A/N: Whew. Ten Chapters. I honestly didn't plan this to go on for so long. Thank you all for kind words, comments and advice. It's been one helluva run ,guys. Let's see if we can finish the race...

Keeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep reviewing!

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...In Death, we trust...

Breathe. Breathe in deeply, so that your spirits flow together, as one. Breathe. Breathe slowly, so that the Palulukans and Nantangs sense the hidden strength within you. Breathe. Breathe always, so that you know you are alive. Na'ring had lived these rules for years, since his father had pulled him from his mother's arms and forced him to kill a Nantang pup with his bare hands. Eytukan had humiliated and punished his father for that, telling young Na'ring that it was wrong to kill animals without good reason, but Na'ring remembered it. His father, telling him the three rules of breath. The Pup, snarling it's fangs at him, snapping, full to the brim with fear. The cuts across his arms, the furious cries of his father as he mastered his breathing. The death rattle echoing from the Pup's jaws as Na'ring's hands clamped tightly around his throat. The shudder that went through him as he looked up, his father's approving gaze and his mother's horrified stare.

Na'ring hated his father for that. Despite all he had taught him, the love he had shown him, forever he hated him. Yes, the Nantang Pup was dying anyway. Yes, the father wished to make a born hunter out of him. Nothing excused it. Every night, Na#ring honoured the spirit of the young Nantang with a piece of food. And then, he bowed to the forest.

But he remembered the three rules of breathing. They were vital, as he moved through the forest, lightly, loosely, but silently, pouncing across a set of intertwining branches high above a thick gorge, forged in years long gone past by a trickling stream. Bow slung across his back, Na'ring was making good time. The Forest was his home, unlike any other Na'vi. Whilst they saw the sapling Hometree as the center of their life, Na'ring loved every leaf, every branch, every grain of dirt, as his home. Few understood, even fewer admired it. El'xyi was one of them. She was tall, strong, proud, the greatest rider of the Ikran amongst the Omaticaya, beautiful; her unique patterns and flowing hair took Na'ring breathe and cast it to the skies. She had total power over him, in every way.

As he dug his feet into the crevices of a great tree, she yanked violently on his tail, smiling with mirth as he collapsed to the ground. Oh, so she wanted to play, did she? Na'ring turne round, onto his belly, and kissed her feet. Giggling, she kicked him lightly, sending his grinning face arcing back, but he continued, slidinghis hand up her lower calf. Suddenly, he gripped her heel and yanked it towards him, sending her sprawling onto her back with a sharp cry. Like a nantang springing upon it's prey, he scrambled atop her.

"Ke'set..." She half-hissed, half-giggled as his lips brushed gently against her neck. They didn't have time for this, and they'd bonded before coming out but...

"Aynga mune!"(*You two!) Jakesully cried, giving Na'ring a harsh kick in the ribs. He rolled off El'xyi, glaring at his clan leader's intrusion, despite the fact he was right. They were meant to be scouting for any emissaries from the clans. Indeed, many emissaries had already arrived, and spoke with the Sky Palulukan in the shiny stone base. Few left happy, but all left agreeing to help.

Always one to get the last word in, El'xyi kissed Na'ring briefly, but passionately before shuffling from under him and darting up a tree.

"Pe'tse'a mi Na'ring?"(*What does she see in him?) Neytiri muttered, as she passed Jake and the still-prone Na'ring. Noone had been more surprised when the resident trickster of the Omaticaya had chosen Na'ring as her lifemate. In truth, Neytiri had fully expected no woman to allow Na'ring to go near them; and had been shocked almost to unconsciousness when she discovered El'xyi going on hunts with Na'ring.

But they were good together, Neytiri had to admit. They complimented each other. Much like her and Jake. Neytiri was vicious and fierce; Jake cool and moderate. Na'ring was harsh and serious; El'xyi playful and warm.

But Na'ring glared up at her, muttering something under his breath as he got to his feet. In response, she strode past and jabbed him, sharply with the edge of her bow, sending him hooting to the side. Neytiri really disliked Na'ring, even though he was one of The People. Old wounds rarely heal quickly. But that last thing had clearly burnt Jake's last tree. Glaring at them both, he gripped their braids and snarled

"Neytiri a' Na'ring, Jakesully a' El'xyi."

