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The forest woke slowly, as it always did. Flora and fauna greeting each other in a friendly good morning.
Light filtered through the high canopy in pale ribbons, brushing the woven walls of the Sully home, cool air carrying the scent of damp leaves and flowers just beginning to open. Somewhere nearby, a yip-yip call echoed — a distant greeting between creatures greeting a new day.
Neteyam woke to it familiarly.
He lay still for a moment in his hammock, staring at the familiar curve of the ceiling above him, listening to the steady rhythm of breathing around him. Lo’ak was sprawled nearby, limbs tangled in his sleep like a restless viperwolf pup. Tuk was curled closer to Neytiri, one tiny hand fisted in her mother’s hair. Kiri lay across the canopy in her own hammock, peaceful and quiet, her breathing slow and even. Neteyam smiled faintly- it was a good morning, a normal one.
The word felt strange in his chest — light, almost fragile. He sat up carefully, moving quietly so he wouldn’t wake anyone. The woven mat beneath his feet creaked softly as he rose. Outside, the forest shimmered with early life, dew clinging to leaves like tiny stars. Neteyam stepped out into the morning air and let it wash over him.
Fifteen.
The number echoed softly in his mind.
He wasn’t sure why it mattered so much. Birthdays weren’t celebrated the same way humans did — not loudly, not with excess. But they were very much acknowledged. A new bead added to the songcord. A warm embrace from his mother. Probably a smile and rub on the head from his father that lingered longer than usual. Something to say: I see you. You’re growing. You matter.
Neteyam exhaled slowly. He told himself not to expect anything, because expectation led to disappointment, and disappointment was a luxury he couldn’t afford — not as the eldest, not as the next in line, and definitely not as Jake Sully’s son. Still… hope had a way of slipping in anyway.
He went about his morning routine like any other day- fetching water from the stream, nodding politely to clan members who passed him. He helped an elder carry woven baskets back toward the village. Checked the ikran tack near the roost, tightening a loose strap without being asked. Responsibility came easily to him. It always had... then again it was never an option otherwise.
“Neteyam.” He turned at the sound of his father’s voice. Jake stood near the training grounds, already armoured, bow slung over his shoulder. His stance was relaxed but purposeful — the way of a man who had already planned the day in his head. “You’re up early,” Jake said.
“Yes, sir,” Neteyam replied automatically. Jake nodded, satisfied. “Good. We’re running patrol later. I want you leading the younger ones through the eastern path. Keep them sharp.”
No pause. No smile. No mention of the date.
Neteyam swallowed, then nodded again. “Understood.” Jake clapped him once on the shoulder — firm, approving, brief — and moved on, already calling instructions to someone else.
Neteyam stood there for a moment longer than necessary, watching him go. It didn’t hurt the way he thought it would- not sharply. It was more like a quiet ache, settling somewhere deep and familiar.
It’s fine, he told himself. He’s busy. There’s always later. He turned back to his duties.
The morning passed.
Training was loud and chaotic, during breaks Lo’ak complained the entire time while Neteyam corrected his stance patiently, although already tired from the day- he used his free time to help his brother out, upping his skills. Spider eventually met them out in the forest to fill his time, Tuk laughed as she chased a glowing insect through the clearing, Kiri lingered near the trees, fingers brushing leaves as though listening to something only she could hear. Neytiri moved through it all like a quiet storm — graceful, commanding, attentive. She corrected Lo’ak sharply, praised Tuk enthusiastically, and smiled softly at Kiri.
She passed Neteyam once, close enough that he caught the scent of her — smoke and forest and home.“Oel ngati kameie, itan,” she said warmly, brushing his arm as she went. He smiled back. “Oel ngati kameie, Sa'nok.” She didn’t stop.
Neteyam watched her go, heart fluttering just a little. She’ll remember, he thought.
He's sure she would.
She always remembered everything.
