Archive of Our Own ^beta

Getting back to the village with Lo’ak limp in his arms is, Jake realizes, the second worst thing that has ever happened to him.

The first was losing Neteyam.

The first was watching his eldest son slip beneath the surface, carried down into the dark, his braid floating behind him like a final goodbye. Jake had swam there, paralyzed, with the weight of a dead child in his heart as he was met with Ewya once more.

He never thought he would feel anything close to that agony again.

But carrying Lo’ak like this—bridal style, weight hanging wrong, head lolling against his forearm—is close. Too close. Close enough that the two memories blur until he feels sick.

He clutches Lo’ak tighter with each step, knuckles whitening, as though holding hard enough might magically draw breath back into his son’s body.

He doesn’t want to put him down. But he also… can’t take him inside. Not like this. Not when his entire family is here, trying to make sense of Neteyam's return. Not when he is trying to understand this grace and tragedy from Ewya as well.

Jake’s ears pin flat to his head as a horrifying truth presses in on him: Neteyam is alive, but bleeding. Alive, but fragile. Alive, but still in mortal danger. Neteyam needs him now. Needs him right this second.

Jake is a father—but he is also a soldier, he knows the code. No man left behind. But he also knows the code of fatherhood, protect your family.

He can't have his kids, his mate, see Lo'ak like this. Not after such a blessing. He can't have his mates heart rip to shreds from the sheer fact that Jake wasn't fast or strong enough to save their youngest son.

He kneels carefully at the edge of the marui platform and lays Lo’ak down on the woven floor. The boy’s limbs flop where they fall—heavy, limp, terrifyingly unresisting.

Jake adjusts them, and kisses each of his fingers, making sure to give extra attention to his pinkies, before kissing his knuckles, his wrists, and then each of his eyebrows. He reaches for a spare woven blanket—Tuk’s, he realizes belatedly, the one she keeps out so after swimming she isn't freezing, it's one of her favorites with shells tied to the corner—and drapes it over Lo’ak’s body. He tucks it up under Lo’ak’s chin the way Neytiri used to. Maybe it will keep the children from panicking if they glimpse him.

He leans down and presses a kiss to Lo’ak’s forehead. “I’ll be right back, son,” he whispers.

He forces himself to stand. Forces himself to breathe. Forces himself to be something like steady. He's a soilder. He's lost before. He can lose again. But this is his child. He shakes the thought away, doesn't matter, Neteyam and my family need me, and Lo'ak will still be here when he returns.

When he lifts the flap of the marui, light spills out onto him and the sight inside nearly brings him to his knees.

Neteyam lies curled against Neytiri’s chest, his head tucked beneath her chin, her fingers shaking as they stroke his hair. Purple salve stains the bandages wrapped across his torso where the bullet wound is. Tuk sits in her brother’s lap, small hands cupping his cheeks as if she is afraid he’ll slip away again. Kiri holds Neteyam’s hand tightly, her thumb brushing the knuckles in a soothing rhythm. Even Spider is there—legs folded close to his body, expression tight, eyes raw. He sits near Neteyam, watchful. Protective like a brother should be.  

For a moment—one gentle, fragile heartbeat—the family looks whole again. Almost perfect. Almost healed. And that almost is enough to nearly undo Jake entirely. Because Lo’ak—his baby, his koala baby, the boy who took his first steps into Jake’s arms—is lying just outside the marui door. Covered in a blanket. Lifeless. Hidden from his siblings’ eyes.

Jake grips the edge of the flap to keep himself upright as he looks towards his mate.

Neytiri looks radiant.

Radiant in a way Jake hasn’t seen since before the war, before the loss, before the coldness of grief settled into every bone in her body. She cradles Neteyam like he is newborn again, her face open, soft, overflowing with gratitude and wonder. Her eyes shine with tears—happy tears—and her entire body trembles with relief.

Eywa has returned their son. Their firstborn.

Her joy is a living thing, pulsing in the marui like warm sunlight. And Jake… Jake has to tell her that Lo’ak is gone.

His stomach twists.

His tail flicks once, twice, as if trying to signal danger no one else sees.

He forces himself to walk forward.

Neteyam looks up immediately, his eyes still bleary with pain but bright with the comfort of seeing his father.

“Dad…” he whispers, voice small.

Tuk squeals, bouncing in his lap. “Daddy! Look! Look! Neteyam’s back!”

Jake pulls a smile for her—for all of them.

“I see that, Tuk.” His voice is gentle. 

Kiri’s eyes lift to him, full of reverence. “The Great Mother has blessed us,” she breathes.

Jake nods, swallowing hard. “Yeah, baby girl. I know.”

He crouches beside them, forcing his knees to hold him up when they want nothing more than to buckle. He cups Neteyam’s cheek with a calloused, shaking hand. “How you feeling, champ?”

Neteyam exhales slowly. “It hurts,” he admits. “It hurts a lot. And I'm confused... and dizzy.”

Neytiri presses a kiss to his temple, whispering, “Oh, my son. My sweet son. I am so sorry.” Her arms wrap even tighter around him, as if she could shield him from the pain itself.

Jake nods sympathetically. “Yeah? I’m sorry too. You feeling okay otherwise, though? Not sick? Feverish?”

Neteyam shakes his head. “Just… really tired and lost.”

“Yeah.” Jake forces a comforting smile. “Well, how about you get a good long rest, hmm? I can change the bandages while you sleep and then in the morning we can explain everything."

Neteyam nods, nestling deeper into Neytiri’s embrace. He seems calmer now. Safe. Protected. His breathing steadies. But then he hesitates. His fingers twitch. His ears flatten. His expression shifts, unease creeping into his eyes.

“I… um…” he murmurs, voice uncertain. “I want to share my mat with Lo’ak.”

Jake freezes. Every muscle in his body locks.

Neytiri looks at him too—just briefly, just a flick of confusion—because surely Lo’ak should be here. Lo’ak always hovers close. Lo’ak would be at his side, without question. It seems he isn't the only one that briefly forgot of their youngest son because the joy of their firstborn returning was such a shock. 

Jake’s throat goes dry. Has Lo'ak always felt this forgotten? He hopes not.

Neteyam looks between his parents, reading the silence. “I just… I want to share with him,” he repeats softly. “He’ll be worried. I want him to know I’m okay. I know he's a skxawng, probably hanging out with Tsireya, but arill.”

The innocence of it—The love in it—The absolute faith that Lo’ak is somewhere nearby just being his kid brother—it cracks Jake’s heart clean in half.

How is he supposed to break this? How is he supposed to take this moment from his resurrected son—this fragile miracle—by telling him that the brother he wants most is lying outside under a blanket?

Jake swallows, but it does nothing to ease the lump in his throat. He opens his mouth—once—twice—but no words come out.

Neteyam frowns, confused by the silence. “Dad?” he asks. “Where is he?”

Jake blinks hard, eyes stinging.

Neytiri’s brows pull tight, uncertainty flickering like a tremor across her face.

“Ma’Jake?” she whispers. “Did you not find him? Is he… still out there somewhere? Is he lost?”

Jake’s ears flatten hard against his skull. He kneels close to his family, and brings his arms up in a protective manner. A surrender almost, he thinks wickedly, like he did when they first landed in Awa'atlu.

He looks toward Kiri first. Her eyes widen. Her breath catches. She is connecting the dots—slowly, painfully.

Spider, sitting beside her, goes pale. He knows.
Human instincts recognize certain silences.

Jake’s heart splinters. He pulls Tuk from Neteyam’s lap, holding her close to his chest. Her tiny hands curl into his collarbone.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, voice already breaking. “I’m… I’m sorry, guys, but—”

His ears fall flatter. His tail droops lifeless behind him.

He is a soldier. He has lost before. He knows how to speak death. But this—this is not an enemy casualty.
This is his son. He lost one son already and now he's back, so why can't lo'ak return too?

He clears his throat, forcing the words through a throat that refuses to open. “I found Lo’ak by the cove of ancestors,” he says hoarsely. “But… I believe he was underwater for too long.”

Tuk stiffens in his arms.

Her voice trembles, “Gone?”

Jake presses a kiss to her forehead, his lips shaking. He lifts his eyes to Neytiri—and her entire world collapses in her expression.

She shakes her head immediately, violently,  “No. No, no, no, no—” she whispers, each word more broken than the last.

Jake’s voice cracks. “I’m sorry…”

Neytiri’s face twists, anguish pouring out of her like a fresh wound. Her hands clutch at Neteyam as if anchoring herself to something solid.

Then she screams.

A raw, primal sound that rips through the marui and the night and Jake’s chest. A mother’s sound. The sound of losing a child.

“Oh Great Mother! NO—NO!”

Tuk squirms desperately out of Jake’s arms, sobbing, pushing at him with both fists. “It’s not fair! IT’S NOT FAIR!”

She bolts toward Neteyam and leaps into his lap, almost knocking the breath from him. Neteyam flinches at the pain but wraps his arms around her with instinctive big-brother strength, rocking her even though he himself looks destroyed.