So, he wanted them both to scout? Together? So, Neytiri could show this skxawng what it was to be a real hunter. But Na'ring was already up, his hands reaching for two thick vines. With a dexterity that no one found surprising, the hunter shimmied up the vines like the wind rising up a mountain, before shifting his weight in great bouts, to swing up onto a thick branch.

El'xyi was gone into the forest, and Jake glanced at his love. She brushed up against him, quickly, and kissed him, before following hot on the trail of Na'ring. By Eiywa herself, he was fast. Leaping, pouncing, prancing through the Forest. But Neytiri was just as fast, and before long, she caught up with him, as he rested at a stream; poising on the edge of a sheer cliff, where the stream dropped down into the deepest jungle. For the first time, she got a good look at him. His braids were tied with the hairs of a forest ikran, and they fell down to his knees, freely. A scar across his face, reaching from just below his left eye, across his nose, to his right cheek, marred his face significantly, but he was still greatly handsome. Not as handsome as Jake, but Neytiri had no problem in amitting as to the physical prowess of a male. For it was inside that counted...Jake was warm, kind, wise and loving. Neytiri still remembered lying in her leaf-sack of the Kelkutrel sapling, and Jake lying beside her, content to simply be near her the whole time.

Na'ring had killed a Pup Nantang before she was even born. During the Times of Sorrow, he had abandoned the People to kill the Sky People. After the Sky People left, hereturned only in name...She had no respect for him. He was ruthless as the Forest, cold as the winds of the Sky Mountains, and heartless as the Palulukan. Except when he was with El'xyi...

But, getting closer to him, Neytiri saw that he was not resting, but looking amongst the stream. She tapped him upon the shoulder, and his dagger-like eyes fell upon her, but for a second, before they turned their scathing gaze upon a patch of dirt in the stream-bed. To be realistic, it was nought but a tiny trickles. Thousands of them dotted the landscape – the veins of Eiywa's life. For an attentive hunter, they told much. The patch of silt which Na'ring pointed to was imprinted with a very obvious sign; a Na'vi's footprint. Neytiri went to speak, but as her mouth opened, Na'ring stood up, turned, pressed his body against her's and placed a finger to her lips. She would have hit him, had he not been staring at the Angtsik behind her. The great beast snorted at the pair's intrusion.

"Tul ni'aw krrpe oe'pltxe" (*Run only when I say) He whispered to her, a stern look upon his face. His hands remained upon her lips, but his right hand gently eased his bow from his shoulders.

No.

He wasn't that stupid.

He wasn't.

He was an experienced hunter.

Yes

He was that stupid.

He was.

He was going to get himself killed.

His hand inched down to his quiver, and pulled the sharp, keen, perfectly fletched arrow. The Angtsik, Neytiri saw as she glanced over her shoulder, was a male. It's broad crest quivered gently, but it's eyes were cool. It was alone, strangely. Then, she noticed what Na'ring had noticed a few seconds ago; arrows sprouting from it's back like crude quills, or feathers.

"Tul!" Na'ring cried, and she didn't need telling twice. Sprinting across the stream, Na'ring hissed at the Angtsik, baring his fangs and sticking out his tongue, challenging it. Arrow to string. Neytiri was save now, easily 30 yards away. Na'ring, however, had only 10 yards between him and the massive beast. In response to the sudden movement, it stamped it's powerful front legs, the massive boney ram upon it's head gently rocking back and forth in preparation. As the string inched back towards Na'ring ear, his muscles rippling with the familiar movement, it charged. It was upon him. But it was slow; the nerve toxin of the spent arrows deadening it's reactions.

Na'ring whispered an apology, for he knew his aim would be true. His arrow fled from his string, the sinew twanged like some kind of musical instrument. It's sharp point imbedded itself up to the last feather in the Angtsik's right eye, but that didn't matter. Momentum.

Na'ring's heart stopped, a sudden realisation of incredible future pain. Well, he wasn't looking forward to that. He still had a choice. And a choice between living and dying?

Well, that' no choice at all.

The Angtsik was between him and the stream. There was only one hope. Not a good one. Not a good one at all, but a hope all the same.

