Chapter Text
| Quaritch |
In the eye of the storm, he heard a voice. Quaritch, it whispered. Quaritch, Quaritch, Quaritch. Or was it a scream? A phantom trying to pull him into the pits of insanity? He couldn’t tell, for the constant noise in his ear drowned out any other, softer sound. The world around him collapsed. Gravity didn’t exist anymore, and neither did anything else he had always held onto.
The fire was licking at his skin, blue underneath red and black paint and grayish-white ash. Most of it was covered in a different kind of red now, though: blood. He couldn’t see it through closed eyes, but he smelled it in the air, tasted it in his mouth and coughed it out of his lungs. For the first time in both of his lives, resistance was futile. There was no escaping the fire. Everything seemed so far away now: the way Spider would’ve fallen to his death had Quaritch not grabbed him, the way Jake had pulled them both up… and, much earlier, the way Varang had put the Mangkwan colors on his body like performing a sacred ritual, turning a man into a god.
Remembering her lithe, slender hands on his chest lessened the pain of flames wracking his veins. Stay still now, she had ordered him. Just to see the adorable scrunching of her nose she did whenever she got mad at him, Quaritch had flinched away from her touch. Together with a smug laugh he hadn’t even tried to suppress, that earned him a slap. Growling, he had grabbed her hips to lift her right onto his lap, holding her firmly in place with an iron grip. She had been giggling, then. Giggling, and digging her nails into the back of his neck until she danced between the line of pain and lust as she so often did. My stupid, strong sky man, she’d purred, pumping the blood straight into his crotch underneath where she was seated on his lap. Why don’t you use that dagger properly? One last time before we fly into battle. Before they’ll bow down before us as they should. Either that, or we’ll make them burn.
He had let his fingers run through the thin strands of hair on one side of her head, committing the sensation to memory as he brought his lips to hers, their breaths mingling in the thick, warm air. They will bow. As they should, he had echoed, the last words spoken into her mouth, into her kiss. For a while now, he had forgotten who he was. In her embrace, he remembered.
A sharp, searing pain tore through his arm and made him writhe in agony. The sounds coming from his mouth sounded half like moans, half like screams. Still, he refused to open his eyes. If hell existed, he sure was burning in it now, though a treacherous voice in his mind told him that it might as well be Eywa torturing him for eternity. Either way, he wasn’t keen on finding out which entity was toying with his flesh. Only when he felt something warm and soft touching him did his eyes snap open.
The first thing he saw was a wing. Bigger than his ikran‘s, much bigger. Monstrous, almost. Up and down it went, again and again. Trying to breathe in sync with the movement, he focused on the wing. Up and down, up and down.
The second thing he saw was a hand covered in various tones of red. Its long fingers stretched out, smoothing over his chest, then stroking his hair.
„Don’t move“, the voice scolded him through the inferno of fire and water. „You’re hurt.“ Something about the voice made his chest ache, although he didn’t know why. It was thinner and shakier than it was supposed to be, and between the last two words, there was an audible crack. You‘re hurt. With his eyes closed again, the voice was a melody. Playing in his head, meant for him alone. Slowly, he allowed it to lull him into a deep sleep, taking over the edges of his remaining consciousness until there was only black nothingness. Sweet, sweet calm.
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When he woke up, it wasn’t with a gasp. It wasn’t like in any of those movies he had enjoyed watching back when he was a human. It was slow, and it was painful. Every breath was ripped straight from the wounded inside of his lungs, and his coughs still resulted in splattering blood. Just this time, there was something dabbing at his chin, wiping away the blood-drenched saliva. „Still“, a voice commanded. „Be still.“ Opening his eyelids drew all the strength from his battered body, and yet, he was glad he did it. Big, yellow eyes stared back at him. They were hard as ever, unflinching… until they noticed his eyes looking back at them. For a fraction of a moment, they softened. He wished to see that look for a little longer, but soon, a face filled his field of view. It was inspecting something on the side of his own face, most likely a wound. Then, something shot up his nose and into his system, numbing the pain until all he felt was peace. A peace built on illusion and quicksand.
„Varang“, he croaked, his own voice sounding like that of a stranger.
„I said still“, she only repeated, harsh and bitter, though when he used the last of his energy to reach out towards her cheek with his palm, she didn’t protest. Instead, she leaned forward, into his touch. The moment his skin made contact with hers, unconsciousness claimed him once more. War drums reverberated in his mind. The echo of a lost fight, a lost war, a lost life.
