II. A road of his own

Let me tell you about Palaven rain pine.

When Desolas visited me, and it was often, two or three times a month, there were two possible reasons. One, we had work to do and preferred to do it in the peace and comfort of my home; or two, we were drunk. In the first case, then, he would always be prim and proper and freshly groomed, and in the second, we would support each other in unsteady steps and the smell of Palaven rain pine would overwhelm even the alcohol. Desolas had living privileges at the base, but sometimes we were so out of it that he'd just sleep on the couch and wake up complaining that there were too many hard spots. I had quite the collection of cushions by the end. And they'd all smell like that.

So after I saw Saren off at the lobby, I returned to my apartment, added one more pair of shoes to the disarray, and checked the couch. And sure enough, I hadn't mistaken at the memorial park. They even smelled the same.

"Fuck," I said to no one in particular.

I kicked off my pants and tossed them on top of another dining chair, then changed my mind about getting a baggier pair. I slept half-naked on the couch that night. And damn, were there some hard spots.

Inevitably, it led to an uncomfortable morning. Uncomfortable cold shower, uncomfortable scratchy clothes because I'd forgotten about the laundry, and uncomfortable hunger during the morning because I'd run out of quick-heat breakfasts. On the bright side, though, the chef's special had never tasted better come lunchtime, and there were some intriguing messages in my inbox.

For obvious reasons, I had always tried to keep my relationship with Saren a secret, and succeeded. The gate guards were as imperturbable as their reputation whenever I talked with them, and my staff certainly didn't treat me any differently. Even the men made only your average number of innuendo-based jokes in the canteen, none of which had been directed at myself. My reputation had been safe.

Until Saren showed up that day.

He came at the same time as usual, after most have checked out for the day. Carrying one sword only, since by the second session he'd let me keep Desolas' blade in my office. But damn it, my jacket was obviously too broad in the shoulders and too loose at the hips on him. I was talking to Nekil at the front desk to pass time. The hall was far from empty. And then he walked right up to me and draped the jacket over my arm. His chest was this close to mine.

"You were right. It was cold. Thanks," he broadcasted to everyone within earshot.

I put on the best smile I could manage, which amounted to a crooked one showing too much teeth, and my words must've sounded like machine-gun fire. "Welcome. Now let's go. See you around, Nekil."

"Have fun," she said, sly grin growing steadily wider.

But I couldn't ponder its significance for long. Saren was a worthy opponent, and I had to divert all my attention to the fight, especially when I was trying to learn that strange, fluid kata. Saren had spent hours upon hours perfecting the draw with me, insisting that everything else would come easier once I got used to the opening. That's what my old instructor used to tell me back in ACT/+, and it was true. I had finally managed to block your average first two incoming strikes just days before, and the pace of my progress had picked up steadily since then. The approval I could sometimes catch in his eyes sent pleasant shivers through me.

Saren, meanwhile, had recovered some of his finesse in the regular forms. I was finding it increasingly difficult to anticipate his moves, and, in a rare flash of insight, I somehow knew that the shroud of mourning had let in a ray of light; he was on his way back to his brand of normalcy. I suppose I was happy.

We ended with a draw that night, his blade coming up to slice my ribs, mine resting gently on his shoulder.

"You're getting better," I said.

He shifted a mandible. "Your mind was elsewhere."

I ignored his comment; it was innocent. "Have you been practicing at home?"

"No."

"What…"

But he foresaw my question. "I read. Hike." Pause. "Meditate."

"So your schedule is full?"

He slid into his shirt, fixing a crumpled collar. "What do you want, Baratus?"

"I was wondering if you'd like to go to Square Zero." Smooth. Just like that.

He frowned. "At the Elanus?"

"That's the one."

"Now?"

"Whenever." I put my own shirt back on despite the lingering heat inside the room. "How about it?"

"You have work tomorrow."

Oh. Right. Work. "I do. But it doesn't matter," I challenged.

Saren seemed to consider it. "How about in four days?"

The day before my next break. "Sounds good. Should I pick you up?"

He tilted his head. "We can go after practice."

Oh. Right. Practice.

The rest of the week was a blur. I vaguely remember booking us on the guest list; I definitely remember sleeping on the couch for one more night before deciding that a sore back wasn't worth it. I was so full of anticipation and anxiety that I shut my ears off to the comments, such as an "always thought you hated the cabals, eh?" with the accompanying nudge, or the more blatant "way to think fast, you sly thing" with a roguish wink.

The funny part was I didn't even know why I was so anxious. Sure, Square Zero was one of my favourites. Sure, Saren was coming. But it didn't mean anything. I hadn't planned anything. I wouldn't dare.

But in the back of my head, something was brewing. Why else would I have taken him to a club? Him? Who, purely to remind me of how wrong I was, showed up four days later in a cabal uniform?