By midday, the sun was high, the forest buzzing with life. Neteyam shared food with his siblings, listening more than he spoke. Mo'at told never-ending stories to whoever would listen, Lo’ak bragged about almost landing a clean shot, Tuk interrupted everyone, Kiri smiled quietly, her gaze lingering on Neteyam now and then, thoughtful.
Still, no one said anything.
Neteyam laughed when expected. Helped when asked- did everything right. By the time evening approached, the hope he’d carried since dawn had grown thin — fragile as spider silk. But he held onto it anyway....because Neteyam had learned, very young, how to hold things quietly.
By the time the eclipse began its slow descent, Neteyam’s chest felt tight in a way he couldn’t quite name. The clan gathered near the central clearing as evening approached — voices rising, fires being lit, the soft glow of bioluminescent plants beginning to stir beneath their feet. The day’s heat bled away, replaced by cool air and the comforting hum of togetherness. Neteyam sat near the edge of his family's section, as he often did. He liked being close enough to help, to listen, to respond when needed — but not so close that anyone felt obligated to notice him. It was easier that way. Safer.
He was adjusting a strap on one of the training bows when Jake’s voice cut across the clearing. “Everyone—listen up.”
Neteyam’s head snapped up before he could stop himself. Jake stood near the centre, firelight casting sharp lines across his face, clan members turned toward him, conversation fading into expectant silence as they looked to their great Toruk Makto. Neytiri moved to his side, arms crossed loosely, her posture proud and attentive. Something fluttered in Neteyam’s chest. This is it, a small, hopeful voice whispered- his fingers stilled.
Jake didn’t usually call everyone together without reason. When he did, it mattered. Patrol updates. Clan decisions. Sometimes—moments of celebration.
Neteyam swallowed.
He hadn’t told anyone, hadn’t reminded them. But maybe… maybe they didn’t need reminding, maybe they’d been waiting for the right moment. His gaze flicked briefly to Neytiri. She looked calm, unreadable — not smiling, but not stern either, not that it meant anything. His mother was good at keeping surprises. Kiri stood nearby, her head tilted slightly, watching Neteyam more than Jake. Their eyes met for just a moment. She frowned faintly, like she sensed something but couldn’t name it. Jake cleared his throat.
“Today,” he began, voice steady, carrying easily, “we’ve received word from one of the eastern patrols.”
The flutter in Neteyam’s chest stuttered.
Jake continued. “There’s been movement near the old human ruins. Nothing immediate, but enough that we’ll need to stay sharp.” The clearing remained attentive, serious. Neteyam’s shoulders relaxed just a fraction — not with relief, but resignation. Of course, he told himself quietly. It was stupid to think—
Jake went on. “I’ll be adjusting patrol routes starting tomorrow. I want everyone ready. This forest is our home, and we protect it together.” Nods rippled through the clan. Neteyam stared at the ground beneath his feet. Bioluminescence glowed faintly around his toes, pulsing softly with the rhythm of the forest. Normally, he found it comforting — a reminder that Eywa was always listening. Tonight, it felt distant.
Jake finished speaking, dismissing the gathering with a sharp nod. The tension eased, voices rising again as people turned back to their fires and meals. Neteyam stayed still. It wasn’t that he’d truly expected a grand announcement. He knew better than that, knew who his father was — what his responsibilities were. He understood the weight Jake carried.
But some foolish part of him had hoped for something small.
A word.
A look.
Anything.
“Neteyam.”
He looked up, heart jumping traitorously. Jake was walking toward him. For one fragile second, hope flared again — painful in its persistence. “Yes, sir?” Neteyam said.
Jake stopped in front of him, assessing him the way he did before a mission. “You handled the younger ones well today. Lo’ak listens to you more than he does anyone else.” Neteyam nodded. “I... thank you father.” Jake hesitated, then added, “You’ll take point on tomorrow’s patrol too.”
Pride flickered briefly — muted, restrained. “Yes, sir.” Jake clapped him on the shoulder again. Firm. Brief. The same gesture as that morning. “Good work,” Jake said, then turned away. That was it.
