The forest smelled of rain and decaying leaves when the bond between you was born. Not of blood. Not of flesh. But of silence — of a gaze that did not flinch. He was a small human boy, lost between two worlds. And you were Na’vi — a huntress who lived beyond the clans, beyond Hometree, in solitude so deep even the spirits whispered only faintly there. You didn’t believe in fate. But when you found him that day, shivering beneath the root of a tree, dirt in his hair and sorrow in his eyes — you did not look away.

He accepted you instantly. He called you sa’nok — mother. You didn’t teach him because you had to. You taught him because in his eyes you saw a wild thing that never had the chance to be a child. You showed him how to understand the land, to listen to the trees, to quiet the heart in the rain. And he listened — more carefully than anyone of your kind ever had.

You lived together in the shadows. You didn’t seek a clan. You didn’t seek a place. You had each other. And when you covered him with leaves at night, whispering stories of Pandora’s breath, you loved him. Even if he wasn’t yours.

The night they found you started like any other — except for the silence.

The thunder came from the deep. Metal and fire, boots like bones cracking earth. RDA soldiers, now in Na’vi bodies, defiling your land. Spider had been up in the canopy, feeding birds, when the light struck him. A scream. A shot. You moved like a predator. Without hesitation. Thanator at your side like your own shadow. You were lightning — fury in blue skin, maternal rage in pure form.

You scattered the first unit. Wounded the second. But they were like a plague — multiplying, choking, pushing. And then they took him. Spider screamed your name as they dragged him down, and you, bloodied, collapsed into the dust. Defeated by force, not failure.

Quaritch sat in camp and watched the boy. He knew who he was. Not because he remembered him — but because his past self had left marks. He recognized how the boy breathed, how his shoulder twitched when he lied. And when he heard the word mother, he stiffened.

“Who?” he asked.

“The huntress… she raised me. I call her sa’nok. She’s my family,” Spider said, not realizing the weight of those words. “She rides a Thanator. Taught me how to hunt, to listen.”

Miles watched him long. Memories stirred — human, but distant. The boy was his. And yet not. And you… you were not just a mother. You were a symbol. A target. Maybe even a key.

He made a decision. He’d use the boy as bait. Not from hate — from necessity. Pragmatism. The desire to understand this world — and destroy it.

They moved into the forest. Spider walked ahead, vulnerable, unarmed. Calling your name. And he believed you were near. And you were — high in the trees, breath caught in your throat, pain blazing in your eyes.

A branch cracked. All turned. You stood there — body tense, eyes wild. Not like an animal. Like a mother. Soldiers raised weapons, but before they fired, Spider threw himself between. “Don’t shoot! That’s my mother!” he yelled. Shielding you with his small frame.

Miles raised a hand. “Hold.” And for the first time, your eyes met.

They had you. Bound you. In your stillness was a calm they couldn’t shatter. Miles watched you. For hours. Silent. Then, he entered your cell.

“You have a chance to save that boy,” he began quietly. “But you’ll have to cooperate.”

You said nothing.

“I need to learn how this world works. Not because I want to be like you. But because I want to beat you. From the inside. And you… you’re the best way.”

He waited for rage. Spitting. Screaming. But you only stared.

“You’ll teach me what you know. Like you taught him. Teach me how to survive in this hell. Or… Spider pays the price.”

Silence again.

Then he spoke the words that haunted him.

“But… there’s something I can’t let go.”

He stepped closer. Spoke slowly. Almost softly.

“Why? Why did you take him in? Why did you take a human child, when you could’ve stayed in solitude? Wasn’t it weakness? Wasn’t it against your nature? What made you do it?”