Private Shadows of the Canopy

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar let a faint shake of his head accompany his soft chuckle, brushing at the scorched mark on his chestplate as Cupcake padded around them. The cub's golden eyes gleamed with mischief, and with surprising strength she latched onto a branch twice her size, dragging it toward the small clearing he'd begun clearing for a fire.

"Well," he said, voice calm but laced with humor, "that's one way to contribute to camp duties." He crouched, taking the branch from her when she paused to chirrup impatiently. "You're lucky she's loyal… and twice as strong as she looks."

As the sky darkened, streaks of crimson and gold brushing through the canopy, Rynar started arranging a small fire pit, careful to keep it contained. The dry wood he stacked caught sparks quickly, and a warm glow began to spread, softening the edges of the jungle around them. Cupcake nosed at the flames, settling beside him with a satisfied chirrup.

Rynar looked up at Dean, the firelight catching faint traces of his expression behind the calm facade. "You've got discipline, and instinct. That's rare," he said quietly, more to fill the space than demand a response. "I'm curious," he added slowly, folding his arms across his chest, "how did someone like you… come to be trained like this? You're precise, measured… not many can balance it with… the kind of composure you've shown today."

Cupcake gave a low purr, nudging Dean's ankle with her head as if punctuating the moment. Rynar's eyes softened, the faintest shadow of his earlier smile returning. "If you feel like sharing," he added, voice gentle, "I'm listening."


He knelt to toss another small log onto the fire, sparks dancing into the darkening jungle. "We've got time before the ship returns. Stories, skills… both matter out here."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean watched the fire burn low, her expression still, but her voice quieter when she finally spoke.

"I wasn't born on Csilla," she said. "I was born the day it died. My parents were already exiles, and when they discovered what I could do… they sent me away. To them, it was survival — or shame. The Diarchy found me after that. They taught me control, precision, discipline. How to turn fear into something useful."

Her crimson eyes caught the firelight, the glow softening her tone. "Everything I've done since then has been shaped by survival — by what others needed me to be. Control isn't peace. It's just… endurance, arranged into something orderly."

She glanced toward Rynar, the faintest trace of curiosity threading through her composure. "But you move differently. You don't fight the world around you — you work with it. That kind of calm… it doesn't come from manuals. It's earned. Usually through loss, or purpose."

Dean's gaze lingered on him, steady but open. "So tell me," she asked, "who taught you to carry that balance? Was it something you learned — or something you built after everything else broke?"

Cupcake shifted beside Rynar, curling against his leg as the fire crackled softly between them. Dean's voice lowered, a note of quiet honesty cutting through her precision. "You said trust doesn't come easy. For someone who speaks it so simply… I wonder if that's experience speaking — or hope."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar leaned back slightly, the firelight flickering across his armor as he unscrewed the cap of his flask. The liquid hissed softly as he took a slow sip, eyes tracing the shadows of the jungle before settling on Dean. He held the flask toward her.

"Here," he said quietly, "for endurance. Not a cure, but it helps when the jungle decides to remind you it's alive."

Cupcake brushed against his knee, purring softly, tail flicking lazily in the firelight. Rynar's hand moved automatically to scratch behind her ears. "And this one…" His voice softened, almost wistful, "she's mine. Found her after a… bad run. Hungry, scared, angry at the world. Thought I'd keep her alive. Ended up keeping her alive… and realizing she keeps me alive too. Like a daughter would."

He took a slow breath, eyes darkening as he gazed into the fire. "My father… never took his helmet off around anyone. Not in front of friends, not in front of soldiers, not even family. I never saw his face… only in the grave when I had to bury him. That's all I ever got. Just the weight of it, and the silence." He ran a hand over the scarred metal of his own helmet, the paint faintly chipped. "This one? His. Just repainted. I wear it so he's… still here, in a way. Still guiding me, even if I only learned the lessons after he was gone."

Rynar exhaled slowly, shaking off the shadow of the memory. He loosened the upper plates of his armor, checking the undersuit for tears or damage — a night‑time routine ingrained over years. "Life doesn't wait for sentiment," he murmured. "You make peace with what you can, or you get broken in the dark."

