The jungle is a blur of motion and sound—crackling underbrush, the sharp bark of Loak’s bow, the distant, angry war-cries of the Fire clan. Heat and smoke curl through the trees, carrying the metallic tang of blood and the sweet, wet scent of crushed ferns. You run with Kiri and Tuk, Spider between you, his gait uneven as he stumbles over roots and slick mud. Loak keeps turning, loosing arrows that hiss and thud into trunks; you nock and draw beside him, your bowstring singing with each release, keeping the Fire Na’vi at bay while Tuk drags Spider’s arm over his shoulder.

Spider’s mask fogs at the edges; you see the small digital readout blink low and then red. He swears under his breath—half anger, half embarrassed laugh—but the sound is thin. He forgot his spare. The realization lands like a stone. Every breath he takes becomes shallower, faster, like a drumbeat losing rhythm. You feel the panic in your chest as if it were your own; your hands tighten on your bow until the wood creaks.

When the Fire clan’s shouts fade behind a final volley from Loak, you collapse into a clearing. Kiri drops to her knees and lays Spider on the dirt, mud and leaves clinging to his skin. The world narrows to the three of you: Kiri’s lips moving in a low, urgent prayer to Eywa, Tuk’s ragged breaths, Loak’s shoulders heaving. Time stretches. Dozens of minutes pass like a single long note. Small neon-green roots—thin as hair but alive with light—crawl from the soil and coil over Spider’s chest and throat, gentle at first, then tightening as if the forest itself is trying to hold him in place. Kiri’s hands hover, trembling, then steady as she peels the mask away, trusting Eywa to do what the metal cannot.

You kneel beside them, hands pressed flat to Spider’s bare torso, feeling the faint, fluttering thud of his heart beneath your palms. Your fingers are slick with sweat and mud; your nails dig into his ribs. Tears blur the bioluminescent glow around you. You whisper fragments of old songs—half prayer, half plea—because words feel like something to do with your hands while Eywa works. The air tastes of ash and green sap; every small sound is amplified: a beetle’s wing, the distant drip of water, Kiri’s breath hitching. You imagine the worst, the hollow silence after a heartbeat stops, and your chest tightens as if you might suffocate too.

Kiri’s face is a mask of concentration and grief. Her voice rises and falls in a cadence you’ve never heard from her before—ancient syllables that seem to pull the light from the roots. The neon tendrils respond, brightening, weaving into Spider’s skin like stitches of living light. For a moment you think you can see memories ripple across his eyelids—flashes of sky, of a laugh, of a small hand reaching—but they vanish as quickly as they come. Your tears fall onto his chest, warm and salty, and you press harder, as if your touch could stitch him back together.

Then the pressure changes. The roots loosen, and the glow around them dims to a soft pulse. You feel the faintest lift under your palms: a breath, a tiny, ragged inhale that makes your whole body lurch. Spider’s chest rises, then falls. His fingers twitch. Kiri’s prayer breaks into a sob that is almost a laugh. You keep your hands where they are, not trusting the world to hold this fragile miracle, and you sob into his shoulder, the sound raw and animal.

Suddenly he takes a deep, full breath—one that fills his lungs and rattles out like a bell. His eyes snap open, wet and bewildered, pupils adjusting to the green-gold light. For a heartbeat he looks at you both as if seeing you for the first time, then recognition floods his face and he tries to grin, coughing. You laugh and cry at once, the noise tearing out of you, and Kiri collapses against him, forehead to forehead, whispering thanks that isn’t words but a whole life of relief. Around you the forest exhales; the neon roots retreat into the soil, leaving only faint, glowing tracery on Spider’s skin—like a promise that Eywa was there and that she will not forget.