Jake learned, slowly, that his previous life memories did not vanish with his death. It lingered like pressure beneath water i.e, distant, constant, dense and are impossible to ignore. As an infant, he had no language for it, no structure with which to frame it, yet the sensation remained intact. The quiet after the machines stopped. The moment when his thoughts became unbearably loud. And then the Eywa with it's roots—countless, gentle, vast—touching him but calming at the same time.
Even as his new lungs learned the rhythm of Pandora's air, even as his new heart found its cadence, that presence stayed at the edge of awareness. It did not speak. It did not command. It simply was. Jake later came to know the name the Na'vi used with reverence. He knew one thing with absolute certainty: what had met him after death was not imagination. It had been Eywa.
His earliest days unfolded in warmth and sound. He was held often—against a broad chest that smelled of leaves and sun-warmed skin, or wrapped in woven fibers that scratched softly against his blue flesh. The one who held him most was his mother. Her name is Sa'nari. Her voice was low and melodic, rising and falling like wind through branches. When she sang, the memory of death receded, replaced by gentle belonging in Pandora planet.
And His father, Teyrìk, was quieter, his presence solid and grounding. When Teyrìk held him, Jake felt steadiness—a calm that reminded him, oddly, of standing at the center of a dojo before a match, balanced and ready.
It may be coincidence that Eywa in the dreams of his parents asked them to name him Jake. And thus he was called Jake once again. His clan was Omatikaya, though it would take years to fully known it's presence in Pandora much later after his explots in the future.
...........
As a child, his clan was simply his home. It is vast living architecture of roots and platforms, woven bridges swaying high above the forest floor, bioluminescent plants breathing light into the dark. Jake watched it all from wide, curious eyes. Other children crawled and tumbled nearby, their laughter sharp and unrestrained. He noticed differences early—how his attention lingered longer, how patterns emerged where others saw only play. He could not yet think in equations, but rhythm and cause-and-effect came naturally. When one vine snapped under too much weight, he remembered. When a sound preceded danger, he listened harder next time. Eywa did not interfere with Jake's life.
This thought became clear to him as months turned into years. The presence he had felt after death never pushed, never whispered instructions into his thoughts. Instead, Eywa responded. When Jake was calm, it felt closer, like standing barefoot on living ground. When he was afraid or overwhelmed, it receded, giving him space to struggle and learn. Now, Jake also learned the native language much early due to his consciousness.
Jake's experience with Eywa is much more profound than what was written here. Once, during a fevered night when his small body shook with heat and fear, he reached out instinctively—not with words, but with need. The response was not a cure or a miracle. It was a sense of orientation, like a star fixed in the sky: You are here. You are not alone. That was all. Enough.
As he grew, Jake formed bonds the way all children did—through shared trouble and shared wonder. There was Ralu, quick to laugh and quicker to climb, who once dared him to cross a thin branch far above the forest floor. Jake fell that day, scraping his palms and bruising his ribs, but he learned how fear altered balance, how breath could steady trembling limbs. Then, there was Eyna, quieter, observant, who liked to sit near glowing plants and hum softly, claiming they responded better to music. Jake did not argue. He could feel something when she did it—a subtle shift, almost like approval. Of Eywa.
At night, when the clan slept and Pandora sang in softer tones, Jake lay awake, staring through gaps in the woven ceiling at unfamiliar stars. That was when memory came most clearly. Earth. His parents there—faces he loved but could no longer fully recall. A childhood shaped by expectations and pressure, by praise that depended on achievement. The contrast hurt more than he expected. Sa'nari's love was not conditional. Teyrìk's pride did not require proof. They did not know what Jake had been. They only knew what he was becoming.
And in that becoming, Jake made a quiet vow. He would listen—to his parents, to his friends, to the forest, and yes, to Eywa. But he would not surrender his will. Whatever second life this was, it was not meant to erase the first. The knowledge, the discipline, the mistakes—they were his to carry. Eywa had opened the door. Pandora had given him breath.
And, the path forward and beyond that would be his to walk.