Chapter Text
Neteyam was there when Lo’ak shot his first arrow. The bow wasn’t Lo’ak’s, but borrowed, and Neteyam placed his hands over Lo’ak’s, adjusting their position.
“This isn’t going to work for me like this,” Lo’ak complained, more frustrated with his own body than with Neteyam, with his three fingers and a thumb.
“Maybe Dad can teach you better.”
Lo’ak didn’t notice his ears had lowered, but he knew when Neteyam’s fingers slipped away from his to fuss with his braids.
“Come on, it was one shot. You picked a very small target. Try that cycad.”
Lo’ak followed it with his eyes. The vibrant green of the forest and the rich blue of his brother, then he gripped the bow more firmly and, once again, fired.
It was also Neteyam who comforted Lo’ak after his first kill.
It had been a lamp lizard, and Lo’ak had stayed impassive in the moment because the sun was bright in the sky, and Jake was watching, and the murmur of “good” from his father, to him, was like honey dripping into his ear.
But Neteyam must have noticed his quiet during the evening meal, must have seen Lo’ak’s gaze drifting off into nothing.
He certainly knew when he heard Lo’ak sniffling when it was late enough that no one else would notice, and he had to use all his skill as a silent hunter to make his way to Lo’ak’s nivi, press himself against his back, and wrap his arms around him. Lo’ak felt fragile and small, crying and trembling even more in the warmth of his older brother.
It was just…
“His eyes,” Lo’ak sniffed, senseless. “I can’t stop seeing his eyes. The light fading, I…”
Neteyam held him tighter.
“Then think of them before. Remember that their light was taken in by Eywa, and that he is now in the shimmer of the grass, in the seeds of the Sacred Tree, no longer contained within a pair of pupils, but in all things.”
It was a nice thought. Lo’ak still cried the whole night, though, and Neteyam let him.
When they fought, it was always over something trivial, and always Neteyam the one to come make peace first. That always irritated Lo’ak a little more, the fact that he was the better man even at that.
Lo’ak was twelve summers old when his cheeks burned in front of a girl for the first time. It was Tsawke, a gifted weaver for her age, whose song echoed through High Camp as her fingers worked the loom beneath her mother’s shadow.
The glimpses he caught of her and her music were enough for Lo’ak, who would wander nearby just for that. And it was fine, he was content until the shift came, in the form of an anklet of pretty beads, given to Neteyam during the evening meal.
From a distance, Lo’ak couldn’t hear what Tsawke said to him, but he saw when she handed over the cord.
Neteyam was too kind not to wear it, and he must have felt Lo’ak’s gaze warming his heels on the way to the hammocks. Already lying in his own, Lo’ak didn’t bother pretending he wasn’t upset. He didn’t know how to do that yet.
“Lo’ak,” Neteyam approached, all whispers and caution. Lo’ak still turned his face away. “Brother.”
“What did she say?” he asked.
“She was only being polite, said she noticed I had lost mine during my last hunt.”
Lo’ak’s eyes snapped to him.
“You didn’t.”
He had, in fact, given it as a gift to Lo’ak, who had once praised the color of the beads while holding Neteyam’s foot in his hands, torturing him with tickles. Lo’ak had lost it, not during a hunt, but diving into the river with Kiri and Tuk.
“Well, she doesn’t know that.” Neteyam sat beside him without asking, resting one foot on the nivi to start removing the anklet.
Lo’ak’s brows, strange and alien, drew together.
“What are you doing?”
“Losing it again.” Neteyam’s fingers held out the piece. Lo’ak went quiet and flushed, taking his hand and gently pushing it back.
“You can keep it.”
Lo’ak’s refusal was firm. Either way, Neteyam wasn’t wearing the anklet the next day.