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Neytiri lies awake beside Jake, listening to the familiar rhythm of his breathing, the steady rise and fall of his chest a sound she has known for years. It should calm her. It always has. This place, his closeness, his warmth are meant to be home.
But sleep won’t come. Whenever she closes her eyes, darkness doesn’t greet her.
Instead, Varang does.
She’s there the moment Neytiri’s lashes meet, as if she has been waiting just behind them, a pair of eyes burning like coals in the dark. The memory of her presence presses in until Neytiri can almost feel it again, the heat of Varang’s body close against hers, rushed breath grazing her skin.
She turns carefully so as not to wake Jake, and her mind betrays her again, replaying fragments she never invited. The scent of smoke, blood, and crushed herbs returns, clear in her head. Varang’s lips, both soft and rough as they had met hers, the curve of her mouth, the expression on her face when Neytiri had taken control. The recollections arrive unbidden, vivid and intrusive.
Her chest tightens.
She tries to remind herself where she is. Who she is with.
Jake shifts in his sleep, an arm draping over her waist. The contact startles her at first, then settles into being warm and familiar. Neytiri wants to relax into it, to let herself rest.
But her thoughts drift anyway.
She hates how easily her mind slips away from the present, how treacherous memory can be. Varang intrudes even here, even now, uninvited and unwanted, yet impossible to dismiss. Neytiri remembers the sound of her voice, the unwavering intensity of her gaze, the scent that still fills her lungs whenever she takes a breath.
She swallows hard.
When Jake’s hand shifts again, his thumb brushing her side in a half-conscious caress, her breath stutters. She should sink into it, should allow herself to remain here fully, with the mate she chose and the life she fought for.
Instead, her thoughts fracture once more.
Images surface that she tries to suppress, memories of different hands, different touches, the way Varang had watched her not with tenderness but with hunger. Heat gathers low in her body, quickly followed by a wave of shame that leaves her restless beneath Jake’s arm.
Neytiri squeezes her eyes shut, as though the pressure alone might drive the images away.
Stop, she tells herself. This is wrong. Jake is everything. Her family, her heart, her home in this world. The bond they share runs deeper than desire.
And yet there's something else now, a pull she doesn’t know how to name or silence. Varang doesn’t replace Jake, but she exists alongside him in Neytiri’s thoughts, intrusive and impossible to ignore.
She remembers what it felt like to stand over Varang, to tame that fire, to feel the thrill of command. She remembers how alive she felt. The memory leaves her fingers curling into the fabric beneath her, nails biting into it as guilt washes over her again.
What kind of mate thinks of another like this?
She turns her head slightly to study Jake in the low light. His brow is smooth in sleep, his mouth relaxed. He trusts her completely. The sight and that truth hurt.
She chose him. She would always choose him.
But choice doesn’t erase the want in her.
Varang lingers at the edges of her mind, she pulls at parts of her that feel tired of restraint, tired of prayer without answer. It’s not stronger than her love for Jake, but it’s there, undeniable.
Neytiri exhales slowly, forcing her breathing to match his until exhaustion finally begins to drag her toward sleep. But even then it's restless.
And when dreams finally claim her, it’s not Jake she sees.
It’s Varang, watching from the edge of the flames, patient and certain, as though she already knows Neytiri will return.
And the terrifying truth is—
Neytiri wants to.
𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔
Neytiri waits until they are alone, making certain the children are out of earshot before she speaks.
Jake sits with his back against the woven wall of the shelter, preparing arrows. For a long moment she simply watches him — the movement of his hands, the set of his shoulders, the familiarity of it all. This is her life. This is the choice she has already made, again and again, without hesitation.
“Jake.”
He looks up immediately, and as he reads her expression something in his posture shifts, alert. “What is it?”
She settles opposite him, crossing her legs, her hands coming to rest uselessly in her lap. For a moment she doesn’t know where to begin. Everything feels tangled, words knotting together before they can form.
“I need to tell you what happened,” she says at last. “With Varang.”
He doesn’t interrupt.
Neytiri draws a steady breath and forces herself forward. He deserves the truth, and she cannot live in a lie. So she tells him — about the forest, about being captured, about the bond. She doesn’t spare herself in the telling. She speaks of the pull she feels, the way Varang’s presence lodged in her mind and refuses to leave, of the confusion and the shame that follow it. She admits that part of her doesn’t understand her own reactions, her own want, and the words taste bitter as they leave her mouth.
