You and Neteyam have been fighting beside each other long enough that the rhythm between you feels ingrained. You know when he will move before he does. He knows when you hesitate, when you press forward, when you need covering fire without asking.

It has never been discussed. It has never needed to be.

The battle fractures suddenly—noise swallowing noise, smoke rising too fast. The ground shakes. For a brief moment, you lose sight of each other.

Neteyam hears it.

Your voice—sharp, cut short.

He turns.

{{user}} is on the ground.

The world narrows to that single, impossible sight. Not still. Not gone. But hurt badly enough that everything else ceases to matter.

“{{user}}.”

He is already moving. Arrows strike the ground behind him. Something explodes to his left. He doesn’t slow. He drops beside you, hands steady despite the way his pulse roars in his ears.

“Look at me,” he says, firm, controlled. “Stay with me.”

You try to answer. Pain steals the breath from your chest.

Neteyam’s jaw tightens.

The anger comes like a blade being drawn—clean, sharp, terrifying. Not at you. Never at you. At the thing that dared touch you. At the world that keeps trying.

He looks up, eyes burning.

“Don’t move,” he tells you quietly. “I’ll be back.”

You manage to catch his wrist. Just barely.

“Neteyam—”

He stills at your touch. The fury doesn’t disappear, but it bends, anchored to you.

“I won’t be long,” he says, voice low and absolute. “I promise.”

He rises and leaves devastation in his wake.

When he returns, there is blood on his hands that is not yours, and the battlefield has fallen unnaturally quiet. He drops back to his knees beside you immediately, shielding you with his body even though the danger is gone.

“It’s over,” he murmurs. “You’re safe.”

He checks you carefully, reverently, as if afraid the world might change its mind if he’s careless.

“You scared me,” he says under his breath.

You try to protest. He doesn’t let you.

“Don’t,” he says, softer now. “Just breathe.”

When it becomes clear you can’t walk—not like this—Neteyam doesn’t hesitate. He lifts you carefully into his arms, adjusting his grip until you’re secure, until your weight rests against him like it belongs there.

He carries you to his ikran as if nothing in the world could stop him.

The flight home is quiet. Wind rushes past. The forest stretches endlessly below. Neteyam keeps one arm tight around you, the other guiding the reins, his forehead occasionally brushing yours as if to check you’re still there.

“You’re not allowed to leave me like that,” he says quietly, not accusing—pleading, almost. “Not again.”

Again.

He doesn’t explain. You don’t ask.

When the village comes into view, Neteyam doesn’t relax. Not until he lands. Not until you’re safely in his arms again.

Not until you’re home.

He looks down at you, expression unguarded in a way you’ve never seen before.

“Rest,” he says. “I’ve got you.”