The ceremony began as the sun slipped beneath the canopy.
Home Tree transformed with the coming of night. Bioluminescent vines were coaxed into brighter glow, their soft blues and purples winding around platforms and pillars like living constellations. Fires burned low and wide, their light flickering against bark carved by generations of hands. Drums sounded from deep within the trunk, slow and rhythmic, calling the clan together.
This night was not for mourning.
This night was for acceptance.
Nussudle stood at the centre of the upper ceremonial platform, bare-chested, heart beating steadily beneath his ribs. Around him gathered the other newly recognised hunters — taronyu — each standing straight, each wearing the same mix of anticipation and reverence. They were no longer apprentices. They had faced death, sky, and loss, and returned changed.
Ilara moved among them.
Her hands were stained white with sacred pigment, made from crushed root and ash, mixed carefully with water from the Tree of Souls. The markings she painted were ancient — older than Home Tree itself — patterns that spoke not of rank, but of belonging.
She stopped before Nussudle.
For a brief moment, her gaze softened, and she allowed herself the smallest smile — not as Tsahìk, but as mother. Then her expression settled into ceremony, and she dipped her fingers into the pigment.
White stripes traced down his arms, across his shoulders, over his chest and spine. They were bold and unmistakable, mirroring the markings worn by the hunters of old — the same patterns worn by Eytukan years before, the same ones seen in stories and memory.
With every line, Nussudle felt something settle into place.
This was not simple decoration. It was a declaration for the future.
When Ilara stepped back, the drums shifted rhythm. The elders lifted their voices, and the clan answered in unison, the sound swelling until it filled the air beneath the leaves.
The taronyu had returned.
One by one, the hunters stepped forward to sing.
Each song was different some complex others were fierce, recounting battles and narrow escapes, voices rising sharp and proud. Others were softer, reflective — songs of fear overcome, of trust placed in others, of moments when courage had nearly failed but held. The clan listened to every word, responding with calls of approval or solemn silence as the stories demanded.
When Nussudle's turn came, the platform quieted.
Not because he was the chief's son.
But because of what he had become.
He stepped forward slowly, feeling hundreds of eyes upon him. The firelight caught the white markings on his skin, making them glow faintly. For a moment, he hesitated — not from fear, but from the weight of expectation.
Then he began to sing.
His song did not boast.
It spoke of walking in the forest at night as a child. Of sneaking past warriors to glimpse the stars. Of falling, failing, and rising again. He sang of the hammerhead's charge, of the slinger's wings cutting the air behind him, of the thanator's claws and the pain of protecting another with his own body.
He sang of loss.
Na'fey's name carried through the night, spoken not with grief alone, but with honour. The drums slowed, voices lowering as the clan remembered with him.
And finally, he sang of the sky.
Of Nova téras. At the moment the ground fell away, and fear became flight. Of understanding that power was not domination, but balance — and that every choice carried weight.
When his song ended, silence held for a heartbeat. Then the clan erupted.
Cheers echoed through Home Tree, warriors pounding spears against wood, children shouting his name. The sound washed over Nussudle like a living thing, pride and belonging tangled together in his chest.
And with that pride came attention.
Too much of it.
As the formal ceremony gave way to celebration, music quickened, fires burned brighter, and the platform filled with movement. Food and drink were passed freely. Hunters laughed, dancers spun, and voices rose in layered harmony.
Nussudle barely had time to breathe before he was surrounded.
Female members of the tribe once looked at him with apprehensio approached openly, boldly — hands brushing his arm, laughter close, eyes bright with curiosity and admiration. Compliments spilled freely, some earnest, others playful. A few leaned closer than necessary, clearly unimpressed by the annoyed looks thrown their way by other newly accepted hunters.
One of the taronyu shot Nussudle a look that was half disbelief, half irritation.
"Enjoying yourself?" he muttered dryly as another Na'vi laughed far too close to Nussudle's ear.
Nussudle flushed, awkward and overwhelmed. "I-I'm not doing anything."
That only seemed to amuse them more.
Across the platform, Eytukan watched with undisguised amusement, arms crossed, leaning against a carved railing. He took a slow sip from his cup, grin widening as his younger brother fumbled through the attention.
"That's my brother," he said to no one in particular. "Absolutely unprepared."
Before Nussudle could find an excuse to escape, a firm hand seized his.
He barely had time to react before he was pulled from the crowd, laughter and protests fading behind him as Nayat'i dragged him decisively toward the edge of the platform.
"Nayat'i— wait—" he started.