For a long moment, only the fire, the jungle, and Cupcake's soft purr filled the air. Then he fixed Dean with a steady look, the weight of experience softened just enough to let her in.

"Balance isn't taught," he said finally, voice measured but firm. "It's taken. Forged. Carved from everything you've survived. You learn it in pieces — sometimes the pieces hurt. But eventually… it becomes part of you. Part of how you move through the world without breaking it. Or yourself."

He leaned back again, replacing the armor plate with practiced precision. "Now," he added with a faint, wry smile, "we see how much trust you can carry tonight. The fire, the jungle, me… and her." Cupcake chirruped softly, nudging his hand.


Rynar took another slow sip from the flask, letting the quiet settle. "Your turn, if you feel like it," he said, voice low but welcoming. "Stories, lessons, whatever keeps the weight from settling in your chest."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean accepted the flask with a slight nod of thanks, turning it in her hand before taking a cautious sip. The burn hit her throat, sharp and unfamiliar, but she didn't flinch — she handed it back with a faint, dry smirk. "Endurance acknowledged," she murmured.

Her eyes followed the flames for a long moment before she spoke again. "The Diarchy found me before I understood what I was. I was young — too young to realize that what my parents feared wasn't the galaxy… it was me." Her tone was quiet, stripped of resentment, the words laid out like clean facts. "They thought they were saving me by sending me away. Maybe they were. But I remember them — small things. My father's hand, calloused and steady. My mother's voice when she said my name. They looked at me like I was both theirs… and something they couldn't keep."

She let the silence breathe, then added, "The Diarchy gave me purpose where family left absence. They taught me how to listen before I act. How to calculate risk. How to survive in the places that erase the unprepared." Her crimson eyes flicked up to him. "I was assigned observation first — low threat, low exposure: listening posts, courier intercepts, decoding transmissions. Later… the missions changed. Intelligence gathering. Extraction. Containment. Every time I succeeded, the next task grew sharper, quieter, more precise."

Dean shifted slightly, the firelight drawing small, molten reflections across her eyes. "They trained me to remove hesitation, but not fear. I learned that fear keeps you alive — as long as you know how to control it."

Cupcake pressed closer to Rynar's leg, tail swishing idly. Dean's gaze softened at the sight, though her voice stayed even. "They call me 'Sable Talon' now. A name built from work that doesn't leave room for who I was before."

Her eyes lifted to him again, measuring but open. "Your father left you silence. Mine left me fear. Both shaped us into what we are now." She tilted her head, thoughtful. "But you seem to have made peace with it. I've only learned to function through it."

A faint trace of curiosity touched her words, almost cautious. "Do you ever stop seeing him when you put the helmet on? Or does he stay there — watching every choice you make?"

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar let the firelight play over his face for a long moment, taking a slow sip from his flask before setting it down carefully. Cupcake circled his feet, tail flicking lazily as she settled in beside him.

He exhaled, voice low and measured, almost like he were talking to himself at first. "My father… he was a hunter. Not just of beasts, but of skill and discipline. Every step we took through the jungle, every movement… he taught me by showing, not telling. I remember one hunt, when I was barely old enough to carry my own weapon. He moved silently, eyes always scanning, fingers always ready. The way he watched me… it wasn't just training. It was trust. Expectation. Love in the way only a father can give it when the world doesn't pause for sentiment."

Rynar's eyes darkened, voice quieting further. "He never removed his helmet for anyone. I never saw his face. Until… the day the ambush found us. The one time he faltered was the one time it mattered most. He protected my mother… and me. I came upon him as he fell, already gone. I had to… bury him. Alone. No last words. Only the memory of his presence, the weight of what he taught me in life, and what he gave in death."

He brushed a hand over the scarred metal of his own helmet, eyes distant. "Every time I hold this helmet… put it on, even glance at it… I see him. Not just the soldier, not just the teacher… but the man he was when he took me hunting. The patience, the humor he rarely showed, the quiet strength. And the moment he gave… everything, to keep the rest of us alive. That's him. Always there. Watching, guiding… even now."

