The ritual began before Nussudle fully realised he had crossed into it.
Home Tree had been cleared of noise and movement, its inner chambers dimmed until only bioluminescent veins traced soft paths of light along bark and root. The air itself felt heavier, thick with resin and crushed leaves, the scent sharp enough to sting the back of his throat. Voices were hushed. Even the youngest children had been sent away.
This was not a ceremony meant for many eyes.
Nussudle knelt at the centre of the chamber, bare feet pressed against living wood, his breathing slow but uneven. Around him stood the spiritual leaders of the clan—prophets, singers, and memory-keepers—faces painted in intricate patterns of white and blue. At their centre stood Ilara, Tsahìk of the Omatikaya, her presence steady as the roots beneath them.
"This is Uniltaron," she said quietly. "The opening of the self to Eywa's deeper will. You will not guide this vision. You will not resist it. You will endure."
Nussudle inclined his head, throat dry. "I understand."
Ilara's gaze lingered on him, searching. "Do you?"
He hesitated, then nodded again. "As much as one can."
That earned the faintest hint of a smile—sad, knowing. "That will be enough."
Two attendants stepped forward. One carried a small carved container woven from vine and bone. The other held something alive.
The beetle writhed gently between careful fingers, its carapace shimmering with deep indigo and silver veins. It was large—far larger than the harmless insects that drifted through the forest at night. Its mandibles clicked softly, tasting the air, its abdomen pulsing with contained venom.
Nussudle's breath hitched despite himself.
"This poison does not kill," Ilara said calmly. "But it strips away the barrier between body and spirit. Combined with the sap of the Tree, it will carry you where flesh cannot follow."
She gestured, and one attendant pressed a sharpened thorn to the side of Nussudle's neck—just beneath the queue.
The pain was sharp and immediate.
He hissed, muscles tensing as the thorn pierced skin and released a measured dose of milky sap. It burned as it spread, heat racing through his veins, making his vision blur at the edges. Before he could fully react, the beetle was brought forward.
Its mandibles sank into his skin.
Nussudle cried out despite himself.
Fire exploded through his senses, a deep, penetrating agony that stole the breath from his lungs. His fingers dug into the wood beneath him, knuckles whitening as the venom flooded his system. The world tilted violently, colours bleeding together as sound stretched and warped.
Ilara moved quickly then.
She stepped forward and took his queue in her hands, guiding it gently toward the glowing tendrils of Home Tree's spiritual centre. The moment the connection was made, the pain fractured into something vast and indescribable.
Nussudle was no longer kneeling.
He was falling.
Or rising.
Or dissolving.
There was no body anymore—no sense of weight or shape. Only sensation. Colour exploded around him, endless and shifting, hues he had no names for folding into one another like living flame. Time lost meaning. He drifted through currents of thought and memory that were not entirely his own.
Voices whispered without language.
The pain faded, replaced by an overwhelming presence.
He tried to move and realised movement no longer required effort. He was everywhere and nowhere, stretched thin across a place that refused to hold still. Patterns formed and dissolved. Forests bloomed and collapsed into oceans of light. Stars flared into being and burned out in silent succession.
This is Eywa, something within him realised—not as a thought, but as knowing.
The vision continued, endless and unanchored, until at last the chaos began to slow.
Colour bled back into shape.
Nussudle found himself standing once more in a forest—but not the one he knew. The trees were familiar yet wrong, their leaves shifting colour with every breath he took. The ground beneath his feet felt real, solid, but when he looked up, the sky began to change.
It rippled.
Clouds pulled back as if drawn aside by unseen hands, revealing not blue or stars—but skin.
A face formed across the heavens.
Massive. Endless. Beautiful beyond words.
One eye opened.
It was not frightening.
It was not gentle.
It simply was.
Nussudle stood frozen, breath stolen from him, as the sky looked back.
And Eywa spoke.
"Choose."
The single word echoed through him, commanding and absolute.
The forest around him dissolved.
And the field of judgement began.
The word lingered long after it was spoken.
Choose.
It did not echo as a sound. It pressed into Nussudle from every direction at once, settling into his thoughts, his memory, his sense of self. The vast face in the sky remained unmoving, its single eye open and unblinking, neither judging nor waiting—simply present.
