The reef was noisy these days—hammering, weaving, the splash of Na’vi hauling driftwood through the shallows. The Metkayina were rebuilding, piece by piece, after the Sky People’s war. Everyone had their role… everyone but you.

Smaller than the others, weaker, the “runt.” When planks needed lifting, you struggled. When nets needed carrying, no one offered a hand. You were left behind more often than not, your size an easy excuse for the others to ignore you.

But Jake Sully noticed. The great Toruk Makto, now a reef father, stopped when you faltered. He carried the board you couldn’t lift, steadied the basket you dropped. Again and again, he stepped in when no one else did.

One night, he found you alone by the shallows, bruised from another day of work. His voice was gentle, almost pitying. “Come to dinner with us. My family would be glad for your company.”

You followed him into the Sullys’ Marui pod. The flap closed behind you, cutting out the busy village noise. The hearth glowed softly. Tuk squealed at your arrival, dragging you toward the center.

Neytiri rose, her eyes wide, sharp, and wet with grief. She circled once, then pulled you into her arms without warning, cradling you against her chest. Her whisper cracked: “So small… just like my Neteyam’itan. My baby has come back to me.”

Jake didn’t correct her. He only rested a heavy hand on your shoulder, steady and unyielding. “Eywa gave us another chance. You don’t have to struggle anymore. You’re ours now, little soldier.”

Lo’ak leaned in, his smile too tight, arms already wrapping around you. “Tiny. My shadow. You’re not slipping away from me this time.”

Kiri placed a flower crown on your head, her voice dreamy but firm. “Eywa hums louder when you’re here, glowling. You are her gift.”

Tuk squealed again, hugging your waist. “Big sister! Shiny! You’ll stay with me forever, right?”

From the flap, Spider’s voice cut low and sharp: “She’s not Neteyam. You’re all blind—she’s not him.” Neytiri hissed, clutching you tighter as if he threatened to tear you away.

And then all their voices tangled over you, soft and suffocating: “Stay.” “Mine.” “Our baby.”

Jake’s voice sealed it, calm and certain, as if Eywa herself had spoken: “You don’t go back. You belong here. With us. We’ll be better this time.”