In imitation of the ikran, Na'ring threw himself off the cliff edge, throwing his bow behind him. Looking back in those brief few moments, he saw the Angtsik crash through where he'd just been standing, and his beloved bow sail over it. For those moments, he felt identical to flying with Dag'ton; ever free. Utter weightlessness.

Then, an equally familiar feeling grippe him, as he began to fall into the stretching greenery. The cliff-face flashed past him, as he twirled and spun in the air. In this twirling miasma, he just barely registered that his hope was falsely place. There was no river below him. No rocks ever, but that was small blessing. Just great leaves.

Well, you had to die sometime.

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"Sarge?"

"Yeah, Pist?"

"WHY THE FUCK ARE WE DOING THIS?!" Piston's voice carried faintly over the valley, in the shadow of Valhalla. He didn't much care; his hands were red and raw from gripping a trench-axe's rugged, leathery grip; his fingernails were bleeding from digging, by hand, through grit and gravel, and his back hurt like a fury from hefting the heavy, sodden dirt over his shoulder. Because it hadn't rained before they were ordered to dig the trenches. It had rained about 5 seconds after; of course. And had been raining for the 3 hours they'd been at it. Oh, yeah. He was English. He was born to rain. Virtually had webbed feet. But digging through sodden mud, in steaming hot temperatures, in the pouring rain, with nothing but a badly improvised shovel; far more use in hacking things up then digging, was not on.

And why? Because the Guv had decided to impress the natives by detonating the only earth-moving vehicles within 6 years travel. Sometimes, Piston really thought whoever was up there, or just the universe in general, was against him. Oh, he could be back at the base; enjoying chow, chow and more chow. Talking for hours with Emily...why did he miss her so much? They'd only known each other a week...

BUT INSTEAD! Instead, he was here. With a thousand other equally pissed off men, and more streaming in from the forest, they were making mountainside fortifications. Already, the men had fixed a phrase for the density and sheer quantity of trenches, earthworks and gun emplacements. A phrase that meant alot to every Infantryman far and wide.

'Monte Cassino's Grandad'

So Sarge could understand Piston grumbling, but he still had to beat him down to size a little.

"Piston. Next time, you think of joining the Rifles, read the fucking job-description. It did not include 'Sitting on your fat, lazy arse and fucking the pretty scientist'; it actually meant WORK!" He turned and growled under his hood at the young Rifle. Everyone knew they'd only shared a bunk once, but that meant jack-shit to Soldiers. Most of them wouldn't be seeing home again. Best to accept that quickly. So, they shared in their comrade's happiness. They played pranks, sure, but nothing more. Everyone, from the brutal, barbaric Shaka to the passive, genuine Techy were secretly happy for him.

But they were all digging. Just like they had in Saint Petersburg; where a Russian counterattack had forced the UN forces into a desperate fight for survival. There was something strangely uplifting about it. Even the Officers had picked up a shovel and start hacking away at the soil, or helped tie down the rain-coverings for the Artillery. Even from down here, Sarge could see the barrels of those great cannons poking out over the top of the mountain. Essentially, a 'Groundhammer 67' was a single, long silver barrel. Two stabilising legs were deployed to either side; behind it, the recoil carriage was a semi-circle of carbon-steel. 9 Pins dug into the ground. Over the bottom of the barrel, there was the reloading mechanism; just a cage over the bottom of the gun. A terminal seemed placed upon it as an afterthought. That terminal was the trigger, the information, and the adjusting mechanism; it utilised magnets to turn and twist the gun.

Fifty of these incredibly deadly guns, which could turn a Division's last stand into nought but a speed bump, sat upon the gentle mountain.

By all intense rights and purposes, those Guns were an Infantryman's saving grace and worst nightmare. They meant the difference between him scaling a fortification and being dead at it's base. Between being dead at it's base, and smiling with your mates, as you realise you've lived through it all. Why had Sarge been through it so much? He could've been a contender. He could've followed his father into Politics. Instead? He'd joined the Army as an Officer and...

That story wasn't much up for the telling.

Piston was grumbling now, but that would pass. Shaka stormed past, thick sodden sandbag over a burly shoulder, and slammed it against the parapet. By now, the trench was six feet deep now, with plastic boards used for firing steps. Engineers had placed trains into the ground, and that was why Sarge loved Engineers; the rain simply cantered down into the ground, instead of through your shoes.

