felt that they would listen better than the Na’vi themselves.
Tsu’tey kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, where the clouds dissolved into golden streaks. There, alone, the pride that had always sustained him felt fragile, almost useless. He thought of all the faces he had met during his journey: leaders who looked away, warriors who held their spears but never raised them. All had apologized to their own fear — and somehow, so had he.
As a warrior, Tsu’tey had been trained to fight until his last breath, to defend his clan even when hope turned to smoke. But negotiating… convincing others to fight… that was different. Words could worsen things, and others no longer had hope; they fought only to protect their own families.
As many of the chiefs had said, they waited for a sign from Eywa, they waited for a Toruk Makto.
And he was not that. He was a warrior, the future Olo’eyktan of Hometree, who had failed in his own mission.
— Olo’eyktan — he murmured to himself bitterly. The word felt too heavy. The successor of Eytukan should not return empty-handed. He should not fail.
He closed his eyes, trying to avoid the weight gathering in his chest. He felt small before the immensity of Pandora. The world continued to live, pulsing around him, but inside there was only the echo of failure.
The soft sound of his ikran’s breathing beside him mixed with the constant melody of the wind, creating a slow, hypnotic rhythm. The animal rested, wings folded, its body rising and falling with the weight of exhaustion from the long journey. Tsu’tey remained still for a few moments, feeling the cold air against his blue skin and letting the wind slowly carry away the turmoil of thoughts that consumed him. He tried to clear his mind — to hear only Pandora, the beating heart of the world around him.
Then, something different broke the balance.
A sound.
Dry.
Metallic.
Tsu’tey’s eyes opened immediately. The sound did not come from the mountains. It was something strange, intrusive. A second click followed, coming from the same direction. His ikran also lifted its head, alert to the unfamiliar noise — a sound he knew all too well, even if he wished to forget it: the sound of human machines.
In a swift, silent motion, Tsu’tey straightened. Fatigue vanished as if it had never existed. The warrior gripped the bow lying beside his ikran — not without first soothing the creature and letting it rest — and moved among the floating roots, stepping lightly, trying to remain hidden among the shadows that deepened with dusk.
The wind now seemed stronger, as if it were preparing for something bad to happen.
He followed the path where the sound came from, weaving through hanging vines, guided by the tension thickening the air. Each step made his heart beat faster, even when he stopped and only the echo could be heard. Where once there had been silence, now there was a deafening hum. And then, after walking between moss-covered stones and twisted trees that reached for the light, he saw the source of the sound.
A human structure.
The silvery metal gleamed against the natural backdrop of the mountains, reflecting the diffuse light filtering through the clouds. Cables stretched between the rocks, thin and dark, like artificial veins trying to root themselves in soil that did not belong to them. Tsu’tey recognized it from afar — one of the old bases of the Sky People, forgotten and abandoned among the heights.
He took a few steps closer; the dense air began to irritate him — it was no time to fear those demons. The wind whispered among the floating stones, but even the children of the forest hesitated to approach. Tsu’tey moved cautiously between the trees, hidden, bow in hand, every muscle ready to react. Even after all this time, the scars left by humans never faded easily; a soldier could appear at any moment and kill him.
Then, something moved.
A man.
He was outside the structure, near some flowers that were not from Pandora — *Mandevilla*, as Tsu’tey recalled hearing. He wore no armor, carried no weapons. His body looked small and frail, his pale skin gleaming under the light, and his face was covered by a breathing mask that exhaled a soft, continuous hiss, but his features were visible; his face seemed red around the eyes.
Unlike the other humans Tsu’tey remembered, this one did not look ready to fight.
And he was sitting.
Tsu’tey frowned, confused.
A chair. He knew what it was — Grace had explained such things, used by humans to rest. But this one… this one had wheels.
He watched for a moment, trying to understand.
What did it mean? Why would anyone need a chair that moved?
The warrior stayed at a distance, observing in silence, taking one of his arrows and fitting it to the bow. The presence of that person there, alone, felt wrong. Nothing in Pandora was random.
The human looked at the horizon, apparently contemplating the view before him, completely unaware of the Na’vi’s presence. The visible expression on his face was pain, even though he didn’t seem injured — a silent sadness that felt greater than himself.
Tsu’tey adjusted his aim, fingers firm on the bowstring, ready to shoot.
But before releasing the arrow, the man spoke.
— Eywa… please… — he murmured in a low, hoarse voice, in that harsh tongue. — Let me see him again. Please, Eywa.
Tsu’tey froze. The word struck him like a blow.
Eywa.
From a human mouth.
For a moment, he thought he had misheard — that the wind had distorted the sound. But the man repeated it, and there was no mistake. He had indeed spoken the name of the Goddess.
A chill ran down his neck.
Why would that demon dare utter the name of Eywa? Humans did not believe in her, could not see her. They believed in nothing but metal and fire. To them, the world was something to conquer, to mark, to destroy.
And yet… there was something different in the voice. There was no mockery. No arrogance. Only… uncertainty. Almost reverence.
Tsu’tey moved silently, watching the man speak to no one, wondering what had led him to do that.
Was it guilt? Madness? Or something he had yet to understand?
The man coughed, breathing with difficulty beneath the mask, and continued, murmuring hesitantly, almost broken:
— I know you see… the Tree of Souls… show me… help me find him.
Tsu’tey could catch most of it, but some words were muffled by the mask, dragged by the low tone — perhaps the man was crying —, confused and fragmented phrases mixing together, making it impossible to grasp everything. Some syllables were lost to the air, others clear enough not to be ignored.
Still, the overall meaning was clear: the human was asking for help, begging desperately.
