Work Text:
The alcove is small, but it is yours.
Woven vines and layered bark curve inward from the rock face, shaped with the patient, practiced hands of your clan—patterns meant to ward, to soothe, to belong. A thin cloth hangs over the entrance, beaded lightly enough to stir with the mountain air. Beyond it, the resistance base is still asleep, distant and quiet, its noise softened by height and stone.
Morning settles gently around you.
Dew beads along the edge of the overlook, clinging to leaves and the woven rail that marks the edge of your small porch. The air is cool and clean, carrying the scent of wet moss and sky. You sit cross-legged on the smooth stone floor, eyes closed, breathing slow and even. Your queue rests against your shoulder. Your thoughts drift, then settle, then finally still.
For a little while, there is nothing but breath, air, and the steady pulse of the land beneath you.
When you finish, you press your palms to the stone and rise quietly, careful not to disturb the calm you’ve gathered. You draw back the cloth at the entrance—
—and stop.
A small parcel rests just beyond the threshold.
It is wrapped neatly in layered leaves and bound with thin fiber cord, placed carefully at the center of your porch rather than set down in haste. Deliberate. Almost formal. As though the person who left it had stood there a moment too long, making sure it was right before stepping away.
Your ikran shifts beside the overlook, blue-green eyes flicking from the bundle to you, then back again. Its tail sways once, slow and curious, head tilting in quiet interest.
You crouch and lift the bundle into your hands. It is light, but not fragile. Purposeful.
As you unwrap it, recognition blooms slowly.
Inside rests a necklace.
It is woven from multiple materials—thin leather cord, softened plant fiber, and small beads worked smooth by patient hands. Some are simple, others etched faintly with markings you recognize, subtle enough to be missed by anyone unfamiliar with their meaning. The weight of it rests easily in your palm, balanced, intentional.
Your breath catches.
You’ve seen work like this before.
The memory comes unbidden: So’lek seated apart from the others, head bowed as he threaded beads onto a songcord for Tamtey. How precise his movements were. How seriously he treated each bead, each knot, as though the act itself carried meaning beyond words. This necklace bears the same careful construction—the same quiet reverence.
It is unmistakably his.
Confusion washes over you first. You never asked for this. There was no conversation, no promise, no signal that would have led to such a gift. And yet, here it is. Left at the entrance to your home. Not given by hand. Not accompanied by explanation.
Just… offered.
Your thumb traces one of the beads, warmth spreading through your chest as understanding slowly follows. This was not made quickly. It was not made without thought. It was made the way So’lek does everything—thoroughly, earnestly, and without knowing how to soften the gesture with words.
You lift your gaze toward the land below, half-expecting to find him standing somewhere in the distance, rigid and watchful, pretending coincidence brought him there. But the overlook remains empty. The morning remains quiet.
Only the necklace rests in your hands.
And the thought that, somehow, this was So’lek’s way of speaking.
It isn’t until later—days blurred together by work, flight, and quiet—that you think of the necklace again in the way it deserves.
You’ve been out since morning, riding the skies on your ikran’s back, the wind tearing past you as you hunt and gather across the cliffs and forest below. The hours stretch long and satisfying, muscles aching pleasantly by the time the sun finally begins its slow descent. Orange light spills across the land, setting stone and leaf aglow before the world shifts, softly, into bioluminescence.
By the time you return, the air is cooler. The forest hums.
You guide your ikran down onto the familiar outcropping just outside your alcove, hands smoothing along its neck as it settles. You murmur your thanks, your praise, fingers lingering until its breathing evens. Only then do you dismount, tired in the best way, hunger finally catching up to you all at once.
You reach for the cloth that hides your home, but pause when you look down.
There is a plate this time.
Covered carefully with a folded leaf, it rests in the exact same spot as the necklace once did. Not pushed to the side. Not hidden. Intentionally placed.
You lift it, warmth seeping through the leaves into your palms.
When you uncover it, your stomach answers immediately.
A meat and fruit roast, arranged simply but well, the glaze still glossy, the edges still steaming faintly in the cooling air. Sweet and savory scents curl upward, rich enough to make your mouth water outright. Whoever made it packed it carefully—nothing spilled, nothing overdone.
You don’t need long to guess who it’s from.
