Jake's childhood did not unfold as a series of lessons. It unfolded as warm, loud, uncertain days filled with scraped knees, tangled laughter, and the constant presence of the forest. But one thing that is certain is that he for the first time ever a sense of belonging here, in Pandora.
The Omatikaya clan's children ran freely through Hometree. Their games spilling from woven platforms to thick branches and down into the glowing undergrowth below. Jake ran with them, not as an observer, but as one among the many children. When he laughed, it was unrestrained. When he cried, it was honest.
Jake's memory of another life did not rob him of these moments; instead, it sharpened them. He knew, even without words, that childhood was fragile and fleeting. That made every shared moment feel heavier, more precious.
Ralu was usually the one who led their games, his energy boundless and reckless. He dared the others to leap across gaps that made their parents scold and shake their heads. Eyna followed more cautiously, choosing paths that curved safely around danger. Jake found himself somewhere between them. He did not seek risk for its own sake, but neither did he avoid it.
One afternoon, When Ralu slipped and nearly fell from a narrow branch one afternoon, Jake reacted without thought—lunging forward, wrapping his tail and arms around his friend with instinctive precision. They both tumbled, landing hard but safe on a lower platform. Ralu laughed breathlessly afterward, clapping Jake on the shoulder, calling him "strong-hearted." Jake laughed too, though something inside him had gone still, recognizing how naturally his body had moved.
The adults noticed small things before Jake did. Teyrìk watched him during training hours, when children were taught balance, climbing, and the proper way to fall. Jake listened carefully, absorbed corrections, and practiced in quiet moments when others lost interest. He fell often—everyone did—but he learned to fall well. Rolling instead of stiffening. Letting momentum carry him rather than fighting it. These were lessons his old life recognized, even if his young mind could not yet name them. Sa'nari worried at first, brushing dirt from his skin, checking for injuries. But she also saw how he returned from each fall calmer, steadier, eyes bright with understanding rather than fear of falling like normal children would.
Friendship, for Jake, was not built on words. It was built on presence. On sitting beside Eyna while she sang to the plants, even when he did not understand why it mattered. On waiting for Ralu after he ran ahead, pretending impatience so his friend would not feel embarrassed for slowing down. On sharing food, on secret smiles, on defending one another when older children teased or tested them. When Eyna once cried after being mocked for her quiet ways, Jake did simply sat with her, shoulder to shoulder, until her breathing slowed. In that stillness, he felt Eywa faintly—approving not of action, but of restraint.
There were moments of pure joy, unshadowed by memory or thought. Chasing glowing seeds through the night air. Splashing in shallow pools until their skin shimmered with light. Laughing so hard that their sides ached and they collapsed in a tangled heap, staring up at branches swaying against the stars. In these moments, Jake was not a reincarnated man, not a scientist, not a warrior. He is simply a child of the Na'vi People. And the forest seemed to know this difference. It responded more readily then, vines bending gently under his weight, creatures watching without fear.
Yet at night, when exhaustion finally claimed him, the other life returned like a distant echo. He remembered his Earth parents sometimes—faces blurring, voices fading. The grief was quiet but real. He mourned them with a dull ache that taught him empathy early. He learned that loss could exist alongside joy, that loving deeply meant accepting pain as part of the bond. This understanding softened him. It made his friendships fiercer, his loyalty unshakable. He would not waste this second chance by holding himself apart.
By the time Jake reached his eighth year, it was clear to those who watched closely that he moved differently— just aware of his own steps. He also listened with his whole body feeling the nature and Eywa alongside his hometree. He noticed some changes in the forest with the hometree before others pointed them out. And when he stilled himself, when laughter faded and breath slowed, he could feel that vast presence again. It is not guiding his hands, not shaping his thoughts, but witnessing him as he was.
Eywa did not claim him yet. But, she watched him grow as a person day by day.