The forest around him thinned, trees dissolving into light until the ground beneath his feet became an open plain. The earth was smooth and endless, stretching in all directions beneath a sky that no longer belonged to weather or time. Colour bled through everything—soft blues, radiant greens, pulses of gold—yet none of it behaved as colour should. It shifted with meaning rather than light.
Then the first shape appeared.
Grass parted without sound as a hexapede stepped into view.
It was familiar, almost comforting. Its six legs moved with calm precision, hooves barely disturbing the ground. Its hide shimmered faintly, not truly solid—blue and translucent, as though carved from memory rather than flesh. When it breathed, the air passed through its chest as if resistance no longer mattered.
The hexapede turned its head and looked at Nussudle.
There was no fear in its eyes. No challenge. Only steadiness. Endurance. The quiet strength of survival.
Nussudle felt something tug within him—recognition, perhaps. The hexapede represented the hunt as he had first learned it: patience, cooperation, balance. Life taken with respect, life given back to the forest.
Before he could respond, the image dissolved like mist in sunlight.
The ground trembled.
A massive form emerged next, earth seeming to rise with it—a hammerhead titanothere. Its bulk dwarfed the hexapede's memory, shoulders like living stone, twin crests rising proudly from its skull. Each step carried weight and consequence. The plain shuddered beneath it, though the grass beneath its feet bent without breaking.
Its eyes were fixed on Nussudle.
Power radiated from it—not aggression, but inevitability. The titanothere did not chase. It did not flee. It simply was, and the world adjusted around it. Nussudle remembered the fear, the charge, the desperate flight toward the waterfall. He remembered survival bought not through dominance, but through understanding limits.
The hammerhead snorted, breath passing through Nussudle's body like wind through leaves.
And vanished.
Silence followed—brief, heavy.
Then the air changed.
Predatory intent slid across the plain like a shadow as the thanator emerged.
It did not announce itself. It simply appeared, muscles coiled, body low, eyes locked onto Nussudle with lethal focus. Its form was sharper than the others, its presence immediate and intimate. Every instinct in Nussudle screamed in response—not fear alone, but readiness.
This was the forest's blade.
The thanator circled him slowly, movements fluid, calculating. It represented challenge, danger, and the necessity of action. The times when hesitation meant death. When protecting another required sacrifice without question.
Nussudle felt his arm ache faintly in memory.
The thanator paused, eyes burning, then lowered its head slightly—not in submission, but in acknowledgement.
It faded into nothing.
Nussudle's breath came faster now, though he did not remember drawing it.
A familiar rush of air followed.
Wings beat overhead as an ikran descended, landing lightly upon the plain. It folded its wings and tilted its head, studying him with sharp, intelligent eyes. Not Nova téras—this one was smaller, quicker, alive with restless energy.
Freedom radiated from it.
The sky opened wider behind the ikran, revealing endless depth and motion. This was the call of the heights, of risk embraced willingly. Of trust placed not in ground, but in wind and instinct.
Nussudle felt his chest tighten with longing.
The ikran gave a sharp cry, then leapt back into the air, dissolving into light as it climbed.
More shapes followed.
Creatures of forest and sky. Hunters and prey. Giants and the small but resilient. Each appeared, looked at him, and vanished—each carrying meaning, each demanding something different.
The pressure built.
Choose.
The sky darkened.
The ground fell away behind him, leaving only the plain before him—and then even that began to change.
Something vast moved on the horizon.
The light dimmed as a shape rose that made every other vision feel small.
A slinger.
Not as he had known it before.
This one was colossal—its body larger than any beast he had ever faced, its form heavy and wrong, moving with unsettling confidence. Its head separated immediately, lifting into the air, wings spreading wide as it hovered higher than Nussudle himself.
The body did not look at him.
It did not need to.
It sensed.
The head tilted, its many senses fixing on him with terrible clarity. The air grew dense, vibrating with impending violence. Nussudle felt the old fear surge back—the flapping rush behind him, the snap of wings, the split-second between life and death.
The slinger screamed.
The head shot forward, wings blurring with speed. The body charged simultaneously, hooves tearing through the plain as it bore down upon him from the opposite direction.
There was no space to run.
No time to think.
The vision collapsed inward, crushing colour and form together as the slinger closed in from all sides—
And the world shattered.
The impact never came.
Instead, the world tore itself apart.