A single bead of moisture slid down his cheek, quickly brushed away by the sleeve of his undersuit. He took a slow breath, letting the memory settle. "It's why I move the way I do. Why I teach through example. Why…" He glanced down at Cupcake, her golden eyes reflecting the fire, "…I consider her family, even if she'll never admit it. She keeps me grounded, reminds me of the moments that matter."

He leaned back slightly, letting the quiet hum of the jungle fill the pause. "Pain teaches. Loss teaches. But the memory… the memory of him? That's why I endure. That's why I can move with the jungle, rather than against it."


Cupcake chirruped softly, nudging his knee. Rynar's lips twitched faintly, a small, almost lost smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He looked up at Dean, voice soft but steady. "And now… that's why I ask questions about you. Your past, your fears, your lessons. So that when the fire dies down, we can carry something forward that matters."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean listened in silence, the fire painting soft lines across her features. The discipline that usually defined her expression eased, giving way to quiet understanding. She didn't interrupt — she watched the way his voice lowered when he spoke of his father, how his hand lingered on the helmet longer than habit required.

When he finished, she drew a slow breath. "He sounds like the kind of man who understood strength wasn't in what you carried… but in what you protected," she said softly. "There's honor in that. Even in silence."

Her gaze drifted toward the helmet, then to Cupcake, still pressed close against him. "You've kept his lessons alive — in how you move, how you teach, how you care for her. That isn't imitation. That's legacy."

Dean's crimson eyes reflected the firelight as she looked down at her sidearm, studying her faint reflection in the metal. "I envy that," she admitted after a pause. "You had someone who gave you something worth remembering. I was born into the void left behind when Csilla died. My parents were Chiss… exiles. Bound by order and expectation. When they discovered what I was — what I could do — they decided I was already gone. To them, I died that day. The child they had no longer existed."

Her voice stayed even, but the quiet between her words held weight. "I don't know if they're alive. I doubt they'd care if I was. The Diarchy became what they weren't — structure, purpose, a place to exist. But it also demanded I forget who I was to become something useful."

She looked up again, meeting his gaze through the shimmer of heat between them. "You carry your father with you. I carry the absence of mine. You build from what you had. I build from what I lost."

For a moment, only the fire crackled and Cupcake's purring filled the silence. Dean's expression softened slightly, a flicker of warmth crossing her otherwise calm features. "You said loss taught you balance," she said quietly. "Maybe I can learn that too — just without becoming another ghost to someone else."

Her lips curved faintly at the sight of Cupcake's tail flicking against Rynar's boot. "You speak of family as something that endures," she added, softer still. "For my kind, family is history, not future. But… I think Cupcake disagrees."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar sat quiet for a long while, the fire's light flickering across his face as the words settled between them. His hand rested on Cupcake's head, thumb tracing behind her ear in slow, absent strokes. When he finally spoke, his voice came low — quiet, but sure.

"Family built on structure isn't family," he said after a pause. "It's duty dressed in comfort. Order can tell you where to stand, how to fight, when to breathe — but it doesn't hold you when the world ends. It doesn't remember your laugh. It doesn't grieve when you're gone."

He leaned back slightly, the faint creak of his undersuit punctuating the quiet as he looked into the flames. "The Diarchy gave you purpose, but not belonging. Purpose can fade. Family… even the broken kind… stays." His tone softened, not pitying, but warm with the kind of empathy that came from his own scars. "Family isn't blood, Dean. It's who you choose to keep close. Who you trust to see you as more than what you're trained to be."

He turned the helmet in his hands, fingers tracing the rough paint lines that masked the old color beneath. "I used to think I'd never have that again. After my father, after everything… it felt simpler to stop looking." He exhaled through his nose — something between a laugh and a sigh. "But life doesn't care what we plan. It gives us reminders — sometimes in the form of a cub that refuses to leave your side. Or…" his gaze lifted toward her, firelight reflected in his dark eyes, "someone who still believes learning to trust again is worth trying."

For a moment, silence lingered — heavy, but not uncomfortable. He leaned forward to toss another branch into the fire, the sparks rising and fading into the night.