Kiri’s hand finds Spider’s, their fingers interlacing tight enough to hurt. Spider’s jaw is clenched so hard he might break a tooth, tears slipping silently down his face. Kiri cries openly, shoulders shaking, eyes squeezing shut as if that could undo the moment.

Neytiri is still screaming. “Oh Great Mother—no—no—NO!”

Jake moves toward her, reaching—“Baby, I—”

But before he can touch her though, she hisses. She recoils from him, eyes blazing. And Jake pulls his hand back as though burned.

His mate’s pain is a physical force in the room and he is the one who brought it inside.

Neteyam stiffens. His whole body goes still beneath Tuk’s trembling weight, his eyes fixed on Jake with a kind of dawning horror—as if his brain is finally rearranging the pieces into a shape he doesn’t want to recognize.

“Where is he?” Neteyam whispers.

Jake blinks. “Neteyam—”

“Where is he!?” Neteyam snarls, voice cracking under the strain. He sets Tuk down gently—so gently it feels like an instinct from a life that no longer makes sense—and pushes to his feet.

His legs buckle almost immediately. He groans, gripping the side of the marui to steady himself, breath hissing between clenched teeth.

Jake reaches for him. “Neteyam, son, you’re weak still from the blood lo—”

Neteyam hisses at him. Sharp. Animal. Protective. His son has never hissed at him or anymore before. Not that he can remember, anyways. His tail lashes once behind him before falling limp.

“Where is he, Dad?!” His voice breaks, high and desperate. “Where is Lo’ak?!”

Jake’s throat constricts. “I—I couldn’t leave him out there. I couldn’t—”

But Neteyam is already moving.

He stumbles toward the flap, shoulders shaking, breaths shallow and ragged. He grabs at the woven entrance, fingers slipping, and yanks it open—

And the world stops.

There, under the moonlight, covered with a blanket as if merely sleeping—Lo’ak.

Limp. Still. Color washed out beneath the cold glow.

Neteyam falls to his knees with a sound Jake has never heard from him. Not even in battle. Not even when he himself died.

He crawls to Lo’ak, hands shaking violently as he touches his brother’s cheeks, his forehead, anything he can reach.

“Baby brother?” he whispers, voice shattered. “Lo’ak… Lo’ak…” He shakes him. “Lo’ak, wake up—wake up, bro—come on—come on—”

Jake steps forward, reaching, “Neteyam—”

“NO!” Neteyam screams, throwing an arm out to block him. “Get back! Get back!”

Jake freezes.

Neteyam’s eyes are wild, wet, darting between Jake and Lo’ak as if trying to force the world to make sense.

“What happened!?” Neteyam chokes out. “What happened that—and Lo’ak—Lo’ak is—he’s—”

The words collapse in his mouth. He presses his forehead to Lo’ak’s, tears dripping onto his brother’s unmoving skin.

“What happened, Dad?! What happened—what happened—what happened!”

Behind them Neytiri cries out—a wounded animal’s cry, sharp enough to tear the night open. She crawls across the floor, her hands trembling so violently she can’t even steady herself as she reaches Lo’ak’s side. When she finally sees him clearly—her baby, her middle child, her troublemaker, her heart—she breaks.

“Oh Great Mother—no—NO—no, please—please—”

She grabs his hair, pushes his forehead to hers, rocking him as if he were still small enough to fit in her arms. Her tears drip onto his face, soaking the blanket, shaking her whole body.

“Great Mother, please!” she sobs. “Return him! PLEASE—PLEASE, bring my child back—my son—my son—”

Her cries fill the air, echoing against the sea.

Neteyam wraps his arms around Lo’ak’s legs pulling them close, as if shielding him from the cold, from death, from everything he failed to protect him from.

He bows his head over his brother’s chest, voice a whispering wail, “Baby brother… baby brother, no… please don’t leave me… please…”

Jake stands behind them helpless. Bleeding inside.
A father with two sons in front of him: One miraculously reborn. One terrifyingly still. And he does not know how to hold this moment in his heart without shattering.

His heart shatters more when Tuk moves with a sobbing cry and throws herself forward, small body colliding with Lo’ak’s limp one. She climbs onto him without hesitation, curling into his chest the way she always does when she’s scared, arms wrapped tight around his neck as if waiting for his arms to come up and hold her back.

They don’t.

“Lo’ak,” she whimpers, pressing her face into his shoulder. “Lo’ak, I’m listening.”

Kiri drops to her knees beside them.

Her hands find Lo’ak’s arms at the same time Neteyam’s do—one on each side, as if together they can anchor him to the world. Her fingers tremble as she grips him, eyes shining, unfocused.

“Oh, Great Mother,” she whispers. “Why? Why?”

Neytiri’s grief crescendos. “Lo’ak!” she screams, raw and breaking. “LO’AK!”

Jake drops to his knees and pulls her into him. He wraps her tight against his chest, arms locking around her shaking body.

She lunges forward, hands clawing, nails scraping against the woven floor and Jake’s arms alike, desperate to reach her son. She scratches at Jake’s chest, his shoulders, his neck—not in anger, but in panic, in refusal, in a mother’s need to touch her child.

“Shhh,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you… I’ve got you.”

Neytiri fights him for a moment, sobbing into his shoulder, her fingers digging into his skin as if she might tear him open to get past him. Jake holds fast anyway, absorbing the pain because that is what he does. That is what he has always done.

Over his shoulder, he sees Spider shift closer—then stop.
The boy hovers just out of reach, eyes red, hands clenched at his sides. He doesn’t touch Lo’ak. He doesn’t kneel. He doesn’t intrude.

Spider understands grief. And he understands Neytiri’s grief most of all. It's why Spider has a scratch that will scar across his chest.

Neteyam’s voice breaks the air. “I don’t understand,” he says, over and over, like a prayer gone wrong. “I don’t understand.”

He clutches Lo’ak’s arm tighter, his fingers leaving faint marks in the blue skin.

“What happened?” Neteyam demands, panic spiraling. “Why was he at the cove by himself? Why am I bleeding? What happened—what happened—what happened?!”

His breathing grows uneven, shallow.

Jake tightens his hold on Neytiri as she sobs against him, her body shaking violently. He feels every scratch, every desperate tug, and he lets it happen.

Because he doesn’t have an answer he can give his son. How does he explain that Lo’ak went alone? That he chose the dark water? That he was hurting so deeply he thought disappearing might fix what was broken?

Jake can’t. So he says nothing.

He just holds his mate while she cries his name into the night, while Tuk clings to Lo’ak’s unmoving chest, while Kiri whispers prayers that don’t get answered fast enough, while Neteyam shakes beside his brother, bleeding and alive and confused beyond measure.

All of their children are touching Lo’ak now.

As if love— if enough hands—if enough voices—if enough need—might finally be enough to make him open his eyes.

But Lo’ak stays still.

Look at the stars

Look how they shine for you

And everything you do

Yeah, they were all yellow

Jake is in the forest with his baby boy.

Lo’ak is five years old and already has the heart of a lion. It terrifies Jake a little bit, if he’s honest.

Neteyam is calm—always has been. Calm in the womb. Calm when he was born. Calm even now, steady and thoughtful, watching more than he speaks. Kiri is quiet and clever, resourceful in ways that surprise Jake every day. She gets sharp when she wants attention, but otherwise she is gentle, sweet, content to sit and listen to the world breathe.

Lo’ak is none of those things.

Lo’ak is fire.

Lo’ak is teeth and claws and boundless energy wrapped up in a too-small body. He is a tiger and a lion mixed together, all instinct and courage and curiosity with no sense of self-preservation at all. Jake is endlessly grateful that those animals don’t exist on Pandora, because he is absolutely certain Lo’ak would try to fight one just to see if he could.

Another thing is that Lo’ak is everywhere.

“Daddy, can I go with you?” Lo’ak asks, circling him as Jake checks his gear for the group hunt. The boy grips his little wooden toruk toy in one hand, eyes bright, bouncing on his toes like he might explode if Jake says no.

Jake chuckles. “Not this time, buddy.”

Lo’ak accepts this for exactly two seconds.

“Daddy, look at this trick!” he shouts, scrambling onto his sleeping mat and launching himself into the air. He lands in a tangled heap, limbs everywhere, tail flicking wildly. He looks up, beaming, as if he’s just performed a perfect backflip.

Jake laughs despite himself. “Yeah? That was… good!"

Lo’ak grins, proud.

Later, Jake is heading down toward the water with Neteyam for fishing when Lo’ak appears again, arms crossed, scowl fierce on his tiny face.

“Daddy, Neteyam goes with you,” he says, chin lifted. “Why can’t I?”

“Because you’re still too little,” Jake answers gently.

Lo’ak’s ears flatten. “I’m not little.”

Jake crouches to his level. “You are to me.”

Lo’ak doesn’t like that answer, but he stores it away instead of arguing—already planning how to prove Jake wrong.

Back at the marui, Lo’ak clings to Jake’s leg like a vine.

