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Chapter Text

The sea whispered secrets to the shore, its wave curling like fingers around the jagged rocks below the Sully's cliffside hammocks. The air smelled of salt and memory; thick, heavy, like grief that refused to fade. Spider sat cross-legged on the edge of the platform, his back hunched, chin resting on his knee. The woven fibers of the hammock behind him creaked gently in the breeze, but no one stirred. The Sully's were still mourning. They moved like shadows now, quieter than before, their laughter buried with Neteyam.

Spider's eyes traced the horizon, where the ocean met the sky in a bruised line of twilight. He hadn't spoken much since the battle. Not about Neteyam. Not about Quaritch. And definitely not about the woman whose face he couldn't remember; the mother who had vanished into the folds of his past like smoke.

He clenched his jaw. The silence was starting to feel like a lie.

"I don't even know if she's dead" he muttered to himself. "Or if Eywa took her. Or if she just...left."

A sigh escaped him, long and low. He didn't cry anymore. Not because he didn't want to, but because the tears felt useless. Like they belonged to someone else.

Footsteps padded softly behind him; bare, deliberate. He didn't turn until he heard the voice.

"You okay?" Kiri asked, her tone gently but edged with concern.

Spider looked up. Her a hair was damp, strand clinging to her cheeks, and her eyes with that strange, ancient glow. She sat beside him without waiting for an answer, knees pulled to her chest.

"Yeah" he said, voce hoarse. "I've...I've just been having this feeling. Like something's coming. Something unexpected. But I don't know what. It's strong. Like it's crawling under my skin."

Kiri tilted her head, watching him. "Like a warning?"

"Maybe. Or maybe it's guilt."

She didn't speak right away. Instead, she reached out and plucked a piece of seaweed form his hair, tossing it aside. "You've been out here for hours."

"I know."

"You didn't eat."

"I'm not hungry."

Kiri frowned. "You're always hungry."

Spider gave a weak chuckle. "Not lately."

They sat in silence for a moment, the ocean murmuring below them.

"I keep thinking about Neteyam" Kiri said finally. "About how fast it happened. One second he was there, and then..."

Spider nodded. "I see it every time I close my eyes."

"I hear him" she whispered. "In the trees. In the water. Sometimes I think Eywa's trying to tell me something."

Spider turned to her, eyes narrowing. "Do you think she's angry?"

Kiri blinked. "Eywa?"

"Yeah. For what I did."

Kiri's gaze sharpened. "What did you do?"

Spider hesitated. His throat tightened. The words clawed their way up, bitter and raw.

"I save him" he said "Quaritch. After the battle. I pulled him out of the water."

Kiri's face went still. Her breath caught.

"You...you saved him?"

Spider nodded slowly. "I couldn't let him die. I don't know why. maybe because he's my father. Maybe because I'm messed up. I don't know."

Kiri stared at him, her expression unreadable. Then she looked away, toward the ocean.

"That's...a lot" she said quietly.

"I haven't told anyone."

"You think they'll hate you?"

"I think they'll never look at me the same."

Kiri was silent again. Then she reached out and took his hand, her grip firm. 

"You're not him" she said. "You're you. And you're grieving. Just like the rest of us."

Spider swallowed hard. "I don't even know who 'me' is."

"Then maybe it's time to find out."

The wind picked up, rustling the leaves above them. Somewhere int he distance, a creature called out; a low, mournful sound that echoed across the reef.

Spider looked at Kiri, her eyes glowing faintly in the dusk.

"Do you think Eywa forgives?" he asked.

Kiri squeezed his hand. "I think Eywa understands."

And for the first time in weeks, Spider felt something shift inside him; not peace, not clarity, but the beginning of something else.

Something unexpected.

Something alive.

Chapter Text

Ronal turned restlessly in her hammock, the woven fibers creaking beneath her. The night air was warm, thick with the scent of sea brine and glowing flora, but sleep would not come easily. Something tugged at her; soft as a whisper, deep as a current. Eywa was calling.

Her breath hitched. She stilled.

Then, slowly, her eyes opened.

But she was no longer in the reef.

She stood barefoot in a place that shimmered with bioluminescent mist, the ground beneath her glowing with soft pulses of light. The air was still, sacred. She recognized it instantly: Eywa's realm. The place between worlds. The place of memory and spirit.