"Family isn't given," he said softly, almost more to himself. "It's earned, same as trust. It's who you fight beside, who you share the fire with when the dark closes in. The ones you'd rather face death with than solitude."

Cupcake gave a sleepy chirp and pressed her head to his knee. Rynar's lips curved faintly, that worn half-smile ghosting across his face as he scratched under her chin.


He looked at Dean once more — longer this time, unguarded in the flame's light. "Maybe," he said quietly, "you've already started building yours. Just… not the way the Diarchy taught you."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean didn't speak right away. The words hung in the air between them like embers — steady, glowing, slow to fade. She'd always been good at silence, but this was different. Not restraint. Reflection.

Her gaze stayed on his, longer than she meant it to. His eyes were darker than the firelight, unreadable but not cold. For the first time in a long while, she didn't look away. The instinct to break the moment, to retreat behind discipline, never came. Instead, she let the quiet breathe.

When she finally did speak, her voice was softer — still, even, still precise, but carrying something almost fragile beneath the control. "The Diarchy taught me that family is service. That loyalty is survival. Every order, every mission, every loss… I told myself it was proof of belonging." She paused, studying the lines of his face, the warmth in the way he spoke of what could be built rather than what was given.

"I never questioned it," she admitted. "Because the alternative — being alone — was worse." Her gaze drifted toward Cupcake for a moment before returning to him. "But if family is earned, as you say… then perhaps I've mistaken duty for something it could never be."

The firelight traced a faint reflection in her crimson eyes as she tilted her head, a small flicker of emotion catching there — curiosity, maybe hope. "And yet, you make it sound simple. To choose who we keep close to. To trust them. To believe that bond can exist outside what we were made to serve."

Her lips curved slightly, not quite a smile, but something close. "If you're right, Rynar… then maybe I haven't been building a family. Maybe I've just been following orders."

The words lingered as she looked back at him again — gaze steady, open now, unguarded. "But perhaps," she added softly, "it isn't too late to start."

Cupcake shifted in her sleep, the sound soft against the crackle of the fire, and Dean let her gaze hold his just a moment longer — long enough to make it clear she wasn't just thinking about the Diarchy anymore.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar watched her through the flicker of flamelight — the kind that made armor gleam like old gold and shadows stretch long and deep. He didn't speak right away; words often ruined the weight of things best left to silence.

When he finally moved, it was slow, deliberate. He set his flask aside, then unclasped the seals on his gloves. The sound was faint — a whisper of metal and leather. His bare hands looked rough, scarred by years of battles and labor. He turned one palm upward, extending it toward her across the fire's soft light.

"You've spent a long time surviving for others," he said quietly. "And that's strength — don't let anyone tell you otherwise. But survival doesn't have to be lonely."

His gaze met hers, calm but heavy with sincerity. "Family isn't a uniform or a banner. It's who you choose to stand beside — and who chooses you back. Sometimes blood gives you nothing but ghosts. The rest?" He gave the faintest tilt of his head toward Cupcake, who twitched in her sleep. "You build it. One piece at a time."

Rynar's voice softened, roughened by something more personal beneath it. "You've earned my trust, Dean. That's not something I give easily — or often. If you ever need someone in your corner, I'll be there. Whether you take this hand tonight, or a year from now, it won't change that."

For a moment, the only sound was the crackle of the fire. His eyes held hers — steady, almost warm despite the scars and steel that usually framed his presence. "Family's what you make it," he murmured, a faint echo of his earlier words. "And you've already started."


He didn't press her to take his hand. He simply waited — open, patient — a quiet promise in the gesture rather than an expectation.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean's crimson eyes flicked down to his outstretched hand, unmoving for several seconds — the stillness deliberate, thoughtful. She didn't often hesitate, but this was different.

Slowly, she set her sidearm aside, fingers brushing faintly against her thigh as if grounding herself. The firelight traced the faint glint of blue across her skin as she reached forward, stopping just short of his palm — not quite touching, but close enough that the warmth crossed the space between them.

