7. Becoming one of the people I

The weeks passed like mist over the morning canopy — present, yet barely graspable, vanishing before she could hold onto them.

Maria woke each day to the rustle of leaves and the heady perfume of ripe fruit hanging in the air, thick as memory. The sounds of the forest had become familiar — the click of insects, the distant calls of ikran, the creak of branches swaying in the breeze. Her body moved with growing ease among the Na'vi; her feet found balance on twisting vines, her hands gripped bark and stone like they'd always known them. And yet, her mind often drifted elsewhere — to voices muffled by breathing masks, to the cold hiss of airlocks, to the sterile hum of metal walls, and a name that no longer seemed to fit her skin.

She moved between Neytiri's calm, rhythmic teachings and Tsu'tey's punishing lessons, caught in the tension between gentleness and fire. With each day, she changed. Her limbs moved with purpose now. Her steps no longer faltered. She could leap, strike, breathe, endure — and for the first time in her life, she felt truly alive, like her blood finally sang with a rhythm that matched the world around her.

She was becoming Na'vi — not just in appearance, but in spirit.

And yet... not entirely.

Even as friendships blossomed — especially with Ka'ani, whose quiet strength and easy smiles made the hard days softer — something inside her remained unsettled, like a thread pulled too tight beneath the surface. Grace saw it first. "Eat," she'd say, more sharply now, watching Maria's real body grow gaunt and pale on the other side of the link chair. Jake was struggling too. They were both being consumed, slowly, by the beauty and danger of a world that felt more like home than the one they'd left behind.

But what even was home? What was real? Maria asked herself those questions more and more.

Here, in this body, she hunted for her food, laughed by the fire, bled and healed beside her people. Here, there were no wires in her veins, no grey ceilings boxing her in, no numbers assigning her worth. Here, she felt free — her soul unchained, her senses alive.

Wasn't this real?

And still... she would awaken in that other body. The small, fragile one. Pale, foreign. A cage. A reminder that no matter how deeply she breathed the Pandoran air, it was not truly hers. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

The ache of that contradiction nestled in her bones, quiet but relentless. It sharpened with every overheard whisper — a few still calling her demon, others wondering if she belonged at all. Tsu'tey rarely said anything, but his silence carved deeper wounds than words ever could. Every nod withheld, every sideways glance, reminded her of the line she could not yet cross.

She was no longer human. Not fully Na'vi.

She was something in between — untethered, transforming, and utterly alone in that space between worlds.

In those last few weeks, Maria learned the truth — or at least a piece of it.

It was Nekawn who told her, voice low and eyes far away, about what had been taken from Tsu'tey. Why his hatred of the tawtute ran so deep it seemed woven into his very bones. Loss after loss. Betrayals. Death. The slow erosion of trust until all that remained was suspicion, sharpened into survival.

Nekawn sat her down beneath the roots of Hometree and spoke softly of grief, loss... and rage. "He does not hate you, Maria," the elder said, voice as low as wind in the branches. "He hates the pain your people brought. The scars he cannot show. Sylwanin, his promised... she died in the first attack. He could do nothing."

And in hearing it, Maria felt something inside her shift — like a weight moving from judgment to understanding. She'd hated Tsu'tey at first, resented his scorn, his cold silences, his unwillingness to see her as anything but the enemy. But now? She understood. And to be completely honest with herself... if she were in his place, if she had lived through what he had, she would have reacted the same. Maybe worse.

A race that had taken so much — from land to lives to dignity — didn't deserve easy forgiveness.

With that knowledge, she made a silent vow: she would never judge someone that harshly again. Especially not someone like him.

So she tried harder — not just to tolerate Tsu'tey, but to earn his respect. She listened more, spoke less, mirrored his discipline. It worked, slowly. There were moments she caught the faintest hint of approval in his eyes, or heard it in the softened edge of his instructions. Little things. Barely noticeable. But they meant everything to her.

Until Saeyla.

Whenever she felt she was finally making progress, feeling almost accepted, Saeyla would slip in — not with direct hostility, but with that subtle, pointed presence that made Maria feel like an intruder again. She never understood what the younger female's problem was. Jealousy? Distrust? Competition? Maria didn't know, and truthfully, she didn't care enough to dig.

She was accepted by most of the clan now. She could walk among them without stares or whispers trailing behind her. She had earned her place, or at least carved one out. That was enough. Or... it should have been.

