Archive of Our Own

Lo'ak accepts Neteyam's death the fastest. He knows he's not coming back, he knows he won't bother him anymore, he knows no one will stand up for his mistakes.

After all, he's the reason his brother's dead in the first place.

And he could only think of him when he presses the barrel under his chin and tilts his head back until the metal fits there naturally, like it's always known where it belongs.

It's quiet.

Not the peaceful kind. The kind that settles after everything loud has already happened. His hands are steady, which surprises him. He thought they'd shake more frantically, his heart would pound or his breath would hitch or something dramatic would happen to mark the moment. The gun is heavier than he remembers. The weight of it anchors him in a way nothing else has managed to since Neteyam died. And for a moment, he doesn’t think about pulling the trigger yet.

He thinks about how tired he is.

About how the world feels smaller every day, like it's folding in on itself, pressing him flatter and flatter until there's no room left to breathe. About how quiet it would be if he let go. And how he wished for someone to just pull him out of this pressed paper he's in, but he doesn't need to give out his hand when no one is reaching him in the first place.

Lo'ak closes his eyes.

Three weeks earlier, Lo'ak accepted Neteyam's death faster than anyone else, even his dad.

That's what they said, anyway. Said it with relief, like his not breaking down made things easier for everyone else. He didn’t scream. He didn’t rage. He didn’t cry where anyone could see him. He absorbed the loss like a blow taken square in the chest and never acknowledged it out loud, and so people mistook that for strength, or maybe for being pitiless. Like grief was something that could be ranked, measured by visibility, by who lost control first and who kept it together longest.

They said it like it was a compliment.

No one ever asked him how. No one pressed when his answers stayed short and careful, when his eyes slid away instead of meeting theirs. They took his silence as proof that the worst of it had passed, that acceptance had come early and clean. Some of them, in all possibility, just thought that the way he distances himself is just to be less concerned about everything that had happened in those grieving times.

Lo'ak let them believe it.

Neteyam was gone.

That truth didn't argue back. It didn't leave room for hope or bargaining or the kind of denial that demanded energy. It existed, and he stepped around it every day like a familiar obstacle. Some nights, when he lay awake and let his guard slip just enough, he wondered what would happen if he stopped stepping around it. If he stood still and let the weight of it hit him full on. Well, he never tried anyway—it felt safer to keep moving.

He didn't feel brave. He didn't feel strong.

He just felt done.

Lo'ak woke up every morning. Ate when food was put in front of him. He answered questions with nods and short words that didn't invite follow-ups. If anyone looked too closely, he learned how to look past them instead, eyes fixed somewhere over their shoulder, like his attention had already moved on.

In the mornings, Kiri pressed a bowl into his hands without asking if he was hungry.

"Eat," she said, like she was afraid of what would happen if she didn't say it out loud.

He nodded and ate. The food tasted like nothing, but he chewed anyway, counting bites until the bowl was empty. His sister, allegedly his own twin at this point, watched him the entire time, and he had to pretend that she wasn’t so he could bite off the fibers of the food better.

"You don't have to finish it," she said once, when he slowed.

"I'm good," he replied, and the words came out automatically. He’d been using them a lot. A clean answer, and nothing to be questioned about.

Lo'ak shrugged. He didn't know what else to say. Explaining required details, and details had a way of turning into questions he didn't want to answer, which could turn into a conversation that he wouldn't want in the first place. Instead, he stared past her, out toward the water where the light fractured into slow, uneven pieces. Their Marui pod felt even dimmer as the days went on even though the fire was clearly lit for the rest of their nights—sleepless nights in his case.

"Do you ever wonder what he’s doing?" he asked.

He could feel Kiri following his gaze. For a moment, she didn't answer.

"I think about it, well, sometimes."

He nodded, like that was confirmation of something he already knew. "Like… right now."

She exhaled. "Maybe he's just sleeping it away."

He let the image settle. Neteyam asleep somewhere beyond reach, breathing slow and even, finally at rest. He often slept under trees after hunts. Any canopy would do. Broad leaves, low branches, and roots curling up from the ground like they were meant to cradle someone. He said it was easier that way, claiming the shade kept him alert, but Lo'ak had seen the truth often enough. His brother slept deeply there, bow set aside, breathing slow and even, like the forest had decided to keep watch for him. There was one time he caught an atokirina resting on his forehead.

Back then, he felt an irresistible pull to ruin it.

He moved as quietly as he could, careful with his footing, heart racing with the thrill of it. Sometimes he snapped a branch or tossed a stone. Once, he just leaned down and shouted his name. Unsurprisingly, his brother always woke up hard and fast, body coiled to strike, hands flying for his knife wrapped in fronds of a tautral. It never lasted more than a second. Recognizing his face would set in, followed by a long sigh. He'd tell Lo'ak to sit before he hurt himself, annoyance in the air.

The thought didn't hurt the way it should have.

The quiet creeps back in, slower this time.

"Maybe a forest is where he is," she says gently. "Somewhere like that."

Lo'ak swallows. "Yeah."

If Neteyam was sleeping somewhere beyond reach, he hoped it looked like that. Green light filtering through leaves. The world being all quiet and slow. Nothing demanding his attention, and certainly nothing pulling him awake.

Just rest.

Jake didn’t talk to him much anymore.

Not the way he used to. There were orders now, or at least that's what he was constantly receiving. Clipped questions that didn’t wait around for real answers. You trained? You seen your sister? We're going to the sea today. Conversations that ended before they began, like his dad was afraid of what might spill out if he lingered too long. And for the long grieving while, Lo'ak told himself it made sense. He had lost a son, the one who made him a father, the one who made him and Neytiri officially a small family. His mother once told him that his brother's birth was so cheerfully celebrated by the Omatikaya, seeing their future Olo'eyktan born—or at least that's what he was supposed to be.

One afternoon.

They were checking weapons by the water, the air thick with salt and heat. Jake handed him a rifle without looking at his face. "You're late."

"I wasn't. I was just—"

"Doesn't matter," his dad cut in. "Just stick to the plan."

Lo'ak's fingers tightened around the grip. "You didn't even ask where I was."

He finally looked at him then, eyes sharp and tired. "I don't have time to babysit you."

The words landed wrong. Too fast. "I don't need babysitting," the son shot back.

"Then stop acting like you do."

The sentence dropped between them, blunt and careless, and for a second Lo'ak couldn't tell if it had been aimed at him or fired blindly into the space Neteyam used to occupy. For a moment, he thought about pushing. About asking what that was supposed to mean. About saying his brother's name out loud just to see what would happen. The name pressed against the back of his teeth, heavy and dangerous. He imagined the way it would change the air if he spoke it.

He didn't.

So he swallowed the words instead, forced them back down where they joined every other word he refused to say. His shoulders dropped, the fight draining out of him as quickly as it just flared. He tried to get the crap out of his face.

"Whatever," he muttered instead, turning away before Jake could read his expression.

His dad didn't stop him.

That might've been the worst part.

After that, he learned when to stay quiet and when to disappear. He stayed out of his dad's line of sight. He made himself useful without being noticeable. If he did something right, it went unacknowledged. If he did something wrong, the correction was sharp and impersonal, as if he was just another soldier that needed more training and barely understood what to do in a grave situation.

Neytiri was different.

She didn't snap. She didn't turn her grief into motion. Hers lived quietly, folded inward, carried close to her chest like something precious. She moved like she was carrying something fragile that might shatter if she breathed too deeply. Even the children seemed to sense it, their laughter dimming as she went by. Her songs, on the other hand, were softer (and much more quiet) now. Sometimes they trailed off halfway through, like she'd reached a line she couldn't sing anymore and didn’t know how to turn back.