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In his dreams, he was another man. Jake Sully was there, telling him to see, simultaneously handcuffed and running free. Varang was there as well, grabbing his hand. Jake grabbed the other one, and they each pulled him into a different direction. Before long, his bones cracked, ribcage splitting apart.
His scream shattered the inside of the yurt, startling the woman beside him. Immediately, she reached for the weapon beside the fur they were lying on, only letting it sink to the ground again once she realized it was just him having a nightmare. For a while, they simply breathed, looking each other into the eyes. He felt a little stronger, though not so much as to trust his limbs to function again, so he didn’t try to move them.
„I’m not dead”, was the first thing he said into the emptiness. At least his voice was working.
Varang blinked. „Apparently.”
„You saved me”, he concluded.
„Pure coincidence. You fell, and I was there.”
They had lost the battle. Of course they had, taking into account the state he was in. Scanning her face and arms and chest for injuries and finding nothing, he breathed easier. She was mostly unscathed. Good.
Ever the military man, he couldn’t help but think of two questions next: „How are the losses? Is Wainfleet alive?”
Her gaze turned to steel, eyes narrowing. „Your little friend is alive and well and still with the sky people.” Though hesitantly, Lyle had made up his mind to fight for the humans, under the orders of Ardmore. Quaritch didn’t resent him for it. Like a good soldier, he was just fulfilling his mission, taking orders. „Losses?”, Varang went on. „Too many to count.” She pressed her lips together, as if weighing her next words. „Your fault.”
He pulled himself up so quickly it made him roar with pain. She flinched. „My fault?!” No, this wasn’t his fault. It couldn’t be. He had already lost too much. Too many people. Paz and most of his squad to death, and his own son to the traitor Jake Sully.
„Yes, your fault”, she hissed, a piercing blade wrapped in venom.
„You set your own people ablaze and have the nerve to hold me accountable for them dying?!”
„When they die like that, they die in glory! As heroes! Their deaths in that battle were nothing but pointless”, she barked, baring her pointy teeth at him. „And they’re not my people. They’re ours. You’re still Mangkwan, whatever happened. Or do you want to flee back to the air breathers who left you to die?”
Quaritch swallowed. He didn’t answer, and it seemed as if she didn’t expect him to.
Without commenting on it, she started preparing things to bandage his wounds. After all, she was a tsahik, and for all the fire and destruction she could bring, she could also heal when she wanted to (which wasn’t all that often, Quaritch figured). Her fingers worked expertly, smearing a foul-reeking, slimy substance onto open flesh wounds. When he whimpered, she pressed harder.
He knew how much Varang held onto her power, for it seemed to be the only thing keeping her alive. She had told him about her mother’s death, swallowed by the flames when the volcano erupted. Her father who had led the clan before her had been weak in her eyes, just as her sister, the tsahìk-in-waiting… and so, she had poisoned the first and banished the latter. To his question of why she didn’t kill her sister as well, he got no answer, and he didn’t push it.
Power had always been the only way to keep her people safe, she’d explained. Power, and fire. Eywa didn’t provide for them like she did for the others, but they wouldn’t give up and die. They found their own ways.
„You will gain back glory”, Quaritch decided. „More than you ever had before. I’ll make sure of it.”
She scoffed, her touch on his wounds getting harsher, hard enough to hurt. „Varang”, he murmured, calmly at first, though with a deep, rumbling undertone that sounded like a growl of thunder. „Varang, talk to me, baby.“
No answer. Her fingers worked with even more pressure, nearly brutal.
When she pressed into a particularly bad wound on his arm — the one that he had his son to thank for —, he hissed, sharper this time: „Varang!“
She hissed. „Don’t be a weakling. If I hadn’t given you the powder, you’d be screaming your lungs out now. I already gave you the highest possible dosage that doesn’t kill you.“
Quaritch wanted to protest, to say something along the lines of not being a weakling, but he was interrupted by someone entering the tent. The female Mangkwan seemed a bit younger than Varang and even thinner. Surely, she’d crumble to ash under his touch. The bucket of water she carried was almost comically large in comparison to her lithe frame, breasts bound tightly just like Varang‘s. She was about a head taller than her, but even though it made moving around more complicated, she crouched down to be smaller than Varang as she dragged the bucket towards Quaritch.
Placing it right next to him, the Mangkwan woman whose name he didn’t remember took a piece of cloth and let it soak in the water. Surely he must’ve seen her before, she just didn’t make much of an impression on him that’d justify her name lingering in his mind.