Neteyam watched him go, something heavy settling fully in his chest now. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t even disappointment, not really. It was understanding. 'I didn’t matter enough to remember', he thought. 'And that’s okay'. He told himself that over and over as he moved through the rest of the evening. As he helped serve food, checked on the younger children, laughed quietly at something Tuk said and nodded along to Lo’ak and Spiders exaggerated stories. No one mentioned the date.
No one noticed the way he grew quieter as the stars grew louder.
Later, as the clan began to settle, Neteyam slipped away from the fires, the forest welcoming him with familiar shadows and soft, living light. He walked without purpose at first, then stopped near the roots of a great tree, resting his forehead against the bark. The coolness seeped into him. It’s fine, he told himself again. Birthdays don’t matter. I don’t need—
His throat tightened.
He pressed his palm flat against the tree, grounding himself, breathing slowly until the ache dulled into something manageable. Behind him, unseen, Kiri stood at the edge of the clearing. She hadn’t followed him deliberately, she’d just… noticed. Noticed the way Neteyam had gone still during Jake’s speech, the way his eyes had dimmed afterward, and the way he’d slipped away without his usual careful goodbyes. She watched him now, silent and thoughtful, she didn’t call out- didn’t interrupt.
But something inside her shifted — a quiet awareness taking root- something is wrong, she thought. And for the first time that day, someone saw him.
Night settled gently over the forest.
The fires burned lower now, glowing embers casting soft orange light across familiar faces. Laughter drifted in small pockets, fading as families began to retreat to their homes. The Sullys had made their way back to their personal canopy, Mo’at joining them as the family had wound down the for the day, surrounding a small fire in the centre to simply be with one another.
The hum of Eywa grew louder beneath the stars, the bioluminescence at everyone’s feet responding to the dark like a thousand quiet heartbeats.
Kiri sat near the edge of the circle, knees drawn up to her chest.She wasn’t listening to the conversation in front of her. Her attention kept drifting — searching, counting.
Neteyam wasn’t there.
He usually was.
He stayed late to help put things away. Walked some elderly clan members home, even checked on other ikrans. He was always somewhere nearby, present in a way that was easy to miss until it wasn’t there, his thoughtful deeds often going unnoticed.
Kiri rose quietly.
She moved through the clearing, eyes scanning shadows, paths, the darkened edges of the forest where her brother liked to disappear when he needed space. She paused near the water source. Empty.
Near the training grounds. Empty.
A faint ache settled in her chest. Where did you go? she wondered. She turned back toward the fires, her gaze catching on Neytiri. Their mother sat with Jake, speaking softly, her posture relaxed now that the day’s duties were done. She looked content — tired, but calm. At peace.
Kiri hesitated- then something clicked. It wasn’t sudden or loud, it was the kind of realization that crept in slowly, threading together small, overlooked moments:
Neteyam waking early.
The way he’d hovered close all day, helpful but distant.
That flicker in his eyes during Jake’s speech — hope, then something like hurt.
Kiri’s breath caught. Her gaze drifted to the beadwork hanging near their home — a simple strand marking the growth of the family, each bead a year, a life, a moment remembered. She counted automatically- her heart sank. “Oh,” she whispered.
Oh.
It was his birthday.
The realization hit her like cold water. Neteyam hadn’t said a word, hadn’t reminded anyone- hadn’t done anything to draw attention to himself. Of course he hadn’t. He never did. Kiri’s chest tightened as guilt bloomed sharp and sudden; she thought of all the times he’d remembered hers. The quiet gifts, the way he’d sat with her when she felt overwhelmed. The way he noticed everything.
And today— She turned sharply, her gaze finding where her family sat, Jake and Neytiri sitting together. They were laughing softly now, blissfully unaware. Kiri crossed the clearing in long, purposeful strides. “Mom,” she said quietly. Neytiri looked up at once, sensing the shift in her daughter’s voice. “Yes, tirea?”