"What...Why am I here?" Ronal whispered, her voice barely audible.

"Fret not, my child," came the voice, booming, gentle, ancient. Eywa.

The mist parted like curtains drawn back by unseen hands. Before her stood Eywa, radiant and towering, her form woven from light and vine, her eyes reflecting galaxies. She was gazing upward, toward something suspended in the air.

Or someone.

Ronal stepped forward, heart pounding. Suspended in a translucent pod, half organic, half machine, was a woman. Her skin shimmered with a strange hue, not quite Na'vi, not quite human. Her hair floated around her like ink in water, and her eyes were closed, peaceful.

"Beautiful, isn't she?" Eywa said, her voice now softer, reverent.

Ronal's lips parted. "Come closer, child," Eywa urged.

Ronal obeyed, stepping into the light. The pod hummed with quiet energy, and the woman inside seemed to glow from within.

"What is that, Mother?" Ronal asked, her voice trembling.

Eywa smiled. "This is my beautiful creation."

Ronal's brow furrowed. "How long has she been here?"

"Since before the ending of the battle of Pandora," Eywa replied, raising her hand.

The pod responded, descending slowly until it hovered just above the ground. Ronal could see the woman's face more clearly now, delicate, strong, hauntingly ethereal.

"What is she?" Ronal asked. "Human or one of us?"

Eywa's gaze remained fixed on the pod. "You'll know soon, my child. I wish for you to wait for her."

"Wait for her?" Ronal echoed, confused.

"Yes. Wait for her. And her name shall now be Elünara."

"Elünara..." Ronal repeated, tasting the name like a prayer.

"Help her remember them," Eywa said.

"Remember who?" Ronal asked, stepping closer to Eywa. "Eywa...Help her remember who?"

But the mist began to rise again, swirling around them like a storm of light. Ronal reached out, desperate.

"Eywa! Help her remember who!" she cried.

The mist thickened, swallowing everything.

And then

She woke.

Her breath came in short, gasping sobs as she sat up in her hammock, the woven threads damp with sweat. The reef was quiet, the moon casting pale light over the water. She turned her head slowly.

Tonowari was awake, watching her.

"You okay, my tìyawn?" he asked, his voice low and concerned.

Ronal nodded, but her eyes were distant. "I...I saw her," she murmured.

"Saw who?"

"Elünara," she whispered. "Eywa's creation."

Tonowari sat up, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Was it a vision?"

Ronal looked out toward the ocean, her heart still racing. "No. It was a calling."

Chapter Text

The tide was gentle that morning, curling around Ronal's ankles like a child's fingers. The surf whispered against the sand, soft and rhythmic, as if Eywa herself were breathing through the ocean. Ronal stood still, her gaze locked on the horizon, the baby carrier slung over her shoulder, cradling her infant daughter. His soft coos were drowned by the hush of the waves.

Beside her, Tsireya shifted, arms crossed, eyes scanning the water with quiet curiosity. The early light painted her skin in hues of coral and pearl, her braids damp from the morning swim.

Ronal hadn't expected anything. It had been a week since Eywa last spoke to her, no visions, no whispers, just silence. But last night, the silence broke. Eywa's voice had returned, threading through her dreams with images of seafoam eyes and tangled memories. A woman. A name. Elünara.

And now, the ocean stirred.

"There," Ronal breathed, her voice barely audible.

Tsireya followed her gaze. A figure was drifting toward the shore, pushed gently by the tide. The body was tangled in kelp, limbs limp but unmistakably alive. She shimmered with a strange blue, deeper than Na'vi, lighter than human. Her hair floated like ink, and her chest rose and fell with swallow breaths.

"Eywa..." Ronal whispered, stepping forward.

"Tsireya," she said, her voice suddenly sharp. "Go get your father. Quickly. We need to carry her to the healing huts."

Tsireya hesitated, eyes wide. "Who is she?"

"Go," Ronal urged. "I will explain later."

Tsireya turned and sprinted toward the village, her feet kicking up sand.

Ronal knelt beside the woman, brushing kelp from her face. Her features were delicate, almost ethereal. Her eyes were slightly pointed, but not like Na'vi. Her fingers were long, webbed faintly between the joints. Her body bore no scars, no marks of battle, only the quiet imprint of something ancient.