She also watched, from a quiet distance, as the bond between Jake and Neytiri deepened — not just in movement or teamwork, but in the way they looked at each other when they thought no one else noticed. There was something unfolding there, tender and magnetic, and often Maria felt like a third presence in a scene meant only for two. Out of place. Unnecessary.

So more and more, she found herself drifting toward Tsu'tey and his students. Their lessons were brutal but focused, their words clipped and purposeful — and somehow, that steadiness grounded her. Among them, she didn't have to smile when she didn't want to. She could simply be.

And there was Ka'ani.

What began as quiet companionship became something deeper. He had a way of making space for her, without needing anything in return. He never pushed, never questioned her silences, just walked beside her like it was the most natural thing in the world. They shared jokes, meals, bruises, and long stretches of wordless comfort. Of all the Omatikaya, he had become her closest friend — a thread of warmth she clung to when the days grew heavy.

She was still in between. Still not whole. But here, at least, she wasn't alone.

When she and Jake brought down their first yerik, Maria felt the earth shift beneath her feet — not physically, but inside, as if some long-sealed door had creaked open. Neytiri approached her father that evening, voice proud and steady, to speak of their Iknimaya. With Tsu'tey's students nearly ready, the date was set.

For the first time, Maria let herself believe: maybe I belong here.

The night before, the clan gathered in celebration beneath the bioluminescent canopy. The trees pulsed with soft light, the ground thrummed with anticipation, and joy filled the air like pollen.

Maria barely recognized her reflection in the still pool beyond the gathering. Draped in rich fabric and adorned with beads and bone, she looked like a memory borrowed from a story — not quite Na'vi, not quite human. The necklace around her neck — Nekawn's mother's — shimmered with significance, its weight grounding her.

"You honor her by wearing it," Nekawn had whispered, eyes shining. "You honor all of us."

Maria smiled, but her chest ached. Maybe a daughter of two worlds? A stranger to both.

The music began, haunting and ancient. The perran pipe called through the trees, low and sweet. She spotted Jake and Norm already deep in a reckless drinking contest, and Tsu'tey standing nearby, arms folded, eyes narrowed — ever the sentinel, ever the storm.

Maria was still watching when a hand appeared before her.

"Will you dance with me?" Ka'ani asked, voice soft, almost shy. He looked every bit the hopeful warrior, trying not to hope too much.

She hesitated, then nodded.

They danced. Slowly at first, then faster, spinning through the glowing clearing, their laughter rising with the music. For a moment, just a fleeting breath of time, Maria felt whole. The ache dulled. The edges softened. When they collapsed in the grass, breathless and laughing, something in her heart cracked open — warmth seeping in where cold had settled for too long.

"Drink with me?" she teased, playful, reckless.

He obliged. One drink turned into three. The world tilted slightly — softer, looser.

"You're beautiful tonight, Maria." Ka'ani said, gaze unguarded.

Her breath caught. Her smile faltered. She hadn't expected that. Hadn't wanted it. Not from him. Not now.

Before she could answer, Jake stumbled over, loud and ridiculous, demanding her judgment in some absurd argument with Norm. She seized the escape, heart pounding, and followed him gratefully into the fray.

She was still catching her breath when a shadow fell across them.

Tsu'tey.

He stepped into the circle, silent but commanding, a massive jug of peyson in his hand. The crowd stirred, already sensing something brewing.

"A contest," he announced, eyes fixed on Maria and Jake. "You dreamwalkers — let's see if you can hold your own."

Maria met his gaze. There was fire behind it. And something else. Something unspoken.

This was her chance.

"You're on." she said, lifting her chin.

Shot for shot, they drank — the crowd roaring louder with each swallow. The burn in her throat, the dizziness in her skull — none of it mattered. Not with Tsu'tey watching her, engaging her, seeing her. She almost smiled.

Until it happened.

A voice from the crowd shouted, half-drunk and laughing: "Let your women win, Tsu'tey! She's your favorite!"

Laughter erupted.

Tsu'tey didn't laugh.

He snorted, voice sharp as a blade. "As if I could ever fall for such a hideous creature."

Silence fell.

The blow landed harder than if he had struck her. The laughter died on her lips. Her stomach turned to stone.

She didn't say a word.

She stood, slowly, with all the dignity she had left — and walked away.

She didn't let herself cry until the trees swallowed her.

The forest wrapped around her like a memory, dark and familiar. Here, at least, no one could see the way her face crumpled. No one could hear the sound her soul made when it cracked.

That's when Ka'ani found her.

"I just wanted to be alone." she muttered, brushing away tears that wouldn't stop.

