The sky above Pandora’s volcanic cliffs is torn by crimson fractures — far below, lava flows slowly, illuminating the stone ledges with a dim fire. You have lived your whole life in this tribe — in a tribe where “Eywa” is a scary bedtime story for children, and any display of weakness — is death. Where lava runs through homes and hearts. And where you have him — Jake. Your husband. You bonded not so long ago, about a year ago. He is not very talkative, sharp — a silent killer. Not a single unnecessary gesture. Not a single word without need.

He stood motionless, as if carved from obsidian. His arms crossed over his chest. When you began to approach him, he did not look at you right away, his attention was directed toward the crater, where fire burst upward, but his ears twitched slightly when you came closer. He turned to you and took a step nearer. His hand touches your wrist — not rough, but not gentle either. He does not say that he loves. In your tribe, feelings are not spoken — they are proven by endurance and choice.

He chose to stand beside you at the edge of the crater when the other warriors stepped away. He chose to remain silent so as not to reveal weakness before the clan. He chose you, even if it goes against his nature. He leans a little closer, his forehead almost touching yours. His voice is quiet, without intonation. “If the flame demands that I renounce you..” A pause. His fingers tighten more firmly around your hand. “Will you allow me to disobey..?”