𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆

𝟭𝟰. 𝗲𝘆𝗲𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗿𝗲𝗲𝘀

Jake's bow felt significantly lighter the longer you wielded it. So light, in fact, that you forced him to stand clear of you while you shot just to make sure that he wasn't secretly carrying most of the weight on your behalf.

You took the time to carefully refamiliarize yourself with the weapon in your hands, acknowledging each crevice and sanded curve of the wooden bow. It still smelled like the sweet assortment of oils that Jake used to clean it every so often—a ritual that he performed cross-legged in the doorway of his marui while his children were fast asleep. Your people saw their fishing nets and spears as extensions of themselves. You wondered if that was the same way Jake tended to his bow, with all of the compassion that he could not directly administer to himself.

The tree that he had selected for your target practice was standing a few paces before you with a jagged X shape carved into the center of the trunk. "You're getting better," Jake said, waiting for your notched arrow to fly before coming up behind you and carefully easing the weapon out of your hands.

There was no hesitation in the way he pressed the flat of his palm against the arch of your hip, nor in the way you eagerly sank against his front, allowing the weight of your body to fall into his sturdy frame. Lowering the bow to the forest floor, Jake ran his hands up either of your arms, careful not to disturb your delicate pearl cuffs. Pressing a kiss into your hair, he exhaled deeply through his nose.

You did not miss the air of uncertainty that once lived floated you. All the same, you felt overwhelmed by his unfiltered affections. No longer would you wonder if he shared your feelings or if he longed for you just as profoundly as you longed for him. Now your only dilemma was trying to predict when and where he would pull you out of sight and press feather-light kisses to the exposed flesh of your throat.

You would not ask Jake'Sully to mate with you. You would not ask him to put aside the life that he and Neytiri had built for themselves and their children. But these small phases of togetherness and the knowing glances you shared across the fire in the evenings made up for that. You never wanted a mate, only him. And you would have him in any way he would have you.

Being known as his mate to your people would not make you feel any more fulfillment than you felt at that very moment, breath keeping pace while you embraced in the heart of your island forest.

No, you would not ask him to mate with you.

"I want you to try something for me," Jake said, and you hummed in a contented reply up until the moment he pulled away from your touch. You turned and watched him reach behind a nearby fallen log, producing a strange weapon that you had never seen before. His tail batted with anticipation as he presented it to you.

It was long and cylindrical, metal like the exterior of the airship that carried Norm and Max between the rainforests and Awa'atlu. A long fabric strap swayed back and forth below it as Jake carried it over to you, expertly moving the intricate pieces back and forth until he was satisfied with the quiet clicking sound that they made.

"Here," he whispered, coming up behind you once more. Jake carefully propped the bulk of the weapon over your shoulder, taking your hands and placing one against the thick, heavy base while the other clutched the long neck that protruded from it.

"Gun," he said, naming the thing in your hands as he folded two of your fingers over the cool metal trigger. "Back in the rainforests, they called these kun."

"Kun," you repeated to yourself, barely tilting it in either direction to watch the dappled sunlight spill over the rusted chrome exterior. "Is it very loud?"

Your father used to tell you the story of his fight against the skypeople. And when Ao'nung and Tsireya were born, he would tell it again. He spoke for hours about their weapons—their bows that shot rods of lighting instead of arrows, splitting the sky and clapping so loud that his fellow warriors' ears would ring for many days after battle. Your father had once been shot by one such rod of lightning. He wore a small pink scar on his upper arm, barely concealed with a thick armband woven from strong seaweed fibers.