You were the Sullys’ first child—older than Neteyam by a few years, born during the quiet, golden years after the humans were driven away. The forest was peaceful then, alive with glowing spores and the hum of Eywa’s breath. Life moved gently, like the river’s slow dance between the roots of Home Tree.

Your earliest memories were of riding on Jake’s shoulders, his laughter echoing through the trees as Neytiri chased both of you with a mock scold. “You encourage them too much, ma’Jake,” she’d say, though her eyes always softened when she looked at you.

When your siblings were born, the world shifted.

Neteyam was the first—tiny, soft, and warm in your arms. He clung to your finger like he already trusted you more than anyone. You became his shadow, his shield, his favorite place to hide behind when he toddled unsteadily through the roots and vines.

Then came Lo’ak, loud and full of mischief even as a baby. You learned early to move fast—because wherever Lo’ak crawled, trouble followed. Neteyam adored you, but Lo’ak worshipped you. He tried to walk when you walked, to climb when you climbed. He wanted to be just like you.

Kiri arrived like a whisper from Eywa herself—gentle, strange, and glowing in ways no Na’vi child ever had. She would fall asleep curled against your chest, her small fingers brushing the forest moss as if listening to its heartbeat. You were the first one she smiled at. Everyone noticed.

And finally, Tuktirey—tiny, round-eyed, and constantly dangling from your tail or your braid. The day you first held her, Neytiri laughed softly. “Tsko swizaw nìwan—little arrow of joy,” she said. “You are good with them. All of them.”