“Where’s Neteyam?”
Jake frowned slightly. “I thought he was with you.” Kiri shook her head. “He left a while ago.” Neytiri’s smile faded. “Left?”. Kiri swallowed, steadying herself. “Do you know what day it is?”. Jake blinked. “What?”
Silence stretched. Neytiri straightened slowly, something in her expression changing. “Kiri… what day is it?”. Kiri’s voice was soft, but it cut deep. “...It’s Neteyam’s birthday.”
The words settled heavily between them.
Jake’s face drained of colour.
Neytiri’s hand flew to her mouth.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Neytiri stood abruptly, eyes scanning the clearing, then the forest beyond. “He said nothing,” she murmured, disbelief lacing her voice. “Not once.” “He wouldn’t,” Kiri replied quietly. “He didn’t want to be a burden.” The words struck like an arrow. Jake swallowed hard. “I—I didn’t remember.” Neytiri turned on him sharply, pain flashing across her features, aching for her poor son. “Of course you did not! You treat him like a soldier, not a son.” Jake flinched, even though the realisation was growing a deep guilt within himself.
Kiri folded her arms, trying to keep her voice steady. “He thought you were going to say something earlier- during your speech.” Jake’s head snapped up. “What?”, a small gasp emitted from Neytiri. “I saw him,” Kiri said. “He was waiting. And then you started talking about patrols.” Jake looked away, jaw tightening.
“I should have known,” Neytiri said, voice trembling now. “He carries everything alone, my son.”, her hands slightly trembling, rubbing together. Kiri nodded, her heart breaking for her older brother. “He didn’t even look upset. Just… quiet....like he’d already decided it didn’t matter.” The silence that followed was thick with regret, Neytiri closed her eyes, breathing deeply, then opened them with fierce resolve. “We find him,” she said. “Now.”, she stood with determination.
“I-I’ll go,” Jake said immediately, still absorbing the guilt that had been brewing for the last 5 minutes. “No,” Neytiri snapped. “Not yet. Let me.”, she was frantically moving around the canopy, Tuk sitting with her grandmother- watching with wide eyes. "It's my fault, baby. Let me make it right" "Ma Jake, you are not going to help-" They continued on bickering for what felt like days, and Kiri had just about had enough. "You're both useless right now! Don't you get it? He won't want to see either of you! We've already ruined his day by not even bothering to remember him... he's probably heart broken" she felt her eyes welling up, her emotions overcoming her anger.
Her parents stopped immediately, taking in what their daughter was saying, a quiet sadness spreading over the family. Lo'ak had stopped playing with his knife, sitting and staring at the floor, a regret building within him that did not often show its face for his older brother.
Lo'ak loved his brother, because of course he did- he looked up to him practically as another father sometimes. But he often felt as though his brother had it so easy, being an incredible ikran rider, talented archer, having skills that a kid any other child at 15 couldn't even dream of having, being the favoured child amongst the People, never getting into trouble- only when Lo'ak fucked up (which now that he thought about it, was pretty often). But now, as they sat in their quiet regret, the second born son of the great Toruk Makto began to see his older brothers life from a different perspective- the REAL perspective.
Neteyam did not have it easy. Not by a long shot. He woke early every single day, trained with Jake for too many hours, pushed his body to limits that shouldn't exist in a 15 year old boy, worked hard to represent the family proudly, cared for his siblings, clan members, Pandora's creatures. He never got to be a proper child beyond the age of 8 years old, already growing into the future leaders role that had been promised to him since the day he was born.
Lo'ak, Spider and Kiri knew this, and yet it is as if they decided to turn a blind eye to it, seeing it as normal, everyday life. The guilt was eating him up as he sat, the rest of his family gone completely silent, only the sounds of Pandora's creatures conversing quietly in the night, and the flicker of the fire that sat before them all.