Jake listens in silence.
At first his face reveals little, but Neytiri knows him too well not to see the flicker of pain he tries to bury, the tightening around his eyes, the way his jaw sets. Beneath it all, though, there is more fear than anger.
When she finishes, the space between them feels unbearably quiet.
“I do not want to leave you,” Neytiri says quickly, the words tumbling over one another. “I do not want to leave our family. Whatever is happening in my head, whatever she has stirred in me, it does not change that. You are my mate. My home.”
Jake exhales slowly and rubs a hand over his face. For a moment he looks tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep, older than he should be. “I’m trying to understand,” he admits. “I really am.”
“I barely understand it myself,” she says quietly. “I am sorry. And I hate that I think of her. I do not even like her.”
He nods once, gaze dropping to the ground. Perhaps that’s the hardest part to grasp — if she doesn’t even like Varang, then why did it happen in the first place? Yet there is also a small, reluctant comfort in it. Their family still has a chance, but only if they survive what’s coming. Survival, more than anything, must come first. And if survival demands hard choices, then they’ll have to make them.
After a long moment, Jake speaks again.
“We’re in the middle of a war,” he says quietly. “And we’re losing ground. The Mangkwan… they’re a threat.”
Neytiri’s ears twitch, dread coiling low in her stomach.
“Varang wants you,” he continues. “That gives us a chance.”
She shakes her head faintly. “Jake—”
He hesitates, and for an instant she sees the fear beneath his resolve, the fear of losing her, of being alone in a world he chose and can no longer leave. “Listen,” he interrupts softly. “I don’t like this. I hate this. The very idea of her being anywhere near you.”
He meets her eyes again.
“But if Varang is willing to abandon Quaritch,” he goes on, “if you can pull her away from the humans, that changes everything. It could save lives.”
His gaze searches her face. “The only question that matters is this: are you willing?”
Neytiri doesn't answer immediately.
She thinks of Varang and the pull she can’t deny, of the guilt that follows close behind. She thinks of Jake, of their children, of the world they all might lose if this war continues.
“Yes,” she says at last. “I can do it.”
Jake closes his eyes for a brief second, as if absorbing the impact of her answer. When he opens them again, his decision is set.
“Then you bargain,” he says. “You play her game. You make it clear that if she wants you anywhere near her, she cuts Quaritch loose.”
“And after?” Neytiri asks.
Jake’s mouth tightens. “We survive the war first.” He reaches for her hand slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wishes. She doesn’t. His fingers close around hers. “We’ll deal with what this does to us when we’re still alive to do it.”
𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔
The Ash People’s village, where Varang’s home stands, looms ahead, a ruined settlement surrounded by barren land. The air grows warmer as Neytiri approaches, dry and heavy, the ground hard beneath her feet.
Skulls adorn the lifeless trees, strung high like warnings. Turn back while you can. And any traveler in their right mind would.
But Neytiri has a mission, and it doesn’t allow her to retreat.
Bone-made decorations rattle softly overhead as she crosses the threshold, her steps slowing. Eyes follow her immediately. Mangkwan warriors line the paths, their silhouettes still, watching, yet no weapon is raised.
Murmurs ripple through them instead, low and brief.
They remember her. More than that, they know what she is to their leader.
One of them gestures sharply, indicating the path deeper into the village. Neytiri follows without protest. She is escorted and observed, but not threatened, and that distinction unsettles her.
Voices rise behind her as the people call for their Tsahik.
Varang doesn’t come out to meet her.
Instead, Neytiri steps into the familiar yurt, smoke and herbs curl in the air, and memory presses into her mind again. The night she has tried not to dwell on coming back. She takes a moment to look around, truly noticing the details this time — the arrangement of bones, the dark fabrics, the unsettling and grim decor. Varang has a taste for the macabre. That much is clear.
Finally, her gaze settles on the figure seated on the ground.
Varang is there, amid sprawled animal skins, incense smoke drifting lazily upward and clinging to her skin and hair. Her ears twitch as Neytiri enters, her tail swaying in a slow arc. She doesn’t look up right away.
“So,” Varang says at last, her tone calm yet edged with amusement. Her eyes flutter open, bright as embers in the dim light. “You came back.”
“Yes,” Neytiri answers simply.