“Daddy, come play with me!” he whines, wrapping his arms tight around Jake’s calf.

Jake sighs dramatically. “You’re gonna trip me, kid.”

Lo’ak laughs and tightens his grip. “Daddy! Daddy! Hear my hiss!”

He bares his teeth and lets out a sound that is meant to be threatening but instead comes out like a puppy whining through clenched gums.

Jake bursts out laughing. “That’s not a hiss,” he says. “That’s a squeak.”

Lo’ak gasps, offended. “No it’s not!”

But he laughs too, and then he’s hugging Jake’s leg again, face pressed into him, heartbeat fast and warm and alive. Lo’ak is always there.

Always watching. Always asking. Always trying.

Trying to prove himself. Trying to be brave. Trying to be included. Trying to be like Neteyam—even when he is nothing like him at all.

Jake looks down at his son, this wild, fearless little shadow, and feels something twist gently in his chest.

He ruffles Lo’ak’s hair. “Easy there, tiger,” he murmurs.

Lo’ak scrunches up his face, laughter already bubbling out of him..“Tiger!” he says, shaking his head. “That’s a silly name.”

Jake gasps, scandalized.

“Silly?” He scoops Lo’ak up in one smooth motion, fingers immediately digging into his sides. “Did you just call my planet silly?”

Lo’ak explodes into giggles, a sharp little squeak bursting out of him. “Daddy!” he shrieks, kicking his feet uselessly as Jake tickles him.

“You’re silly!” Jake insists. “I’m not silly!”

Lo’ak laughs so hard he can barely breathe, clutching at Jake’s shoulders, tail thrashing wildly. Jake pauses just long enough for him to gasp in air—

And then Lo’ak looks past him.

Kiri sits near the edge of the marui, carefully painting a small wooden ikran Neytiri carved earlier, tongue peeking out in concentration. Neteyam is beside her, tail flicking back and forth, watching—always watching—clearly wanting to join but holding himself still. Neytiri hums softly as she cuts their dinner, laughter already in her eyes as she watches the scene unfold.

Jake follows Lo’ak’s gaze, then turns deliberately toward Neteyam.

“Hey, son,” Jake says, lowering his voice like he’s sharing a secret. “Don’t you think Lo’ak’s silly?”

Neteyam looks at Lo’ak—red-faced, breathless, still laughing—and then nods solemnly.

“Yes,” he says.

Jake grins. “And what do silly ones get?”

Neteyam’s mouth twitches. Just a little.

Lo’ak’s eyes go wide.

“No—NO—” he squeaks as Jake sets him down.

Neteyam stands immediately.

Lo’ak bolts.

“NO! NO!” he yelps, sprinting across the marui with Neteyam suddenly right behind him, longer legs already gaining ground. “Mommy! Kiri! Save me!”

Neytiri laughs without looking up. “You called tigers silly, Lo’ak!”

“Because tigers don’t exist, Mommy!” Lo’ak protests, skidding around a support beam.

“They are a little silly,” Neytiri adds, amused.

Neteyam lunges.

Lo’ak trips over his own feet and goes down in a heap, shrieking with laughter before he even hits the ground.

“No! NO! I surrender!” he squeals.

Jake is on him in a second.

Neteyam drops down on the other side, and suddenly Lo’ak is trapped—pinned between his father and his big brother, both of them tickling mercilessly.

“NOOO—” Lo’ak howls, laughter tearing out of him in broken squeaks. “NETEYAM YOU’RE A TRAITOR—!”

Neteyam laughs—really laughs—bright and unguarded as he joins in, fingers digging into Lo’ak’s ribs.

“You said tigers were silly,” Neteyam says, grinning.

“STOP—STOP—I’M SORRY—!” Lo’ak cries, thrashing uselessly. “I LOVE TIGERS—!”

Kiri giggles from her corner, lifting her painted ikran out of harm’s way as the chaos rolls closer.

Jake looks up just in time to see Neytiri watching them, a wide grin on her face.

Slowly, deliberately, he crouches down next to her.

Neytiri’s eyes widen. “Ma’Jake,” she warns, laughter already breaking through. “Don’t you dare.”

Jake’s grin turns wicked. “Oh, I dare.”

He lunges.

Neytiri lets out a bright laugh, shaking her head. The sound draws all three children’s attention at once. Neteyam, Kiri, and Lo’ak exchange a look—quick, silent, perfectly conspiratorial.

They nod. And then all three of them lunge.

“Don’t attack Mommy, Daddy!” Lo’ak yells, shrill with excitement.

Jake barely has time to react before small bodies collide with him. He stumbles back a step, laughing, and reaches for Neytiri instinctively—hands sliding to her hips as he leans in like he’s about to bite her neck.

She squeals, laughing, and Jake instead presses a kiss to her cheek, then spins her once and kisses her lips with an exaggerated, loud—

“MWAH!”

The children recoil in unison.

“EWWW!” Lo’ak and Neteyam yell at the same time.

Jake laughs, triumphant.

Lo’ak and Neteyam immediately retaliate, leaping onto Jake’s back like feral little monkeys. Jake grunts theatrically, bending slightly so they don’t tumble off, reaching behind him to grab each of their legs and hold them steady.

“Hey—hey—no falling,” he says, still laughing. “I only have so many arms.”

Kiri tugs urgently at Neytiri’s arm. “Mommy! Look!”

She proudly holds up the wooden ikran, freshly painted, colors still slightly wet.

Neytiri’s smile softens instantly. “That’s beautiful, Kiri.”

Kiri beams, chest puffing with pride, then immediately reaches up with grabby hands. Neytiri scoops her up without hesitation, settling her on her hip.

Neteyam tilts his head, curiosity lighting his eyes. “Tigers,” he says thoughtfully. “From your planet? Is that real?”

Jake grins. “Very, very real.”

Lo’ak’s head snaps up. “Really?”

“You wanna see what star I’m from?” Jake asks.

“YES!” all three kids shout at once.

“Story time!” Lo’ak adds, tightening his grip around Jake’s neck.

Jake laughs, bending slightly to help Neteyam and Lo’ak slide down from his back, settling one boy into each arm with practiced ease.

“Okay,” he says, mock-serious. “But it has to be short. Your mom made a very nice dinner, and we don’t want it getting cold, yeah?”

“Yeah!” they all chorus, obedient for once.

Jake and Neytiri walk together into the forest, children tucked against them. They pass beneath glowing leaves, over a small creek, and up a gentle hill until the trees open into a quiet clearing.

Jake lowers himself to the grass and sits. Neytiri settles beside him, graceful and warm. Kiri slips from her mother’s arms and sprawls in the grass, staring up at the stars with reverent wonder. Neteyam shifts and Jake  carefully hands him off to his mate, the boy easing into Neytiri’s lap, leaning against her chest, already calm again.

Lo’ak doesn’t move.

He stays wrapped around Jake, arms locked tight around his neck, cheek pressed against his shoulder like he belongs there—like that is the only place he has ever wanted to be.

Jake adjusts his hold automatically, one arm firm around Lo’ak’s back.

Above them, the stars shimmer.

And Jake begins to tell a story about a blue planet, and animals with stripes, and a boy who once looked up at the same sky and dreamed of flying—

While his children listen, safe and whole, pressed close, the night breathing softly around them.

I came along

I wrote a song for you

And all the things you do

And it was called, "Yellow"

Footsteps sound behind them.

Jake barely registers them at first. His world has narrowed to the small, unmoving body beneath his children’s hands, to Neytiri’s cries, to the way Lo’ak does not breathe no matter how much love is pressed into him.

But the footsteps stop. And the air changes. And Jake turns.

Ronal stands at the edge of the gathering, a shallow bowl of healing paste cradled in her arms. Tonowari is beside her, tall and still, his expression grave. The glow from the village lights catches in Ronal’s eyes as she takes in the scene—the bodies knelt in a circle, the sobbing children, the blanket-covered boy at the center of it all.

Her gaze drops to Lo'ak. Her shoulders lower, just slightly.

“I thought the Great Mother had blessed you with a gift,” Ronal says quietly. “But I see my eyes were mistaken.”

Jake lurches to his feet.

“Please,” he says, the word tearing out of him raw and desperate. “Please—can you help him? Can you please help my son?”

Neytiri’s cries sharpen, her hands getting buried in Lo’ak’s hair. “My baby,” she sobs. “My baby…”

Ronal kneels slowly, setting the bowl aside. She places two fingers at Lo’ak’s neck, then presses her palm gently to his chest.

She looks up at Jake.

“I cannot save someone who has already passed,” she says.

The words land like a killing blow.

Jake shakes his head violently. “No—no—please—please just try. Please. You brought Kiri back, so please!"

Tonowari steps forward.

“JakeSully,” he says firmly. “Come.”

Jake doesn’t move. “I can’t,” he says hoarsely. “I can’t leave my family. I can’t—”

“Come,” Tonowari repeats, voice low but unyielding.

Jake’s ears pin flat against his head. For a moment, he looks like he might fight him. Then Neytiri’s sobs hitch, and Jake turns back to her. He cups her face, pressing his forehead to hers, breathing her in like oxygen.