"You are Elünara," Ronal whispered. "Eywa has named you."

The woman stirred, her lips parting slightly. A soft sound escaped her throat, half a word, half a breath.

Ronal leaned closer. "Can you hear me?"

The woman's eyes fluttered open.

Seafoam.

Ronal gasped. They were exactly as Eywa showed her, green-gray, swirling like a storm beneath the surface.

"Who...?" the woman rasped.

"You are safe," Ronal said gently. "You are among the reed people. I am Ronal. Eywa sent me to find you."

"Elünara..." the woman murmured, the name falling from her lips like a forgotten song.

"Yes," Ronal said, her voice trembling.  "That is your name now."

Tonowari arrived moments later, his broad frame casting a shadow over them. Tsireya was at his side, breathless.

"What happened?" he asked, kneeling beside Ronal.

"She came from the sea," Ronal said. "Eywa sent her. She is...not Na'vi. Not human. Something in-between."

Tonowari studied the woman, his expression unreadable. "She needs warmth. She needs memory."

Tonowari nodded. "I'll carry her."

He lifted Elünara gently, cradling her as if she were made of glass. Her head lolled against his chest, her eyes half-lidded.

As they walked back toward the village, Ronal glanced at Tsireya.

"Tell no one yet," she said. "Not until Eywa speaks again."

Tsireya nodded solemnly. "I understand."

Behind them, the tide receded, leaving only footprints and kelp. The ocean had delivered its secret. And now, the reef would hold its breath.

Elünara had arrived.

Chapter Text

The reef village pulsed around the healing, but like a living tide, fluid, rhythmic, oblivious to the quiet devastation within. Children laughed in the shallows. Hunters returned with nets heavy with silver-scaled bounty. The ocean sang its lullaby. But inside the hut, time had stopped.

Elünara did not stir for five days.

Ronal never left her side. Her infant lay curled against her chest, his breath a fragile rhythm against the silence. She barely slept, barely ate. Every few hours, her fingers brushed Elünara's brow, searching for warmth, for breath, for proof that Eywa had not reclaimed her.

Tonowari came often, bearing food Ronal didn't touch. Tsireya sat cross-legged nearby, humming lullabies to the child, her voice soft as seafoam. Sometimes she whispered questions, gentle, curious, aching, but Ronal had no answers.

"She's not just sleeping," Ronal murmured one night, her voice raw from silence. "She's...unraveling."

"Or already gone," Tonowari said, his voice barely audible over the wind.

On the fifth morning, something shifted.

Ronal felt it first, the air thickened, the light bent strangely through the woven walls, casting ripples across Elünara's skin. The herbs stopped glowing. Even the infant stilled.

Then, movement.

A twitch. Barely more than a breath. But Ronal saw it.

"Elünara?" she whispered, leaning forward, heart hammering.

The woman's eyes fluttered open.

Seafoam.

But not alive. Not aware. They held no recognition, no fear, no confusion, just emptiness, like a shell long abandoned by the creature that once lived inside.

"Elünara," Ronal said again, reaching for her hand. "You're safe. You're here."

Elünara blinked slowly. Her gaze drifted across the hut, woven mats, drying herbs, and the infant nestled in Ronal's arms. Her lips parted, but no sound came.

"Do you know your name?" Ronal asked gently.

Nothing.

"Elünara," she repeated, firmer now. "Eywa gave you that name. You came from the sea. You are sacred."

Elünara's eyes flicked toward her, then away. She sat up, stiff and mechanical, like a puppet pulled by invisible strings. Her fingers moved to her face, tracing the curve of her cheek, the edge of her ear, the hollow beneath her collarbone.

"Where...am I?" she rasped.

"You're in the reef," Ronal said. "With the Metkayina. You were found in the tide. Eywa sent you."

Elünara's brow furrowed. "I don't remember..."

"It's okay," Ronal said, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Eywa said you would need help remembering."

Elünara's breath hitched. Her fingers curled into fists.

"I see flashes," she whispered. "A man with blue eyes. A baby gurgling. Fire. Screaming. Then...nothing. just black."

Ronal's eyes widened. "You remember someone?"

