The water was not a sanctuary for me. It was a cold, suffocating weight.
Every time I closed my eyes, I was back on the metal deck of the Sea Dragon, that demon ship. I could still hear the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of the pulse fire striking the hull. I could still hear the grit in Neteyam's voice, the "mighty warrior" voice he used when he was trying to be exactly what Dad wanted.
"Lo'ak, GO!"
The memory hit me with the force of a crashing wave. I had been the one to scream it. I was the one who wouldn't move. I had seen Spider being hauled away by the RDA, and I couldn't leave him.
I stole a dead marine's rifle and went back, right into the line of fire. Neteyam, being the "perfect son," snatched the rifle from my hands; he followed me back into the chaos just to make sure his reckless younger brother didn't die.
We got Spider. We made the jump. But as we plummeted toward the churning white foam of the ocean, the air was ripped apart by the sound of a marine's rifle.
The transition from the air to the water was a blur of bubbles and salt. I breached the surface, gasping, a grin of victory ready for my brother to show him that we had succeeded, that we were heroes.
But the circle of ripples where Neteyam should have been remained empty.
I dove back down, my lungs screaming. I panicked; the blue world suddenly felt like a labyrinth where I was hopelessly lost. Then I saw him, sinking into the ink-blue deep. I hauled him to the surface, his body a leaden weight, and dragged him onto the jagged rocks of the Three Brothers.
My brother had been shot. The bullet had pierced right through him, and in that second, my world stopped.
The rocks turned to ash. I remember the heat of his blood, too warm, too bright, slipping through my fingers. The bullet had torn a jagged hole that no amount of pressure I applied could close.
Suddenly, the silence of the rocks was shattered. My father landed beside us, followed quickly by my mother, Kiri, Tuk, and Spider. Tsireya was there too, her eyes wide with terror as she scrambled onto the stone.
My mother fell to her knees, her hands hovering over Neteyam's chest as if she could stitch his soul back in with her bare fingers.
"Great Mother, take him into your heart! Do not let his light fade!" she begged, her voice breaking into a guttural, animal sob that vibrated in the very stone beneath us.
Neteyam's eyes flickered. He looked at my father, then at Kiri and Tuk, who were huddled together, their faces drenched in tears. Even Spider was shaking, his silent sobs racking his small frame. Tsireya stood just behind them, her hand over her mouth, weeping for a boy who had always been kind to her.
Then, Neteyam's gaze found me. He gave one final, soft smile, the kind that said goodbye, bro, followed by a shuddering hitch of his chest. Then, his eyes went still.
The wailing began. My mother's grief was a physical force, a scream that seemed to tear at the sky. My father bowed his head, his shoulders heaving as he gripped Neteyam's hand. Kiri and Tuk clung to each other, their cries lost to the wind.
But I didn't cry. I couldn't feel anything. I didn't want it to be real; I begged for all of this to be a dream. I sat in the center of their agony, a statue made of salt. I couldn't feel the wind or hear the ocean. I just stared at my hands. They were covered in it, the dark, shimmering red blood of the golden son. I was the only one silent, lost in a shock so profound it had swallowed my voice.
Tsireya, though her face was wet with tears, noticed me. She stepped away from the mourning circle and sat down beside me. She didn't say a word. She just reached out and pulled me toward her, tucking my head against her shoulder. I remained stiff, speechless, watching the blood dry on my palms until the stars came out. That night was the last time I saw my brother, my partner in crime.
The burial was a blur of bioluminescent beauty that felt like an insult to the darkness in my soul. We brought him to the Spirit Tree of the Sea, deep beneath the waves where the pulsing nerves of Eywa weave through the coral like glowing veins.
The Metkayina gathered in a massive circle, their Ilu hovering like guardian spirits. We lowered him into the glowing anemones. As he touched the spirit-veins, the golden tendrils of the sea-cradle reached up to claim him.
The water around us turned into a cathedral of light. Thousands of tiny, glowing atokirina of the ocean descended, dancing in the wake of his body. He looked like he was just sleeping, drifting down into the glowing heart of the planet. He was a son of the forest, but the ocean had claimed him as its own.
One Month Later
The village of Awa'atlu was waking up, the morning sun painting the tide in shades of bruised orange and gold. But for me, the world stayed grey.
I sat on the edge of the high walkway, my feet dangling over the turquoise water. A battle that cost me a brother had left me a ghost. I had disobeyed. I had gone back for Spider. And Neteyam had paid my debt.
My father was a shadow of the man he used to be. He didn't yell anymore; he just gave orders. He was solely focused on "protection," building defenses as if he could wall out the grief.
My mother moved through the marui like a ghost of ash, drowning in her depression.
For weeks, I stayed in that grey place. I felt like a stone dropped into the deep, too heavy to float, too stubborn to break. I stayed away from the others. I didn't want to see the pity in Kiri's eyes or the silent accusation I imagined in Spider's. I just wanted to be as still as the brother I had left behind.
But Tsireya wouldn't let me sink.
She didn't try to pull me out of the dark with words or bright smiles. Instead, she just kept showing up. Every morning, when the first light hit the reef, she would be there at the edge of the walkway. At first, I ignored her. Then, I sat near her. Finally, a week ago, she had reached out and placed a hand on my shoulder.
"You are fighting the water, Lo'ak," she had whispered. "But the water is not your enemy. Let it hold you."
She suggested coaching me again, not because I needed to be a better diver, but because she knew that when I was underwater, the world went quiet. Beneath the surface, I didn't have to be the son who failed. I just had to be the boy who breathed.
Now, we were at the edge of the reef, where the turquoise shallows met the sapphire drop-off. I sat on a submerged coral shelf, the water chest-high, focusing on the rhythm of my heart.
Tsireya was right in front of me. Her hands rested lightly on my shoulders, her golden eyes searching mine. The physical closeness was different now; it wasn't just the shy crush of a forest boy and a reef girl. It was a tether. She was the only thing keeping me anchored to the present.
"Breathe from here," she murmured, pressing a palm against my chest, right over my heart. "Do not think of the clock. Do not think of the air you lack. Think of the sea as a part of you."
I closed my eyes, trying to find that stillness. Her touch was warm, a sharp contrast to the cool spray of the ocean. In the silence between us, there was an unspoken understanding, a bridge built of shared grief and a stubborn, growing hope.
She knew my secrets. She knew the red on my hands. And yet, she was still here.
"Ready?" she asked, her voice a soft ripple.
I nodded and slipped beneath the surface.
The silence claimed me instantly. I sank a few feet, hovering in the weightless blue. Tsireya dove with me, her hair swirling around her like dark kelp, her skin shimmering with bioluminescent grace. She hovered inches from me, her eyes locked onto mine, coaching me through the bond of our gaze. Stay. Be still. Breathe through your skin.
I was winning. I was beating my record. For the first time in a month, the guilt felt like it was drifting away, carried off by the current.
But then, the stillness broke.
It wasn't a sound at first. It was a pressure. A distant, mechanical thrumming vibrated through the water, hitting my chest like a dull punch. It was rhythmic, cold, and entirely alien to the heartbeat of Pandora.
My eyes snapped open wider. Tsireya felt it too; her brow furrowed, and she reached out to grab my arm. This wasn't the reef. This wasn't the tide.
We breached the surface together, gasping for air. The sun was still bright, the village of Awa'atlu still peaceful in the distance, but the vibration in the water didn't stop. It felt like a warning.
The tide was turning, and as that mechanical echo grew louder, I realized that the "Fire and Ashes" my father feared weren't coming from the sky this time. They were coming from the deep.