As Corporal Gunpowder strode past, the Korean turned to look at Piston.

"Why have you not asked the question?" The ancient demolitionist said, his tarpaulin greatcoat pattering with the rain.

"What?" Piston asked, looking between Sarge and Gunpowder with the eyes of a stricken fawn. Very strange upon the now-stubble adorned face of PFC Eric Potter.

"We're facing giant insect steamrollers. Why are we digging trenches?" Sarge answered, echoing the question every last one of them had asked at Manchester. Piston went red, and murmured the question with his head down.

"The Worms have tiny little bugs on their skin. Look like a cross between a runny shit and a beetle. Spit bolts of acid that'll go through your skull. Plus, when the Worms get to our line, they have to go across the trenches – narrower we dig them, harder it is for them to get to us. At Manchester..." Sarge took a second to slide his shovel against the wall of the trench and sit down. Quickly, he attempted to light up a fag; and failed, swearing "At Cardiff, we sat deep in the trenches, all silent like, so when they rolled over, we just placed charges on their underbelly and watched as they exploded over behind us." Finally, the lighter sparked to violent, red life and lit the scarred soldier's cigarette.

"But there? We were outnumbered nine to one. 'Ere?" Sarge threw his arms wide, as if to encompass the whole direness of their situation. "Fifty to one? We don't stand a chance."

"Watch yer fuckin' tongu', Sergean'."

Everyone knew that accent, from the lowliest cook to Colonel Jon Demar. Like bolts sliding into place, the three men snapped to attention. Greyson was well-disguised; the tarpaulin greatcoat hid his bulk in a tirade of cloth and fabric; a great hood hung sodden over his head. But everyone could see the cigar being chewed in his scarred, fierce, snappish mouth.

"Ye'." His right hand came up, the hand barely visible out of his sleeve, pointing at Gunpowder "Pass us yer flask, laddy." The Korean was of an age with Greyson, but you didn't queston him without good reason. Flicking the flask off his belt, Gunpowder handed his commanding officer the canteen, who then proceeded to take a quick sip, before handing it back. He nodded and grunted his thanks.

"So, Sarge, 'ow ye 'andlin' me boy?"

"Going good, Sir." Sarge responded, still standing rigidly to attention.

"At eas', lads, I ain' no Provos'." The old soldier muttered, almost glaring at the man. He wasn't too keen on formality, the old Wolf. Adhered to it, but hated it. Few people doubted that had he his own say on the General Staff, there would have been big changes. Some people thought that was why he'd been sent to Pandora: if a General becomes too popular and too radical – get rid of him.

"So, boys, I'v' been thinkin'. Standar' orda's of a trench-lin' are fall bac' wheneva' th' lin' is ov'awhelme'. Been thinkin'. 'Ow abou' you lie doon. Stay 'ere. Let th' Worms go ova' ye. Then, when they're reelin' from the Tank attac'? Ye boys stan' up. Give 'em 'ell. Whaddya thin'? Greyson was asking them all, it seemed. Asking grunts for tactical advice? But Sarge wasn't shocked. He seemed to be thinking, running a thumb along his temple as he took a drag.

"No' a bad idea. But what if the Artillery get us?...But it's worth it, I think. Fulisade from a hundred odd rifles? May just be the winner. May just be the difference between us all dying here, and those Na'vi getting here in time. But you know what, Sir?" Sarge had turned the last few words into a challenge, looking his Commanding Officer in the eye.

"I think you will run off. I think you'll leave us to die, at the last moment. Just like Manchester."

Piston squeezed his eyes shut, unwilling to see Sarge put flat on his back. But the thud, squelch and groan never came. Greyson just glared.

"Guess who's leadin' the Tank Compani's, ye fuckin' twit." Greyson snarled, but didn't hit him. Didn't demote him. Just walked past. His back was silent, foreboding as he stormed off down the line, the echoes of nightime beginning to play upon the horizon. Piston and Gunpowder looked at Sarge as if he'd just grown wings and announced himself the Messiah.

In response, Sarge just took a very, very long drag of his cigarette and said

"What? He's my brother. I can still teach the shithead a thing or two."