"Nice outfit," I said as we lifted off from the pavement.

Saren was peering out the window, watching the ground recede underneath us. "I don't have anything else formal."

"What about the standard uniform?"

"White. Too visible."

I made a mental note to introduce him to a tailor sometime.

The skyways were cluttered at night – they always were, but it seemed more frustrating than usual: learning drivers, speeders, even a truck with minor-axis spin. Despite the magic of the autopilot, I had a hard time with it. Saren unhelpfully remarked that public transit would have gotten us there already. I replied by snarling. He gave a rare chuckle and reminded me that we were in no hurry. I drove more patiently after that.

Fortunately, things went smoothly at the club itself. I'd been there more than a few times before the renovation, and the doorman had an incredible memory. It was crowded inside. The back-to-back, hip-to-hip kind of crowded. And the dance floor, raised a metre off the ground, was full of twentysomethings making fools of themselves, backlit by violet and ultraviolet spotlights.

I resorted to BCT gestures to tell Saren: Let's go. Next room over. He was clutching his head with one hand. His eyes seemed unfocused, trying desperately to dodge the light beams that fell to his face every so often. His other hand had one of my fingers in a titanium grip. Unlike at the Plaza, no one moved aside or even seemed to acknowledge our presence, so I made use of my years of experience breaking up brawls to elbow our way through, stepping on more than a few toes.

After a restricted corridor and a handsome set of double doors, a completely different sight greeted our eyes.

"Finally," Saren said, then looked around and up. "Ah."

I was glad they didn't retouch this place much. "They grew that dome in a lab. One piece of crystal."

We were on the roof of the Elanus, safely sheltered from the high-altitude winds by a single, giant crystal dome high above our heads. When hail or whipped-up pebbles were on a collision course, you could see the hidden mass effect field come into play, much like your kinetic barriers. But the sky was clear that night, though the light of the city obscured the stars.

The clientele here was slightly more sophisticated, the floor definitely less crowded. Even the bar was visible, and I could catch occasional glimpses of the bartenders.

"I can get us something."

Saren didn't refuse; must be politeness. "Thank you," he said. "I'll be over there." He pointed towards the rim of the dome.

I knew and liked the club favourite – Skydiver, advertised as an adventurous mix of hard liquors, with or without ryncol depending on the bartender's mood. What about Saren? Would a more classic drink, like an Artillery, be better? But I'd already made my way to the front, and the barman was looking at me expectantly.

"Two Skydivers," I said, pressing a chit to the counter.

He ended up leaving out the ryncol.

It was easy to find Saren; his choice had been wise, as I only had to walk along the rim before noticing a dark figure leaning on the outer banister, a healthy distance away from anyone else. Here where people could see clearly, the cabal uniform was doing wonders.

"The building has two hundred and ten storeys," he said as he received his drink, "I think I can see my city from here."

I didn't peer over the brink. I was already feeling the effects of vertigo from being near him, and didn't need more… encouragement. "Some days there are clouds below. They brighten it with searchlights. It's a great view."

"Nothing a ship can't provide," he smiled over the rim of his glass. He'd already taken a few sips.

"Speaking of ships, I'm finally through with the Relentless business. Frees up a dozen cruisers for more important duties, thank goodness."

"How was the bid on the core?"

"It'll be stockpiled." I scoffed. "It's too late to alter the plans for the replacement, and they've sent out the orders."

We talked about ships for a little longer. He praised the speed and manoeuvrability of the cabal's fleet, but also expressed his appreciation for the firepower of my legion's numerous cruisers and three dreadnoughts. He knew their names, plus those of the Hierarchy's other thirty-one.

"If you were to captain one, which would you choose?"

He thought about it. "I would stay with the cabal. A Giliath-class, perhaps."

"I heard Spectres favour that, these days."

"Where…?"

I shrugged. "I go through a lot of asset requests. What do you think about them?"

"The Spectres?"

"The Spectres."

"They deserve the best." He drank a mouthful at once, but it seemed to go down smoothly. "They're the will of the Council."

"I idealised them, too, when I was your age."

"They're not an ideal. They're a fact."

I smiled. "You're right. I would've made for a poor Spectre, in any case."

There was a period of silence. Even the music dimmed in my ears.

"I don't know how I'd fare," he said, looking into the distance. There was only a finger of liquid left in his glass; he swirled it around and around. I drained mine.

"Do you want to find out?"

The swirling stopped. The vortex died. His silver eyes were fixed on the horizon.

"What are you asking me, Baratus?"

"I go through a lot of asset requests."

"Asset requests—"

"Indeed. For example, this week, I was approached by the Grand Marshal to select a suitable candidate for entry to the prestigious Special Tactics and Reconnaissance branch of the Council's forces." I looked to him for a reaction. Nothing. Just silver eyes, wide open.