The placement alone gives it away. The quiet consistency of it. And the necklace—his necklace—rests warm against your collarbone, beads catching the low light as you move.
You smile despite yourself.
It’s thoughtful. That’s all. Kind. Something a friend would do for another who’d been gone all day. Someone practical. Someone who notices things and responds the only way he knows how.
You duck inside your alcove, settling onto the stone floor with a soft sigh as you finally allow yourself to eat. The first bite is still warm, still fresh, and your stomach growls in approval. You laugh quietly under your breath, shaking your head as if the idea trying to form there is ridiculous.
A gift. A meal. Left without words.
Friendly gestures.
That’s what you tell yourself as you eat, as the necklace rests against your skin, as the sweetness lingers on your tongue long after the plate is empty.
Just a friend.
Right?
A few days later, you’re back within the main resistance base, the quiet hum of activity settling around you like a familiar rhythm.
You’ve claimed a corner of the crafting space—out of the way, but not hidden—spreading out the materials you’ve spent weeks gathering. Hardened hide, woven fiber, carefully cured plates meant to be shaped into a new piece of armor. Something lighter. Something yours. You lose yourself in the work easily, hands moving from memory, focus narrowing until the world softens at the edges.
It’s only when you reach for your knife that you realize—
You left it behind.
You sigh under your breath and straighten, scanning the space. So’lek isn’t hard to find. He stands a short distance away, repairing gear with the same quiet intensity he brings to everything else. His posture is rigid, attention absolute, as if the world might fall apart if he looks away for even a moment.
You approach, already forming the question.
“Can I borrow your knife?” you ask, gesturing vaguely toward your work. “I forgot mine.”
He looks up immediately. No hesitation. He reaches for the knife at his side and turns, offering it handle-first.
“Of course.”
You take it—and pause.
Wrapped neatly around the handle is a crafted bead, bound with fine cord. The bead is etched with intricate symbols—your people’s symbols. Old ones. Personal ones. Not decorative. Not casual.
Your fingers still.
Your chest tightens before you can stop it.
“Oh,” you say quietly, eyes lingering a moment too long. “That’s… nice.”
For a heartbeat, you assume you understand. Someone from your clan, perhaps. A friend. Someone closer to him than you realized. Your mind supplies a name before you can stop it—Teyra, warm and quick to laugh, always easy in conversation. Of course she would gift something like this.
The thought stings more than you expect.
You lift your gaze just enough to meet his eyes, offering a small look you don’t quite know how to mask before you turn away, knife in hand.
So’lek stiffens.
“No—wait,” he says, stepping closer. Too fast. “That is not—”
You glance back, confused now, brows knitting.
He gestures vaguely toward the knife, then toward you, then seems to realize how that looks and stops himself, jaw tightening.
“I followed your customs,” he says carefully, words chosen as if they might break. “As I understand them. I did not want to offend.”
You blink. “My customs?”
“The bead,” he continues, clearly misreading the look you gave him. “If it is… not appropriate, I will remove it. I did not mean to cause discomfort.”
Your heart skips.
“You made that?” you ask slowly.
“Yes.” He hesitates. “It is meant to carry a name. Not spoken. Only remembered.”
Silence stretches between you.
He exhales, steadying himself, and adds—awkward, earnest, unmistakably So’lek—
“I hoped you would be… alright with it. With me following your people’s ways. It represents you.”
The world seems to tilt, just slightly.
You look down at the knife again, at the bead wrapped so carefully around the handle, at the symbols you know by heart. Your mouth opens, then closes. Then you laugh—soft, startled, warm.
“Oh,” you say again, breathless this time.
And suddenly, impossibly, everything makes sense.
Night settles gently over the resistance base, the world softened by shadow and the slow bloom of bioluminescence. You move quietly along familiar paths, bare feet knowing the stone by heart, breath steady even as your pulse refuses to calm.
This is the last step.
Not a gift. Not a sign half-hidden in work or silence.
This is where courting is either accepted… or ended.
You pause beneath the sheltering curve of rock just outside So’lek’s home—the one tucked into the cliff face, spare and practical, built to withstand fire and loss rather than ornament. A place that mirrors him in every way.
Your hands lift to your hair.
Carefully, deliberately, you separate the two small braids that frame your face. You weave into them thin strips of leather dyed in colors you have come to associate with him without meaning to—light blue marked with soft white patches, deep purple, a warm stripe of orange, grounded by dark blue accents. The braids rest against your cheeks when you finish, light but unmistakable.