"Strong heart. Strong heart."

She clutches at him, nails digging into his arms. Then he kisses her—soft, reverent, broken.

He straightens and looks one last time at his children.

Neteyam and Kiri move to cling to their mother, both shaking, both holding her as if anchoring her to the world. Tuk sobs openly now, arms wrapping around Spider’s waist as he holds her close, his own face streaked with tears.

Jake watches Ronal move toward Neteyam, the bowl of healing paste lifted again. She nods sadly to him, already shifting into healer’s focus, already choosing the life that can still be held.

Tonowari’s hand closes around Jake’s arm. And gently—but firmly—he pulls him away.

Jake lets himself be led, his gaze locked on the circle he is being torn from, on the son who will not wake, on the family he cannot hold all at once.

Jake walks with Tonowari until the village noise fades behind them.

They stop at the edge of a marui that overlooks the water, the platform extending out just enough that the ocean laps quietly beneath it. Tonowari gestures once.

“Sit.”

Jake does.

He lowers himself stiffly, then shifts so his legs hang over the edge, feet disappearing into the cool water below. It seeps into his skin, steady and patient, like it has all the time in the world.

Tonowari sits beside him.

For a long while, neither of them speaks.

The ocean sighs beneath their feet, waves breathing in and out, the sound low and endless. Jake stares at the water without really seeing it. His hands rest uselessly on his knees. He feels emptied out, scraped hollow.

Finally, Tonowari speaks.

“The sea gives,” he says, voice calm, even. “And the sea takes.”

Jake turns his head slowly.

This man—this leader—who welcomed them despite the danger, despite the sky people, despite the war that followed—does not look angry. Not at Jake. Not at his family. Not even at Eywa.

Jake swallows.

“What?” he asks quietly.

The words echo something familiar. A memory surfaces—Lo’ak and him, trapped in the sinking ship, exhausted and terrified and still refusing to let go.

Lo'ak had said that same thing to calm his heart rate.

Tonowari continues, gaze fixed on the horizon. “We do not fully understand how Eywa works. Why spirit trees in the water differ from those on land. Why some prayers are answered in ways that feel cruel.”

Jake’s jaw tightens.

“The water connects all things,” Tonowari says. “Life to death. Darkness to light. Eywa…” Tonowari goes on. “She heard Lo’ak.”

Jake turns fully now, something sharp and furious breaking through the numbness. “Heard him?” he repeats. “By taking my son?”

Tonowari does not flinch. “The sea gives and the sea takes,” he says again. “The sea took Neteyam… and gave you Spider. And Lo’ak,” Tonowari continues softly, “he let Eywa hear his prayer. Not as a reminder. Not as a saying.”

“As a prayer,” Jake murmurs.

Tonowari nods once. “Lo’ak offered himself,” he says. “He asked the sea to take him… and give Neteyam back.”

Jake stares out at the water again, hands curling into fists.

Lo’ak..His reckless, brave, hurting boy. His baby who clung and laughed and tried so desperately to be enough.

Jake stares out at the water, and a question begins to eat him alive.

Has he failed this badly as a father?

Failed so completely that Lo’ak did not know he was loved. Did not understand what love looks like when it is clumsy, and tired, and scared, and imperfect. Did not believe—truly believe—that his place in this family mattered.

Did Lo’ak really think everyone would be better off with Neteyam alive and himself gone?

The thought crushes his chest.

Did he really believe this wouldn’t destroy them? Wouldn’t destroy Jake?

A memory slams into him without warning.

Rocks. Blood. The ocean roaring too loud.

Neteyam lying still, the gunshot wound still bleeding, red soaking into blue skin. Jake remembers Lo’ak’s voice—small, desperate, breaking—saying he wanted to go with him. Wanted not to be alone.

And Jake....Jake hears himself say it again, clear as if it’s happening now. “You’ve done enough.”

His entire body flinches.

“No,” he whispers aloud, shaking his head violently. “No, no—”

He didn’t mean it like that. He never meant it like that. He hadn’t been looking at Lo’ak when he said it. He had been looking at himself.

At the boy he used to be—angry, reckless, convinced that leaving would fix everything. The boy who abandoned the sky people and told himself it was right, even as the consequences stacked up year after year after year.

He had spoken to that boy.

But Lo’ak didn’t know that.

Lo’ak heard his father tell him he was finished. That he was a burden. That he was the problem. That he brought shame to the family!

Jake’s breath comes shallow, uneven. He never got the chance to tell him otherwise. Never got the chance to say: You are not your mistakes. You are not the chaos. You are not less than your brother.

Never got the chance to say: I love you. You are enough.

Now he never will.

“Oh God,” Jake whispers, the words barely sound. “Oh God, my boy…”

His stomach twists violently, grief turning physical, poisonous. He barely has time to lean forward before bile burns up his throat and he retches into the water. Again. And again. And again.

The ocean accepts it without judgment.

His hands shake where they brace against the edge. His chest heaves, tears blurring his vision until the world is nothing but water and light and unbearable regret.

His son thought he wasn’t loved. His son didn’t feel loved. And so he sacrificed himself.

No—worse—

He killed himself believing that giving up his life would make his family happier. That bringing Neteyam back would fix what he thought he had broken.

Jake squeezes his eyes shut, a sob tearing out of him at last.

Lo’ak—his wild, defiant, endlessly loving boy. So much like him it hurts. So full of love he didn’t know where to put it. Died believing his absence would be a gift.

Jake presses his fist to his mouth, shoulders shaking, the realization settling into him like a wound that will never close.

His baby boy didn’t need to be braver. Didn’t need to be quieter. Didn’t need to be less.

He just needed to know he was loved. And Jake never got to say it loud enough.

Tonowari’s voice is low when he speaks again.

“I am sorry, brother,” he says. “But there is nothing that can be done now. Eywa has heard his prayer. The balance has been restored.”

Jake’s head snaps up. “No,” he says immediately. Too fast. Too sharp. “No.”

Tonowari continues, steady and unyielding. “Lo’ak’s body must be returned to the ocean.”

Jake shakes his head violently, the motion almost frantic. “No, no, no,” he breathes. “I can’t—”

The words catch in his throat. He has done this before.

Washing Neteyam’s body, hands trembling as he cleaned blood from blue skin that should have been warm. Searching for the final bead for his songcord, fingers clumsy with grief. He remembers the ritual—the words spoken, the acceptance of death, the moment they let their son slip from their hands and return to Eywa.

“I can’t do that again,” Jake says hoarsely. “I can’t. I can’t let go of another child.”

Tonowari watches him, eyes full of sorrow but no hesitation. “You must,” he says. “He deserves to be with Eywa.”

“No,” he whispers. “I can’t… please.”

He scrambles for something—anything—to hold onto. “This has happened before,” he says suddenly. “Hasn’t it?"

Tonowari nods once. “Very rare.”

“When it’s happened,” Jake presses, desperation bleeding through every word, “has there ever been a way to reverse it?”

Tonowari’s gaze does not waver.

“Jake,” he says gently, firmly. “A prayer has been answered. When a prayer is answered, it cannot be taken back.”

Something in Jake snaps. “So I just have to accept that my son killed himself?” he spits, the words raw and ugly and full of pain.

Tonowari hisses sharply, the sound cutting through the air.

“To question Eywa,” he says, voice hard now, “is to think like the sky people. Do not question her choices.”

Jake recoils, but Tonowari does not soften.

“You have a son who is bleeding,” Tonowari continues. “A son who has been returned because Eywa saw fit for him to return. He needs rest. He needs answers.”

Jake stares at him, hollow.

“And your mate,” Tonowari finishes quietly. “She needs you.”

The words land heavier than any accusation.

Jake looks back toward the village—toward the marui where Neytiri is breaking beside Lo’ak’s body, where Neteyam is alive and hurting and confused, where his family is waiting for him to be strong enough to come back.

He presses his hand to his chest, as if trying to keep his heart from tearing itself free.

Two truths sit inside him now, unbearable and unmoving: He cannot save Lo’ak. And he cannot abandon the ones still breathing.

Tonowari places a broad, steady hand on Jake’s back. The gesture is brief, heavy with understanding, and then it is gone.

He straightens slowly. “Now,” he says, voice gentle but resolute, “I must inform my daughter of Lo’ak’s passing.”

Jake flinches at the words, his shoulders tightening.

“And you,” Tonowari continues, “should return to your family.”

Jake shakes his head, the motion small and disbelieving. “There’s nothing we can do?” he asks again, clinging to the question like driftwood. “These rare instances—they—”

Tonowari turns back to him.

“To sacrifice yourself for another is not the Na’vi way, JakeSully,” he says.

The words are not cruel. They are not angry. They are simply true.

“The Na’vi way is to accept death,” Tonowari continues, “even through the darkness. Because it was decided by Eywa that her child return to her at that time. To try and sacrifice someone who has already sacrificed,” Tonowari says, “would be the greatest sin to our people.”