Lo'ak listened from a distance.

He lingered near the edges of the Marui pod when she sang, close enough to hear but far enough not to be seen. The sound wrapped around him, familiar and aching, and he felt his chest tighten every time her voice wavered.

Once, he passed her near the fire pit. She paused when she saw him, eyes softening in a way that made his throat close, but her lips still on each other.

"You eat today?" she asked.

"Yes, Mom," he answered.

He learned how to pass her without meeting her eyes. How to soften his footsteps, how to swallow words before they reached his mouth. How to love her without demanding anything back, although receiving the attention and love he always yearned for would be very nice.

Tuk hovered.

She didn't cling the way Lo'ak expected. She didn't cry or demand to be carried or ask questions he didn't know how to answer, although he couldn't help but notice that glazed look in her eyes. She just stayed close, as if proximity alone could keep something bad from happening again. Sometimes, she sat beside him while he cleaned weapons, small legs tucked under her, watching his hands move with careful attention. Occasionally, she passed him a cloth without being asked. In other chances, she just watched.

She carried her pa'li toy everywhere now. She got it from Neteyam as a gift for being able to shoot a fish. It was old, the fabric thinning at the seams, one ear half-torn from too much love. She held it for too long, fingers curled tight around its mane until her knuckles paled. Sometimes she pressed and hugged it into her chest and breathed in, like she was checking it was still real.

Once, he reached out to take it gently from her hands, meaning to fix the loose stitching.

She flinched. Not hard. Just enough to make him pause.

"Sorry," he murmured, pulling his hand back.

Tuk relaxed again, embarrassed, eyes dropping. After a moment, she scooted closer until her shoulder brushed his arm, grounding herself. He let her stay there. And after that, she didn’t talk much anymore. When she did, it was about small things. What she'd eaten. Who she'd seen. Questions with easy answers. Sometimes tell him about her day with her new reef buddies. She never said his name out loud. Neither did Lo'ak.

At night, he sometimes woke to find her sitting up, toy clutched to her chest, eyes wide and unfocused, just staring to the sea from inside the pod. When he whispered her name, she blinked and lay back down without a word, as if she hadn't been awake at all.

He told himself it would pass. Kids bounced back. They always did.

He repeated it often enough that it almost sounded true. Think of it like something solid you could lean on if you didn't look too closely at the cracks.

After all he's still a kid, too, isn't he?

Two weeks passed, so how did Lo'ak accepted Neteyam's death the fastest? He keeps moving, or more specifically, flying.

Stillness had started to feel dangerous. It wasn't a conscious decision. He didn't wake up and decide to outrun his own thoughts. He just found himself leaving earlier, staying out longer. If he stays in motion, the thoughts couldn't line up properly. They scatter instead, bumping into each other and dissolving before they can settle into anything sharp. So there he was in the clouds, training longer than necessary with Rangi—his ikran. He got to volunteer for patrols he didn't need to be on. Left before anyone can ask where he's going.

He filled the hours until the days blur at the edges. When the sun dipped and the village grew quieter, something in his chest tightened, like he missed a step he wouldn't notice until he was already falling.

Kiri caught him gearing up again

"You're flying again?" she asked.

He heard the question before he really processed it. The straps were familiar beneath his fingers, the leather worn soft by use. He tightened one, then another, even though they were already secure. His hands didn't know what to do with themselves if they weren't working or do useless things just to keep his mind busy.

"Yeah, just for a bit."

He didn't look at her when he said it. Looking would have meant noticing the way her eyes tracked him too carefully now, like she was memorizing his face in case he disappeared.

"You said that yesterday."

He paused, fingers resting against the ikran. He tried to remember yesterday. Tried to remember when he left, how long he'd been gone, what the light had looked like when he came back. Night, windy, the stars already hung themselves in the sky, and the clouds were barely visible at that point.

"Did I?" he asked.

She let out a slow breath through her nose, the way she did when she was forcing herself to stay calm. She uncrossed her arms, then crossed them again, restless. Her eyebrows curved.

"You said you'd be back before the night,” she said, "so you could help Tuk with her toy."

His stomach dipped. He hadn't meant to forget that. He nodded anyway, because nodding was easier than explaining how time kept folding in on itself lately. She stepped closer, close enough that he could feel her presence before he looked at her. The air around her seemed charged. She gently touched his shoulder with her five-fingered palm. When she spoke again, her voice dropped.

"Lo'ak," she started, "you don't have to keep leaving every time it gets quiet, because truthfully, it's not."

The words landed and stayed there.

"I'm not leaving, I’m just—"

"Just what?" she asked, slightly tilting her head.

"I'm just flying," he finished, because it was the safest version of the truth he had.

Her sigh was loud enough for him to scratch his neck and think about not making his sister sad anymore. Something maybe Neteyam would say, or would do.

"Kiri, I just… can't."

For a moment, it looked like she might argue. Push past his careful walls the way she used to. Instead, she exhaled and looked away, gaze flicking toward the sky. "Just—" she started, then stopped. Restarted. "Just don't disappear."

He nodded. "I won't."

When he finally flew away, he could feel her watching him leave.

He didn't turn back.

Up here, the world felt simpler. The sky didn't care about what he promised or what he forgot. It didn't watch him the way Kiri did, or weigh his words for hidden meaning, or just overall beig a mean in the disguise of grief—although he knows it's real. It just opened around him, vast and unjudging, and for a few precious moments, Lo’ak let himself sink into that freedom.

He climbed higher than he’d planned to, circling once before angling into a dive. The forest rose up fast beneath him, the sky's blue rushing toward green, his pulse spiking with the familiar thrill. He pulled out at the last second.

It burst out unguarded, carried away by the wind before he could swallow it back down. The joy felt real. Earned.

He banked hard, low and fast, Rangi responding instantly. The turn was sharp and clean, the kind that made his chest lift with something close to pride. His muscles sang with the effort. His breath came quick and alive.

“Bro, check this out—”

The word left his mouth whole and familiar, shaped by habit older than grief.

It vanished into open sky. There was no answer.

No familiar presence surged alongside him. No shadow slipping into his vision. No shift in the air that meant someone else had matched his line without announcing it. No steady shape cut through the air to match his speed, to correct his angle, to show him how it was really done. Just the wind, roaring in his ears, and the sudden awareness of his own breathing, harsh and suddenly noticeable.

Oh.

Neteyam wasn't there.

Not above him. Not beside him. Not waiting ahead to loop back and check on him like he always used to. There was no one to catch his mistakes before they happened.

Because he killed him.

The sky opened up and showed him that there was too much space now, and no one left to fill it.

As he reached the village, the ache had settled into something dull and unfamiliar. He unhooked his gear with steady hands, even though his fingers still felt wrong, like they belonged to someone else. Around him, life continued in its careful, measured way. Voices drifted. Kids laughed. Someone argued over tools. A group of younger people ran past him, barefoot and loud, their joy reckless and intact.

He stepped aside automatically, letting them pass.

No one looked at him twice.

That night, Lo'ak pushed the food around his bowl until it went cold. It was slow, deliberate. If he rearranged it enough times it might turn into something else. His stomach felt hollow and tight all at once, a knot that refused to loosen. Eating felt impossible. Swallowing felt worse. He kept his eyes down, counting his breaths instead, or sometimes noticing Spider breathing through his mask from the way he breathes—because he couldn't look at him directly, not yet.

His shoulders sagged forward without him noticing, spine curved like it couldn't quite remember how to hold itself upright anymore. One shoulder sat lower than the other, dragged down by an invisible weight, like his body decided it was no longer worth balancing evenly. He leaned his forearms against his thighs, head bowed just enough to avoid anyone's eyes. The food's heat started to dry down slowly, but the smell of the food made his stomach twist. Not hunger, but realization that he can't enjoy it without someone else who's happy about it as well.