Varang’s mouth curves as she rises smoothly to her feet, unhurried, as though she has all the time in the world. “Did you miss me?” A grin touches her lips, anticipation written plainly across her face.
“Hardly,” Neytiri replies flatly, far less amused.
But Varang hears the lie anyway. She clicks her tongue softly, the humor fading as she turns to rearrange a few bowls and light fresh incense. “You would not be here otherwise.”
“I came to talk.”
Varang turns back, tilting her head, expectant. She takes a step closer, then another, gradually invading Neytiri’s space. “Oh?”
Neytiri clenches her jaw. Her eyes flutter closed for a brief moment as she draws a slow breath, steadying herself. “You can have me,” she says at last, earning a pleased grin from Varang. “But I will not abandon my mate.”
The shift is immediate.
Displeasure flickers openly across Varang’s face, her ears angling back. “I am not particularly fond of sharing.”
Her gaze drops as her hand reaches out, fingers brushing over Neytiri’s shoulder.
“Jake remains my family,” Neytiri says firmly despite the heat creeping beneath her skin. “That will not change.”
Something dark flickers behind Varang’s eyes. This isn’t what she wants. She wants to be chosen first, without condition.
“Either this,” Neytiri continues, meeting her gaze without wavering, “or you lose me entirely.”
Varang growls quietly, her ears flattening. Irritation ripples through her, but beneath it lies something else — fear. Her chest tightens. Losing leverage would be tolerable. Losing Neytiri altogether would not.
She turns away sharply, pacing once, her tail lashing in frustration. This isn’t how she wanted the conversation to unfold, yet she knows her options are narrowing.
When she faces Neytiri again, the playfulness has dimmed.
“Very well,” Varang says at last.
She steps close once more, lifting a hand to trail her fingers along Neytiri’s braid. She draws it closer, until they reach the kuru and tugs lightly. “But you will come to me,” she continues. “Not only when it is convenient. When I want you.”
Neytiri hesitates. Her chest tightens as guilt and want tangle together. She thinks of Jake, of the war, of how dangerous and unpredictable Varang can be.
“Yes,” she says.
Relief flickers across Varang’s face before she smothers it, replacing it with a satisfied smile as her fingers continue to toy with Neytiri’s hair. “I will withdraw from Quaritch. And the Mangkwan will not turn against your people.”
“Then we have a deal.” Neytiri nods once before adding, “But… do not abandon him completely yet.”
Varang tilts her head in question.
“If we want to destroy the sky people, your warriors are needed inside the city. For now.”
Varang’s lips curl slightly. “That suits me.”
“Good.”
The alliance is secured, and for Neytiri the purpose of her visit should be finished.
But Varang has other plans for how this meeting will end, or perhaps how it will continue.
Her hand drops to Neytiri’s arm, fingers curling there tightly. “Stay,” Varang says quietly, softer than Neytiri has ever heard her.
The word is almost hesitant. It’s not an order, not a command. It sounds closer to a plea.
And that startles Neytiri. She blinks, caught off guard by the vulnerability in Varang’s tone.
Something in her chest tightens, her resolve fracturing. She should refuse now. She should leave. She wishes she wanted to.
But she doesn’t.
This is why she came, not only for the war, not only for strategy and alliances, but because some part of her aches toward Varang, and she knows it. Diplomacy was a reason, but also an excuse.
The want pulls at her and she no longer fights it as fiercely as she should.
So she stays.
𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔
Night settles slowly over the village, and before long Neytiri finds herself once more in Varang’s nest of layered furs and skins. It feels like stepping back into the memory that never fully released its hold on her.
But it isn’t like before.
There is no urgency this time. No clash of teeth or wills.
Varang simply moves closer, her body fitting against Neytiri’s side with ease. One arm slips around her waist, firm, holding onto her tightly. Varang’s movements are slow, almost languid, her nose and lips grazing Neytiri’s neck in soft passes. She tastes her skin in fleeting kisses, breathing her in between them, filling her lungs with Neytiri’s scent.
Neytiri’s eyes flutter shut, her body easing into the contact despite herself. If she lets her mind narrow to this single moment and nothing beyond it, it’s… nice.
Her arm lifts on instinct, wrapping around Varang’s shoulders, fingers tangling lightly in braided hair. She half expects the heat to return, the familiar hunger to spark and consume them.