Kiri stood abruptly. "I'm going to find him", and before anyone could utter a single word, she stormed out of the canopy with determination and undying love for her brother who was silently hurting somewhere beyond their camp. Knowing that she was the only person that could get through to him right now, the others watched her go
The forest was different at night. Not darker — deeper. The air hummed with unseen life, every leaf and root glowing faintly beneath Kiri’s feet as she stepped beyond the reach of the clan fires. She moved carefully, listening not just with her ears, but with something older, something that lived beneath her skin.
Eywa whispered. She let the forest guide her. Neteyam had always liked the high places when he needed space — the branches of the great trees, the ridges where the wind carried sound away. Places where he could breathe without being watched, and Kiri followed that instinct. She moved past familiar paths, past the training grounds and toward an old tree near the stream — its branches massive and gnarled, forming natural seats for anyone who might need a getaway, a relaxing spot to think, to mourn, to cry.
She slowed as she approached.
There.
Neteyam sat high above on a branch overlooking night sky like a quiet star: small yet powerful. Knees drawn up, arms resting loosely over them, his bow lay beside him, untouched. He stared out at the view, watching moonlight ripple across the tops of hundreds of trees and he looked… small, not physically — he was already tall, broad-shouldered, strong. But in the way his posture curved inward, like he was trying to take up less space in the world.
Kiri didn’t announce herself as she approached quietly and sat beside him, close enough to be present, far enough to give him room. For a long moment, neither of them spoke- it's as if he had sensed her before she even arrived, not being shocked at her presence. The stream below them murmured softly, insects sang, the forest breathing around them.
Finally, Neteyam spoke, voice low. “You shouldn’t be out here alone." Kiri smiled faintly- there we was again, always thinking of others. “Neither should you.” He huffed quietly — not quite a laugh. “Guess we’re both breaking rules.” She glanced at him, studying his profile in the moonlight, the way his jaw was set, the way his gaze stayed fixed on the water that flowed below, like he was afraid to look at her.
“You disappeared,” she said gently. He let out the smallest sigh, it was almost silent, “I needed air.” She nodded, her gaze moving to follow his along the tree lines. “Me too.” Another round of silence. Then, softly, carefully, Kiri said, “Do you know what today is?” Neteyam’s shoulders tensed, just barely- he didn’t look at her. “It’s over.” The words were simple. Final.
Kiri swallowed. “That doesn’t mean it didn’t matter.” He was quiet for a long time, and when he finally spoke, his voice was calm — too calm. “It’s fine, Kiri.” She turned fully toward him. “It’s not.” He glanced at her then, surprised- there was something raw in his eyes — not anger, not even sadness....just… tiredness. “They forgot,” he said quietly. “It happens.” Kiri’s chest ached. “You shouldn’t have to pretend that doesn’t hurt.”
Neteyam looked away again. “If I make a big deal out of it, then it becomes a problem....and I don’t want to be a problem." The words landed heavily between them. Kiri reached out slowly, resting her hand near his — not touching yet, just close enough that he could pull away if he wanted. “You’re not a problem,” she said, her heart breaking all over again. “You never have been.” He shook his head slightly. “You don’t understand- I’m supposed to be steady, reliable. I don’t get to—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me,” Kiri said with full determination that made him pause. She slid her hand into his gently, fingers curling around his palm. He didn’t pull away. “You don’t have to say anything,” she continued softly. “I just didn’t want you to be alone.” it almost became a whisper. Neteyam swallowed hard. “I didn’t want anyone to feel bad,” he admitted after a moment. “They’re busy, and there’s always something more important.” Kiri squeezed his hand. “You’re important.”