Jake swallows, eyes burning.

“Lo’ak questioned Eywa,” Tonowari goes on, softer now, “but she was kind enough to listen to his prayer and find balance regardless.”

He gestures toward the ocean, endless and patient.

“Now you must go. I will not let your family suffer more by having you gone,” Tonowari says firmly. “Your oldest son is lucky to still be alive—with the blood loss, with the strain his body endured from being dead for so long.”

The word dead lands hard, but Tonowari does not shy from it.

“He needs rest,” he finishes. “And he needs his father.”

Tonowari steps back, already turning away, duty pulling him onward.

“I will tell the clan that the bathing waters must be empty tonight,” he adds. “So you may mourn. So you may wash him. We will let him return to Eywa tomorrow,” Tonowari says quietly. “After eclipse.”

And then, with one final nod, he leaves.

Jake remains seated, feet still in the water, the ocean moving beneath him as it always has—giving, taking, breathing on.

He presses his hands into his knees and forces himself to stand.

There is nothing left here for him to argue with.

So then I took my turn

Oh, what a thing to have done

And it was all yellow

Through Neytiri’s first pregnancy, Neteyam is a gentle presence.

He does not kick much. Does not twist or tumble restlessly beneath her skin.

He seems content—perfectly satisfied with the warmth of her body, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, the nourishment she gives without hesitation. Neytiri often laughs quietly, one hand resting on her stomach, marveling at how calm her first child already is.

“He is peaceful,” she says once, smiling at Jake. “Like he listens.”

And when Neteyam is born, it feels like proof of that.

There are no great complications, no panic—unless one counts how quiet he is. He slips into the world with soft sniffles, blinking curious eyes, a small giddy smile forming as if he is simply pleased to finally see what he has been listening to all this time.

Jake remembers holding him and thinking, oh.
This is what it feels like. This is what peace looks like in a body so small.

Their second pregnancy is nothing like that.

From the beginning, this baby makes himself known.

Neytiri grows sick in the mornings, sometimes retching with her head bowed while Jake rubs slow circles into her back. She laughs it off when she can, but there are days she looks exhausted, one hand pressed to her belly as if bargaining with the little life inside.

The baby moves constantly.

Kicks. Rolls. Stretches like he is testing the limits of the world holding him.

“He is impatient,” Neytiri mutters fondly, though there is strain beneath it. “Always moving. Always wanting.”

Jake feels him too—through her skin, through the bond of shared touch. This child does not settle easily. He seems restless even in safety, as if the warmth is not enough, as if the world outside is calling him already.

And then—too early—he wants out.

Five weeks before he is due, Neytiri wakes with pain sharp enough to steal her breath. Jake’s heart pounds as he kneels beside her, gripping her hand, whispering reassurances he barely believes himself.

“This is too soon,” he keeps saying. “It’s too soon.”

But the baby does not listen.

He fights his way into the world with fury and desperation, as if he has been clawing toward it from the moment he existed. When he finally arrives, his cries are loud and raw, filling the marui with sound and breath and life.

Jake holds him with shaking hands. This one is warm and furious and very much alive.

This one clings instinctively, fingers gripping too tightly, breath hitching like he is already afraid of being left behind. His eyes open wide, bright and searching, as if he is looking for something he hasn’t lost yet but already fears he might.

Neytiri exhales weakly, tears slipping down her temples as she looks at him.

“He is strong,” she whispers.

Jake exhales a shaky laugh, still staring down at the tiny, furious miracle in his arms.

“He is,” he says softly. “He’s… he’s perfect.”

The words feel too small for what’s blooming in his chest, but they’re all he has.

The baby’s cries begin to taper off, the sharp outrage of birth fading into softer sounds. Little huffs of air puff out of him, uneven and breathy, like he’s catching up after the audacity of arriving too early. His chest rises and falls too fast, then slowly—slowly—settles. He studies every inch of him as if committing it all to memory right now, afraid the moment will slip away if he blinks.

Five fingers. Human eyebrows. A face that is unmistakably his.

Something tightens behind Jake’s ribs.

Neytiri sees it immediately. She smiles, tired but radiant, eyes warm as she reaches out to brush a finger along the baby’s cheek. “He looks like you,” she says, voice gentle, almost teasing.

Jake huffs out a breath, glancing from the baby back to her. “Still think he’s perfect then?” he asks quietly. “If he looks like me?” His mouth quirks, but there’s uncertainty beneath it. “Who knows if his personality’s gonna match mine.”

The baby makes a small sound at that, a soft snort, fingers flexing as if already ready to argue.

Neytiri doesn’t hesitate.

“Then he is perfect all the same,” she says.

There is no doubt in her voice. No pause. No condition.

Jake looks at her, really looks at her—at the way she says it like it’s as obvious as the sky, as undeniable as Eywa herself. Then he looks back down at their son.

At the baby who fought his way into the world early.
Who screams and clings and breathes like he’s terrified of being left behind. Who already looks like trouble and fire and love wrapped up in something impossibly small.

Jake swallows hard.

“Hey,” he murmurs to him, lowering his forehead until it almost touches the baby’s. “Guess that settles it, huh?”

The baby lets out another little puff of air, eyes fluttering closed for the first time. And Jake—soldier, leader, warrior—feels something in him soften completely.

He leans down and presses a gentle kiss to Neytiri’s lips, lingering there for a heartbeat longer than necessary, like he’s grounding himself in her warmth.

“Here,” he murmurs, carefully shifting Lo’ak in his arms. “Hold him.”

Neytiri blinks up at him, a flicker of concern crossing her face. “Ma’Jake?”

He smiles softly, brushing his thumb along her cheek. “Nothing’s wrong, love. You just…” His voice drops, thick with emotion. “You’ve got a very strong heart, baby. And I’m so proud of you.”

Her lips curve into a tired smile, eyes shining. “I am tired,” she admits, the words almost a sigh.

Jake lets out a quiet giggle. “Yeah?” he teases gently. “Don’t even look it.”

She snaps at him playfully, a weak swat at his arm, but the moment melts into something softer as her gaze drops to the bundle now resting against her chest.

Lo’ak.

Her expression changes completely—wonder, awe, fierce love all folding together as she studies his tiny face. She inhales slowly, steadying herself, preparing to form Tsaheylu, her queue already shifting with instinct.

“While I do this,” she says quietly, “could you bring Neteyam and Kiri?” Her voice softens. “I’m sure they want to meet their baby brother.”

Jake nods, heart full.

He turns to Mo’at, who has been silent since the birth, watching with that calm, knowing presence of hers. She meets his gaze and inclines her head.

“Go, son,” Mo’at says. “I promise—they will be okay.”

Relief loosens something in Jake’s chest.

He leans down, presses a quick kiss to Neytiri’s cheek, then gently smooths his finger between Lo’ak’s tiny brows, easing the faint frown there like it’s his sole responsibility to do so.

“Be right back, little man,” Jake murmurs.

From the very beginning, Lo’ak is exactly who he is meant to be.

Your skin, oh yeah, your skin, and bones

Turn into something beautiful

And you know, you know I love you so

You know I love you so

When Jake makes it back to the marui, Ronal is gone and Lo’ak has been moved inside.

Jake’s breath catches at the sight of him.

His youngest son lies carefully arranged near the center of the marui, his body stretched out on Neteyam’s rolled-up mat, as if even now his big brother is being used as a place of safety. A blanket has been pulled up to Lo’ak’s chest. His head is turned slightly to the side, lashes resting against his cheeks, mouth slack in sleep that will never end.

He looks peaceful.

That somehow makes it worse.

Tuk is curled into Neteyam’s arms, small fingers fisted, her face pressed against his chest like she’s afraid if she lets go he’ll disappear again. Neteyam sits propped against the wall, bandages visible beneath the dim light, his breathing shallow but steady.

Spider kneels beside him, fingers careful as he spreads healing paste across Neteyam’s back, jaw clenched with concentration that doesn’t quite hide how red his eyes are.

Jake stops just inside the entrance.

For a moment, he can’t make himself move.

Spider looks up first. “Neytiri and Kiri went to the baths,” he says quietly. “They’re getting a fire going. Making sure the water’s warm.”

Jake nods once. He doesn’t trust his voice.

His eyes move back to his children.

To Lo’ak.

To Neteyam.

To Tuk.

Neteyam’s gaze is locked on his little brother, unblinking. Not crying. Not moving. Just staring, like if he looks away for even a second Lo’ak might vanish entirely—or worse, this will all become real.

His eyes look… distant. Too far away.

Jake takes a step closer, then another, boots soft against the woven floor. He lowers himself beside them slowly, careful not to jostle Neteyam or wake Tuk.

“Hey,” he murmurs, pitching his voice low. “Champ.”

Neteyam doesn’t respond. His arms tighten reflexively around Tuk when she shifts in her sleep, but his eyes never leave Lo’ak.

Jake swallows.

“Spider,” he says gently, not looking away from his sons. “You’ve done enough, kid.”

Spider hesitates. “I can stay—”

“I know,” Jake says quietly. “But could you please?"