Her voice, when it came, was quieter than usual. "The Diarchy taught me that trust is a calculated risk," she said. "That every alliance has a purpose, and every promise has a cost." A pause. "But this… doesn't feel like calculation."

For a moment, her eyes lifted to meet his — unflinching, unguarded. "You speak as though family can be chosen. That it's earned by action, not title. Maybe that's something I can learn."

She let the silence breathe again, then closed the distance between their hands — not a firm clasp, not quite a handshake, but enough to acknowledge the offer. The contact was brief, deliberate, but it carried the weight of something she didn't often give freely.

When she withdrew her hand, she looked at him — not the armor, not the soldier, but the person beneath. "I'll remember that, Rynar," she said softly. "And if what you say is true… then maybe, when this mission ends, I'll have something more than just another report to file."

Cupcake gave a faint chirp, tail flicking against Rynar's boot as if to seal the moment with approval. Dean's expression eased — a rare, subtle curve of a smile that softened the edges of her usual composure.

"Then it's decided," she said quietly, looking into the fire once more. "Survival doesn't have to be lonely."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

For a long moment, the only sound was the fire's gentle crackle and the distant hum of the night. Rynar didn't move — didn't speak. His hand lowered back to his knee, fingers curling faintly against the durasteel plates of his armor. The warmth of her brief touch lingered longer than it should have, bleeding through the cold metal and settling somewhere deeper.

He exhaled slowly, gaze fixed on the fire. Then, barely above a whisper, he began to hum — low and rough, the kind of sound that carried weight and memory. A song his father used to sing by the campfires on Concord Dawn, when the stars were sharp and the hunts were long. The words came next, quiet, in the old tongue of his people:

"Ni ru'gar kyr'am,
Ni ru'gar chaavla,
Burc'ya ara'nov, aliit ori'shya."

I remember death,
I remember the cold,
A friend is armor, family is greater.

The melody faded into silence. He sat there for a moment longer, the glow of the flames painting soft light against the scars along his jaw. Then he pushed himself to his feet, a faint smile tugging at his mouth — small, rare, but genuine.

Extending his hand once more, palm open, he tilted his head slightly toward her. "My father used to say every bond worth keeping deserves a song," he said quietly. "And sometimes… a dance to carry it forward."

His tone carried no command — only invitation. "You don't have to, vod," he added softly, using the word for sibling. "But I think the fire would burn brighter if you did."


Cupcake's ears perked at the movement, giving a small, approving chuff as Rynar's smile deepened just a little more. "Besides," he murmured, eyes glinting faintly, "I'd rather remember this moment than another mission."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean blinked, surprised — not by the offer itself, but by how sincere it sounded. The firelight flickered across his open hand, steady and waiting, and something inside her — some small, unfamiliar warmth — loosened.

A slow smile broke across her face, not the measured curve of discipline or courtesy, but something far more real. It softened her eyes, brightened them until the crimson almost glowed. "I can't dance," she admitted quietly, tone edged with amusement, the faintest lilt of laughter beneath the words.

Then, without hesitation, she reached forward and took his hand — smaller, cooler fingers curling against the roughness of his palm. With a firm, decisive tug, she pulled him to his feet.

"Then you'll have to show me," she said, the corner of her mouth lifting higher now, a spark of mischief breaking through her usual composure.

Cupcake stirred at the movement, blinking up from her place by the fire as if confused by the sudden shift in energy. Dean glanced down at her and then back up at Rynar, her smile lingering. "Before she decides to take your place," she added softly.

For once, she wasn't analyzing her surroundings, wasn't measuring her words. She was simply there — standing before him, hand still in his, firelight dancing in her eyes, waiting.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar's laughter came low at first — roughened by disuse, but honest. It built as she tugged him up, the shift from solemn quiet to light-hearted movement as natural as the crackling of the fire beside them.

"You'll learn quick," he said, voice half a chuckle, half a promise, his fingers curling around hers.

Without warning, he spun her gently beneath his arm, his movements sure and easy despite the weight of his armor. The firelight caught the edges of his beskar, flaring gold across the polished plates as he guided her through a few fast steps — one, two, turn — his boots scuffing softly against the dirt.