The way that demon acted was unlike any warrior or scientist like Grace he had ever seen. No warrior asked help from something they didn’t believe in.
Not even the scientists did that, even when they stood closest to seeing Eywa.
Tsu’tey lowered his bow slightly, losing confidence, confused by the scene.
He had seen many humans — cold, arrogant, foolish toward the world around them, obsessed with everything, and yet still blind fools — but this one fit none of them. There was no threat in his eyes, no great passion. Only exhaustion. A kind of loneliness even Pandora seemed unable to heal.
The man looked to the sky, murmuring something else in his language, too low and muffled for Tsu’tey to understand completely.
Then, he moved the wheels of the chair, making the object shift a few inches. The faint metallic sound echoed among the stones.
Tsu’tey narrowed his eyes.
That chair moved with his body, as if responding to his will. Fascinating. Strange.
There was power there — but a power different from that of weapons; he wanted to understand what it was for. It made no sense that humans would use that when they had much larger machines to move around. Stupid machines, at that.
And, for some reason, the warrior couldn’t look away.
While the human continued to mutter disjointed words, Tsu’tey hid among the shadows of the stones.
Trying to understand.
Trying to discover if this man was a threat or just another of the incomprehensible things the Sky People had brought with them to hurt his kind.
For a while, Tsu’tey simply stood there, motionless.
He watched every movement carefully — tense shoulders, trembling hands over the cold metal of the chair, his gaze shifting from the sky to the ground.
He tried to understand who that man was, who spoke Eywa’s name with such pain.
Then the Na’vi realized when he heard the first sob.
The human drew a shaky breath, the muffled sound passing through the mask.
Then came the crying.
Low, restrained — the kind of sound a hunter recognizes in a wounded animal trying to hide.
Tsu’tey tensed.
It was not a sound he expected from an enemy.
It was too raw.
It was the sound of loss; he remembered acting the same way after Sylwanin’s death.
The man leaned forward, gripping the wheels more tightly. His body curled as if something inside was crushing him.
The chair trembled slightly as a stronger sob escaped.
For a moment, Tsu’tey thought of moving — taking a step, revealing himself, asking what had happened.
But then awareness struck.
Why should he speak to one of the Sky People? They were monsters; none of them deserved comfort.
And yet he felt something pushing him toward him.
He remained there, among the shadows, just watching.
Bow steady in hand, heart divided between distrust and a quiet curiosity that unsettled him.
And, for the first time, Tsu’tey didn’t know what to do.
Not whether to attack.
Not whether to leave.
Just to watch.
Suddenly, he heard another sound — a soft click, different from the noises of the forest.
Footsteps.
Tsu’tey lifted his gaze, muscles tensed. He moved slowly to the side, seeking a better angle among the trees.
And then he saw her.
A human woman stepped out of the metal structure.
Shoulder-length hair, simple clothes, different from what the soldiers wore. She walked quickly, but there was something cautious in her steps — as if afraid to startle whoever was before her.
Tsu’tey recognized her.
Grace Augustine.
A low growl escaped his throat before he could stop it.
The sound reverberated briefly, muffled by the wind. But Grace didn’t seem to notice. She walked straight toward the crying human in front of her.
The man hadn’t seen her approach. He remained hunched, hands gripping the wheels, shoulders trembling with each sob.
Grace knelt before him, her gaze full of something Tsu’tey knew well:
Pity.
She said something — soft words, in English, though hard to make out over his crying — and reached out her hand.
Tsu’tey watched as she took his. A simple gesture.
The man tried to pull away, moving back, but the woman held his hand firmly, keeping him from retreating.
For a moment, they stayed like that — she, still, breathing deeply; he, gasping, lost in his own agony.
Then Grace did something that confused him even more.
She embraced him.
Without hesitation, she moved in, carefully wrapping the fragile human body as if to protect him from something Tsu’tey could not see.
And then she began to breathe.
A slow, steady rhythm — inhaling deeply, exhaling slowly, together with him.
Tsu’tey understood what she was trying to do: align his breathing, quiet the panic consuming the man.
He resisted at first, muscles rigid and breath still broken by sobs.
But gradually, the rhythm began to change.
Slowly, air returned, flowing in and out.
The sound of crying faded, and only the wind filled the space between them.
Grace still held him, her face serene, her eyes tired.
Then, slowly, she stepped back.
She released the man carefully, making sure he was breathing evenly, and then stood up.
The woman adjusted something on the back of the chair and, with a gentle push, began to guide him back toward the metal structure.
Tsu’tey remained still, following every step.
The human said nothing — only kept his gaze on the ground, his face hidden by the mask and the weight of his own silence.
Grace walked slowly, as if afraid any sudden movement could shatter the fragile balance he had just regained.
When the base door opened, a beam of artificial light cut through the misty air, illuminating their path for a moment.
Tsu’tey narrowed his eyes before that impure brightness — so cold, so unlike the living light of Eywa.
He watched the two disappear into the structure, and the door closed behind them with a metallic sound that echoed among the rocks.
Silence returned.
But now it was not the same.
Tsu’tey stayed there for some time, feeling the weight of the scene still heavy in his mind.
Humans… so fragile, so confused.
And yet, there was something about them that made him uneasy.
He turned and went back to his ikran; it was not safe to remain there for long.
The creature greeted him with a low, impatient sound, flapping its wings against the air current when it saw him.
Tsu’tey ran a hand along the creature’s neck, calming it before climbing up and reconnecting.
He marked the place in his memory — it would not be hard to find that base again.
He needed to understand who that man really was.
With a gentle command, the ikran launched into the air.
The cold mountain wind cut across his face, carrying away the metallic sound of the human base.