Spider nods after a moment, carefully setting the bowl aside. He squeezes Neteyam’s shoulder once—gentle, respectful—then stands and slips out without another word.

Jake shifts closer.

He reaches out, resting his hand on Neteyam’s knee, grounding himself in the solid reality of him. Alive. Warm. Here.

Neteyam finally blinks.

“Dad,” he says, voice flat and far away. “He’s cold."

Jake’s heart tightens painfully in his chest.

“But he’s got a blanket, son,” he says gently, reaching out to tug it just a little higher over Lo’ak’s shoulders. “He won’t be cold. You did right by keeping him tucked in.”

Neteyam shakes his head, slow and small.

“No,” he says, voice barely above a breath. “You don’t understand.” He swallows. “He’s cold. Like his body. Physically.”

Jake stills.

He watches Neteyam’s ears pin flat against his head, the way they do when he’s fighting not to cry, when he’s holding something too big inside himself because that’s what he’s always done. Always watched. Always protected.

“Oh, son,” Jake murmurs.

He reaches for the bowl of paste Spider left behind and dips his fingers into it. Carefully, reverently, he smooths it over the shallow scratches on Neteyam’s skin, then presses some gently into the edge of the bandage so it can seep deeper, slow and steady.

Neteyam watches him, eyes unfocused.

“I don’t understand it,” he says.

Jake pauses. “Hmm?”

Neteyam’s voice trembles, just slightly. “I don’t remember anything after the sky people tried to track Payakan. I don’t remember… anything.” His brow furrows in confusion, fear creeping in. “I don’t understand why or how I got shot. Norm keeps telling Mom how to clean the wound, but I don’t know how it happened. I don’t understand how I was there—and then suddenly here.”

His gaze flicks to Lo’ak.

“And now Lo’ak is gone.”

The words fracture.

“What happened?” Neteyam whispers. “Why wasn’t I allowed to protect him? To watch over him?” His voice cracks at last. “What did I do wrong, Dad? What did I do to disappoint you?”

Jake’s breath leaves him in a shudder.

He sets the bowl aside and shifts closer, careful of Neteyam’s wound, then reaches up and cups his son’s face with both hands. His thumbs brush under Neteyam’s eyes, grounding him, holding him here.

“No,” Jake says immediately. “No, buddy. Stop.”

Neteyam blinks, startled.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Jake continues, voice firm now, steady in a way it hasn’t been all night. “You didn’t fail him. You didn’t disappoint me. Ever.”

Neteyam’s lip trembles. “But I—”

“You protected your brother,” Jake cuts in softly. “You always did. From the day he was born. You did exactly what you were supposed to do, son. You loved him.”

Jake leans down and presses a soft kiss to Tuk’s forehead, careful not to wake her. She shifts just slightly, trusting, and settles back against Neteyam’s chest.

Then Jake looks at his son.

“Neteyam,” he says quietly. “I am not disappointed in you. I am proud of you. I promise you that.”

Neteyam swallows, eyes glassy but steady. “It still doesn’t explain anything.”

Jake nods. “You’re right. It doesn’t.”

He exhales slowly, the breath heavy, like he’s choosing every word from a field of broken glass.

“You got shot trying to protect Lo’ak and Spider,” Jake says. “Spider was still on the ship. Lo’ak wouldn’t leave him behind. And you…” His voice cracks, just a little. “You went with him. You were helping them escape when it happened.”

Neteyam’s ears fall flatter against his head.

“Was it bad?” he asks.

Jake hesitates—then nods once.

“Yes, son.”

Neteyam’s fingers curl instinctively into Tuk’s hair.

“You… you were with Eywa,” Jake says softly.

Neteyam’s eyes widen. His tail swishes, sharp and startled.

“What?” His voice drops. “I—I died?” He shakes his head slowly. “I don’t remember anything.”

“I know,” Jake says quickly. “And I’m glad you don’t. I really am.” He swallows. “But you did. That’s why, when you woke up tonight, you were in the water. You were risen from the Cove of the Ancestors.”

Neteyam’s breath stutters.

Then he looks at Lo’ak.

His voice breaks. “Is that how Lo’ak died?” he whispers. “He drowned trying to get me to the surface?”

Jake’s tail swishes once, restless, pained. “Neteyam—”

But Neteyam isn’t looking at him anymore.

His eyes move between Jake and Lo’ak, back and forth, like pieces sliding into place whether he wants them to or not. His brow furrows. His breath goes shallow.

“Oh,” he says.

The word is quiet. Devastating.

Jake frowns, wishing—aching—to know what his son is thinking. “Do you… do you understand?” he asks carefully.

Neteyam nods slowly.

“He always wanted to be like me,” he says, voice distant. “Protect our siblings. Be the shield.” His jaw tightens. “I didn’t…”

He stops. Then exhales, a hollow sound.

“Makes sense,” he says softly.

Jake’s chest tightens painfully. “Do you get it?” he asks again, needing to hear it.

Neteyam finally looks up at him. His eyes are clearer now—hurting, but sharp.

“Lo’ak switched places with me,” he says. “Somehow.” His gaze drops to the bandage on his chest. “That’s why I still have the bullet wound. And he’s…” His voice trails off as his eyes return to Lo’ak’s still form.

Jake nods, tears burning behind his eyes. “I’m so sorry, son.”

He leans forward, resting his forehead briefly against Neteyam’s.

“I should’ve protected you,” Jake says. “And Lo’ak. And this whole family. I should have seen it sooner. I should’ve said things better. I should’ve—” His voice breaks completely now. “I failed. I failed you as a father. And I’m so sorry.”

Neteyam looks up at him then, really looks at him—and the question in his eyes is sharp enough to cut.

“Why didn’t you stop him?” he asks. His voice isn’t angry. It’s worse than that. It’s raw. “Why… why weren’t you there? He was probably so upset and you didn’t—” His breath catches. “Why didn’t you check on him? Or—” His voice cracks. “Why didn’t you stop him?”

Jake’s ears pin flat against his head.

Because isn’t that the question.

The one that circles endlessly, that has no clean edge, no place to grab onto without bleeding.

Why didn’t he stop him?

I swam across

I jumped across for you

Oh, what a thing to do

'Cause you were all yellow

Lo’ak is the next one up for his Iknimaya.

Jake feels it hit him all at once—pride, sharp and swelling, tangled up with something quieter and heavier. Sadness, maybe. Or just the ache of time moving forward whether he’s ready or not.

His babies are growing up.

Neteyam completed his last year, steady and sure, exactly as Jake knew he would. Kiri didn’t even need to risk herself—the ikran found her, descending from the sky like it had been waiting all along, like Eywa herself had pointed and said this one.

And Tuk—sweet little Tuk—is still a baby, forever a baby in Jake’s eyes, clinging and laughing and blissfully untouched by rites and danger.

But Lo’ak—

Lo’ak is standing at the edge of the cliff now.

Jake clears his throat. “Lo’ak, remember—”

“Yeah, yeah!” Lo’ak calls back without even looking. “Aim for the mouth, get on its back, make the bond quick!”

Jake frowns. “Lo’ak, this is serious.”

Lo’ak finally glances back, grinning, eyes bright and fearless. “Dad. I’ve got this.”

Jake exhales slowly and turns toward his family and the other clan boys waiting their turn, trying not to show how tightly his chest feels wound.

His foot slips—just barely—scraping against the edge of the cliff.

Jake’s heart leaps into his throat. “Lo’ak—”

Neytiri’s hand settles on his shoulder, warm and grounding. She shakes her head once, calm and steady, trusting where Jake struggles to.

Jake sighs, closing his eyes briefly, and sends a quiet prayer skyward. Eywa, please. Watch over my son. Give him a kind ikran. One that won’t hurt him.

Above them, wings beat.

A red-and-green ikran swoops low, screeching sharply. It snaps its jaws at Lo’ak, aggressive and impatient. Lo’ak lets out a hiss—well, something close to one—and the ikran veers off, offended.

Jake releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

Not that one, he thinks. Definitely not that one.

Another ikran lands.

Blue and purple, larger, heavier. It snaps at Lo’ak again. And again. Lo’ak freezes for half a second—then turns his head towards Neteyam. Always Neteyam. Neteyam meets his eyes and nods, calm and certain, as if to say you’ve got this.

Lo’ak turns back to the ikran, squares his shoulders, and hisses again—louder this time. “Let’s brawl, buddy.”

Jake bites back a smirk.

Yeah, he thinks fondly. That’s my kid.

He glances at Neytiri, who has buried her face in her palm in pure exasperation. Jake laughs under his breath.

Nearby, Kiri and Spider are visibly fighting their giggles, shoulders shaking. Neteyam rocks on the balls of his feet, anxious energy radiating off him as he watches every move his brother makes.

The ikran screeches.

Lo’ak lunges and his rope whistles through the air.

It strikes the ikran’s jaw hard—clean, solid—and for a split second Jake’s heart lifts. Lo’ak uses the momentum instantly, twisting his wrist, trying to guide the loop toward the creature’s mouth the way he was taught.