Neytiri's ears perked up first. Her gaze lingered on him, sharpened with quiet concern, then flicked to Jake. A silent question passed between them.

"Eat," he said. The word landed flat and heavy.

He flinched before he could stop himself. Just a small jerk of his shoulders, barely visible, but it sent heat crawling up the back of his neck. He didn't lift his head.

He turned to his right, where Neteyam was, no, where he should've be. He could give him the extra fish since he's probably going diving tomorrow, and anyhow his energy's going to drain up. He didn't mind having less of the food if it was his brother who ate it.

But he wasn't there.

"I'm not hungry." The words barely made it past his throat. His chest felt tight, breath shallow.

Jake set his bowl down hard. The sound made his shoulders tense further, pulling up toward his ears like he was bracing for impact. "You haven't been hungry for days."

"I flew earlier," he responded. "I'm fine."

His dad scoffed. "That's not food."

"I know what food is."

The snap in his own voice surprised him. His head lifted just enough for Jake to see his expression, tight and defensive, eyes too bright with something unsteady. Neytiri inhaled sharply. Tuk froze, her small body curling inward, toy clutched tight against her chest. But then again, he didn't regret it.

Jake exhaled hard through his nose. His voice carried an edge now, frustration bleeding through the careful control. "Then just either you figure out how to eat, or—"

"Or what?" Lo'ak's voice came out flatter than he intended. Empty.

His dad leaned forward, forearms bracing on his knees. The movement brought him closer and he had to fight the urge to lean back. To put more space between them. "Or you keep wasting away until there's nothing left. Is that what you want?"

His shoulders slumped again. He leaned back slightly, putting space between himself and the bowl, the family. The words should have felt like concern. Like love. Instead they felt like an obligation. Like his dad was checking a box: Keep remaining children alive.

"I train. I show up. I helped you.” Each word felt heavy, stacked one on top of the other. "Isn't that enough?"

"Well does it? Because it looks like you're trying to disappear."

The word hit him square in the chest. Lo'ak's breath caught halfway in, sharp and incomplete. His shoulders jerked inward on instinct, folding slightly as if he'd been struck. The space around him seemed to tilt, edges blurring just enough to make him feel unsteady on his feet. For a split second, he wasn't fully inside himself. His heartbeat thudded loud and uneven in his ears, out of sync with everything else. He stared at his dad without really seeing him, gaze unfocused, jaw slack before he forced it shut again.

Maybe I already have, he thought distantly.

Maybe this is what it looks like from the outside.

"You want to know what I see?" Jake continued when he didn't answer. His voice gained an edge, frustration sharpening each word. "I see a kid who's hell-bent on wasting time. Who keeps making the same stupid decisions over and over."

Heat flooded Lo'ak's face, spreading from his neck up to his ears. His ears pinned back completely now, pressed so flat against his skull they almost disappeared into his hair. His mouth opened, closed, opened again, just trying to form words that wouldn't come. "That's not—I don't—"

"The train heist," his dad cut in, ticking off on his fingers. "You abandoned your post. Put yourself and your brother in danger, and he almost died. Then the ship. You went back when I told you to leave. You forced Neteyam to follow you AGAIN."

"I was trying to save Spider!"

"I KNOW!" Jake's voice cracked like a whip. He couldn't help but notice his siblings flinch. Kiri's shoulders jerking inward, Tuk curling tighter around her toy, even Spider's breathing hitching audibly through his mask. The sound made his stomach drop, made him feel like he was somehow hurting them just by existing in this moment. "But you didn't think. You never think about the consequences, don't you? About who might get hurt cleaning up after you."

His chest heaved with breaths that wouldn't quite fill his lungs. His vision blurred at the edges, the Marui pod's woven walls going soft and watery. He blinked hard, trying to clear it, but moisture gathered hot behind his eyes. "I didn't mean—"

"It doesn't matter what you meant." His dad's voice dropped lower, harder. Almost cruel in its honesty.

Jake's expression had gone cold. Not angry anymore, but worse: distant. Like he was looking at Lo'ak from very far away and not liking what he saw. His eyes, usually warm despite everything, had gone flat. Shuttered.

"Neteyam's still gone."

It was silent.

"…Right," Lo'ak whispered.

The single word came out breathless. Defeated. Like all the air had been punched out of his lungs and he was just going through the motions of speech. The fight drained out of him all at once—not gradually, not with any kind of grace, but like someone had cut a string holding him upright. His head dropped, chin nearly touching his chest. His arms hung loose at his sides, even his body was too tired to panic properly. For a moment, he sat there. Swaying slightly. His tail dragged on the floor behind him, completely limp.

Then he moved. He turned toward the entrance, and the shift was too sharp, too uncoordinated. His shoulder slammed into the Marui walls, hard enough that the whole structure shuddered slightly, woven fibers creaking. But he barely reacted. His head tilted slightly on impact, neck bending with the blow, but his expression didn't change. He didn't pause. Didn'teven reach up to rub the spot.

Just kept moving.

And none of them were calling him, telling him to turn around. Though he could hear his mother's sighs.

"Lo'ak!"

Tuk's voice.

Small and broken and absolutely terrified.

His feet stuttered. His whole body jerked like he'd been yanked backward by an invisible rope. He caught himself, kept moving, but slower now. Unsteady.

"Lo'ak, wait!" She was crying. He could hear it in the way her voice cracked, in the desperate edge to it. Full sobs that she was trying to talk through and failing.

Behind him, Tuk's sobs continued. Raw and desperate and young.

So young.

Young enough to still believe that if she begged hard enough, cried loud enough, he'd come back. Young enough not to understand that some things couldn't be fixed by calling someone home. He could picture her so clearly. Small face streaked with tears. Pa'li toy clutched to her chest. Standing at the entrance of the Marui pod, maybe with Kiri's arms around her shoulders, watching him leave and not understanding why no one was stopping him.

His family probably wanted to give him space, or just didn't care at all.

But for Tuk? Lo'ak is her space.

His feet carried him past other Marui pods. Past families gathered around fires. Past kids his age laughing and shoving each other. Past normal life happening all around him like a current he couldn't quite reach. Behind him, Tuk's voice faded. Not because she stopped—he could still hear her crying, could still hear her calling his name—but because distance swallowed it. Because the village was big and the ocean was loud and eventually everything got drowned out.

Eventually, he couldn't hear her anymore.

One week before, Lo'ak accepted Neteyam's death in his mind. Well, the heart works in mysterious ways indeed.

He woke to the sound of rain.

Not the soft, gentle kind that whispered against the Marui pod's woven roof. These were harsh, relentless drops hammering down like they had something to prove. The kind of rain that made the ocean churn gray and angry, that kept most people inside their pods, wrapped in warmth and family. A fire lit inside, and a hug collecting them all.

He wished he could feel that too.

He lay there for a long moment, staring up at the ceiling. Watching the way shadows moved across fiber as lightning flickered somewhere in the distance. Counting the seconds between flash and thunder. Five seconds. Trying to remember if there was a reason to get up. His body ached. Not from injury, but from stillness. From spending too many hours curled on his hammock, muscles locked in the same position until they cramped and protested. His shoulder throbbed where he'd hit the doorframe a week ago. The bruise had bloomed purple-black before fading to a sickly green-yellow that he hadn't bothered to treat.

Around him, the pod was quiet. Too quiet.

Tuk's soft breathing came from somewhere to his left. Kiri's slower, deeper rhythm from his right. Spider's mask created its usual mechanical wheeze. His parents' section of the Marui was a bit far from theirs, but he could hear them too: Neytiri's occasional shift, Jake's heavier presence.