"I don't know if it's mine," Elünara said. "Or someone else's. Or...no one."

Tonowari entered the hut, ducking beneath the archway. His gaze swept over Elünara, then settled on Ronal.

"She's awake," he said softly.

"She's hollow," Ronal replied.

Tonowari knelt beside Elünara. "Do you feel pain?"

Elünara shook her head. "Only silence. And shadows."

Tonowari looked at Ronal. "She needs the Cove of the Ancestors."

Ronal's jaw tightened. "Not yet. She's too fragile. If she touches the roots now, she might shatter."

Elünara's gaze drifted toward them, but she said nothing. Her eyes were open, but her soul was somewhere else, adrift, untethered.

"She doesn't even know what the Cove or Tree is," Ronal whispered.

Tonowari nodded. "Then we wait."

Ronal turned back to Elünara, brushing a strand of curls from her face. "You're safe," she said again, softer now. "You're not alone."

Elünara didn't respond. But for the first time, her eyes met Ronal's.

Not with recognition.

But with longing.

A flicker.

A spark.

Something is trying to find its way back.

Chapter Text

Kiri had dreamed of her for as long as she could remember.

A woman barefoot in the forest, spinning through shafts of light, her laughter like wind rustling through leaves. Her hair was wild, long and curly, and her eyes shimmered seafoam green, full of joy and sorrow braided together like vines. In every dream, she held a baby close, humming lullabies in a language Kiri didn't know. And always, there was a man beside her. His hand in hers.

But his face was a blur. Like Eywa had veiled it.

Kiri never understood the dreams. Not until now.

She sat cross-legged in the healing rut, the woven mar beneath her fingers rough with sat and age. Elünara lay nearby, unmoving but alive. Her breath was shallow, her skin faintly luminescent in the dim light. Her hair, dark, tangled, streaked with ocean, spilled across the pillow like ink bleeding into water.

Her eyes had opened once.

But they held nothing.

No fear. No recognition. No confusion.

Just absence.

Chapter Text

Morning spilled through the woven walls of the healing hut in fractured light, casting shifting patterns

across the sand-dusted floor. The air was thick with the scent of crushed herbs, bitter, earthy, laced with the salt-brushed breeze that drifted in from the reef. It was the kind of morning that felt sacred, but inside, the silence was heavier than prayer.

Elünara lay motionless on the mat, her breathing shallow but steady. Her seafoam eyes remained closed, not in sleep, but in retreat, shielded from a world she no longer recognized. Her skin glowed faintly, kissed by the ocean’s memory, but her spirit felt far away.

Ronal stepped into the hut, a shallow bowl of steamed reef fruit and roasted shellfish balanced in her hands. Her infant stirred against her chest, letting out a soft, questioning coo.

She paused.

Someone was already there.

“Kiri,” she said, voice low, edged with surprise. “You’re here again.”

Kiri didn’t look up right away. Her fingers traced the edge of Elünara’s mat, slow and deliberate, as if trying to read a story woven into the fibers. “I had to be,” she said quietly.

Ronal set the bowl down beside Elünara, her gaze narrowing. “You’ve come every morning.”

“I feel her,” Kiri said. “Even when she doesn’t feel herself.”

Ronal’s expression softened, but her voice remained cautious. “Do you know who she was? Did Eywa show you?”

Kiri shook her head. “Not her name. Not her story. Just… pieces. A woman dancing barefoot in the forest. Laughing with a baby. Holding hands with a man whose face was always hidden.”

Ronal knelt beside Elünara, adjusting the blanket around her shoulders with practiced care. “And you think she’s Spider’s mother?”

“I don’t think,” Kiri said. “I know. Eywa showed me his laugh. His curls. The way he clung to her. It was him.”

Ronal’s gaze darkened. “Do you know what happened to her?”

“No,” Kiri whispered. “Only that she was taken. Or buried. Or… forgotten.”

Elünara stirred.

Her fingers twitched against the mat, and Ronal moved quickly, placing a hand behind her back to guide her upright.

“Slowly,” she murmured. “You’re still healing.”

Elünara’s eyes opened, unfocused, distant. Her lips parted, cracked and dry.

Ronal lifted the bowl. “Eat. You need strength.”