But the ikran jerks back with a furious hiss, wings flaring wide.

Lo’ak hisses back, feral and defiant.

Jake’s eyes track everything at once—Lo’ak’s footing, the angle of the cliff, the ikran’s head, its talons scraping stone. Too fast. Too close. Too much motion.

“Slow—” Jake breathes, barely louder than the wind.

Lo’ak doesn’t hear him.

He swings his arms, trying to wrap around the ikran’s neck, but the creature snaps sideways, snarling. Its movements are sharp, reactive, nothing like the gentler ikran Jake had prayed for.

And Lo’ak—

Lo’ak doesn’t wait.

He lunges again. His inpatient baby.

At the exact same moment, the ikran surges forward.

Everything happens at once.

The ikran snaps, jaws closing around Lo’ak’s leg with brutal precision. Lo’ak cries out—a sharp, startled sound that cuts straight through Jake’s chest—but he doesn’t let go. His hands clamp down, fingers digging in, body slamming against the ikran’s side as he scrambles desperately for its back.

“LO’AK!” Jake roars.

The ikran screeches, wings beating violently as it lifts off the ledge.

Lo’ak hangs on.

“Make the bond, Lo’ak!” Jake shouts, voice torn raw by the wind. “Make the bond!”

Lo’ak tries. He really does.

He shifts his weight, teeth clenched so hard his jaw aches, but the moment he puts pressure on his injured leg a sharp, blinding pain shoots through him. His breath stutters. His grip falters just enough to matter.

He doesn’t have the leverage.

The ikran won’t settle.

Its wings beat hard and frantic, lifting them higher, then dropping them in a violent buck. Lo’ak scrambles, fingers slipping against slick hide, blood smearing where his leg presses uselessly against the beast’s side.

“Come on,” Lo’ak gasps under his breath. “Come on—”

The ikran twists suddenly, powerful neck snapping back as it rears.

Its head slams into Lo’ak’s.

The impact is brutal.

Lo’ak’s vision bursts white, stars exploding behind his eyes. His teeth clack together and he cries out, sound ripped from him as his grip loosens.

The ikran surges toward the edge.

Not away—toward it.

Jake sees it a split second too late, the way its wings angle, the way its talons scrape uselessly at stone as it tries to rid itself of the weight clinging to its back.

“No—” Jake breathes.

Lo’ak is delirious now. Shock-blind. His injured leg won’t hold, his hands slip, and there is nothing—nothing—left for him to grab.

Time stretches, cruel and slow.

Jake watches his son lose purchase.

Watches the ikran lurch.

Watches blue skin and beating wings tip past the cliff’s edge.

And then—

They’re gone.

The world drops out from under Jake’s feet.

“LO’AK!”

Neytiri’s scream rips through the air, raw and animal, echoing off stone and sky. “LO’AK! LO’AK!”

Jake can’t breathe. His heart is in freefall right along with them.

Neteyam is already moving. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t think. He doesn’t care that the nearby ikran hiss and flare their wings as he barrels through their space. He shoves past them, eyes wild, voice breaking as he reaches the edge.

“Dad!” Neteyam yells, panic sharp and piercing. “Quick—quickly!”

Jake’s body finally remembers how to move.

He’s running before his mind catches up, feet skidding on stone, heart slamming so hard it hurts. He reaches the edge just in time to see—

Lo’ak lies crumpled on a narrow ledge below, one leg twisted wrong, blood dark and wet against blue skin.

Unmoving.

Jake doesn’t wait for his mind to catch up—his body is already climbing, fingers digging into stone, heart pounding so hard it drowns out everything else. Neytiri is ahead of him, faster, reckless with fear, already calling out broken, desperate sounds.

When they reach the ledge, Jake throws a hand out instinctively.

“Don’t move him yet,” he says, breathless, sharp with command even as his hands shake. “His back—his spine—just—don’t move him.”

Neytiri drops to her knees anyway, hands trembling as they hover, unsure where to touch. “Oh my baby,” she sobs. “My baby.” She leans down and presses her mouth to Lo’ak’s forehead, kissing through blood and dirt and tears. “Please… please…”

Jake kneels beside them, movements careful now, clinical, forced. He places his hand flat against Lo’ak’s sternum, fingers spread, feeling for rise and fall—slow, uneven, but there. He shifts slightly, tracing along the line of bone, checking alignment the only way he knows how.

Nothing feels wrong. Nothing feels off.

He exhales shakily and looks up at Neytiri. “I don’t feel anything displaced.”

She nods, swallowing hard, and gently—so gently—rolls Lo’ak onto his side. Jake’s hand follows, sliding along his back, pressing carefully down the length of his spine.

No breaks.

No sharp edges.

Relief hits him so hard his vision blurs.

Above them, voices spill over the ledge.

“Is he okay?!” Kiri calls, panic high and thin.

“Lo’ak?!” Tuk cries. “Lo’ak?! What happened to bubba?!”

Neteyam is already crouching, lifting Tuk into his arms, his eyes wide and locked on his brother below. Spider moves to Kiri’s side, gripping her hand like an anchor.

“Is he breathing?!” Neteyam shouts. “He’s breathing, right?!”

Jake looks up. “He’s breathing, son,” he says firmly. “He’s just beat up.”

Neteyam swallows, shoulders tight. “Then let me—”

“Hey.” Jake keeps his voice steady. “I need you to take Tuk and Kiri and Spider home, okay? I want Norm to do a scan when we bring him back. Just to be sure.”

Neteyam hesitates, every instinct screaming to stay.

“But Dad—”

“We’ll bring him home,” Jake says, meeting his eyes. “I promise.”

Neteyam holds his gaze for a long second—then nods, reluctantly. He turns, gathering his siblings, guiding them away with a protector’s care that feels too big for his age.

Jake turns back just as Neytiri breaks completely.

“Wakey, Lo’ak,” she sobs, brushing blood-matted hair from his face. “Please… just wake up…”

Her voice cracks, and something in it—something raw and pleading—cuts through.

Lo’ak blinks.

Once.

Twice.

Then his eyes open, unfocused and glassy, before he sucks in a sharp breath and starts to cry—hard, broken sobs tearing out of him like he’s been holding them back for years.

Jake moves instantly, hands sliding to Lo’ak’s arms, steadying him as his son curls in on himself, shaking.

“I failed,” Lo’ak cries, over and over, words tumbling out between sobs. “I failed, I failed, I failed—”

Neytiri presses her forehead to his, crying with him, murmuring his name like a prayer.

Lo’ak clings to him, sobbing, pain and shame and fear spilling out all at once.

And Jake holds him—holds him like he’s afraid the sky might try to take him again—knowing even then that this moment, too, will come back to haunt him.

I drew a line

I drew a line for you

Oh, what a thing to do

And it was all yellow

Jake carries Lo’ak toward the washing baths, and dread coils tighter around his ribs with every step.

This place remembers him.

Two weeks ago—the path had felt exactly the same beneath his feet. The same quiet. The same weight in his arms. Only then it was Neteyam. His firstborn. Limp and cooling, blood soaking into Jake’s skin as he carried him here for the last time.

The ritual had been the same.

The water had not.

With Neteyam, the baths turned red almost immediately. Shockingly fast. Blood blooming outward in the clear water like something alive, like something that refused to stay contained. Jake remembers scrubbing gently, reverently, trying to clean gunpowder from his son’s eyelashes, trying to wash away dirt and debris and the violence of the world that had taken him.

Trying to understand how a body could still look like his boy while being so undeniably empty.

He remembers memorizing everything. Freckles. Old scars. The slope of Neteyam’s jaw beneath his fingers.

Those last moments had been private. Sacred. A desperate attempt to anchor himself to something real before returning his son to Eywa.

Now—

Now he walks the same path with Lo’ak in his arms.

Lo’ak is lighter than Neteyam was. Or maybe Jake just feels weaker now. His grip tightens unconsciously, arms locking around his youngest son like the world might try to steal him away again if he loosens even a fraction.

Neytiri meets him at the baths, eyes already watery, face drawn and hollow. When she sees Lo’ak, her breath stutters, hand flying to her mouth.

The water laps quietly at the stone, steam curling upward as the fire beneath keeps it warm. The scent of herbs hangs in the air—meant for healing, meant for peace.

Jake hates it.

He lowers Lo’ak carefully, painfully aware of how familiar this motion feels. His hands shake as he steadies his son, as if his body remembers what comes next and is already rebelling against it.

But this time—

This time, there is no gunshot wound.

No tearing hole. No violence done by another’s hand.

Lo’ak isn’t broken by war. Lo’ak isn’t taken by accident or cruelty or fate. Lo’ak chose this.

The thought hits Jake like a physical blow.

He swallows hard, vision blurring as he looks down at his son’s face—too peaceful, too still, lashes resting softly against his cheeks like he’s sleeping after a long, exhausting day.

Lo’ak wasn’t shot.

He wasn’t stolen.