Everyone was still asleep.

Everyone except him.

He'd been awake for hours. Maybe all night. Time had stopped meaning much lately. The days blurred together in a gray haze where morning looked the same as evening, where meals came and went without his participation, where conversations happened around him like he was a rock in a river. Something to be navigated around rather than engaged with.

To his mind, he knew he's the only one with his eyes open. To his heart, he felt Neteyam accompanying him through the night.

An empty hammock right beside him.

His brother's bow, still hanging on the wall where no one had the heart to move it.

The argument hung over the family like smoke. No one mentioned it directly, but it colored everything. Kiri watched him too closely, and there's Tuk who stayed within arm's reach whenever he was home. How his parents moved around each other with careful, measured steps, and the way Jake looked at him.

Well, more accurately, the way he looked past him. Through him. At something over his shoulder or just to the left of his face.

They hadn't spoken since that night.

Not really. There were orders—Check the nets. Help your sister. Be back before dark.—delivered in clipped, professional tones that made him feel like just another warrior in his dad's unit rather than his son. So he had followed them all. Every single one. He showed up when called, completed tasks without complaint, and ate when food was put in front of him. Although not much, not enough to stop the concerned looks, it was necessarily enough to stop the direct confrontations.

He'd become a ghost in his own family. Present but not really there. Going through motions without feeling them. Maybe they'd stop looking at him like he was a problem that needed solving. Or worse, like he was a wound that wouldn't heal, the cause that haunted their grief, a constant reminder of everything they'd lost.

Lightning flashed again, closer this time. Thunder rolled across the sky a few seconds later, deep enough to feel in his chest. Lo'ak pushed himself up slowly, careful not to wake anyone. His joints protested, stiff and achy. His head swam with the sudden shift, vision going spotty with gunk at the edges of his eyes before clearing.

He needed to move.

Needed air.

He stood on unsteady legs, swaying slightly before catching his balance. His hammock was a mess, just twisted and bunched from restless half-sleep. When did getting up become this hard? He knew the answer. Two weeks ago. When breathing became hard, when existing became hard, when everything that used to be automatic started requiring conscious effort.

Two weeks ago, blood on his hands.

And he can't look at himself the same anymore.

He stepped over his siblings' stuff, around Kiri's carefully arranged belongings, past Tuk's scattered toys.

Spider's eyes opened as Lo'ak passed. They stared at each other for a long moment in the darkness. The human's expression was complicated—guilty, worried, sad. Like he wanted to say something but didn't know what. His lips parted to talk, but not long after, it touched and closed right away.

He knows, Lo'ak thought. He knows it's his fault and he can't even say sorry because saying sorry would mean admitting it out loud.

No. That wasn't fair. It wasn't Spider's fault. He didn't ask to be saved. Didn't ask Lo'ak to make that choice.

But the thought lingered anyway, bitter and stubborn.

"…You going somewhere?"

Lo'ak looked away first. "Don't tell Dad, please."

Grabbing his gear from the corner with movements that were too jerky. The worn leather straps. The knife he barely remembered how to use, its weight unfamiliar in his hand now even though he'd carried it for years. The comms he'd been ignoring for days, letting its battery die so Jake's check-ins went unanswered, so he didn't have to hear his dad's voice asking where he was with that tone that meant I'm asking because I have to, not because I care.

He moved toward the entrance, each step deliberate. Controlled.

"Lo'ak?"

Kiri's voice, soft and sleep-rough, stopped him halfway. His whole body went rigid. Shoulders hunching up toward his ears. Jaw clenching. His hand, already reaching for the entrance flap, froze in mid-air.

Of course. Of course she's awake. She's always awake now. Always watching.

Just like… Eywa.

He didn't turn around. If he looked at her, if he saw the worry in her eyes, the fear, the desperate need to fix him—he'd break. Or even worse, he might just snap at her. Say something cruel just to make her stop caring so much. Behind him, he heard the soft rustle of her sitting up. Could picture it without looking, from the way she'd push her hair back from her face, the way her five-fingered hands would wrap around her knees, until the way she'd tilt her head in that specific way that meant she was reading him, seeing through him.

"Going flying," he said to the entrance flap.

"It's raining."

"I know."

Obviously I know. I can hear it. I can see it. I'm not stupid.

The thought came sharp and defensive, even though her tone held no accusation. Everything felt like an accusation lately. Every question felt like an interrogation.

A pause. He could feel her gaze on his back, burning between his shoulder blades. He didn't need to turn his back simply just to sense her choosing her next words carefully, the way everyone did around him now. Like he was made of glass. Like one wrong word would shatter him whole.

"You've been flying every day," she said carefully.

Something in between that made his skin prickle with irritation he didn't want to feel. "Yeah."

And? What's your point? That I'm running away? That I can't sit still?

Well, you're right, absolutely.

Another pause. Longer this time. He could hear her breathing. Lately, it's been constantly slow, measured, the kind of breath someone takes when they're trying to stay calm. "Are you okay?"

No. I'm not okay. I don't know if I'll ever be okay again. I think about dying every single day. I think about how much easier it would be if I just—

"I'm fine."

"Lo'ak—"

Her voice carried a note of pleading now. And that was worse than worry, or even than anger. Because desperation meant she could feel him slipping away and didn't know how to hold on. And he didn't know how to let her.

"I'll be back before morning." He walked through the entrance before she could say more, before her worry could wrap around him and drag him back inside. Before he could see her face and feel guilty for lying, seeing the way her face would crumple, just for a second, and she forced it back into something neutral.

Lo'ak stood on the other side, hand still touching the woven fabric, breathing hard like he'd just run a mile instead of walked three steps. His chest felt tight. Too tight. Like his ribs were slowly squeezing his lungs, making each breath a conscious effort. You should go back, a small voice in his head whispered.

He started walking.

The rain hit him immediately. Cold and sharp and somehow cleansing. It soaked through his hair in seconds, plastered the braids to his face, ran in streams down his back and chest. The village was gray and blurred, edges softened by the downpour until everything looked like a watercolor painting left out in the storm.

Lo'ak walked. Not toward his ikran like he'd told Kiri. His feet carried him in a different direction, following some instinct he had. Toward the edge of the village. Toward the place where land met water, where the reef dropped away into deeper blue.

Toward the Cove of the Ancestors.

He clicked a few times, clapped his hands. An ilu surfaced, it's iridescence glowing in the waters. And with a quick jump after the tsaheylu, it gushed forward as he wanted to.

He hadn't been back since they laid Neteyam to rest. Couldn't bring himself to face it. The memory of that day was a blur of pain. His brother's body wrapped in leaves, his face too pale, too still. The way they'd lowered him into the water. The golden anemone had wrapped around him, pulling him down, down, down until he disappeared into the glow. Tuk screamed, his mother collapsed, while his father stood there like a statue, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might crack.

And he screamed in the water. His hand reached for his brother.

In his mind, he knows he's gone, the ocean took him.

But his heart said differently, his hand still wanting to grasp something he couldn't even see anymore.

Something pulled at him now. He was desperate, clawing need to understand. To make sense of the senseless.

Or maybe you just want to see where you're supposed to be instead of him.

The cove appeared through the rain like a ghost. It look magnificent by day, but he couldn't even see the floating rocks by the time he swam inside. Bioluminescent tendrils glowed beneath the surface, muted by daylight and storm but still visible. Still pulsing with that steady, eternal rhythm that meant life, death, life, death, forever and ever and ever. The rhythm that was supposed to be comforting. That was supposed to mean everything was connected, everything had purpose, everything mattered in the grand design of Eywa's will.