Then, softly at first, he began to sing.

The words were in Mando'a — old and full of rhythm — the kind of song that might've once echoed through halls after a victory, or by the fires of home. His voice was deep, warm, carrying a rough melody that pulsed with life and memory both.

"Kote bal mando'ad,
Vode an ner kar'ta,
Kandosii cuyir aliit —
Darasuum, par ori'jate."
He laughed again, the sound unguarded now, spinning her once more — less a dance of skill and more of joy. When she stumbled, he steadied her by the waist, the grin beneath his scarred features undeniable.

"Not bad," he teased lightly, eyes bright with something rare — peace, maybe. "You've got spirit. That's all that matters."

The song carried on, his voice rising above the fire for a verse more before trailing off into quiet hums. He didn't let go of her hand, even when they slowed.

Cupcake chuffed from her place beside the flames, tilting her head as if judging their form — or simply enjoying the sight. Rynar gave a faint grin in her direction before looking back to Dean.

"Every clan," he said softly, catching his breath, "has a song. Some are for mourning. Some for battle. But this one… this one's for nights like this. When you realize living's worth the fight."

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze — a wordless thank-you — before stepping just close enough that his voice came quiet, private.


"You've got two left feet," he murmured, smiling, "but I'll take that over two empty hands any day."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean's laughter came unexpectedly — bright, unrestrained, the sound of something breaking free after years of silence. She stumbled once, boots skimming the dirt, but before she could fall out of rhythm completely, his hand was at her waist, steady, certain. The warmth of his touch grounded her, and for once, she didn't pull away.

When he spun her again, she moved with him — not gracefully, but willingly, her usual precision replaced by something far more human. The song carried through the clearing, words she didn't understand but somehow felt — a melody that belonged to him, to his people, but in that moment, it reached her too.

When he teased her, she grinned — wide, unguarded, the kind of smile that made her crimson eyes gleam like molten glass. "Then you'll have to keep teaching me," she said, her voice low but warm, a flicker of challenge beneath the humor. "Unless you're afraid I'll start keeping pace."

She didn't let go of his hand either, even after the song faded. The quiet between them felt different now — not the careful silence of soldiers keeping watch, but the kind that came when words weren't needed.

Her gaze held his a moment longer, soft but steady. "If this is what living feels like," she said quietly, "then maybe I've been doing it wrong."

Cupcake gave a soft, approving chirp at that, curling beside the fire again. Dean glanced down at her, then back at Rynar, her smile lingering just enough to light her expression.

"Two left feet," she echoed, faint laughter threading through her tone. "Maybe. But right now…" Her fingers tightened around his briefly — an anchor in the warmth between them. "I think they found the right ground."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

The song never truly ended — it only changed tempo, softened into something wordless as Rynar began to hum. The sound was deep, rolling like the hum of an engine before a storm, carrying the rhythm of old songs meant for firesides and feasts, not battlefields.

He didn't think. He simply moved.

Rynar's boots scuffed lightly against the dirt as he caught Dean's hand again, leading her into another turn. She followed this time — a touch hesitant at first, then finding his rhythm, her laughter returning when he shifted their steps to something quicker, almost playful. His own laughter rumbled out between verses, low and genuine, the kind of sound that rarely escaped a soldier's throat anymore.

When she stumbled again, he steadied her — one hand at her waist, the other guiding her through a lift. It wasn't graceful, not perfectly timed, but it didn't matter. Her hair brushed across his chestplate before he set her down into a twirl, the firelight catching the crimson in her eyes as she spun.

"You're learning faster than I thought," he teased, breath a little uneven from both laughter and movement. "Maybe it's me who'll be struggling to keep up soon."

The hum turned softer now, slower, as if instinct told him the dance didn't need speed anymore. He stepped closer, guiding her through one last movement — a dip that lingered, her weight balanced easily in his arms. For a heartbeat, everything stilled: the crackle of the fire, the scent of earth and smoke, the faint pulse of shared breath.

Then he eased her upright again, still holding her hand, his smile gentler now — less the joy of motion, more the quiet warmth of realization. "Seems," he said, voice roughened but soft, "you've got more rhythm than you let on."