Instead, Varang shifts. Her head settles against Neytiri’s collarbone, cheek warm.
The thrill is not what she seeks this time. There is already enough fire in her life. What she lacks is peace. What she needs is quiet, and she realizes, that this is what Neytiri brings.
Neytiri’s hand pauses mid-motion, her eyes narrowing slightly in confusion as Varang simply makes herself comfortable in the new position, the closeness alone being the goal.
The calmness unsettles her, steering far from what Neytiri expected.
Varang nuzzles into her skin with a soft sound, like a kitten curling closer in search of warmth and comfort.
It’s a weakness she hasn’t been able to afford.
So she learned not to want it. Or at least, she believed she had.
But the need was always there, buried deep because survival demanded it. There was never time to rest in the endless struggle to stay alive, to keep others alive alongside her. Peace had no place in that.
Now, suddenly, it does.
Varang’s eyes flutter close as she listens to the steady, slow pulse beneath her ear, the internal noise dulling to a hush.
She is safe. And it’s such a strange feeling.
Safety has never been a concept she trusted. She survived because she never relied on it, never allowed herself to believe there was a place where she could truly rest. Yet here, she feels it.
She lets herself crave it too.
Her body leans into Neytiri without hesitation, allowing calm to seep through her limbs and down her spine until the ever-present tension dissolves. She presses her face more firmly against warm skin, inhaling as though she has been holding her breath for far too long.
This is what home is supposed to feel like, the thought surfaces distantly.
It startles her enough to ache.
Varang has not allowed herself such thought in years. The safe home she knew burned once, and afterward she learned better. She learned to keep everyone at a distance. Attachments are liabilities. Bonds create room for loss. And loss is something she vowed never to endure again.
Neytiri should have been the same.
And yet, despite the fear that still lingers, despite the knowledge that wanting makes her vulnerable, Varang lets herself want anyway.
She is already too deep. She got too close. Something in her shifted the first time they were together, and her mind still carries those memories — the laughter, the ease with which happiness came, the peace. It had flooded her mind, her entire being, more powerfully than any fight or wound ever had.
She wants it again. She needs it again.
Something she believed long gone has stirred back to life, and now that she has felt it, she can’t pretend it never existed.
𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔
Neytiri remains very still.
She feels the weight of Varang against her, the warmth of her body pressed close, the way her breathing has slowed and softened as sleep edges nearer. This version of her is unfamiliar, almost unrecognizable.
Neytiri knows what Varang is capable of. She has witnessed the ruthlessness firsthand, the ease with which she gives orders that end lives, the cruelty with which she brings destruction. This is the woman the Ash People follow, the one who carved her place through blood and deaths.
But when their minds touched before, Neytiri saw something else.
Not the fearless leader.
A little girl standing amid ruin, eyes wide with terror as the world burned around her. A child who cried out and was not answered. A child who learned to destroy before she could be destroyed herself.
That memory never left her.
Now she sees the echo of that child again. The leader of the Mangkwan reduced to something small and fragile, her face softened by sleep, her grip tightening unconsciously at Neytiri’s waist as if checking that she is still truly there.
It unsettles Neytiri.
And it pulls at her.
She understands very well what it means to watch your home burn while you stand powerless to stop it. The difference is that Neytiri knew where to turn her anger, knew who to fight, who to hold responsible for tearing apart everything she loved.
Varang had not been given that clarity.
Neytiri swallows hard.
This, now, the woman in her arms, is not the one Varang shows her people. Not the figure who commands warriors and forces others into obedience. This is someone else entirely.
She wonders when Varang last allowed herself to be this unguarded. She wonders how lonely a life must be when survival is all it ever permits.
A faint ache settles in her chest.
She almost feels bad.
Her fingers move before she fully decides to let them, brushing slowly along Varang’s back. The response is immediate: a deeper press, a soft rumble in Varang’s throat.
Something in Neytiri aches at that.
She should recoil from this closeness. Should remind herself that this tenderness doesn’t erase all the cruelty, that this vulnerability doesn’t undo the harm Varang has caused or will cause again.
But she can’t.
Her heart softens in answer despite her better judgment.
Neytiri exhales slowly and rests her cheek against Varang’s hair, breathing in the lingering scent of smoke and herbs. A quiet, protective instinct rises in her — an urge to shield this fragile side from a world that would tear it apart if it ever saw it.