Lo'ak stopped, hopping onto a rock, and stood at the water's edge. The Spirit Tree is just down there, maybe waiting for him to connect his kuru.

Or maybe not.

His chest felt too tight. His throat closed up. His hands curled into fists at his sides, nails biting crescents into his palms that would probably leave marks for days. Rain ran down his face, into his eyes, but he didn't blink it away. Just stood there, staring at the glowing water.

Neteyam was down there. Somewhere in that glowing darkness. Connected to Eywa. Part of the Great Mother now. Part of everything and nothing all at once.

Is he still himself? Does he know I'm here? Does he know what happened after? Does he know that Dad can barely look at me?

Does he know it's my fault?

"Why?" Lo'ak whispered.

The word barely made it past his lips. The rain tried to steal it, swallow it up in the endless sound of water hitting water. But he said it again, louder. Needing to hear it out loud. Needing the universe to hear him even if it wouldn't answer.

"Why him?"

The water didn't answer. The sky kept raining. The world kept turning like his question didn't matter. Like he didn't matter.

His voice rose, cracking with something raw and desperate. "He was good!" The words came out sharp, accusatory, thrown at the sky, at the water, at whatever divine presence was supposed to be listening. Thunder roared through the dark clouds. "He was… he was perfect! He did everything right and you—"

You took him from me.

He stopped. Swallowed hard against the lump forming in his throat. His vision blurred with something that wasn't rain, hot and stinging and threatening to spill over.

"I'm the one who messes everything up." His voice dropped lower, shaking now. "I'm the one who doesn't listen. I'm the one who—"

I'm the one who got him killed.

His voice broke completely. "It should have been me."

The confession hung in the air, raw and bleeding. Waiting for an answer. For lightning to strike, or perhaps the ground to open up. For Eywa to appear in some form and tell him he was right, that there had been a mistake, that the universe had taken the wrong brother. Thunder rumbled overhead. No voice from the water. No vision. No sign that anyone or anything had heard him.

The cove stayed silent.

Just rain and waves and the endless, uncaring pulse of the bioluminescence.

Lo'ak laughed—a harsh, bitter sound that hurt coming out. It scraped his throat raw, came out twisted and wrong. "What, nothing? No sign? No, no vision or voice or whatever? You took him and you won't even tell me why!?"

His hands flew up, gesturing wildly at the water, at the glowing tendrils, at the whole sacred cove that was supposed to be Eywa's direct line to her children. His chest heaved with breaths that felt like sobs trapped behind his ribs. The rain didn't even hurt anymore.

"Everyone says you see everything. The All-Knowing." His hands clenched tighter, shaking now, trembling with grief and desperation all tangled together. He stared at the glowing water, at his brother's grave, at the place where Neteyam was supposed to be at peace. "Mom says you maintain balance. That everything has a plan, even when I know she's still questioning it herself after you took him."

You let everything happen and you call it balance.

"What's the purpose of this? Where's the balance?"

Maybe there was no purpose. That it's all just random. Perhaps Mom was wrong, which would make everyone wrong, and all of his ancestors wrong, or making them not existing in the first place. Maybe we're all just telling ourselves stories to make the chaos bearable, under the pretense that there's a greater power. That prayer could change everything better, that Eywa will provide.

"He had a future. He was supposed to lead, to… matter," Lo'ak continued, "and I'm just—" He gestured at himself with shaking hands, at all of him. Five fingers. Demon blood. Apparent eyebrows. The son nobody wanted. The one who couldn't do anything right. Constantly going against orders, and messing everything up until no one was left to take the blame for him or even taking his side.

"I'm nothing. I don't have a purpose. I'm just not meant for anything."

His legs gave out. He dropped to his knees on the sleek rock, hands falling limp at his sides. The impact jarred through his bones but he barely felt it. The cold had already soaked through his clothes, chilling him from the outside in, but his insides were already freezing so it didn't matter. His head bowed forward, chin nearly touching his chest. Rain ran down the back of his neck, while his braids hung heavy and wet, dripping steadily. Shoulders were curved inward, spine bending like it couldn't hold him upright anymore.

His voice came out as a whisper. "So why is he gone and I'm still here?"

How am I supposed to exist when everything about me is wrong?

He couldn't seem to find a reason to stand up and go back. And even if he did, go back to what, exactly? To a family that doesn't know what to do with him? To a life that should have ended two weeks ago?

That night, he kept his promise. He went back to the Marui pod right before morning rose.

He might have been running away long enough.

Three weeks after, Lo'ak tries to accept that Neteyam's death had a purpose.

He can't.

No matter how many times his mother whispers about Eywa's plan. No matter how many times he watches the sunrise and tells himself there's meaning in the balance. No matter how many times Kiri said there's a purpose to him leaving.

None of it makes Neteyam's absence make sense.

So he stops trying to find purpose in his brother's death.

And starts trying to create purpose in his own.

Lo'ak accepts Neteyam's death the fastest. He knows he's not coming back, he knows he won't bother him anymore, he knows no one will stand up for his mistakes.

The metal is cold. Familiar in a way that should be comforting but isn't. They say poison would seep into his body, but sometimes, he felt like that's just the way he is—poisonous and for no use. His fingertip rests there, not pressing, not yet, just touching. Feeling the slight resistance.

Just pull. One second. And then it's done.

He closes his eyes. His breathing stays even. His heart beats its steady rhythm. His hands don't shake. His finger tightens, just enough to feel the trigger start to give. Three. Two. One.

He pulls.

Nothing happens.

His finger won't move. Lo'ak's eyes snap open. His brow furrows in confusion. He tries again, telling his finger to pull, to complete the motion, to finish what he started. But his finger stays frozen. Locked in place like his body has decided something his mind hasn't caught up to yet. He tries again. Forcing it. Willing his finger to just move. A tremor runs through his hand. It won't.

"No," he whispers out loud. "No, come on. I have to—"

His finger slips off the trigger entirely, shaking too hard to maintain contact. Both hands start shaking now. The gun wobbles against his chin, barrel pressing and releasing with each tremor. His breathing picks up faster, shallower, each inhale sharp and insufficient. He once told Spider to preserve his breath while running from the Ash People. And now he can’t even follow his own advice. Now he’s wasting it, gulping air like it might disappear if he doesn’t take it fast enough.

Fear crashes over him like a wave. Not the abstract kind. Not the distant worry or the generalized anxiety that had been his constant companion for three weeks.

I'm afraid. The realization hits him. I'm afraid to die.

His chest seizes. His breath stutters, catches, then spills out of him in a sharp, broken exhale. His hands jerk away from his face as if burned, the weight of the gun suddenly unbearable. It gets thrown off from his grip, spiraling away and hits the sand with a dull sound that feels too loud in the small space. He doesn’t curl in on himself like he used to, nor does he have the energy for that anymore.

Neteyam’s face keeps rising behind his closed eyes. Not the moment he died. Worse. The moments before. The way he used to look at Lo’ak when things went wrong. Not angry, just tired. Like he was already bracing himself for what he knew would come when his little brother comes up to him.

Warmth reaches him before he understands it.

Then pressure.

And then his face tightens, sharp and sudden. His breath catches, not enough to make a sound, just enough to ruin the careful control he’s been holding onto. His eyes burn. He blinks once. Twice.

The tears come anyway.

His five-fingered hands curl uselessly in his lap. He can’t bring himself to wipe his face. He just lets it happen.

This is what falling apart feels like.

It doesn't take long for him to realize a pair of hands cupping his cheeks. Very comfortable, its wramth prying into his blue skin. Kiri had always done that with her ikran, gentle and proud. And now, he feels how gentle she is in front of his messy situation.

