Chapter Text
“The people say that when you touch steel, it's poison seeps into your heart.”
Lo’ak didn't know what he was doing. This wasn’t something he had planned out; it wasn't something he had even let himself think about because he knew if he let himself go there, he would never come out. He had had good things, sure.
He had Tsireya, great mother, he didn't even know if he wanted to think of her right now, of how she’d look at him. He had Kiri and Tuk. Payakan. Payakan, who was being exiled. Payakan, his brother, was just another brother he couldn't save.
That was about it. His mother was a shell, he thought, one more heartbreak, and he was sure it would turn her inside out in sorrow until she was nothing but a ghost of a constant living reminder that she had outlived both of her sons if he went through with this.
For that, Lo’ak felt about as much guilt and grief as he did over what his sempu had so angrily reminded him of not long ago.
Tuk and Kiri. He knew he needed to be there for them, that he was the oldest brother now- he was supposed to take care of them, but he couldn't, again, as his father had surely reminded him of lately. Neteyam was always the one keeping him in line. Neteyam was the bridge between Lo’ak and his father. Always speaking for the two hot heads that loved with all their strength and spoke with all the intelligence of angry Ikrans.
He'd never meant for any of this to happen. He’d never meant to come here; he had never thought about stealing one of his father's guns and hauling it up to a dune or how the sand would embed itself in his skin when he fell onto his knees, how out of place this weapon would look upon the great mother’s land.
But of course, he had never thought his father would say the one thing that has rung in his ears constantly ever since Neteyam’s blood-stained his hands.
He knew his sempu thought that, but Loak never would have imagined his father would tell him that, and certainly not in a moment when Loak needed him most. Hell, even Tsireya had said something, but his own father had not.
Never did he think that would be the moment his father told him that the worst things Lo'ak thought about himself were not only true but that his sempu thought them too.
So he didn't think, didn't realize that his feet were carrying him to the family marui and getting his father's gun. He just knew he wanted this pain to stop. That he couldn't bear to live another day in a world where he killed his older brother and his father hated him for it.
Neteyam would never call him skxawng again, never save his ass while doing something stupid again, never stand in between him and their father when Lo’ak was in the wrong
again.
Never. Never. Never. Never. Never. Never. Never.
He clicks the safety off.
All of this pent-up anger, this gnawing flesh-eating grief, is coming out in tears that roll down his face, and part of him, this stupid childish part of himself, still wants his sempu to come get him.
He wants to be in the forest again, playing with Neteyam the way they did when they were kids.
The muzzle of the gun is touching the tender skin under his neck.
He was really going to do this.
“Thank Eywa,” he thought, "This will finally be over.”
The ocean lapped at the shore as everything continued to live and thrive as if there was no war, as if he was not on his knees breaking one of the great mothers' rules, holding the poison of demons about to take his own life, a crime so unheard of he wasn't even sure if Eywa had rules over it.
Maybe this is the mind sickness the humans have that he's heard his mother speak of. Grief Lo’ak thinks is like a tsunami- it roars and crashes, destroying everything in its wake. He couldn't help the tears that had been falling nor the sobs that racked his body. He couldn't help that some part of him wanted to hear footsteps, heavy breathing, a voice yelling out “Stop.” He couldn't help but want his sempu to come running up and cradle him the way he did when he was small, yet no such comfort came.
He threw the gun across the sand.
His father's gun. He couldn't even think about how pissed his dad was going to be when he saw the once clean gun caked in sand, again.
He couldn't do this; he was too weak. It’s his fault his older brother, his parents' golden child, was dead.
“It wasn't my fault!” He half screams, half sobs while his chest heaves up and down. “It wasn't my fault!” He feels like a whining child. Isn't this where Neteyam would intercede?
His hands won’t stop shaking. Why won't his hands stop shaking, dammit!?
It should've been him bleeding out on that rock, and maybe then Jake would've looked at him with something other than utter disappointment. Would he have looked at him the same if he had done it, if he wasn't such a coward, and red would have bloomed on his body from his own hand, would his dad look at him with something other than distaste and disappointment?
He's not sure how long he stays out there, but he knows if he doesn't get back soon, if he doesn't get this gun cleaned and put back before his father notices, he will have hell to
pay. He gets up and drags his feet with every stride he takes. He feels like his body has been drained of all life, and it is just pain left controlling his movements.
He picks up the poison his mother has warned him about his entire life, but he's his father's son.
The gun weighs heavily and shamefully in his hands as his walk of shame begins, knowing that this was just one more thing he couldn't get right.