His breath hitched — just slightly. He stared at their joined hands, then up at the sky above them, the stars shimmered faintly through the leaves, distant and endless. After a couple minutes, he murmured, “I thought Dad was going to say something,” he confessed quietly. “I know that was stupid.” Kiri shook her head fiercely. “It wasn’t, it's still isn't.” He gave a weak smile. “I guess I just wanted… one moment where I wasn’t the example, or the leader, or the one who has to be okay.” He couldn't look at her again, in fear that she would see the tears forming, mostly out of shame. Kiri leaned her head gently against his shoulder. “I wish you were allowed to be more free.... it isn't fair, brother,” she murmured. He let out a slow breath, tension easing just a fraction. They stayed like that for a long while — two siblings beneath the stars, the forest holding their silence with reverent care.
Eventually, Neteyam spoke again. “Did Mom and Dad know?” Kiri hesitated. “They do now.” He nodded slowly. “I don’t want them to make a big deal out of it.” She smiled sadly. “Of course you don’t.” She stood first, offering him her hand. “Come on. Let’s go home." He took it, and as they walked back through the glowing forest, Kiri glanced at him — at the way his shoulders were still hunched, but his steps a little lighter. You’re not invisible, she thought, Even if you think you are. And this time, she was going to make sure he knew it.
From the shadows beyond the firelight in the canopy, Neytiri watched as her two eldest approached their home quietly. They moved silently through the forest, but a mother’s instinct, sharp and aching always knew when her children were close by, and she saw the way Neteyam walked beside Kiri, his head slightly bowed, his steps careful — like someone trying not to disturb the world around him. She saw the way he sat near the fire but not close enough to feel its full warmth- her chest tightened. Jake stood a few paces behind her, silent. “I did not see it,” Neytiri whispered, pain threading her voice. “All day… he was right there.”
Jake swallowed. “I should’ve remembered.” Neytiri didn’t look at him. “You should have seen him, Ma Jake; not for the soldier you are trying to build- but the son you forget you have.”, the last few words coming out almost hissed, a mixture of anger and guilt overcoming her. They stood there for a long moment, watching their son from afar, and as they sat down quietly, Neteyam stared into the fire, flames reflecting in his eyes. He looked calm — composed — and that hurt more than if he’d been angry, because the poor boy deserved to be angry and sad considering the circumstances.
“Ma’itan,” she said gently, Neteyam looking up, and for a heartbeat, hope flickered again — cautious, wounded. “Yes, mother?”, he said it almost guiltily. Neytiri crossed the space between them and knelt in front of him, lowering herself to his level. Her hands hovered near his knees, not touching yet — giving him the choice. “I am so sorry,” she said, voice trembling despite her control. “I failed you tonight- we did.” Neteyam’s eyes widened slightly, hating that he is the reason his family was upset. “You didn’t—” “Yes,” she interrupted softly. “I did.” She cupped his face then, thumbs brushing his cheeks. “You are my firstborn, my beautiful son- and today I forgot to tell you how deeply you are loved.” His breath hitched.
“I didn’t want to bother anyone,” he said quickly. “I should have said something, I-I’m sorry.” The words struck like a blade, Jake stepping forward then, guilt written plainly across his face. “Son,” he said, voice rough. “No- this is on us.” Neteyam rose quickly, instinctively straightening. “Sir—Dad—I mean—” Jake shook his head. “No!, no ranks...please son, not tonight.” That alone made Neteyam freeze. Jake knelt too, mirroring Neytiri, his voice softer than Neteyam had ever heard it. “I spent all day talking about duty, about responsibility- and I forgot the most important thing.” Neteyam swallowed hard. “I know you’re busy.”
Jake exhaled shakily. “That doesn’t excuse it.” Silence stretched, heavy and fragile, and it's as if Neytiri had enough, pulling her son into her arms. He resisted for half a second — habit — then melted into her embrace, forehead pressing against her shoulder, her arms wrapping around him fiercely, protectively. “My brave boy,” she whispered into his hair. “You carry the world so quietly.” Jake reached out then, resting a hand on Neteyam’s back.