His other arm has itself pressed against a forehead and held with four-fingered hands. Tsireya, ever so loving and patient with him from the start. Her eyes, who usually radiates happiness onto him, looks dim, very dim. He notices her grip on him getting stronger, but perhaps not because of anger, because her face shows sorrow.

"Stay in this life, brother. We need you."

"We love you."

Lo'ak doesn't answer.

He feels the wamrth.

He just hoped it could've fix him right away.

Three days after the attempt, Lo'ak drifts off to his thoughts. Accepting Neteyam's death is fast, but he doesn't want the feeling of his brother being beside him go away.

Aonung corners him after diving.

"You look like shit, forest boy," he says.

Lo’ak snorts, shoulders lifting in a lazy shrug. "Thanks."

"I mean it." He steps closer, tail flicking with agitation. His mouth pulled thin, eyes sharp in a way that isn’t mocking. "You're here but you're not. It's creepy."

"Sorry my grief offends you."

"That's not—" he huffs, frustrated. He drags a hand through his braids. "That's not what I meant. I meant..." He trails off, searching for words. "My sister's worried. She doesn't say it, but I see it. She thinks you're gonna..."

He doesn't finish. Doesn't need to.

The blue boy's jaw tightens. "Tell Tsireya I'm fine."

"Are you?"

The question doesn’t accuse. It doesn’t soften either. It just sits there, between them, heavy and unavoidable. He could lie. Should lie. Has gotten very good at lying.

"Does it matter?" he says instead.

Aonung's expression does something complicated. He clicks his tongue once, irritated—not at Lo’ak, at the situation, maybe even himself. Whatever answer he wishes he’d get. "Yeah, skxawng. It matters."

Lo'ak looks away, towards the ocean. Towards the place where Neteyam rests.

A week after the attempt, Lo'ak realizes he can't accept Neteyam's death. Acceptance would mean peace. Or at least the possibility of it someday.

And Lo'ak has neither. Just a question: Why am I still here?

The cove offers no answers. But maybe Neteyam will.

The ocean is dark. The kind of dark that feels infinite. But he keeps going, down, down, down until the Spirit Tree appears through the water like a constellation—bioluminescent tendrils glowing soft pink and purple, swaying with the current, serene as the ocean is. Very beautiful, clearly sacred.

His chest tightens as he approaches. He brings his kuru forward as the tendrils reach for him like they've been waiting. The feathery ends of his queue unfurl, restless and seeking, angling towards the tree. His fingers hover near the connection point.

What if he's not there? What if he is and he hates you? What if connecting shows you something you can't unsee?

But he's come this far. He needs to know. Finding something other than the terrible silence that's been his only companion for four weeks.

Lo'ak makes tsaheylu.

Blinding, overwhelming light swallows everything.

Color bleeds into something brighter, sharper. The water disappears. His feet hit solid ground. The impact jolts through his legs. Air rushes into his lungs—it's more warm, notably humid, and thick with moisture. In his place is sunlight filtering through thick leaves, the sound of wind through branches. The smell hits him next, with the lush earth and moss surrounding him and under his feet. Rain-soaked leaves. Bark and sap and growing things. Trees tower above him, stretching up and up until they disappear into a canopy so dense the sky is barely visible through it.

His feet moves around, and he found a clearing. The kind of spot his brother would choose after a hunt when he was too tired to make it all the way home. Broad leaves form a natural shelter overhead. Tree roots curve up from the ground and the moss is thick and soft, perfect for sleeping.

Neteyam is standing. His hair braid with the same stones, his striped blue skin with the same intricate pattern. Arms crossed. Leaning against one of the massive tree trunks with his weight shifted to one leg, head tilted slightly, eyes fixed on the exact spot where Lo'ak emerges from the undergrowth. Like he was waiting, he knew Lo'ak would come.

For a long moment, neither of them speaks.

The forest fills the silence instead. Water running over smooth stones somewhere nearby, the sound clear and musical. He raises his head. His eyes are sharp and focused in a way that makes his stomach drop. The tension on his brother's shoulders were promptly enough for him to not want to hear anything that he says, or asks.

Lo'ak shifts his weight. His tail flicks nervously behind him. "I..." His voice comes out rough. He clears his throat. "Hey."

Four weeks of wanting to see his brother again, and all he can manage is hey.

Neteyam's expression doesn't change. "Hey," he echoes flatly.

"I wanted to see you. Needed to. It's been hard." He stops. Tries to find words that don't sound like excuses. His ears press back slightly, shoulders hunch inward by a fraction. "Since..." His hands gesture vaguely at the space between them. At everything and nothing. Since you died, and got you killed. Since the world split open and swallowed everything good and left him to swallow nothingness. "Since everything."

His jaw tightens. The muscle jumps visibly beneath his skin. His fingers dig harder into his own arms , knuckles going pale with pressure. "And what did you think would happen when you came here?" Neteyam's voice is carefully controlled. "What did you think I'd say?"

Confusion flickers across his face. His brow furrows. "I..." He blinks, trying to understand why this feels like an interrogation instead of a reunion. "I don't know. I just thought maybe we could talk. Like we used to?"

"Like we used to."

The words come out sharp. Almost bitter. Neteyam's arms finally drop from their crossed position but only so his hands can fall to his sides. His fingers curl into fists so tight his whole hand trembles slightly. The tendons in his forearms stand out stark against blue skin.

"When exactly did we used to talk? Before or after you stopped sleeping? Before or after you started disappearing for hours every day? Before or after you..."

He stops himself mid-sentence. His jaw clamps shut with enough force Lo'ak can hear his teeth click together. His eyes squeeze shut for just a second. Just long enough for his chest to expand with another controlled breath. Like he's physically forcing something back down his throat. When his eyes open again, they're burning. Not with anger exactly. Or maybe it is anger but mixed with something else. Fear, hurt, or some terrible combination that just makes his stomach drop to somewhere around his knees.

"Did you think I wouldn't know?"

His breath catches in his throat. His tail goes completely still behind him. "Know what?"

Neteyam takes a step forward. His bare foot presses into moss, toes curling slightly into the soft surface. Then another step. Each movement, there's tension radiating from every line of his body, his hands still fisted. His breathing like holding something back through sheer force of will.

"Don't play dumb with me, skxawng. Don't..." His voice cracks on the word. Just slightly. Just enough. "Don't lie to me, baby bro." The endearment sounds wrong coming out of his mouth right now. Strained and forced.

Lo'ak's yellow eyes scramble to see the vision of his brother right in front of him, before they can't bear it anymore and look no where but down.

His brother's hand is extended now, finger pointing at his chest. Not touching but close enough that he can feel the heat of it. Close enough to be an accusation without making contact.

"Don't you dare lie to me. Not here. Not when..." His voice breaks completely this time. Cracks down the middle like ice under too much weight. He can hear sobs seeping through his mouth. "I see it all over your face. I can feel it in the way you're standing. The way you won't look at me directly. The way your hands won't stop shaking."

His hand drops. Falls to his side like the strings holding it up were cut. His shoulders slump. Some of the rigid tension drains out of him but it doesn't look like relief. It looks like defeat. "Tell me you did not know what you were doing," he says quietly. It's not a command. It's pleading. Begging for his little brother to give him an answer that makes this okay. That makes this something other than what he felt through their bond. "Tell me I'm wrong, that you weren't..."

He can't finish. Just stands there staring at Lo'ak with an expression that makes him want to sink into the moss and disappear into the earth. His throat closes up completely. His vision blurs at the edges. He opens his mouth but no sound comes out. Just a choked breath that might be the start of words or might be the start of falling apart entirely. Around them the forest continues. Wind through leaves. Water over stone. Life moving on the way it always does, indifferent to the pain of two brothers standing in a clearing trying not to break.

