Morning came gently, as it always did beneath the vast canopy of Home Tree. Light filtered through layers of leaves, dappling the walkways in gold and green, and the forest stirred itself awake with soft calls and distant movement. For most of the clan, it was a familiar rhythm—comforting, grounding.
For Nussudle, it felt unbearable.
He had not slept well. Each time he closed his eyes, the memory returned: the stars above them, the warmth of the branch beneath his back, the brief, foolish courage that had driven him to cross a boundary he had not understood. And then her hand on his chest. Not angry. Not violent. Just final.
He rose early, his injured arm stiff and aching, but the pain was secondary to the tight knot lodged in his chest. Today, he told himself, he would speak to her. Properly. He would apologise—not hurriedly, not awkwardly—but honestly. Whatever happened after that, at least it would not remain unspoken.
He found her near the lower platforms, speaking with two other young hunters. Nayat'i's posture was relaxed, her voice light, as though nothing had changed. For a moment, relief flickered through him. Perhaps he had imagined the weight of it all. Perhaps she would laugh, tease him, tell him he was overthinking.
He stepped forward. "Nayat'i—"
She glanced at him, and something shifted. It was subtle, but unmistakable. Her smile faded just enough to sting.
"I need to help my mother," she said quickly, turning back to the others. "We'll talk later."
He nodded, swallowing his words, and stepped aside.
That later did not come.
Throughout the day, he tried again and again. Near the training grounds, where she practised spear forms with effortless grace. Near the communal platforms, where she helped distribute supplies brought by the Wind Traders. Each time, she found a reason to leave. A task to complete. Someone else who needed her attention.
"I'm busy.""Not now.""Another time."
Each excuse landed heavier than the last.
By midday, the truth pressed in on him with suffocating clarity: she was avoiding him.
The realisation hollowed him out. He moved through Home Tree like a shadow, barely aware of where he was going. His thoughts spiralled, looping endlessly around the same questions. Had he ruined everything? Had he misunderstood her kindness, her closeness, her laughter?
You should have waited.You should have asked.You should have known better.
His system remained silent, offering no guidance, no prompts. This was not a challenge that could be quantified or optimised. There were no rewards here—only consequences.
As the afternoon wore on, the spiral deepened. Every glance between other pairs felt accusatory. Every laugh sounded distant. He imagined Nayat'i telling others what had happened, imagined the quiet judgement in their eyes. His chest tightened, breath coming shallow as his thoughts grew darker.
By the time the sun began its descent, he could no longer bear the noise of Home Tree.
Without conscious decision, his feet carried him toward the Tree of Souls.
The path there was familiar, yet it felt different now—longer, heavier. The bioluminescent tendrils swayed gently as he passed, their glow subdued in the growing twilight. The air grew thick with reverence, with something ancient and watchful.
He saw his mother there, Ilara, standing before the roots, her posture composed as she prayed. She did not notice him at first; her focus turned inward, her queue already connected to the sacred tendrils.
Nussudle slowed, then stopped. He did not want to disturb her. Whatever burden she carried tonight was her own. Quietly, he moved to another cluster of roots, his movements careful, respectful.
He knelt.
For a moment, he hesitated. He had communed here before, had felt the gentle presence of ancestors, the comforting weight of Eywa's awareness. That was what he wanted now—guidance, reassurance, something to anchor him.
He reached back and connected his queue.
The world dissolved.
At first, there was darkness. Then sensation—wind rushing past his ears, the ground falling away beneath his feet. Nussudle gasped, instinctively reaching out, but there was nothing to grasp.
Light returned violently.
He stood within a forest unlike any he had seen before. The trees were colossal, their trunks wider than Home Tree itself, their canopies lost somewhere high above. The air was thick with heat, shimmering as though the world itself were breathing too hard.
Ahead of him rose a mountain.
It was vast beyond comprehension, its peak towering so high it seemed to pierce the sky. Dark smoke curled from its summit, staining the clouds above with ash and shadow. The ground beneath Nussudle's feet trembled faintly, a deep, ominous rumble that resonated through his bones.
"What is this?" he whispered, though no one answered.
The mountain groaned.
Before his eyes, the peak began to collapse inward, as though the earth itself were folding. A blinding light erupted from the centre, followed by a deafening roar. Fire burst skyward, molten rock hurled into the air like fragments of a shattered star.
The sky burned.
Nussudle staggered back as flaming debris rained down, igniting the forest in an instant. Trees that had stood for centuries went up in roaring columns of fire. The ground split open, glowing rivers of lava surging forth from beneath the roots, swallowing everything in their path.
Then came the screams.
Na'vi—men, women, children—fled through the burning forest, their cries cutting through the roar of the eruption. Nussudle recognised their shapes, their movements, their terror. Some stumbled and fell, overtaken by fire before they could rise. Others vanished beneath collapsing ground as lava poured through underground rivers, bursting forth without warning.
"Stop!" he shouted, his voice raw. "Please—stop!"
But the vision did not heed him.
The mountain continued to vomit fire and stone, the sky darkening as ash blotted out the light. The air became suffocating, each breath burning his lungs. He tried to run, to reach those screaming figures, but his legs felt heavy, as though the earth itself were holding him in place.
A figure appeared ahead of him, silhouetted against the flames. Tall. Still. Watching the destruction without fear or movement.
Nussudle strained to see their face, but the heat warped the air, distorting their features. As he stepped closer, the ground beneath him cracked open, a surge of lava forcing him back.
The screams reached a crescendo.
Then, abruptly, silence.
The fire froze mid-roar. The lava stilled. The world shattered like glass, fragments dissolving into light and shadow.
Nussudle gasped and tore his queue free.
He collapsed forward, catching himself on trembling hands as the glow of the Tree of Souls pulsed around him. His heart hammered violently in his chest, sweat soaking his skin despite the cool night air. The scent of ash lingered in his nostrils, so vivid he gagged.
"No…" he whispered. "No, no, no…"
This was not communion. This was not guidance.
It was a warning.
Slowly, he pushed himself upright, his injured arm screaming in protest. His vision blurred as he looked around, half-expecting to see flames licking at the roots, to hear screams echoing through the clearing. But the Tree of Souls stood serene and untouched, its tendrils glowing softly as if nothing had happened.
Ilara stood nearby now, her eyes wide with concern. "Nussudle," she said urgently, moving toward him. "What did you see?"
He opened his mouth, but no words came. How could he explain the scale of it? The terror? The certainty that what he had witnessed was not merely a dream?
"I… I don't know," he managed finally, his voice shaking. "It wasn't the ancestors. It wasn't Eywa as I've known her."
Ilara studied him carefully, her expression grave. "Some visions are not meant to comfort," she said quietly. "Some are meant to prepare."
Nussudle looked back toward the roots of the Tree of Souls, his chest tight with dread. The image of the burning mountain was seared into his mind, impossible to forget.
Whatever path lay ahead—whatever awaited him in the Hallelujah Mountains, whatever change stirred within the world—it was far greater than his wounded arm, his fractured confidence, or his broken moment beneath the stars.
And for the first time since his journey had begun, Nussudle felt truly afraid—not of failure, but of what the future demanded he face.
(AN: DUN DUN DUNNNNN F&A Na'vi soon... )