Varang’s voice was always rough, always edged in steel, but when she said “ma yawne,” there was a softness in it that she used for no one else.

You wiped your cheeks quickly, but the tears kept falling anyway. Your tail trembled with emotions you couldn’t hide. You turned to face her, feathers shifting over your chest, beads at your arm catching the low amber light of the forest.

Varang stood there — tall, fierce, every muscle coiled with barely restrained rage. Not at you. Never at you. But at what your family had done.

Her hand reached up and cupped your cheek with a gentleness that always contradicted the savage warrior the clans whispered about. The same hand that could crush bone, that had taken queues from enemies, wiped a tear from your face as if it were made of glass.

“They do not deserve you,” she growled, voice low and thick. “If they turn their backs on you, then they were never worthy to call themselves your family.”

You shook your head, lip trembling. “They are my family,” you whispered. “Neytiri… my mother… my father. That was my home.”

Varang closed her eyes — not in frustration, but in pain for you. She took a breath, slow and steady, forcing herself calm. Her nightwraith behind her shifted, sensing her emotion, but she ignored it.

“You are my home,” she said finally. And the words came out almost like a vow.

Your voice broke. “I never wanted to choose. Why must loving you cost everything?”

Varang’s forehead pressed to yours, queue brushing yours though she did not connect it — respecting that the choice was yours, always. Her strong arms wrapped around your waist, holding you as though the world itself was trying to pull you from her.

“Because na’vi fear what they do not understand,” she murmured. “And they fear me. They see a weapon. They do not see the female who wakes in the night to make sure you are warm. Who smoothed your hair when you were sick. Who hunts only the most dangerous prey because she wants you fed with the best.”

Her voice broke just a little — only for you.

“I am not good at asking,” she confessed. “But stay with me. Let me be enough.”

Your tears slowed, replaced by the ache in your chest, something raw and tender. You tangled your fingers in the feathers woven into her braids — the way you always did to ground her.

“You are enough,” you whispered. “It is them who cannot see.”

Varang leaned back just slightly, amber eyes glinting. “Then let’s go back to my clan the Mangkwan,” she said. “They will love you and you will be my tsahìk. You will be happy. And anyone who threatens it will answer to me.”

There it was — the promise of protection, of violence on your behalf, of love expressed with teeth bared to the world.

But her voice softened again as she leaned in, lips brushing your temple.

“You are my heart, Sylwanin,” she breathed. “And I will never let you face this life alone.”

Even if the whole world rejected you — Varang never would. And that was why you chose her. Even through your tears. Even through the loss.

Because you had never been loved with this much certainty until her.