Elünara hesitated, then reached for a piece of fruit. Her fingers trembled as she brought it to her mouth. She chewed slowly, her gaze flicking between the two women.

“I heard you,” she said, voice barely audible. “You spoke of a baby.”

Kiri leaned forward. “Yes. Spider. Do you remember him?”

Elünara closed her eyes. “I remember… warmth. A small hand in mine. A laugh. But it’s like trying to hold mist. It slips through.”

Ronal glanced at Kiri. “That’s something. A beginning.”

Elünara looked down at the bowl. “Why did Eywa send me back?”

Kiri’s voice was steady. “To remember. To heal. And maybe… to forgive.”

Elünara’s eyes brimmed with tears. “I don’t know who I am.”

Ronal placed a hand on her shoulder, firm and grounding. “You are Elünara. Eywa’s creation.”

Outside, the tide whispered against the shore, and the reef shimmered beneath the rising sun. Inside the hut, three women sat in silence, one lost in the fog of memory, one guided by dreams, and one anchoring them both to the present.

The thread between them held. Fragile. Sacred. Unbroken.

Chapter Text

The sun hung low, bleeding gold across the reef village like spilled honey. The ocean shimmered with molten light, its surface rippling beneath the breath of the wind. Salt clung to the air, mingling with the scent of roasted shellfish and sun-warmed fibers. Laughter drifted from the shoreline, woven into the slap of waves and the soft rhythm of hands braiding reeds beneath coral-framed canopies.

Elünara sat among them, cross-legged and quiet, her fingers moving slowly as she twisted reeds into tight coils. Her hair, once wild and matted, had been tamed by Ronal’s nightly ritual, each knot undone with care and silence. Her skin had regained its glow, and her voice no longer cracked when she spoke. She could walk now. Speak without pain. Even laugh, sometimes, when Tsireya teased her weaving like it was a puzzle she hadn’t solved.

She was healing.

Bathed in the amber light of late afternoon, Elünara looked almost serene.

Until a voice rose from the water.

“Spider, did you catch anything?” a villager called, shielding his eyes against the sun’s glare.

Elünara glanced up.

A boy emerged from the surf, water cascading down his shoulders. A breathing mask hung loose around his neck, and two nets bulged with fish and shell creatures. His curls clung to his forehead, and his grin was wide, easy, unguarded.

“Yeah,” Spider called back. “Two nets full.”

“Of course,” the villager replied, taking the catch with a nod. “You always deliver.”

“Always,” Spider said, brushing wet hair from his face.

Another villager nudged him. “You met our newcomer yet? She’s Tonowari’s guest.”

Spider turned.

His eyes found Elünara.

She was watching him, her fingers paused mid-weave. Something flickered in her gaze, not recognition, not quite. But something close. A ripple beneath still water.

Spider walked over slowly, his steps careful. Measured.

“Hi,” he said, crouching beside her. “I’m Spider. I live with the Sullys.”

Elünara tilted her head, studying him. “I’m Elünara,” she said, voice soft but steady.

“You’re not like the others,” she added, not unkind, just curious.

Spider smiled, settling into the sand across from her. “I’m human. But I was born here. Pandora’s all I’ve ever known.”

Elünara’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if reaching for a memory that refused to be caught.

“You feel… familiar,” she said.

Spider’s smile faltered. “Do I?”

She nodded, slowly.

He glanced at the basket in her lap. “You’re good at that.”

“I’m learning,” she said. “Ronal says I have patient hands.”

“She’s right,” Spider said. “She taught me how to fish. How to braid nets. How to survive.”

Elünara’s fingers trembled. “She’s been kind to me.”

“She’s like that,” Spider said. “Tough love. But it’s real.”

Silence settled between them, soft and heavy. Around them, the village hummed, waves, laughter, the rustle of reeds.

Then Elünara spoke again. “Do you know your mother?”

Spider’s breath caught. He looked up, met her eyes.

“No,” he said. “I know who my father is. But my mother… she’s a mystery.”

Elünara didn’t look away. “Maybe we’re both mysteries.”

Spider nodded. “Maybe.”

And as the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the sand, two strangers sat across from each other, threaded together by something ancient, something unnamed.

Eywa was listening.

And the tide was beginning to turn.