She didn't slow.
Not until they were beyond the glow of the fires, the noise of the celebration dulled behind them, and the night of Pandora opened wide in welcoming the two.
Only then did she release his hand.
"You looked like you were drowning," she said, smirking faintly.
Nussudle stared at her, breathless and flushed. "I— thank you."
Her expression softened.
"Come on," she said quietly. "There's somewhere I want to take you."
Together, they stepped into the night.
The sounds of celebration faded quickly once they left the main platforms of Home Tree.
Drums became distant echoes, laughter softened into a low murmur carried by the wind through leaves and branches. Bioluminescent plants lit their path in gentle pulses of blue and green, responding to their movement as though acknowledging their passage without question.
Nussudle allowed himself to be pulled along, fingers still loosely clasped in Nayat'i's. Her grip was firm, purposeful. She knew where she was going.
"You didn't have to rescue me like that," he said after a moment, though there was no protest in his voice.
"Yes, I did," she replied simply, not looking back. "You were two heartbeats away from bolting straight into the canopy."
"That obvious?"
She huffed quietly. "You've never liked being the centre of attention."
Nussudle considered that. "I like being useful. Being stared at is… different."
They moved across a living bridge that swayed slightly beneath their steps. Below, the forest stretched endlessly, glowing with nightlife. Insects drifted like embers. Far above, an ikran's call echoed faintly, then faded.
Behind them, back within the heart of Home Tree, Eytukan leaned further against the railing, watching the two figures disappear into the darkness.
A familiar presence came to stand beside him.
Mo'at's voice was warm with amusement. "You're staring."
Eytukan didn't deny it. "I'm observing."
She raised a brow. "That looked suspiciously like stalking."
Eytukan snorted. "If I wanted to stalk them, I'd be a lot quieter."
Mo'at smiled knowingly. "You worry."
"Someone has to," Eytukan replied lightly. "Especially when my younger brother finally realises what everyone else already sees."
"And what is that?" she asked.
"That he's hopeless when it comes to obvious things," Eytukan said, then grinned. "Which is probably why they suit each other."
Mo'at laughed softly, nudging his shoulder. "Careful. That sounded almost wise. Are you sure you don't want my job when Ilara finally retires?"
Eytukan groaned. "You and your obsession with becoming Tsahìk. I like my sanity where it is."
She smirked. "That can be arranged."
Their laughter blended back into the celebration as they turned away, leaving the night to its quieter stories.
Nayat'i led Nussudle along a narrow path that curved downward, away from the main trunk of Home Tree and toward one of its oldest roots. The forest here felt different—older, more contemplative. The glow was softer, the air thicker with memory.
"This place," Nussudle said quietly, recognising the direction, "it's close to the Tree of Voices."
"Yes," Nayat'i replied.
They slowed as the great root came into view, its surface etched with countless carvings—names, symbols, fragments of song preserved in wood. The Tree of Voices did not glow like the Tree of Souls, but it hummed faintly, alive with whispers carried through generations.
They stopped a short distance away.
For a moment, neither spoke.
"I haven't brought anyone here before," Nayat'i said finally.
Nussudle turned to face her. The moonlight caught her features, softening them, highlighting the faint remnants of mourning paint still clinging to her skin. "You don't have to tell me anything," he said gently.
She shook her head. "I want to."
She stepped closer to the tree, resting her palm against its bark. "My father died when I was young," she said quietly. "Before I learned to hunt. Before I understood what it meant to lose someone properly."
Nussudle listened, silent.
"He was a warrior," she continued. "Respected. Reckless, according to my mother. He died protecting another hunting party from a viperwolf pack."
Her fingers curled slightly against the bark. "I grew up hearing his name in songs. Seeing his marks carved here. But I never really knew him."
She turned back to Nussudle, eyes shining but steady. "When Na'fey died… it felt like losing him all over again. Like the forest was reminding me that no amount of skill can protect everyone."
Nussudle stepped closer, his presence quiet and grounding. "That doesn't make you weak," he said.
She smiled faintly at the correction. "You always know how to say things."
"I really don't," he admitted. "I just… try to be honest."
That earned a soft laugh.
They stood there together beneath the ancient root, the whispers of the Tree of Voices threading through the silence like distant wind.
"This place," Nayat'i said softly, "is where we speak to those who shaped us. Where bonds are remembered. And sometimes… formed."
Nussudle's breath caught slightly as understanding dawned.
She reached out, fingers brushing his wrist, then slid her hand into his once more. "If you're willing," she said, voice barely above a whisper.