Colour fractured into blinding shards as the charging slinger dissolved mid-motion, its head and body breaking into streaks of light that rushed inward, collapsing toward a single point. The sky-face vanished, the plain imploded, and Nussudle felt himself pulled violently backward—ripped from the vision as though dragged through a narrow wound in reality.
Pain returned first.
It slammed into him with brutal clarity: the ache in his limbs, the burning along his spine, the lingering venom thrumming through his veins like a second heartbeat. Air tore into his lungs in a desperate gasp as consciousness crashed back into his body.
Nussudle screamed.
He arched sharply, muscles seizing as his fingers clawed at the air. Hands caught him immediately—firm, practiced, grounding. The scent of resin and crushed leaves flooded his senses as the dim chamber of Home Tree snapped back into focus.
"Hold him."
"Easy—easy."
"He's back."
Voices overlapped, distant yet urgent. The glow of bioluminescent veins swam before his eyes as he struggled to orient himself, sweat slicking his skin, breath coming in ragged pulls.
Ilara loomed over him.
Her hands were steady as she knelt close, one pressed against his chest, the other bracing his shoulder. Her eyes searched his face intently, reading signs far beyond the physical.
"Nussudle," she said firmly. "Breathe."
He obeyed, though it felt like dragging air through water. Slowly, the shaking subsided. The venom's fire dulled into a deep, lingering ache as his heart settled into a steadier rhythm.
The beetle had long since been removed.
The thorn was gone.
Only the afterimage of infinity remained.
The chamber was silent now, the other prophets standing back respectfully, their painted faces unreadable. The spiritual centre of Home Tree pulsed faintly behind him, tendrils withdrawing as his queue lay slack against his neck.
Ilara leaned closer.
"What did Eywa show you?" she asked quietly.
Nussudle swallowed.
His throat felt raw, as though he had screamed for hours. His body trembled faintly, not from weakness alone, but from the weight of what he had witnessed. The vision still burned behind his eyes—the vast face in the sky, the word spoken with impossible authority, the creatures that had come and gone.
"Many forms," he rasped.
Ilara nodded. "And which did you choose?"
The question hung heavy in the air.
Nussudle closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, the fear was still there—but beneath it lay certainty.
"The slinger," he said.
A ripple passed through the gathered prophets.
Ilara's expression did not change immediately. She studied him closely, eyes sharp, searching for doubt, for misunderstanding. "Speak clearly," she said. "What form did Eywa place before you last?"
"A slinger," Nussudle repeated, voice steadier now. "Greater than any I have seen. Its head and body moved apart. It did not hunt with sight alone. It sensed. It closed in from all sides."
Silence deepened.
One of the elders inhaled sharply, but Ilara raised a hand, silencing any interruption.
"And why," Ilara asked carefully, "did you choose this form?"
Nussudle's hands curled slowly against the living wood beneath him. "Because it frightened me," he said simply. "Not because it was strong—but because it showed me something I didn't want to face."
Ilara tilted her head slightly. "Which was?"
"That danger does not always announce itself," Nussudle said. "That some threats cannot be outrun or overpowered. They must be understood."
The words settled into the chamber like falling leaves.
Ilara exhaled slowly.
"You were not shown these forms to test your bravery," she said. "You were shown them to reveal the path you walk. The animal you choose reflects the lesson Eywa binds to your spirit."
She placed her palm gently against his forehead. "The slinger is a watcher between worlds. It is prey and predator. Sight and instinct. Body and separation. It represents awareness beyond the obvious."
Her gaze sharpened. "This path is not an easy one."
"I know," Nussudle said quietly.
Ilara studied him for another long moment. Then she nodded once.
"Uniltaron is complete."
The tension in the chamber eased, subtle but palpable. The prophets stepped back, some murmuring prayers under their breath, others simply bowing their heads in acceptance.
Nussudle sagged slightly, exhaustion washing over him now that the ritual's grip had loosened. Ilara supported him as he sat more fully, her hand steady at his back.
"Rest," she said. "Your spirit has travelled far."
Before he could respond, movement sounded at the chamber's entrance.
Kamun entered.
The chief's presence filled the space immediately, his expression grave but controlled. His eyes flicked briefly over the assembled prophets before settling on Nussudle.
"It is done?" Kamun asked.
Ilara inclined her head. "Yes."
"And his path?"
Ilara met Kamun's gaze steadily. "Chosen."
Kamun nodded once, then stepped forward and extended a hand toward his son.
"Come," he said. "There is still work to be done."