There is no denying what they mean.
Your clothing is just as intentional. The outfit you wear tonight is one you made for this moment alone—bare shoulders, layered textures, beads and woven elements placed where tradition demands. It reminds you, suddenly and vividly, of old stories told to you by your mother when you came of age. Of a woman, standing beneath glowing leaves, choosing her mate not with words but with certainty. The memory sends a rush of warmth through you, followed swiftly by nerves sharp enough to make your hands tremble.
Your heart pounds. Loud. Unavoidable.
You draw a steadying breath and urge your ikran forward, flying the short distance to land on the surface of his alcove.
So’lek is inside, sorting gear by lamplight when you appear at the entrance. He looks up immediately at the sound, alert as ever—and then stills.
You don’t speak, only sliding off your ikran with a loving pat on the creature’s neck. You simply lift your hand and crook two fingers toward yourself, a quiet beckon. An invitation.
Confusion crosses his face first. Then concern.
He steps closer, stopping just short of the threshold. His gaze flicks over you—your braids, your clothing, the deliberate way you stand there beneath the glow of the night. His expression shifts, something unspoken tightening in his chest.
“…Is something wrong?” he asks, low and careful. “It is late.”
You shake your head, a small smile touching your lips despite the thunder of your heartbeat.
“Fly with me,” you say softly.
He hesitates. You can see the questions lining up behind his eyes—why you are here, why now, what this means. His gaze lingers on the colors braided into your hair, on the way the bioluminescent light catches the beads at your throat.
He doesn’t comment on any of it.
But he stares.
And in that silence, heavy with recognition and uncertainty, you realize he understands at least one thing:
Whatever this is—
It is not just friendly.
He nods once, calling for his ikran, Ìley, and you both take off into the night sky.
The flight is quiet.
No words pass between you as you guide your ikran into the open sky, the night air cool against your skin. So’lek follows close behind, steady and sure, keeping pace without crowding you. Below, the land glows softly—veins of blue and violet threading through the forest as the bioluminescence awakens, responding to the deepening dark.
The Tree of Souls rises ahead of you, luminous and alive, its roots glowing like embers beneath the earth.
You descend first, landing lightly just beyond the outer tendrils. Your ikran settles with a soft rumble, folding itself low as you dismount. So’lek lands moments later, movements practiced, controlled. He looks almost carved from the night itself—broad shoulders, familiar stance, that bulky vest strapped over his chest like armor he refuses to shed.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
Then you reach for him.
Your fingers slip into his hand, warm and grounding, and you don’t give him time to question it before you turn and lead him forward. Inside the Tree, the air hums—alive, resonant, sacred. Tendrils glow brighter as you pass, responding to your presence, brushing softly against your arms and shoulders.
You force yourself to speak, if only to keep your heart from leaping straight out of your chest.
“It’s beautiful tonight,” you say, gesturing vaguely upward as if the glow isn’t overwhelming. “I thought… it might be quieter. Here.”
He nods, eyes tracking the living light around you, but his attention keeps returning to you. You can feel it—heavy, focused, almost reverent.
“You are trembling,” he says quietly.
You huff a soft laugh, shaking your head. “Only a little.”
You stop near the center, turning to face him fully now. Up close, he’s exactly as he always is—vest scuffed and worn, straps snug across his torso, gear secured within easy reach. You’ve seen him like this countless times. And yet, here, beneath the glow of the Tree, he looks… different. Broader. Closer. The lines of him sharper against the light.
Your gaze lingers before you can stop it.
“You always dress the same,” you murmur, half to yourself.
He blinks. “It is practical.”
“I know,” you say softly. “I like it.”
That earns you a look—brief, startled, then quickly hidden. The tension between you tightens, drawn thin as fiber cord. You step closer, close enough that you can feel his warmth, the steady rise and fall of his breath.
Your hand lifts, resting lightly against his arm. Solid. Familiar. You let your thumb brush along the edge of his vest, grounding yourself in the contact.
“So’lek,” you begin, choosing your words carefully. Not accusing. Not demanding. “The ways you have been… attentive. The things you have made. The care you show.” You meet his eyes. “If I am mistaken, you must tell me.”
