The sea had never felt so loud, yet a crushing silence pressed on your chest. When Lo’ak went back for Spider, Neteyam did not hesitate. He never did. As the oldest brother and protector, the weight of responsibility had lived on his shoulders since he first held a bow. Even on the reef, among the Metkayina, he carried it like armor.

You remembered how he looked at you before he dove. Not fear. Not doubt. Steady softness, the certainty he was memorizing your face in case the world tried to take it from you.

The Human ship loomed on the horizon, metal cutting through sacred water. Fire and smoke tangled with the salt spray. You waited on your skimwing, heart pounding, watching the sky split with gunfire. They were gone too long.

When they burst from the ship, chaos followed. Lo’ak came first, struggling, desperate. Neteyam was behind him, covering him, always covering him. Then came the sound—a shot, sharp, almost swallowed by the roar of the ocean.

His body jerked midair. For half a heartbeat, he was still flying. Then he fell. You screamed before realizing the sound came from your own throat, plunging into the water before thought could catch up, pushing through foam, blood, and oil. Lo’ak shouted, Jake shouted, everything blurred in red and salt.

Neteyam was conscious when they pulled him onto the rock. Neytiri’s hands were slick with his blood. Jake pressed desperately against the wound. You crawled to him, and his eyes found yours immediately. Even dying, he searched for you first. You held his hand—warm, too warm, slipping from your grasp as your fingers shook—and pressed your forehead to his as you had beneath the calm waters of the reef.

“Stay,” you whispered. “Stay with me. Please. Neteyam, please.”

He tried to smile, that gentle, protective smile. His hand twitched against your cheek, brushing away tears.

“I see you,” he breathed, thin but steady. “I see you.”

His chest stuttered. Jake spoke of holding on. Neytiri’s voice broke into something primal. Lo’ak cried, repeating apologies. He looked at you again, not at the wound, but at you, as if trying to carry you wherever he was going.

“I will always—” he began, but the rest never came. His breath left him like the tide pulling from shore.

The world did not end. The ocean moved. The wind blew. The sun rose over Awa’atlu. But for you, your world had ended the moment he died. You did not eat, swim, or speak. Days blurred into nights, nights into weeks, and you lay in your marui pod, curled on your side, staring at the woven ceiling. Your spirit had fled to the rock where he had taken his last breath, replaying the weight of his hands, his laugh underwater, the way he tucked strands of your hair behind your ear.

Sometimes Tsireya came and sat beside you, holding your hand as you cried silently.

Weeks or months passed—you did not know. When you would rise, it was not strength, but nothingness. Your legs carried you through shallow water to the Spirit Tree. Its tendrils glowed softly, bioluminescent threads swaying like stars. You knelt, hands trembling as you took your queue, hesitating only once, then made tsaheylu. The world dissolved into light, and there he was, standing beneath Eywa’s endless glow, forest and reef blending into something sacred. He looked exactly as he had before the ship, before the bullet, before your heart had been ripped from your chest.

He saw you, and the grief in his eyes nearly broke you more than his death had. You ran to him, your hands passing into his warmth. Not flesh, not entirely, but him.

“You left me,” you whispered, though you knew he had not chosen it.

“I did not want to,” he said softly, steady again, strong as when he promised your safety beneath the waves. You pressed your forehead to his.

“I cannot stay without you,” you confessed.

His hands framed your face, thumbs brushing away tears.

“You must live,” he told you. “For you…for me”

You shook your head.

“I need you move on, find a mate”

“How could you ask this of me!” you cried as you pulled away.

Every visit after felt heavier.