He didn't hesitate.
"I am."
Together, they stepped forward.
The Tree of Voices accepted them without spectacle.
There was no sudden surge of light, no chorus of spirits drifting through the air. Instead, the ancient root hummed softly beneath their palms, a low vibration that travelled up through bone and breath alike. The carvings etched into its bark caught the moonlight in shallow relief—names layered over names, stories pressed into wood by hands long returned to Eywa.
Nussudle felt his heartbeat slow as he stood before it.
This was not a place of grand declarations.
It was a place of truth.
Nayat'i turned to face him fully now. The noise of the celebration was gone entirely, replaced by the quiet life of the forest at night—chirring insects, the distant call of a night-bird, the soft rustle of leaves responding to unseen movement.
"I didn't plan this," she said quietly. "Not tonight. But when I saw you there—surrounded, overwhelmed—I realised something."
He tilted his head slightly. "What?"
"That every time the world feels too loud," she said, "you're the one place I feel steady."
The words struck him harder than any cheer had earlier that night.
"Nayat'i," he began, then stopped. He searched for the right thing to say, but the Tree of Voices seemed to urge him forward before thought could interfere.
"I don't always know how to be what people expect," he said slowly. "I stumble. I overthink. I disappear into my own head."
She smiled faintly. "I know."
"But when I'm with you," he continued, voice gaining strength, "I don't feel like I need to be anything else."
Her breath hitched, just slightly.
That was enough.
They stepped closer together, so near that the space between them felt charged, alive with possibility. Nayat'i lifted her hand, resting it over his heart, feeling the steady rhythm beneath the painted skin.
"This is not something I offer lightly," she said. "Being mates is not just affection. It is a shared burden. Shared future."
"I know," Nussudle replied without hesitation. "And I choose it. I choose you."
Her eyes shone.
Slowly, deliberately, they reached for their queues.
The movement was reverent, practised in memory, though neither had ever done this before. Nussudle's fingers trembled faintly as he guided his queue forward, aware of the significance of the act. Nayat'i mirrored him, her expression calm now, resolved.
Their queues met.
The connection flared instantly.
It was not overwhelming like the Tree of Souls, nor vast like Uniltaron. This was intimate—focused, precise. Sensation flooded through him: warmth, familiarity, emotion woven tightly together. He felt her grief, yes, but also her strength. Her determination. Her fierce love for the forest and those within it.
And she felt him.
The weight he carried. The careful restraint he lived by. The quiet certainty beneath his doubts.
They gasped softly as the bond settled, stabilised, becoming something solid and enduring.
Together, they turned toward the Tree of Voices and pressed their connected queues gently against the bark.
The tree responded.
Whispers rose—not voices exactly, but impressions. Memories of bonds formed here before. Of love tempered by loss, of lives intertwined and carried forward. The carvings along the root seemed to pulse faintly, acknowledging the addition of a new story among the countless others.
Nayat'i leaned her forehead against his.
"I feel… lighter," she whispered.
"So do I," he replied.
They remained like that for a long while, breathing together, allowing the moment to anchor itself into something unshakable. There was no audience. No proclamation. The forest itself was witness enough.
Eventually, Nayat'i withdrew slightly, her fingers still entwined with his. "My mother will know," she said with a small smile. "She always does."
Nussudle huffed quietly. "Ilara will too."
They laughed softly, the sound gentle and private.
Above them, unseen but felt, the forest continued its endless motion. Life did not pause for ceremonies, no matter how meaningful. But it remembered them.
When they finally disconnected their queues, the bond did not vanish. It lingered, settled into place like a second heartbeat—quiet, constant, reassuring.
Nussudle glanced back toward Home Tree, its distant glow visible through layers of leaves. Somewhere within it, the celebration still burned bright. Songs were still being sung. Stories still shared.
But this—this was the moment he would carry longest.
"Ready to go back?" he asked gently.
Nayat'i squeezed his hand. "In a moment."
She turned back to the Tree of Voices and placed her palm against it once more. "Thank you," she whispered—not just for the tree, but for all it held.
Then she turned back to him, eyes bright, steady, certain.
"I'm ready now."
Together, they stepped away from the root and into the night, no longer just hunters accepted by their people, but mates bound by choice, by understanding, and by a shared path yet to be walked.
Above, the stars burned on.
And the forest, ancient and knowing, welcomed them both.
(AN: Wow, Truly a sight which brings a tear to my eyes. Thank you for reading...)