His jaw tightens.
“You are not mistaken,” he says at once.
Your breath stutters.
“But,” you continue, voice softer now, layered with nerves you no longer bother hiding, “before I finish what I have begun… I need to know.” Your fingers curl slightly into his arm, seeking reassurance as much as offering it. “Is it me you wish to court?”
Silence stretches—thick, charged, alive.
His gaze drops briefly to your braids, the colors woven there unmistakable now. When he looks back at you, there is no confusion left in his eyes. Only certainty. Raw and unguarded.
“Yes,” he says. No hesitation. “It has always been you.”
The words settle between you like a promise.
Your heart hammers, heat blooming low in your chest as the Tree hums around you, bearing witness. You don’t pull away. You don’t look down.
You smile—small, breathless, certain—and keep your hand right where it is.
You rise slowly, almost reverently, drawn upward by something you don’t fully trust yet but cannot resist. Your fingers tighten in his vest as you lift onto your toes, breath shallow, heart racing loud enough you’re certain he can hear it.
Your lips hover just short of his.
So close you can feel his breath. So close it’s terrifying.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moves.
He grips your waist with sudden, unguarded urgency and pulls you flush against him, closing the distance in one decisive motion. His mouth connects with yours, tentative and careful.
Your breath leaves you in a soft gasp, swallowed immediately by his lips.
Fireworks go off in your chest—bright, overwhelming, dizzying. Your heart feels too big for your body, fluttering wildly as warmth spreads through you, head to toe. You cling to him without thinking, fingers curling into the fabric of his vest, into him, as if the ground has vanished beneath your feet.
When you finally separate, it’s slow. Reluctant. Foreheads resting together as you both breathe, unsteady and laughing softly despite yourselves.
Quiet and breathless, your hands smooth over his arms, memorizing the solid warmth of him. Your touch trails upward—over muscle, along his neck—and you press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, lingering there just a moment longer than necessary.
Then you pull back.
Your hand lifts to your queue.
You meet his eyes, nerves dancing hot and bright beneath your skin. There’s no need to ask. The question lives in the space between you, unspoken but unmistakable.
His breath stutters when he realizes what you are asking.
For a moment, he simply looks at you—really looks—eyes dark, unreadable, hands hovering as if he’s afraid to move too quickly and shatter the moment. The glow of the Tree paints him in soft blues and violets, tracing the familiar lines of him in something almost gentle.
“You are certain?” he asks quietly.
You smile shyly, nodding slowly, lifting your queue between you with steady resolve despite the way your heart is racing. The tendrils of the Tree sway softly around you, humming low and deep, as if the world itself has gone very still to listen.
So’lek exhales, slow and grounding.
Then he reaches for his own.
The moment you connect, everything fractures—and comes together.
The bond snaps into place with a rush of sensation so intense it steals your breath. Emotion floods you, unfiltered and overwhelming. His surprise. His awe. The fierce, carefully guarded depth of his feeling for you—something steady and unwavering that has been there far longer than you ever realized.
And beneath it all, want.
Not frantic. Not reckless. Deep and consuming, coiled tight with reverence and restraint.
You feel how close he is to losing that restraint entirely.
Your knees weaken, and his hands are there instantly, strong and sure at your waist, holding you upright as the connection deepens. His forehead presses to yours, breath warm, uneven, as he steadies himself just as much as you.
You chose me, his emotions say, louder than any words.
Warmth blooms low in your body, curling slow and heavy as his presence settles into you, surrounding you, grounding you. You feel cherished. Seen. Wanted in a way that feels both overwhelming and impossibly safe.
When the bond finally eases, you remain where you are—still pressed together, still breathing each other in.
His hands don’t move away.
Neither do yours.
The air between you is thick now, charged with everything unsaid. The Tree hums softly, approving, its light pulsing slow and steady as if encouraging you onward.
So’lek’s thumb brushes along your hip—an unintentional movement, or perhaps not. His breath ghosts across your cheek, his voice low and rough when he speaks.
“We should stay,” he murmurs. Not a command. An offering.
Your answer is simple.
You lean in, lips brushing his once more—slow this time, deliberate. A promise rather than a question.
The night closes around you, luminous and alive, as you let him draw you closer and the Tree of Souls continues to glow—silent witness to what begins there… and what you choose to keep just for yourselves.