He wasn’t ripped away before his time by someone else’s greed or hatred.

Lo’ak wanted to die.

Jake’s chest caves inward, breath catching painfully as the realization settles fully, horribly, into place.

His baby boy had looked at the world—at his family, at himself—and decided the balance would be better without him in it.

Jake turns toward his mate.

Neytiri stands at the edge of the baths, the shell cupped in her hands, water trembling inside it. She doesn’t move. She just stares at their son, her gaze distant and fractured, like she’s looking at something she can’t make sense of no matter how long she studies it.

As if Lo’ak’s body is a question without an answer.

Jake steps closer, slow, careful, reaching for her the way he always does when the world tilts too far.

“Neytiri—”

She hisses sharply, the sound raw and instinctive, and jerks away from him like his touch burns.

“He was hurting,” she says, voice shaking. “He was hurting.”

“I know,” Jake says quietly. “I know—”

“No!” Her voice cracks, loud and broken, echoing off stone and water. “You don’t know. You didn’t know.”

Her hands tighten around the shell until her knuckles whiten.

“He was hurting,” she repeats, words tumbling out faster now, unraveling. “And we comforted Tuk—we let her sleep between us when she cried. We comforted Kiri—we let her keep Neteyam’s things, let her hold his scent, his memory.”

Her breath stutters.

“But Lo’ak…” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Lo’ak slept far away.”

Jake’s chest tightens.

“He never ate,” Neytiri says. “He never came to the Cove of the Ancestors. He never asked for comfort.” Her eyes finally lift to Jake, wild and accusing—not at him, but at herself. “And we saw him hurting. We saw it. And we did nothing.”

She shakes her head violently, tears spilling freely now.

“He would disappear,” she sobs. “He would come back quiet. He would sit alone. And we told ourselves he was strong. That he needed space. That he would come to us when he was ready. And now he is gone.”

The shell slips from her fingers, splashing softly into the bath, water rippling outward in gentle circles that feel cruel in their calm.

Jake closes the distance between them and this time he doesn’t stop when she recoils. He pulls her into his chest, holding her as she claws at his arms, fists beating weakly against him like she’s trying to undo the past with sheer force.

“I should have known,” she cries into him. “I should have gone to him. I should have held him. I am his mother—how did I not know?”

Jake wraps her tighter, chin resting against the crown of her head, his own tears finally falling.

“We missed it,” he whispers. “We missed it together.”

Neytiri’s sobs tear through her body, grief loud and uncontained. “He thought he was alone,” she says, voice breaking on every word. “He thought no one saw him.”

Jake squeezes his eyes shut.

“I know,” he murmurs. “I know.”

Neytiri pulls back just enough to look at him, eyes blazing through tears.

“How could we not have seen it?” she cries. “How could we not have seen him?”

The question tears through the space between them, ricocheting off stone and water and memory.

Jake’s throat closes.

“I’m sorry,” he says, the words instinctive, reflexive—too small for the ruin they’re standing in.

Neytiri lets out a broken, bitter sound. “Bah,” she snaps. “Sky people and their apologies. Always sorry. Always too late.” Her hands tremble as she gestures helplessly toward Lo’ak’s still body. “It does not make sense. Words do nothing.”

Jake flinches, but he doesn’t argue. He swallows hard, forcing himself to keep speaking even as his chest caves inward.

“But I am,” he says again, voice rougher now. “I am sorry.”

She turns away from him, shaking her head.

“No,” Jake continues, stepping forward despite himself. “You don’t understand. I’m not saying it to make this better. I’m saying it because it’s the truth.”

Neytiri stills.

“I am part of the reason he is gone,” he says quietly. “Maybe… maybe the main reason.”

Neytiri whirls on him. “Do not say that.”

“I have to,” Jake replies. His voice breaks, but he doesn’t stop. “I taught him how to fight. How to be reckless. How to believe that throwing yourself into danger is how you protect the people you love.”

His breath shudders.

“He looked at me,” Jake says. “And he saw someone who kept moving forward no matter the cost. Someone who always chose sacrifice and called it strength.”

Jake’s eyes flick to Lo’ak.

“And he wanted to be like me. I should have taught him how to stop,” Jake whispers. “How to ask for help. How to believe that his life mattered just as much as anyone else’s.”

Neytiri’s anger wavers, cracks under the weight of his confession.

“I told him to be better,” Jake says. “To be careful. To think. And every time he failed, I corrected him instead of holding him.” His voice drops to a whisper. “I thought discipline was love.”

His shoulders slump.

“And he learned,” Jake says. “Just not what I wanted him to.”

“He was our son,” she says. “All of him.”

Jake nods, tears slipping freely now. “I know.”

She steps toward Lo’ak again, collapsing beside him, hands shaking as they hover over his chest like she’s afraid to touch and afraid not to.

Jake sinks down beside her.

“I would give anything,” he whispers. “Anything—to take back the way I spoke to him. To tell him he didn’t need to earn his place. That he was enough just by breathing.”

Neytiri presses her forehead to Lo’ak’s, sobbing quietly now, grief turning inward, heavy and aching.

“He thought dying would fix us,” she whispers. “What kind of pain makes a child believe that?”

Jake closes his eyes.

The question eats at him from the inside.

What kind of pain was his child feeling that he didn’t see? Didn’t hear. Didn’t stop.

Lo’ak was hurting. Neytiri was hurting. Their entire family was hurting—and somehow, somehow, Jake missed the sharpest wound of all.

How?

He’s his father.

How did he not see something so simple, so devastatingly obvious—that his son needed attention, needed reassurance, needed love spoken out loud and often?

“I don’t know,” Jake says finally, voice hoarse. It feels like a confession and a failure wrapped into one.

Neytiri doesn’t answer him. Her hands trembling as they smooth over his cheeks, brushing away water with a tenderness that feels like muscle memory. Like she’s waiting—just waiting—for his eyes to flutter open, for him to squint up at her and say mommy? the way he did when he was small and scared and still believed waking up fixed everything.

Jake reaches for the soap, fingers numb, instinct guiding him more than thought.

He dips his hand—

“Not yet,” Neytiri whispers.

Jake freezes.

He nods, sets it down carefully, like even the sound might hurt Lo’ak now. He watches as Neytiri’s hands trace their way down Lo’ak’s arms, slow and reverent, memorizing him the way she never meant to have to. She takes his hands in hers, presses them gently together.

Her fingers linger on his extra finger.

His pinky.

“He just wanted to be like you,” she says quietly.

Jake shakes his head automatically. “No,” he says. “He wanted to be like a warrior.”

Neytiri looks up at him then, eyes wet but steady.

“You are one,” she says. “Especially in his eyes.”

The words hit hard.

“That is why he was so upset after his failed Iknimaya,” she continues, voice breaking open with truth. “He wanted to make you proud. He wanted to prove he could fight a great beast and tame it as his own.”

Jake’s jaw tightens. “It almost got him killed.”

“Yes,” Neytiri says softly. “Just like your stories.”

Jake looks at her sharply.

“Your stories of defeating the war,” she says, “of driving the sky people away—those risks almost got you killed. But you were accepted because of them. You were celebrated.”

She gestures weakly toward Lo’ak.

“He wanted that too.”

Jake’s voice cracks. “He should have cared about safety.”

Neytiri lets out a broken sound—half sob, half laugh. “And you should have seen him as a warrior and a son.”

Silence stretches between them, thick with regret.

“Lo’ak could not understand,” she whispers, “how you could see Neteyam as a warrior… and not him. And maybe,” she says, pressing a kiss to Lo’ak’s fingers, “that is why this happened.”

Jake’s heart lurches.

“Maybe he wanted—just once—to finally be seen. To take a risk so big it could not be ignored. To prove he was brave enough. Worthy enough.”

Jake exhales a breath that feels like it scrapes his lungs raw.

He leans down and presses a kiss to Lo’ak’s forehead—cold now, too still—lingering there like he can memorize the shape of him through touch alone. Like maybe love, applied hard enough, might still do something.

Then he turns and kisses Neytiri.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against her skin. “I failed as a father.”

Neytiri does not answer. She doesn’t look at him.

She reaches instead for the soap, her movements precise and devastatingly calm, and pours it over Lo’ak’s chest. The water carries it downward, suds blooming white against blue skin, slipping between scars and freckles and the places Jake knows by heart.

She begins to wash their son.

Jake straightens slowly, something hollow opening in his ribs. For a terrible, fragile moment, he thinks he hasn’t just lost Lo’ak. He thinks he’s losing Neytiri too.

Losing the warmth in her eyes when she looks at him. Losing the shared language of touch and breath and faith. Losing the family they built with blood and sacrifice and stubborn love.

She does not turn to him. Does not reach for his hand. Does not tell him he is forgiven.

This is what it means to fail.

Not in one moment. Not in one mistake. But in all the small, missed chances to say I see you—
until there are no chances left at all.

And your skin, oh yeah, your skin, and bones

Turn into something beautiful

And you know, for you, I'd bleed myself dry

For you, I'd bleed myself dry