Nussudle took his father's hand, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet—unsteady but standing.
As Kamun guided him from the chamber, the glow of Home Tree dimmed behind them, the ritual space closing itself off once more.
Ahead waited daylight.
And with it, the shaping of what Eywa had shown him.
The daylight beyond the ritual chamber felt too bright.
Nussudle squinted as Kamun guided him through the inner corridors of Home Tree, the bioluminescent glow fading behind them as natural light filtered in through gaps in bark and leaf. His legs still felt unsteady, as though part of him lagged behind, reluctant to fully return from where his spirit had travelled. Each step grounded him further, the living wood beneath his feet reminding him—firmly—that he was here.
Alive.
Kamun did not speak as they walked.
That silence was deliberate. Nussudle knew it well. His father allowed moments to settle before giving them weight with words. Instead, Kamun led him upward, away from the bustling platforms and communal spaces, toward one of the quieter reaches of Home Tree where only elders and artisans were usually permitted.
They stopped before a section of bark that gleamed faintly gold in the sunlight.
This portion of Home Tree was ancient—older even than the oldest living Na'vi could remember. Its surface was thick, layered, grown dense with age and memory. Fine carvings marked the surrounding wood, symbols of hunts long past and names spoken only during ceremonies.
"This bark," Kamun said at last, resting his palm against it, "has been set aside since before you were born."
Nussudle's breath caught slightly. "For me?"
"For a hunter who would listen before striking," Kamun replied. "Ilara believed you might be that hunter."
Carefully, reverently, Kamun lifted a carved stone blade and pressed it against the bark. He did not cut deeply. The motion was precise, almost gentle, as if asking rather than taking. A thin section separated cleanly, releasing a scent rich and sharp, like rain-soaked earth.
Kamun handed the bark to Nussudle.
"Your bow will be shaped from this," he said. "Not as a weapon alone, but as an extension of your will."
Nussudle accepted it with both hands. The bark was warm—alive. He could feel it faintly, as though it recognised him in return.
They sat together on a low platform as Kamun began to work, showing him how to soften the bark with steam, how to bend it slowly so it would not fracture. Each motion carried meaning, each step deliberate.
"You chose the slinger," Kamun said quietly, not looking up.
"Yes."
Kamun nodded. "Ilara told me."
Nussudle hesitated, then asked, "Does that worry you?"
Kamun paused in his work.
"The slinger is not a symbol of brute strength," he said after a moment. "It is awareness. Division. Perception beyond sight. It sees from many angles—and it strikes where others do not expect."
He glanced at Nussudle then. "Such a path is dangerous. It demands restraint. Wisdom. The ability to stand still when others rush forward."
Nussudle swallowed. "I don't know if I'm ready for that."
Kamun resumed shaping the bark, his movements steady. "No one ever is," he said. "Readiness comes from walking the path, not standing at its beginning."
The bow began to take shape slowly under their hands, curved and elegant, its lines clean and purposeful. As Nussudle worked, he felt the exhaustion from the ritual settle deeper into his muscles—but beneath it lay something else.
Clarity.
The vision replayed in fragments in his mind: the sky-face, the command, the beasts appearing and vanishing. He understood now that Eywa had not asked him to become the slinger—but to learn from it.
To watch.
To sense.
To choose his moment.
Kamun secured the last binding and set the unfinished bow aside to rest. "This weapon will not be rushed," he said. "Neither will your role."
Nussudle nodded.
They sat in companionable silence for a while longer, the forest's distant sounds filtering in—the calls of birds, the rustle of leaves, the far-off cry of an ikran. Somewhere above, he felt Nova téras shift, the bond humming quietly in acknowledgement of his return.
"Father," Nussudle said at last.
Kamun looked at him.
"Do you think Eywa chose this path for me," Nussudle asked, "or showed me what I might become?"
Kamun considered the question carefully. "Eywa shows possibilities," he said. "Choice makes them real."
Nussudle let that settle.
As the sun dipped slightly lower, casting golden light across the living wood, he realised something fundamental had changed. The ritual had not given him answers in the way he once might have wanted.
It had given him responsibility.
And as he sat beside his father, shaping the beginnings of a bow that would one day carry his will across the forest, Nussudle understood that the path ahead would not be defined by strength alone.
But by awareness.
By restraint.
And by the courage to choose—again and again—when the moment demanded it.