"I know. But I saw you leave... and I couldn't stay. Not after that."

He stepped closer, hesitant. He brushed her hair gently behind her ear, and she flinched — not from him, but from the tenderness.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I heard what he said. It wasn't true. Not even close."

She wanted to believe him. She wanted it more than anything.

But all she felt was the echo of Tsu'tey's voice. Hideous. And the way the clan had laughed before going silent.

She leaned into Ka'ani, not out of love — but for something solid to hold. Something that didn't cut when it touched her. He held her as she cried, and for that, she would always be grateful.

But neither of them saw the figure in the shadows. Golden eyes watching.

Tsu'tey had followed her.

He told himself it was only to deliver an apology — to say something that might stitch together what he'd just torn apart. The words sat on his tongue like burning coals, hot and heavy, but ready.

But when he found her... the breath left his lungs.

She was in Ka'ani's arms.

Folded against him like someone broken. Her shoulders shook with quiet sobs that pierced the night like thorns. Ka'ani held her with care, whispering words Tsu'tey couldn't hear — and wouldn't have dared to speak, even if he had thought of them.

For a moment, Tsu'tey simply stood there, frozen between instinct and regret, the apology dying in his throat. His fists clenched at his sides. His jaw tightened.

And then, something inside him cracked. Broke clean through.

He turned away.

Not a sound. Not a word. Just the quiet crunch of his footsteps as he disappeared into the shadows.

That night, he wandered the forest in silence, trying to outrun the echo of her crying — and the voice in his head that screamed you did this. When he finally returned to the fire, dawn was beginning to press against the horizon.

Nekawn sat nearby, her eyes glowing faintly in the low light. She looked up as he approached, saying nothing. She had seen too much over the years to be surprised anymore.

"I hurt her," Tsu'tey admitted, voice low and ragged. "Worse than I meant to."

Nekawn didn't respond at first. She simply watched him, waiting.

"I was... angry," he went on. "The others were speaking of her like she was a thing. A prize to win. I—I couldn't take it."

His voice cracked. Shame clung to every word.

Nekawn tilted her head, gaze sharp as flint. "And so you made her the object," she said softly. "You did what they were doing, only louder."

He didn't argue. He couldn't.

"I wanted to protect her," he said finally, hoarse. "But I only... I made her bleed."

"You chose the wrong way to show it," she replied, unmoving. "You let your fear speak, not your heart."

Tsu'tey looked away, jaw tight. "She is still tawtute," he said bitterly, the old wound opening again. "A shell. A mask. She will always wake up in another body."

"No," Nekawn said, firm now. Her voice didn't rise — it didn't need to.

"She is spirit. She is courage. She is here. That matters more than skin."

Tsu'tey closed his eyes. The image of Maria, crumpled and shaking, burned behind his lids.

"I don't think she'll forgive me," he said.

"Then earn it," Nekawn replied, rising to her feet. "Or let her go, and carry what you've done like a scar."

She walked past him, her steps steady and sure.

He remained by the fire, the embers casting long shadows across his face — and the storm inside him raging quietly on.

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The climb wasn't the hardest part of Iknimaya — not physically. But for Maria and Sully, it might as well have been a mountain of bone and ghosts. Every ledge felt like it could betray them, every gust of wind a cruel reminder of what they still were: outsiders clawing their way into something sacred.

Tsu'tey and his students were already far ahead, shadows dancing against the jagged cliff face. Neytiri had gone on ahead to wait at the top — to greet her students and guide them. Maria could only pray she'd see them again, safe, breathing, whole.

"About yesterday..." Sully began, voice cautious as they hauled themselves up the slick stone.

Maria didn't even look at him. "You couldn't have picked a worse time, marine," she hissed, every syllable trembling with barely buried fury.

The rage had been simmering all night. And now, here it came — boiling to the surface.

"You let me wander off. Alone. Drunk. Humiliated. Not one of you came after me. Not one!" Her voice cracked. "You knew how that felt — how he made me feel — and you did nothing."

Sully flinched like she'd struck him, and for a moment, she was glad. Let him carry some of the weight. Let him bleed, just a little.

"I wanted to come after you," he said quickly, guilt choking his words. "Norm too. But Tsu'tey was already following you — we saw it. We thought maybe it was better if you two talked it out first. But then you came back with Ka'ani instead, and you looked like hell. I knew something went wrong. I'm sorry, Maria. I swear — you're like family to me. I'd never want you to get hurt. Still want to knock that arrogant bastard's teeth in for what he said..."