"I considered a number of outstanding soldiers from my legion, as well as portfolios forwarded to me by cabal liaisons. Just by glancing over the selection, though, there was one obvious choice."

I smiled. "And he's standing right beside me."

"Why?" He asked. His voice was steady, but the hand clutching the glass was trembling.

"Deep down we all know what the Spectres do for a living. Though not many dwell on it." I looked outside with him. I sighed deeply. "They make decisions others can't. They make sacrifices others won't. They put the good of the galaxy before their own. Before their own lives. Even before the lives of their loved ones, which is by far the more difficult. And they operate in secret, so they must have the strength of character to carry this burden with them, always, until the end of their days.

"Still wonder why I gave them your name, Saren?" I didn't have to turn; I could see his clear image in the crystal.

"No," he said quietly, his eyes more reflective than ever. "I don't. Thank you, Baratus. If there's anything—"

"Do you want to leave this place?" I put my hand over his.

"If you wish." He downed the rest of his drink.

When we got in the car, the first thing I did was set the autopilot, instructing it to take the least populated path. Then, I peeled off my gloves and made to wipe his cheeks with the soft cuff of my undershirt. He sat still and let me do it, closing his eyes obediently. His breathing was warm and even; it tickled the insides of my wrists.

I cupped his face in my hands, making him look at me straight on rather than sideways. "Will you come home with me?"

"You've already set the address."

My heart was threatening to beat itself to death, and all that betrayed it was the smallest of smiles. "Will you?"

"Of course." He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Why, Desolas, Why?

I held on to his hand the whole way back, but he wouldn't look at me for any period of time. It was always a hurried, curious glance my way before returning to examining the nightscape, and I couldn't bear it. I'd make him.

Yes. I'd make him look at me. He's never done it. Not seriously. Not for two years.

It was the alcohol speaking. Damn it, I thought, I usually didn't let it go to my head like that, especially not when I've only had one. I'd have to be careful. Every step must be perfect before I could congratulate myself, come to peace with myself.

You've always wanted to taste those fringe blades, it piped up again.

I rubbed my jaw. Shut it. I don't want to hear that crap.

Such was my internal monologue for the duration of the journey. I don't think Saren had any clue. When we finally parked, he stepped out, patted his shirt flat, and waited at the door for me as if everything was normal, as if it was exactly like the first time he'd been there. I decided that either he was a tease, or he wanted to wait until we were out of sight before providing any truly gossip-worthy material. His eyes were dry now.

Tease, I thought as I watched his backside, his exotic profile. Definitely a tease.

I waited only as long as it took for the apartment door to close and lock behind me. He was bending down and removing his shoes when I sneaked an arm around his waist.

"Baratus?" He froze. Oh Spirits. He was so warm, and I was so dizzy.

"Saren." I leaned down as well and breathed into his ear, cursing the piece of cloth in the way. "Hurry."

He kicked off his shoes, somehow managing to leave them perfectly aligned. "What is it?"

"Don't act like you don't know. Come." I began dragging him by the wrist.

"Are you drunk?"

Was I drunk? I remembered Desolas calling me drunk. Many times. He'd offer another shot, pat me on the back and say I was an awesome boss—

I turned around, backed him against my bedroom wall, shoved myself into his personal space like I had every right.

And I kissed him.

He resisted. Of course he would. Once a tease, always a tease. But where his lips wouldn't yield, his shirt did. I took apart all the fasteners and he didn't stop me. Maybe couldn't, because I'd sneaked a hand into his undone waistband and started groping everything I could find, and my other hand was running up and down his side, tracing the sharpness of his hips and the fluid curve of his waist.

Saren opened his mouth for me, then, with the softest sigh transitioning into an equally quiet moan. His eyes were half-closed, but they were on me and made me kiss him with more fervour, more energy than I had thought possible.

You've waited for two years. What's not possible?

I was too busy to nod. His tongue was awkward, unsure, on the threshold between his lips and mine. His arms were loose around my waist. I recalled the very first time we sparred. Are you interested?

"Let me teach you something," I muttered into his mouth, sliding the tip of my tongue against his. "Something good."

He started doing the same. First experimentally, circling the opponent, gauging his size, his skill, then with more confidence and slick warmth, not minding the occasional lick to the mandible. Quick study. "Hm?"

"Yeah, like that." I was more aroused than I had thought possible, too. So I shoved a knee into the space between his thighs, kept it there, and pressed my crotch into the hollow of his hip. I was unplated. I'm sure he could feel it.

"But that's not what I meant," I told him.

"What—"

"Shh," I whispered, biting his mandible. The surface was almost soft, like a leather scabbard around a sword. "Come."

I released him from the wall and led him to my bed; his hands were clenched. He's as excited as you are. All this time, he wanted you too.