“I’m proud of you,” he said, voice breaking. “Not because you’re my son, or because you’re responsible. But because you’re kind, strong...and too thoughtful for your own good.” Neteyam’s breath shuddered at this. “I just wanted to do everything right,” he murmured, keeping his eyes hidden. “So no one would be disappointed.”
Jake closed his eyes. “Oh, kid…" He pulled Neteyam into his arms too, carefully, like he was afraid of hurting him. Neteyam stiffened — then slowly relaxed, leaning into the unfamiliar closeness. “You don’t have to earn our love,” Jake said quietly. “You never did, you always have it.”
The fire crackled softly beside them, Kiri sat nearby, watching with a small, relieved smile- and above them, the stars burned bright and steady — witness to the quiet healing unfolding below. And though the night was nearly over, something important had finally begun.
They did not wake the whole clan, considering how late it was- and Neteyam truly wouldn't have liked all that extra attention. Neytiri decided that almost immediately. “This is for him,” she said softly, her arm still wrapped around Neteyam’s shoulders. “Not for everyone else.” Neteyam’s head rested against her collarbone, his eyes half-lidded from exhaustion — emotional more than physical. He hadn’t cried, not really- but something heavy had loosened inside him, and now he felt hollow in the aftermath. Jake glanced at their son, then nodded. “Yeah. Just us.” They stayed by the low fire, its warmth gentle rather than overwhelming. Jake stoked it carefully, keeping the flames small, Neytiri brushed Neteyam’s hair with slow, soothing motions, the way she had when he was little and nightmares woke him in the night. They spoke in a murmur, telling stories, casual conversation, comfortable laughs. Kiri slipped away briefly and returned with something small — a thin cord of woven fiber, newly made, kneeling in front of Neteyam and held it out.
“I didn’t have time to make anything special,” she said, voice soft. “But… I wanted you to have this.” Neteyam took it carefully: woven into the cord was a single bead — pale blue, catching the firelight. Simple. Beautiful. “For fifteen,” Kiri added quietly. His throat tightened. “Thank you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.
Lo’ak and Tuk hovered nearby, uncertain. Lo’ak shifted on his feet, then cleared his throat. “Uh… Kiri told us.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Sorry, bro. We kinda suck.” Tuk nodded vigorously. “I would have sung for you!” Neteyam laughed softly despite himself. “I know.” Jake approached then, holding something in his hands. It was small — a knife with a carved wooden handle, smooth from handling- he pressed it into Neteyam’s palm. “I made this a while ago,” Jake said. “Wasn’t sure when to give it to you, guess I waited too long.”
Neteyam looked down. There were leaves woven into the pattern of the handle — strong veins, carefully carved, rooted but reaching. “For leadership,” Jake continued. “Not because you have to lead. But because you already do, just by being you.” Neteyam stared at it, chest tight and tears gathering behind his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said suddenly. “I should have said something, I-I shouldn’t have just—disappeared. I should be better.”
Jake’s heart cracked wide open. “No,” he said firmly. “You don’t apologise for this, not ever.” He crouched in front of his son, meeting his eyes. “You are not failing me. I failed you.” Neteyam shook his head, overwhelmed. “I just… I wanted to make you proud.” Jake smiled sadly. “Kid, you’ve been doing that since the day you were born.” Neytiri leaned down and pressed her forehead to Neteyam’s. “You are allowed joy,” she whispered. “You are allowed to be seen.” Neteyam closed his eyes, feeling that for the first time that day, he let himself believe it. They stayed together long after the fire burned low — talking softly, sharing memories, letting the night wrap around them like a blessing.
And when all the children were beginning to nod off, Neteyams head growing heavier, the parents rounded them up and led them to their hammocks, Jake resting a hand on Neteyam's shoulder as he steered the half asleep boy to his bed, "Happy birthday, my son" Neteyam's face held a tired smile, growing loopy from exhaustion, shy but real. "Thank you, Dad"
Above them, the forest pulsed with gentle light, for once, Neteyam did not feel like a shadow; he felt like what he had always been- a quiet star, finally seen.