"…I don't know." The lie tastes like ash on his tongue.

Neteyam closes the remaining distance between them in two long strides. His hands shoot out and grab Lo'ak's shoulders. Not gentle. Not harsh. Just firm and desperate and absolutely refusing to let go. His grip is solid enough that his brother can feel the heat of his palms through thin skin. Can feel the tremor running through his hands.

"Don't lie to me, Lo'ak. Not when I felt you give up."

A memory flashes unbidden. Ten years old, crying behind the training grounds. Five fingers bleeding where he'd tried to cut one off after the older boys mocked him. His blade dripping with blood, his face covered in streams of tears that wouldn't stop gushing down. The grass being a silent witness to his pain and depseration to be like everyone else. Neteyam finding him. Kneeling down. That same intensity in his eyes.

Who did this? Tell me who made you cry.

A brother protects.

And Neteyam had. Always had. Even when Lo'ak didn't deserve it.

"Because I killed you."

He shook his head. "My death isn't something you have to repay," he says, and his voice is steady, stern in the way only an older brother can manage, the kind of seriousness that comes from fear. "You don't get to punish yourself for surviving me."

The forest feels too quiet after that. Not empty, just listening. Leaves shift high above them. Somewhere nearby, water slips over stone in a slow, patient rhythm. His shoulders tense. He stares at the ground between his feet, at the moss pressed flat where his borther has been standing. His fingers twitch once at his side.

"No," he murmured.

He swallows hard. His tongue feels thick in his mouth. He presses his fingers into his thighs, then lifts one hand and lets it fall again, uncertain and restless. "You were supposed to live because you had plans. You wanted to lead. You always knew where you were going," he says. The words come out blunt, stripped of decoration

You deserved it the most, bro.

"You were better, stronger. You believed in things. You believed in me." His voice thins. He laughs softly, the sound brittle and wrong in the quiet clearing. "I didn't even believe I'd make it through the week."

The thought's been circling for now, the one that wakes him in the dark and presses on his chest until he can't breathe. Neteyam had dreams. A life that made sense. He deserved to have more beads, more shells, more crystals in his songcord, to have his Song continue for as long as it can get. He deserved to use his bow more, to fly his ikran higher. Lo'ak had felt like borrowed time, like something he kept breaking without knowing how to fix.

I didn't want to die, he thought. I just didn't think I deserved to live more than you.

Tears slip free, slow and silent at first. They fall onto the moss, darkening it in small, spreading stains. He doesn't wipe them away. His hands hang uselessly at his sides, trembling.

"Mom still misses you. I see it. She thinks I don’t notice, but I do. She sings softer now. Like she’s afraid the song will break if she lets it be loud."

Neteyam’s grip tightens, just a fraction.

"And Dad," he continues, voice cracking. "He doesn't talk to me anymore. Not really. He looks at me like he's measuring something and coming up short. Like he's trying to see you in me and keeps failing."

His words tumble over each other now, messy and unguarded.

"Kiri worries about me too much. She watches me like I'm already halfway gone. Like if she looks away, I'll disappear. And Tuk… she just keeps holding her toy for too long. She just sits there sometimes, squeezing it like if she lets go, something bad will happen."

"Baby bro, I—"

"I don't know what to do with that. I don't know how to make it better."

His chest aches. Each name adds weight, stacks higher and higher until he can barely breathe under it.

He lifts his head, finally mustering up enough courage to talk to him right in his eyes. "I tried, I really did. I tried to stay. But every time I look at them, all I can think is that it should've been you. You'd know what to say. You'd know how to fix it.”

Neteyam opens his mouth, but Lo'ak barrels on, terrified that if he stops, he’ll never finish.

His hands clench in the empty air between them, while his voice falters, finally, finally. “I tried to sing your songcord. Just for a little while. Just to remember how it felt when things still made sense. And then I found out you can't add anything anymore. There's no space left. It's done. And I—"

He breaks off, sucking in a sharp breath that burns his lungs. The words crowd his head, too many, all pressing at once.

It's my fault, he thinks, like a reflex.

I miss you, he thinks, like a wound that never closes.

The thoughts tangle together until he can't tell where one ends and the other begins.

"I'm sorry."

The words fall small and bare between them. No explanation. No defense. Just the apology he's been carrying since the moment the gun went quiet in his hands. The apology he always reaches for when he doesn't know how else to exist.

Neteyam doesn't speak right away.

For a heartbeat, Lo'ak is a child again, braced for disappointment, for anger, for that he's done something unforgivable.

Then Neteyam pulls him closer, pressing his forehead into his chest full of war scars, his ear close to his heart. The place where his little brother focused on the most, until he felt that the heartbeat slowly disappearing, and no more.

Lo'ak breaks.

It isn't quiet, not even dignified. His breath stutters once, twice, like his lungs have forgotten how to work, and then the sound tears out of him, raw and ugly and unmistakably alive. His knees threaten to give way, and if his brother weren't holding him, he would fold in on himself completely. He cries like he's been holding it in for weeks. Like he's been bracing for something that never came and can't hold anymore. His hands curl into Neteyam's chest, fingers clutching at his back, even feeling like he's anchoring onto his body, and the sobs shake through him hard enough to hurt.

He keeps Lo’ak close, one arm firm around his back, the other hand spread warm and steady at the base of his skull. His thumb moves in slow, absent circles against his braid, a habit from long before words were ever enough. His breathing is still uneven, chest hitching against him with every fragile inhale. It's back when they were still children, when they were eleven-ten and still learning how to hunt, and blood trickling down his fingers.

Neteyam, I don't wanna be different. I don't like my fingers, I don't like being a demon.

There's nothing you need to worry about, baby brother. Doesn't make you any less important. You still have me, so it's okay.

When his little brother's sobs begin to slow, when they turn rough and breathless instead of sharp, Neteyam finally speaks.

"No," he says quietly. The word is gentle, but it leaves no room for argument. "You don't get to decide whose life mattered more, that was never yours to carry."

"You had dreams," he mumbles back. "You knew where you were going."

He exhales slowly. His shoulders drop with the breath, easing some of the tension from his frame. "I did, and one of them was you."

He lifts a hand and rests his palm onto his brother's head, just like how he used to love doing it. His mouth curves into something small and fond. His eyes return. "I used to think about it. Not just leading. Not just fighting. I thought about the four of us: you, me, Kiri, Tuk. All of us grown and still standing together."

"I wanted you beside me," he says simply. "Not behind me. If I got to be Olo'eyktan, you'd definitely be my right hand. We can watch each other's backs the way we always did."

And yet you didn't even live past 16.

His fingers tighten slightly, not gripping, just emphasizing the truth of it. "I thought we'd argue because you'd get yourself into trouble and I'd have to pull you out, and you'd complain the whole time. And then Kiri would be right there, pretending not to care and care anyway. I thought about Tuk still being fearless."

Lo'ak's eyes squeeze shut. Fresh tears spill over, slower now, tracing warm paths down his cheeks and dripping from his jaw. His face twists as he tries to hold himself together, but his shoulders give a small, helpless hitch. Neteyam watches him closely. His expression softens, the hard lines of worry easing as he lifts his hand. His four-fingered hand press lightly against his brother's chest, right over the steady, frantic beat of his heart. The touch is deliberate, impossible to ignore.

"You were scared," he says. His voice is calm. He doesn't frame it as accusing. His fingers linger there, feeling the rapid rhythm beneath skin.

"That's not failure—that's your heart telling you that something mattered. That you mattered. You don't fight to stay alive unless there's something inside you that wants to keep going."