He didn't release her hand yet. His thumb brushed across her knuckles, a wordless acknowledgment — not just of the dance, but of everything that had led them here.


The night around them settled again, but neither moved to sit. Rynar's humming carried on, quiet but steady, a melody she didn't know but somehow understood — the sound of belonging, of something found rather than taught.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean's pulse steadied against his hand, the echo of movement still alive between them long after the last step faded. The laughter, the warmth, the rhythm — it all lingered in the air, soft and unreal, as though the jungle itself had paused to listen.

Her breathing slowed, calm but full, and she found herself studying him — the curve of his smile, the warmth behind his eyes, the quiet way he held space for her without asking anything in return. She hadn't realized until this moment how rare that was.

When he began to hum again, she closed her eyes for a heartbeat, letting the low cadence of his melody settle through her. It stirred something — not memory exactly, but something more profound. And then, quietly, she began to hum too.

Her voice was softer, higher, almost uncertain at first — but it carried a haunting, lilting pattern. The words came next, in Cheunh, smooth and crystalline like the sound of snow falling over stone:

"Nuv'ari ch'ezar,
Korrin osai ch'at ch'ael,
Borrin'ka, nor'misa…"

She didn't translate them, but the tone was clear enough. A child's song — one meant to guide the lost home through the dark.

When her voice faded, she glanced up at him, a small smile warming her features. "My mother used to hum it," she said quietly. "When the storms hit our outpost on Copero. She said it was for remembering the light in cold places."

Dean exhaled slowly, the admission soft but steady. "I forgot it for a long time. Maybe I stopped needing it." Her gaze lifted to meet his again, the faint shimmer of the firelight catching her eyes. "But tonight… it felt right."

They still stood close, hands joined, the jungle quiet around them. "You were right," she murmured, voice softer now. "Family isn't given. It's built."

Her smile grew a little as she added, "Maybe this is how it starts."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar's laughter came first — deep, unrestrained, and so full of life it almost startled the night. Before Dean could react, his hands slipped to her waist, and with a strength born of both instinct and joy, he lifted her easily off her feet. The motion was effortless, a brief moment where her boots left the ground and the firelight flared behind her like a halo of gold.

When he set her back down, his grin lingered — boyish, bright, and without the heavy shadow that so often clung to his expression. "Thank you," he said, voice roughened by the laughter still caught in his chest. "Haven't danced like that in years."

He held her gaze for a long, warm heartbeat — no armor, no burden of soldier or survivor, just a man caught between memory and the present. "You remind me what it felt like to be young again," he added quietly, a touch of wonder in his tone. "Before all this," he gestured vaguely to the armor, the scarred trees, the galaxy that demanded too much from both of them.

Cupcake let out a sleepy chirp, as if echoing her approval, and Rynar chuckled under his breath, the sound gentler now. He didn't move his hand immediately — still resting it lightly against her waist, grounding the warmth of the moment.

"Your song…" he said finally, his voice softer, almost reverent. "It's beautiful. I didn't understand the words, but I felt them." His thumb brushed unconsciously against the edge of her belt as he spoke. "Your mother gave you something worth carrying. Even if you forgot it for a while — it's still in you."

He looked down then, shaking his head faintly, a grin returning. "Stars, if my father saw me now, he'd think I'd lost my mind — dancing in the jungle, singing old songs with a Chiss who shoots straighter than I do." He met her eyes again, a spark of warmth there. "But… I think he'd be proud too."


Then, quietly, with that same childish gleam from before, he added, "You made tonight something I'll remember, Dean. For more than just survival."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean's breath caught when he lifted her — weightless for a fleeting heartbeat, her laughter spilling free before she could stop it. The warmth of the fire blurred around them as he set her down, and when she met his gaze again, the world seemed to narrow to that small space between them — steady, alive, and unguarded.

Her smile lingered, wide and bright enough to reach her eyes. "Then maybe we both remembered something tonight," she said softly, voice low but threaded with warmth. "What it's like to be more than what the galaxy expects of us."

