#nor

I didn't use the whole quote, just bits and pieces.

Full quote: "We didn't need protecting when we were with our clan! Where was your protection when Harding forced me to hold a gun and broke my fingers around the grip? Or when Mercer had Teylan beaten for wetting the bed? The bruises took weeks to heal. And when they took Aha'ri away... I... we never saw her again! You didn't do a thing to stop Mercer. The wounds he gave us, you gave as well.“ -Nor

The first time one of the Sarentu survivors called you “Ma,” it felt as though the entire forest stilled.

The sound came from Teylan—half-asleep, trembling in the wake of a night terror. He was taller than you, all long limbs and growing strength, but in that moment he folded into himself, trying to make himself smaller. Safer.

You did not hesitate.

You guided him gently down, gathering him into your arms as your own mother once had. You rocked him slowly, humming beneath your breath, an old Trr’ong song, one you had not sung in years. One neither you nor So’lek had heard in what felt like a lifetime.

Still… it felt right.

“I am here,” you whispered, brushing damp strands of hair from his forehead. “You are safe.”

The word came then—fragile, instinctive.

“Ma…”

You froze. Not from rejection, but from the weight of it. What it meant.

Across the shelter, So’lek saw it happen. He said nothing. But something in his chest tightened… and then slowly settled.

After that, it became natural.

They gravitated towards you without thinking, drawn by something they could not name. Ri’nela sought you out to braid her hair, asking you to weave small decorations through it with careful hands. Nor lingered nearby, quietly asking for your voice when doubt crept in. Tamtey asked for nothing at all—only your presence beside him, silent and steady.

You gave it freely. Because you understood. There were wounds no medicine could reach. After Teylan, the others followed.

“Ma.” “Sa’nu.”

The names came easier each time. And you never corrected them. Never told them they were too old, too strong, too anything for that kind of tenderness. Because you knew better. Survivors did not outgrow the need to be held. You hadn’t.

“You coddle them.” The voice cut cleanly through the moment, sharp, controlled, artificial in a way that never quite felt alive. Alma Cortez stood at the edge of the camp, her dreamwalker form unnervingly still. Watching. Measuring.“They do not need you to play mother,” she continued. “Not you.”

You did not look up, only pausing briefly in your weaving. “They need to feel safe,” you replied simply.

Alma’s expression tightened. “They are not children. They are not your children.”

“No,” you said softly, finishing the weave with careful precision. “But they are not yours.”

That ended it—for now. But the tension lingered long after she left.

So’lek found you later, away from the others. You sat in the stream, hands submerged as the water carried away the remnants of the day. Quiet. Guarded. He approached without sound, as always. And as always—you knew.

“You carry them as though they are yours,” he said, crouching beside you.

“They are not,” you murmured. “But they have no one who is.”

A pause. Then, softer—more vulnerable than you usually allowed: “And I remember what it was to have no one.”

So’lek studied you—the strength in your posture, the gentleness in your hands. The way both existed without contradiction. He reached out, brushing a stray bead back into place along your braid. “You are… different with them,” he said.

You huffed faintly. “Is that your way of calling me soft?”

“Yes.”

You turned to him, mock offence flickering briefly—but it faded the moment you met his gaze. There was no judgement there. Only quiet admiration.

“I like this softness,” So’lek said, his voice low.

Your breath caught. “You do?”

“It is not a weakness,” he replied. “It is… something we nearly lost.” His hand found yours, rough palm against rough palm. “You remind them what it is to be cared for. To belong.” Silence settled between you—but it was not empty. It was full. Steady. Safe.

“They call me Sa’nu,” you admitted after a moment, almost shy.

“I know.”

“It should not mean so much.”

“But it does.”

Your gaze drifted back towards camp, where distant laughter echoed through the trees. “I do not want to replace what they lost,” you said quietly. “I only want them to feel they are not alone any more.”

So’lek shifted closer. “They do not see you as a replacement,” he said. “They see you as what they need now.” His thumb brushed slowly across your knuckles. “And so do I.”

That made you look at him properly. Not as a warrior. Not as a survivor. But as himself. “You?” you asked softly.

He nodded once. “You bring life where there was only survival.” Your lips parted—but no words came.

The forest hummed around you.

Alive. Listening. Waiting.

“When the RDA are gone,” So’lek said quietly, as though testing the thought, “what will you do?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I… do not know.”

A small, rare smile touched his lips.“I think you do.”

Your heart stumbled. “…Say it.”

He leaned closer, his voice lowering to something meant only for you. “Perhaps you will not only care for those who were left behind,” he murmured. His gaze softened—open, unguarded. “Perhaps we will have little ones of our own.”

The world seemed to still. Your breath hitched, something fragile and bright unfolding in your chest. “You would want that?” you whispered.