He jerked his head toward the figure far ahead of them.

Maria's ears pinned back, heart skipping. Tsu'tey followed her? She never saw him. Never heard him. If what Jake said was true...

Why hadn't he said anything?

Her thoughts spun. Confusion mingled with bitterness, with shame, with the weight of everything unsaid.

Then Saeyla's voice rang sharp above them.

"Are you two coming, or do you need someone to carry you?"

Maria gritted her teeth and climbed faster.

The rest of the ascent was a blur. Her limbs moved on instinct, but her mind spiraled. She'd nearly cast aside the only real family she had here — Jake, Norm — over a misunderstanding. She'd let her hurt speak for her. And still, she couldn't shake the gnawing question that haunted every step:

Why do I care so much what he thinks?

Tsu'tey. That proud, impossible idiot. Why did his words cut the deepest?

She hated that she cared. Hated that one careless insult from him had nearly broken her.

A screech shattered her thoughts. The sound of Ikran wings.

They had reached the summit.

Neytiri stood among them, radiant, a smile blooming as she saw her students — but her eyes went straight to Jake. Maria felt the pang of it, sharp and soft. That's what it looks like, she thought. Real affection. Trust. The kind of bond you don't second-guess.

"Jakesully will begin," Neytiri announced.

Jake swallowed hard and glanced back at them, eyes wide. "How will I know which one's mine?"

"It will try to kill you," Neytiri answered, deadpan.

And with that, he stepped into the pit.

Maria barely breathed for the next five minutes. She gripped the edge of the rocks so tightly her fingers ached. When he rose into the sky on a brilliant blue ikran, she screamed, wild and joyous. Ka'ani echoed her cry beside her.

Tsu'tey shushed them with a scowl. Maria flipped him off behind his back.

One by one, Saeyla and Ka'ani made their attempts — both successful, both triumphant.

Then it was her turn.

She was stepping forward when a hand closed over her shoulder. She turned, startled — and froze.

It was him.

Tsu'tey stood before her, gaze unreadable, mouth tense. But when he spoke, his voice was soft — strained.

"I owe you an apology."

Maria blinked, heart skipping.

"I... I tried to joke yesterday," he said, carefully. "But it wasn't a joke. Not really. And it was cruel. I see that now. I... I cherish you as a student. You've earned your place here."

She wanted to say something. Anything. But her voice failed her.

He continued. "You are still tawtute to me — you always will be." Her ears twitched in frustration, but he raised a hand. "But you are also Omatikaya. A sister in spirit. And if you can find it in yourself to forgive me... I ask that you do."

And then — he took her hand and placed it on his shoulder.

"I see you."

She choked on her breath. This wasn't the proud warrior. This wasn't the cold teacher. This was Tsu'tey, bare and vulnerable in front of her.

She swallowed. "I see you."

And for the first time, she meant it.

Pride filled her chest like wind in a sail. She stepped forward.

The Ikrans shifted as she approached, feathers bristling, wings snapping. She was calm. Ready. Waiting.

One snarled — blue-gold and brilliant — and charged her.

"There!" Tsu'tey shouted. "It's time to attack, warrior!"

Warrior.

That single word lit a fire in her veins.

Maria lunged.

The struggle was brief but fierce. She wrapped the cord around the beast's jaws, heart thundering. The connection came suddenly, surging like lightning. The bond sealed.

Tsu'tey ran to her, breathless.

"Seal it! Seal it with the first flight!"

And with a shove, he sent them both off the edge.

Maria screamed, but her scream turned into a wild laugh as the Ikran soared. The sky opened before her, vast and endless. She was flying.

Below, Tsu'tey stood stunned, joy erupting in his chest like a storm. She had done it.

Later, he found Nekawn.

He told her everything — about Maria, about the guilt and the anger. The fear. About how he had tried to bury something deeper by pushing her away. She listened in silence, as always, but her words were unflinching.

"She is not your enemy," she told him. "She is not a shell. She is the spirit Eywa sent — and it is your choice whether to accept the gift or reject it in fear."

And for the first time, Tsu'tey understood. The walls he had built to protect his people had kept out more than enemies. They had kept out possibility.

He watched her that day with new eyes.

Maria, laughing midair on her Ikran, sunlight glinting off her skin and freedom in her voice.

He called his own mount and joined her in the sky.

And for the first time, he allowed himself to wonder:

What if the one I feared... was the one Eywa meant for me to find?