Author's Note: This was originally going to be part of a one-shot about Jake's Dream Hunt, but I switched it up. It's kind of dark and odd, since I just kind of wrote it spontaneously.
All around him, death and destruction. Without having to think, he knows that he is the cause of it. He sees Hometree fall. When it hits the ground it erupts in a huge blaze. The flames spread from one edge of the great tree to the other, immediately incinerating those within. The bark feeds the fire, making it grow stronger and stronger and it feeds its killer.
He doesn't move, but he can see all around. He can see for miles. Hometree after Hometree burns to the ground, until there is nothing left expect ash and soot. He sees the bodies of the young ones, destroyed by bullet fire and gas.
He can see the fires tear down the forest, chasing the animals with leaping tongues. Not even the mightiest of the predators are safe, nor are the quickest prey. The mighty Toruk, seemingly unstoppable, falls to the all-encompassing violence. Everything and everyone becomes victims of the great fires. They rage on and on, ceaseless. There is no end, and it is his fault. It is all his fault.
You gave them your heart. I'm so proud of you.
Grace lays motionless under the Great Tree. Her spirit has gone to Eywa, but both her bodies remain to haunt him. In exchange for his heart, he took theirs—only to rip it to pieces. The People lay about, dead and dying. There are few left to save, but no saviors to help them. Two pairs of dead eyes flicker to his face from the altar below the tree. One human, one Na'vi. They seem to speak to him, to condemn him with their last movement. This is your fault. All your fault.
I did not think a Sky Person could be so brave.
Tsu'tey, dying. Tsu'tey, the greatest warrior of the Omaticaya, tortured for nothing. He lies, disconnected from his people, his world…from Eywa. The soldier laughs at his handiwork and strides away, leaving Tsu'tey in a fate worse then death. Tsu'tey looks up, and it is clear that he can see him. He mouths five simple words before he collapses in agony, unable to move, to breath, to live. Your fault. All your fault.
But you have also taught me. Spirit is all that matters.
The final death. The one he's been dreading. He tries to close his eyes but finds it impossible. He cannot move, let alone speak. Neytiri, hiding behind a tree in the jungle—face painted, chest heaving, her panic rising. They advance and pause, listening to the sounds of the foreign jungle. But there is no one there, no one coming. No savior. She draws her bow but her fingers shake too much and she is quickly spotted. They converge, closing in quickly as panic breaks free from her mind.
They crowd in, each one slicing and hitting—each killing, a blow at a time. Too exhausted to fight back, she is simply limp, waiting for the end. A loud whizz through the air, and the end has come. It arrives in the form of an arrow, shot straight through her heart, killing her instantly. The soldiers immediately drop her body, dead and abused, before retreating to their positions.
He looks down, and there is a bow at his feet. He looks up, and her soul speaks to him—those few words that have become so familiar. This is your fault. This is all your fault.
A man sits shivering in the corner. Passersby pay him no attention; he is simply the lunatic on the sidewalk. He cannot escape his own personal hell. Some say he has Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, some say he's simply mad. His dreams haunt him, as he relieves his hell day in and day out. The life that was once so perfect has ended in death and destruction, just as he knew it must.
"This is your fault. All your fault," he whispers to the smoggy gray sky.