So’lek did not hesitate. “Yes.” Simple. Certain. Like everything he meant.

Your fingers tightened around his. “Then we survive,” you said, steadier now. Stronger.

“For them,” he agreed. “And for us.”

From the distance, a voice called— “Ma!” You smiled before you could stop yourself.

“I should go,” you said.

So’lek released your hand, though reluctantly. “I will watch over you.”

You squeezed his fingers once before slipping away. “I know.”

And as he watched you return to them—kneeling among them, laughing softly, gathering them close as though they had always belonged to you— he allowed himself, just for a moment, to believe they truly did.

He stood where you had left him, the cool water slipping past his ankles, his gaze fixed on you amongst them. You did not stand above the Sarentu. You folded into them—into their laughter, their quiet questions, their unspoken needs—as though you had always been meant to fill that space.

Not as a leader. Not as a warrior. But as something far rarer.

“Sa’nu, look—” Ri’nela’s voice carried first, bright and eager as she held up a small cluster of woven fibres she had clearly attempted herself. Uneven. Crooked.

You took it as though it were something precious. “It is good,” you said gently, adjusting a strand with careful fingers. “But here—tighten this, or it will come apart.”

Nor lingered close, watching, before speaking low enough for only you to hear. “It is quieter today,” he said. “In my head.”

You glanced at him, something soft and knowing in your expression. “Good,” you murmured. “Then we will keep it that way.”

Tamtey said nothing, only settled beside you, shoulder brushing yours. That, too, was an answer.

So’lek exhaled slowly. He had seen many things in his life—war, loss, survival carved from nothing—but this…This quiet rebuilding.This fragile, stubborn healing…It was unfamiliar.

And yet, he found himself unwilling to look away.

“You stare again.” The voice came from behind him this time—sharp, measured. Alma Cortez stepped lightly across the ground in her dreamwalker body, though there was nothing natural in the movement.

So’lek did not turn. “I observe,” he said evenly.

Alma followed his gaze, her expression tightening almost imperceptibly. “They are becoming dependent,” she said. “It will weaken them.”

“No,” So’lek replied. “It will remind them they are not alone.”

“They cannot afford that kind of attachment.”

“They already have it.” That made her pause.

“They need discipline,” Alma insisted. “Focus. Not this… illusion of family.”

So’lek’s jaw tightened slightly. “It is not an illusion.”

Alma’s gaze flicked back to him. “You think this will last?”

“I think,” he said slowly, “it is the only reason they will.”

She did not answer immediately. And in that silence, the distance between what she understood—and what she refused to—felt vast.

“They are not children,” she said again, quieter now.

“No,” So’lek agreed, his gaze never leaving you. “But they should have been.”

That left her with nothing more to say.

By the time So’lek approached the group, the light had shifted.You looked up as he neared—always aware, always attuned—and something in your expression softened further.

“You have come to join us?” you teased lightly.

“I have come to see if they will allow it,” he replied.

Ri’nela brightened immediately. “You can sit.”

Nor gave a small nod.

Tamtey shifted just enough to make space.

You smiled at that—soft, pleased—and reached out, your fingers brushing briefly against So’lek’s wrist as he settled beside you. A small touch. But grounding.

“They were telling me about their training,” you said.

“Were they?” So’lek glanced between them.

“Yes,” you continued, amusement threading your voice. “Though I suspect some details were… altered.”

Teylan looked mildly offended. “They were not.”

Nor muttered, “They were.” Ri’nela laughed. And just like that—lightness.

So’lek watched you again, but this time from within it. The way your laughter softened the edges of everything around you. The way they leaned into it. The way he did, without even realising.

Later, when the others drifted away one by one—drawn by food, rest, or the quiet pull of evening—you remained where you were, your gaze following them until the last disappeared into the trees.

“You worry,” So’lek said quietly.

“I care,” you corrected. A pause. “…But yes.”

He shifted closer. “They are stronger than they were.”

“I know.”

“And they are not alone.”

Your shoulders lowered slightly. “I know,” you repeated, softer.

The sky dimmed above, the forest settling into its night-song. For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then, quietly: “If we have children…” Your voice wavered—not with doubt, but with the weight of hope itself.

So’lek turned slightly towards you. “They will not know this kind of fear,” he said. It was not a wish. It was a promise.

You studied him, something deep and searching in your gaze. “And if they do?”

“Then they will not face it alone.”

That settled something in you. He could see it. The same way he had seen it that first night, when a single fragile word had changed everything.

“Sa’nu!” The call came again—faint, but insistent.

You huffed softly, though your smile returned just as quickly. “They will not let me rest.”

“No,” So’lek said, a trace of warmth in his voice. “They will not.”

You rose, brushing your hands lightly against your thighs before glancing back at him.