The Na’vi woman wrung out the cloth and started to drag it along his skin, wiping away the bloody crusts bit by bit. Her touch was soft, and her eyes found his with a mix of admiration and timidness. The gaze he gave her in return was encouraging. Don’t fear me, it seemed to say, especially not in my current condition. When he gave her the hint of a lip curling upwards, she smiled.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Varang watching, clenching her teeth, upper lip twitching. „Zyvani. That’s enough.“
Zyvani bowed her head obediently, every now and then daring to lift her gaze into Varang‘s eyes. „But Tsahìk, you said–”
„Enough! Out!“, Varang screeched, eyes spitting fire, kuru glowing purple with anger. The other woman all but stumbled outside the yurt, hurrying to get away from Varang‘s wrath. Satisfied, Varang took the wet cloth into her own hands, continuing the motions over his chest and arms.
A thousand little needles pierced Quaritch‘s insides, but somehow, not in an uncomfortable way. Whenever it was her touching him instead of anyone else, his body reacted differently, as if gaining a mind of its own, destroying and rebuilding itself in ways he couldn’t comprehend. She leaned over him to reach for a new, clean cloth, and despite the state he was in, he felt his cock stir to life.
Varang noticed immediately.
She grinned, purposely brushing her elbow against the hardening bulge that grew under his loincloth.
„One part of you seems to be in fine working condition“, she purred darkly.
„Can’t help it when it’s you“, he muttered back, hand instinctively moving to her waist.
In a movement that came out of nowhere, she ripped his loincloth apart and took him between her hands, pumping up and down, watching him grow further in fascination, tip already weeping. The first time she’d seen him naked, she’d pretty much gasped at the size of him, and so Quaritch doubted that any of the men in the ash clan were half as big as him. His chest puffed with pride, he let out a hum of contentment – or more of a moan, really. She picked up the pace, and he panted.
„Still… mad… at me?“, he groaned while furiously trying to thrust up into her hands, desperate for friction.
Chuckling, she climbed on top of him, straddling him. His tip was aligned with her middle, and Quaritch tried to lift his hips but failed, the pain slowly winning against the powder she had given him. Varang cupped his cheek, making sure not to touch the other one for some reason, and impaled herself on his length. She was wet already, wet enough for their coupling to produce an obscene sound. He roared her name, and that only seemed to spur her on, causing her to rut and rock on top of him like a cat in heat, whining and moaning and making high-pitched, little noises. Her eyes never left his, neither of them wanting to break the spell. It wasn’t the rough fucking they usually did. It was… something else. Something unnamed.
„Yes“, she panted, and for a moment, he asked himself whether it was an answer to his question or an encouragement. Both, maybe. All of that was drowned out by his orgasm, though, hitting him like a sudden wave of concrete. He roared, finally forcing his hips to snap up despite the sharp pain striking his limbs like lightning. Gripping her ass, he yanked her down on him with each thrust, pumping her full of his essence, thumb simultaneously rubbing her clit to take her over the edge with him. When he succeeded, she took pride in screaming his name loud enough to hear for the whole village.
Usually, she would’ve collapsed on top of him, but now, she let herself fall beside him on the fur again. Out of breath and drained of energy, he closed his eyes, hand resting on her arm. She wriggled her hand into his, giving him no choice but to intertwine their fingers. Not that he would’ve objected anyway.
She was all he had left. Her, and the futile belief he could, some day, still fulfill the mission he had been given… the one given to him by Ardmore as well as his own, personal one of getting Spider back. No matter how much he despised it, the thought that his boy was alive and well-protected by the Sullies had to suffice for now.
Curled up on her side to face him fully, without her huge headpiece, Varang looked less the fearless leader. There was a vulnerability in her he seldom saw. Only in moments like these, when her own emotions caught her off guard. He had never been good at empathy, at reading other people‘s feelings, but even he could decipher the genuine warmth in her eyes now. Golden and orange sparks danced in yellow irises, reflecting the fire that burned in the middle of the yurt. Quaritch‘s lips twitched. She was so damn beautiful it hurt.
He managed to sit up, too proud to ask Varang to help him drink some of the water from the bucket. He’d do it himself. When he got a glimpse of the water‘s surface, his eyes widened, and he recoiled.
The right side of his face was half-covered in deep wounds, several blood-crusted stripes reaching from the top of his head to his jawline, surrounded by severe-looking burns that turned the blue of his skin violet-red. He must’ve scratched his skin open during his fall. In some areas, he swore he could see bone.
„Well, damn. I look like a monster“, he grunted.
„Beautiful“, Varang replied, sitting up as well.
He snorted.
She buried her nose in the crook of his neck.