When he spoke of her song, her expression shifted — gentler, thoughtful. "She used to sing it to calm the storms," Dean said, her tone barely above a whisper. "I thought I'd lost it… But maybe it was just waiting for the right night to be heard again."

Her gaze flicked to the hand he still hadn't moved from her waist — not with discomfort, but quiet recognition. The contact felt steady, real, something grounding in a life built on impermanence.

At his mention of his father, Dean's smile deepened faintly, almost teasing but soft around the edges. "Then maybe your father and my mother are both somewhere laughing about this," she said, tilting her head slightly. "You, breaking formation. Me… dancing."

For a long moment, she looked at him, the fire painting gold along the sharp lines of his face. "You said I reminded you of what it felt like to be young," she murmured. "You reminded me what it feels like to be… seen. Not as a soldier. Not as a mission. Just… me."

The jungle murmured around them, a distant symphony of night creatures and wind through leaves. Dean's voice fell to a near whisper as she added, "I think I'll remember this, too."

Cupcake gave another faint chirp — as if satisfied with her people at last — and curled up by the fire. Dean didn't look away. She didn't need to. The warmth between them was enough.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar exhaled softly, the remnants of laughter still shaping his smile as he eased back down beside the fire. The movement was slow, unhurried — as if he didn't want to break the fragile calm they'd carved out of the night.

He settled with his back against the roots of a broad, moss-covered tree, the armor plates along his legs whispering faintly against the bark. Cupcake, ever loyal, padded over and rested her head across his lap with a low, contented purr. One of his hands drifted instinctively to the cub's fur, the other — his left — rose slightly in quiet invitation.

He didn't speak right away, only met Dean's eyes through the low, flickering light. There was no command in the gesture, no assumption — just an open space offered. "You don't have to," he said quietly, his tone low and roughened by the hour, "but the fire's warmer when you're not sitting apart."

The night air carried the faint scent of smoke and wet earth. His gaze softened as he watched her, the corners of his mouth lifting into a faint, almost boyish smile. "Been a long time since a night's ended in laughter instead of gunfire," he murmured, his voice carrying that same mix of warmth and wonder that had colored the dance.

Cupcake rumbled softly, nudging his hand for attention, and Rynar huffed a quiet chuckle. "Seems she agrees." His tone dropped even lower as he looked back to Dean, eyes steady, voice threaded with fondness. "For what it's worth, Sable Talon… thank you. For the dance. For the song. For reminding me what peace sounds like."


Then, softer still, as if afraid to disturb the balance they'd found
"Stay awhile. Just… this once."
Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean hesitated only a moment before crossing the space between them. The firelight curved across her features as she lowered herself beside him — not stiff or formal as she usually sat, but slowly, carefully, as if afraid she might disturb the fragile peace they'd built.

She folded her legs beneath her, the soft brush of her sleeve against his arm a quiet acknowledgment of the invitation accepted. "The fire is warmer," she said softly, a faint, almost teasing smile touching her lips. "And… quieter when it isn't just me."

Cupcake's tail flicked once against Dean's boot before the cub resettled, purring deeply between them. Dean watched her for a moment, expression softening — something small and tender surfacing behind the sharp edges of her usual composure.

When she finally spoke again, her voice carried the same steadiness as before, but gentler now. "I was taught that peace is temporary. That it exists only between orders — that it's an illusion before the next mission begins." Her gaze shifted to the fire, the reflection of its light catching faintly in her eyes. "But maybe they were wrong. Maybe peace is just… learning to breathe where you are."

She glanced back at him, a quiet honesty threading through her words. "You make that easier."

The jungle whispered faintly around them — night insects, distant rustles, the sound of the world exhaling after long silence. Dean leaned back slightly against the tree beside him, shoulders easing for what might have been the first time in years.

Her following words were softer, almost lost to the fire's crackle. "Thank you, Rynar. For letting me… just be. No orders. No expectation."

She let the quiet retake them, crimson eyes lifting to the canopy where starlight cut through the dark. "Maybe I'll stay a little while," she murmured at last, a faint warmth in her tone. "Just this once."

Rynar Solde