Morning came without warmth.
The sun breached the sky slowly, pale light filtering through the vast canopy of Home Tree, but the forest did not stir with its usual vitality. The birds remained quiet. Even the leaves seemed reluctant to move, as if Pandora itself recognised the weight of the day.
At the precipice of Home Tree, Eytukan and Kamun stood side by side.
Before them lay Na'fey's body.
He was wrapped carefully, respectfully, his limbs arranged as though he slept rather than lay still forever. His skin had been painted in the traditional patterns of passage, soft blues and whites marking his journey back to Eywa. Beneath him stretched a massive woven leaf, its veins thick and sturdy, secured between two direhorses that waited patiently at the edge of the platform.
They did not fidget. They did not snort or stamp.
Animals understood grief.
Behind Kamun and Eytukan stood Na'fey's family.
May'ata knelt closest, her shoulders shaking as quiet sobs tore from her chest. Her hands were clenched tightly in the fabric of her son's ceremonial sash, fingers white with strain. Beside her stood her mate, Na'fey's father, his posture rigid and unmoving, eyes fixed ahead with a hollow intensity that suggested tears had already been spent. Their younger son stood between them, small hands gripping his father's arm, his face buried against it as muffled cries escaped him.
Eytukan swallowed hard.
This was the cost of leadership. Not the battle. Not the command. But this moment—standing before a family that would never be whole again.
The first songcords began softly.
A single elder stepped forward, voice low and steady, singing the opening verses of Na'fey's life. The melody was slow and deliberate, each note heavy with memory. It spoke of his birth beneath glowing leaves, of his first hunt, of laughter shared on high branches. The song did not shy away from sorrow, nor did it dwell on it. It simply told the truth.
One by one, other voices joined.
The procession formed.
Two handlers guided the direhorses forward as the leaf bearing Na'fey's body began its descent along the great pathways of Home Tree. The Na'vi parted respectfully, forming a corridor that stretched downward through living bridges and spiralling roots. Warriors lowered their heads. Children clutched their parents' hands.
The song grew stronger.
It echoed through the trunk and into the forest beyond, carried by roots and wind alike. The rhythm of it matched the slow, measured pace of the direhorses, hooves striking wood with a quiet finality.
Eytukan walked at the front, eyes forward, jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached. Kamun followed half a step behind, his presence steady and unyielding, a pillar of duty even as grief pressed in from all sides.
May'ata sang now.
Her voice was raw and powerful, cracking as it rose above the others, pouring out love, rage, loss, and longing in equal measure. She did not hide her pain. She did not soften it. She offered it fully to Eywa, trusting the forest to receive it.
As the procession descended, more Na'vi joined—hunters, healers, elders—until the corridor stretched far beyond sight. No one spoke. No one laughed. Even the youngest among them seemed to understand that this was a moment that demanded stillness.
High above, ikran perched silently, wings folded tight, their cries absent from the sky.
Pandora mourned.
The path wound downward toward the Tree of Souls, where the roots glowed faintly even in daylight, pulsing softly as if aware of the life about to be returned to it.
By the time the sun reached its highest point, the procession was nearing its end.
At the base of the Tree of Souls, Nussudle stood beside Ilara.
They waited in silence, eyes fixed on the approaching figures, the song growing clearer with every step. Ilara's hands were folded before her, Tsahìk markings dark against her skin. Her expression was composed, but her eyes shone with unshed tears.
"This is how we remember," she murmured softly. "Not how they died. But how they lived."
Nussudle nodded, throat tight.
As the procession emerged from the forest path, Na'fey's song filled the clearing entirely.
And Eywa listened.
The clearing around the Tree of Souls felt impossibly still.
Its vast roots spread outward like the veins of the world itself, glowing softly with bioluminescent light even beneath the full sun. Tendrils of energy drifted through the air like slow-moving breath, responding to the voices that approached, to the grief carried on every step of the procession.
As Na'fey's body was brought into the heart of the clearing, the songcords softened.
The direhorses halted, heads lowered, as the great leaf bearing Na'fey was gently eased to the ground between the roots. Hands reached out—careful, reverent—unfastening bindings, smoothing fabric, arranging his form so that he rested as one might after a long journey.
Nussudle stood beside Ilara at the edge of the gathering, his chest tight, breath shallow. He could feel the Tree of Souls responding, a low hum resonating through his bones, as if Eywa herself leaned closer.
May'ata stepped forward.
Her song rose again, no longer part of the chorus but standing alone—raw, unguarded. Her voice trembled, cracked, then steadied as she sang of her son's childhood: his first steps on the roots of Home Tree, the way he laughed too loudly when he succeeded, the stubbornness that had both exasperated and delighted her.
She sang of pride.
She sang of fear.
She sang of a love that had nowhere left to go but into the earth itself.
Na'fey's father stood beside her, silent as stone. His eyes never left his son's face. One hand rested on his younger child's shoulder, grounding them both. The boy did not cry now. He stared instead, wide-eyed and hollow, as though the world had become something unfamiliar overnight.
When May'ata's voice finally faltered, she knelt.
From a small pouch at her side, she drew a single atokirina—a woodspirit. Its delicate tendrils glowed faintly as it hovered above her palm, drawn instinctively to the energy of the Tree. With trembling hands, she placed it gently upon Na'fey's chest.
"Go to Eywa," she whispered, the words barely audible. "Be at peace."
The forest seemed to exhale.
One by one, others stepped forward.
Na'fey's father placed his hand against his son's forehead, eyes closing briefly before he withdrew, silent tears tracking down his face. His younger brother hesitated, then followed May'ata's example, setting another glowing spirit into the shallow hollow beside Na'fey's heart.