Neteyam's mouth twitches despite himself. A quiet sound slips out, half a breath, half a laugh. He shakes his head slowly, eyes drifting past Lo'ak as the memory takes shape.

"Do you remember that night on watch," he says, voice lighter now, softened by fondness. “The one when everyone else drew the short straws and somehow we got stuck together."

Lo'ak exhales, shaky but real. His brow furrows as he searches for it, then his lips part. "You wouldn't stop correcting my stance," he mutters. His voice is hoarse, but there is something warmer underneath it. "Every five minutes. ‘Straighten your back. Keep your weight forward.’"

"Because you kept slouching!"

"My feet were numb," he says weakly. He shifts slightly, like he can still feel it. "And you said the stars were supposed to be calming."

"They are calming. You were just determined to be miserable."

His little brother lets out a soft, breathy sound that might be a laugh if it had more strength in it. His shoulders lift and fall. "I was tired, so I kept thinking if I sat down for a second, I wouldn't get back up."

"And you still stayed standing," the other one says. "Every time I blinked too long, you nudged me. Hard."

A short pause. "I remember saying," he murmurs back, "that someone has to make sure we see the next morning." His voice cracks on the last word.

The memory lands heavier now, weighted by everything that came after it. Three weeks ago, there was a morning Neteyam never saw. A dawn he did not wake to. He hadn't known then that the others would make it out, that they would still be breathing, still standing, until Lo'ak carried his body back to the spirit world and felt their parents' presence beside him, quiet and unbearable but final.

"That's what I meant, when I said I was just there," he says softly, the confession slipping out at last. His throat works. "I was always trying to hold the line. Keep the moment from tipping over. Keep the next morning possible."

His gaze drops. His shoulders curl inward slightly, guilty.

"But when it mattered most, you didn't get one. And when you were gone, it felt like all I was ever good for failed. And then I was just… there."

The words come out small, stripped of anger or defensiveness. Just a quiet truth he has carried for too long. Neteyam studies him in silence. His gaze is steady, searching Lo'ak's face the way he always has, taking in the tension in his jaw, the way his ears sit low, the uncertainty written into the way he holds himself. He doesn't interrupt, and simply lets the confession settle between them.

"You were there," he finally opens up. "With us. That matters more than you think."

"I’m scared I'll forget, that I'll move on and it'll mean you didn’t matter," he whispers. The words barely make it past his throat.

Neteyam shakes his head slowly, "You don’t forget people by living, you forget them by stopping."

"You think moving forward erases me," he continues. "But I won't be stored away somewhere you have to guard." He taps his chest lightly, right over his heart. "I'll be here."

For the first time since four weeks ago, Lo'ak doesn't feel like he is about to disappear.

The space between them closes without either of them really deciding to move.

Lo'ak leaning forward, his head laying on his brother's shoulder. The motion is clumsy, unguarded, driven more by instinct than thought. The last of his restraint finally gives way, not in a violent shatter but in a quiet collapse. Neteyam accepts it immediately. His arms come around him fully this time, firm and enclosing, both hands holding him tight. His brother holds him through it all, steady and patient. A sentimentality never meant to be gone.

"I love you, brother."

"I love you too, baby brother."

A day after Lo'ak mends his heart, he accepts Neteyam's death forever. And by that, forever changing his behaviour as well.

Well, seomtimes Lo'ak wakes up with the ghost of cold metal against his chin. Still feels the weight of grief sitting on his chest like a physical thing. Days where getting out of his hammock feels impossible.

So he tries.

The first change is small: Kiri invites him to help her gather herbs at dawn, and instead of making up an excuse, he goes.

They don't talk much. Just walk through the early morning light, Kiri pointing out plants and Lo'ak carrying the basket. The forest is still half-asleep, mist clinging low to the ground. Dew beads on leaves, cool against his fingers when he brushes past them. It's quiet. Peaceful, at some point.

Kiri stops near a cluster of small white flowers, petals thin and soft as woven fiber. She crouches, careful as she gathers them, then glances up at him.

"Do you remember when you tried to make Neteyam a flower crown?" she asks suddenly.

Lo'ak blinks. "What?"

She smiles to herself, like she can already see it. "You kept snapping the stems. You got mad and said the flowers were stupid. He called you a skxawng for it."

"They were," he says automatically.

She snorts. "You shoved it on his head anyway. It was completely crooked."

He stares at the flowers in her hands. Then the image hits him. Neteyam sitting there, way too serious, letting Lo’ak fumble and fail and try again. The crown sliding sideways over his braids. Neteyam reaching up and adjusting one bent petal like it mattered. A sound slips out of Lo’ak before he can stop it. A short, surprised laugh. It cracks in the middle, but it is real.

"He wore it home," he says, disbelief softening his voice.

"And he said it was perfect," she adds.

Lo’ak laughs again, fuller this time. He shakes his head. "He's lying."

"He wasn’t," Kiri says, "because you made it.”

Tuk, on the other hand, starts to approach him, then change her mind. She'll open her mouth to say something, then close it. She watches him like he's already disappearing. It reminds him too much of how he must have looked at his brother's eye.

So one afternoon, when he sees her sitting alone on the beach clutching that worn pa'li toy he forgot to repaair for her, Lo'ak makes himself walk over.

"Hey, Tuk," he says, settling beside her in the sand.

She looks up, surprised. "Hi."

They sit in awkward silence. He has no idea what to say to her. Has no idea how to explain where he's been, why he's been so distant.

Finally, Tuk speaks. Her voice is very small. "Are you going to go away like Neteyam?"

The question punches all the air from his lungs. "What?"

"Neteyam is with the Great Mother now," she continues, picking at the toy's mane. "That he's in the Spirit Tree. And you... you're like, gone too. Even when you're here."

"Tuk, I—"

"I don't want you to go away, please don't go away, Lo'ak," she whispers, and tears spill down her cheeks.

And just like that, Lo'ak's careful walls crumble. He pulls his baby sister into his lap, wrapping his arms around her as she cries into his chest. "I'm not going anywhere," he promises, and he means it with utmost seriousness. "I'm sorry I've been gone, Tuk. I'm sorry I made you feel like I was leaving."

"You promise?" she hiccups.

He thinks about the gun. About the water. About Neteyam's dream about the 4 of them.

"I promise, I'm staying right here."

She clings to him tighter. After a moment, she pulls back just enough to look at him seriously. "I dream about him sometimes," she says matter-of-factly. "He tells me things. He told me to take care of you because you're sad. So I've been trying, but I didn't know how."

His throat closes completely. Of course his brother would find a way to reach Tuk. Of course he'd still be protecting them even from the other side.

"You've been doing great," Lo'ak manages. "Just... having you around helps."

"Really?"

"Really."

Tuk considers this, then nods decisively. "Okay. Then I'm going to stay around a LOT. And you have to come swimming with me. And you have to help me build things. And you have to teach me how to ride an ikran. And you have to—"

"Woah, woah," Lo'ak laughs—and it's real, surprised out of him by his sister's intensity. "One thing at a time, mighty warrior."

And when he starts to miss him, he goes back to the Cove of the Ancestors, and he'll find himself flying his ikran together, showing him tricks through the sky, sometimes at Ayram Alusìng, and at other times try to understand his fondness for stars. They tread through the forest again, finding places where he'd probably take not to sleep under the canopy, and finding fish in the rivers. Occasionally, he can show him how big the ocean is, how the reef keeps growing, and he can tell him all of the stories and experiences he gets with the siblings, and sometime Tsireya.

And hit him—it hit both of them.

When Lo'ak lost his older brother, a piece of him could never be replaced. And for Neteyam? He could wait for all eternity for his baby brother in the spirit world, as long as it's not now.