Nayat'i stepped forward next.
Her face was marked with black mourning paint, streaked beneath her eyes and across her cheeks. She knelt without hesitation, her movements careful and deliberate. From her own hand drifted an atokirina, which she guided gently into the growing cluster of light surrounding Na'fey's body.
"For your courage," she murmured softly. "And for the hunts we will not share."
More Na'vi followed.
Hunters. Friends. Elders. Each offered a spirit, a prayer, a touch, until the hollow glowed brightly, pulsing with life even as death lay at its centre. The roots of the Tree of Souls responded, light intensifying as they reached outward, curling gently around Na'fey's form.
Ilara stepped forward then, her presence commanding quiet.
She placed her hands upon the glowing roots and began the final prayer, voice calm and resonant. She spoke of balance, of cycles unbroken, of life returned so that life might continue. Her words were not meant to comfort alone—they were meant to remind.
As her voice faded, the roots began to close.
Slowly, carefully, they drew Na'fey downward, cradling him in light and earth until his body disappeared entirely beneath the living ground. The glow dimmed, settling back into its steady rhythm, as though nothing had changed.
And yet everything had.
The ceremony lingered in silence.
Some Na'vi stepped away quietly, heads bowed, leaving offerings at the edge of the clearing. Others remained only a moment longer before departing, drawn back to daily life that now felt altered by absence.
Na'fey's family stayed.
They knelt close to the Tree of Souls, connecting their queues to the glowing tendrils, seeking one last communion. May'ata pressed her forehead to the roots, shoulders shaking once more as quiet sobs returned.
Nayat'i remained nearby, silent and steady, keeping vigil without intruding.
Nussudle did not move.
He stood with Ilara, watching as grief and reverence intertwined, feeling the weight of loss settle deep within him. The Tree of Souls pulsed softly, ancient and enduring, holding both sorrow and solace without judgement.
Eywa had received her child.
And the forest remembered.
The clearing did not empty all at once.
People drifted away in small, quiet groups, footsteps soft against root and soil. Conversations were murmured or abandoned entirely, words feeling unnecessary in the presence of what had just passed. The Tree of Souls continued to glow steadily, its light unchanged by grief, as if reminding all who remained that Eywa endured even when hearts fractured.
Na'fey's family stayed kneeling.
Their queues remained connected to the tendrils, bodies still, faces turned inward toward memories and sensations no one else could share. May'ata's sobs had quieted into something softer, more rhythmic, as though she were breathing in time with the tree itself. Na'fey's father sat with eyes closed, jaw clenched, the grief etched deep into the lines of his face. The younger brother leaned against him, small hands still gripping tightly, afraid perhaps that letting go might invite another loss.
Nayat'i remained nearby.
She did not speak. She did not intrude. The black mourning paint across her face had dried, cracking faintly where tears had once run. She knelt close enough to be present, far enough to give the family space, her gaze lowered respectfully toward the glowing roots. Her posture was one of quiet vigilance, of shared sorrow rather than borrowed grief.
Nussudle stood a short distance back with Ilara.
He felt the bond with Nova téras hum faintly in the background of his awareness, a steady counterpoint to the heaviness in his chest. Life pressed forward even here, even now. That truth unsettled him more than comforted.
"I never knew him well," Nussudle said quietly, breaking the silence between them. "Not like the others."
Ilara inclined her head. "Grief does not require closeness," she replied softly. "Only recognition."
Nussudle nodded. His gaze remained fixed on the place where Na'fey had been returned to the earth, the roots now still and unassuming. "He followed orders. He trusted his leaders. And he died."
Ilara turned to look at him fully then. "And you survived."
The words were not an accusation. They were a truth that carried weight.
"That is the burden of those who live," Ilara continued gently. "To ask why. To wonder what might have been done differently. To carry memory forward so it may shape better choices."
Nussudle swallowed. "Eytukan will carry this for a long time."
"Yes," Ilara said. "And so will you, whether you realise it yet or not."
The Tree of Souls pulsed softly, its light brushing across their skin. Somewhere above, a breeze stirred the leaves, carrying with it the distant calls of the forest returning to life.
Slowly, Na'fey's family disconnected from the tree.
May'ata rose unsteadily, supported briefly by her mate. Her eyes were red and swollen, but there was a fragile steadiness to her movements now, as though some part of her grief had found a place to rest. She looked once more at the glowing roots, pressing her palm against them in farewell.
"We will visit," she whispered.
The family turned and began the long walk back toward Home Tree, accompanied by a few close relatives and elders. Nayat'i stood and followed several steps behind, maintaining her quiet vigil until they disappeared into the forest path.
The clearing felt emptier without them.
Nussudle exhaled slowly, a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. "It feels wrong," he said. "That the world keeps moving."
Ilara's expression softened. "It would be wrong if it did not."
They remained a little while longer, until the last of the atokirina drifted away and the Tree of Souls settled fully back into its steady glow. Only then did they turn to leave.
As they walked, Nussudle glanced once more at the roots, committing the place to memory—not just as a site of mourning, but as a reminder. Strength, flight, power—all of it carried consequence. The sky did not erase that truth. It sharpened it.
Above, unseen but felt, Nova téras shifted on its perch, aware of his movement even at a distance. The bond pulsed quietly, steady and unwavering.
Life would continue.
Training would resume. Duties would grow heavier. The path ahead would not be simpler for what had been lost.
But Na'fey would not be forgotten.
And neither would the lesson his death had carved into the hearts of those who remained.
The forest breathed on.
Eywa remembered.