He sat down obediently when I put a heavy hand on his shoulder. Looked at me with an undecipherable expression while I drew away that piece of cloth so I could finally access the side of his neck, where there was no trace of the scar. No, don't go for his neck yet. He needed to be flat on his back and exposed before I did that, and I had all the time in the world.

But I could do all that in seconds, so why not? I put an arm around him and kissed him again, lowering him degree by excruciating degree until his head hit the pillow. Then I climbed over him. Realised I didn't take off his shirt. Realised I could fuck him anyway.

He isn't some cheap fling, you bastard. Help him out of it.

He can deal with it.

How can you be so fucking impatient?

"I've waited for two whole years. I don't give a damn." Yeah, that sounded about right. But he stiffened; the soft abdomen I'd been ghosting over went rigid, and his knees, once so enticingly spread, snapped together.

"What's wrong?" I dipped my head into his cowl, finding the spot where I'd removed the bandage just moments ago. It was warm, moist with sweat, and I could find a pulse if I pressed hard enough. And the Palaven rain pine. Finally. Beneath my tongue. Beneath my body and its familiar hunger.

"Baratus…"

The young turian beneath me had killed before. He had met alien species on foreign worlds and fought them and conquered them. He had resurrected legends and buried them again. But Spirits, his tone was so disarming that I chuckled mid-lick.

"I'll be gentle," I breathed as I made a trail of kisses towards his ear and a beautiful Valluvian horn I had always wanted to nibble. "Trust me." I tugged at his pants. "It'll be good." I traced the few accessible spinal plates. They were not raised.

He batted my hands away. He was being silly. Childish. But I would convert him. The patch of skin beneath the ear was usually a good spot.

Then I encountered a problem. A strangely regular plate. Metal against my tongue.

Amp slots at the age of twelve. Can't forgive myself for missing the operation—

It was like liquid nitrogen pouring into my veins, making my limbs stiff and brittle, piercing my heart with my own frozen blood.

I just got deployed. You remember, right? That time when-

"What?" I managed, from an aching jaw and a throat that felt like it was ballooned to twice its normal size.

Couldn't be there for him most of the time. I don't know. When I look into his eyes sometimes- but those mirror eyes have already told their truth.

I stumbled into the bathroom, ducking because I did not, did not, want to see my reflection. I collapsed into a boneless mass over the sink and vomited until it felt like my guts were dribbling out my mouth and I was seeing black spots and then I just dry heaved for a good eternity or so.

Unsurprisingly, when I finally peered outside, he was gone.

I left the mess for the morning. You know, by now, I tended to do that. I'm not ashamed to admit that I was ashamed.

I walked out of the bathroom eventually. The barren faux-stone floor was cold beneath my feet. Saren had left a shallow impression on one side of my unmade bed; I slept on the other, fully clothed, above the sheets. I did not dream for the first night in a long series of lonely nights, and I woke to the midday sun in my eyes and the rush of traffic in the distance.

There were no messages in my personal inbox—none from Saren. My mouth tasted like my innards and my throat was dry as the flatlands of Tuchanka. I stuck my face under the bathroom tap and stayed like that for a while, until all the filth I'd left in the sink washed down the drain and my tongue became numb. I looked up at the mirror, as if for the first time. My markings were fresh, but my face was worn.

"I fucked up," I said to myself.

The reflection nodded.

I ducked back down and took a few more thirsty gulps of water. This was stupid. The situation never should've happened. And now that it had, I better un-fuck it quick. Listening to my own reflection wasn't going to do me any good. But as soon as I stepped into the bedroom again, the sight of the impression he'd left made me stop in my tracks.

I tucked my mandibles. Don't be thick, Baratus. I picked up my datapad again. And I wrote him a short message, so unlike this letter. But ah, the frankness was the same.

Saren, I wrote. I want to talk. Do you?

I considered adding more, but decided against it. What would be the point? Yes or no. That was all I needed. Yes or no.

I got more than I bargained for. He replied within an hour, rousing me from my half-coma, half-doze. The sun was still in my eyes.

In a week, my apartment?

I wrote back immediately. Thank you. See you then.

And immediately collapsed again. A week. An entire week.

Needless to say, it was a terrible week. I arrived at the base promptly at morning and left promptly at night, never putting more than a strained smile between myself and the gate guards. I brought Desolas' sword home. My staff must have had their suspicions, but they said nothing about Saren's sudden absence. Even Nekil was nothing but polite. Perhaps it was because I scowled so often, and signed documents more viciously than usual.

I stopped going to that restaurant on Caralis for dinner. The taste was too good for my stomach to handle. Instead, I invested in frozen foods and cans of stew.

I did not turn to drink. Whenever I felt the urge, I simply lay on his side of the bed and stared at the ceiling until I fell asleep. The dreams no longer came, as if they were afraid of the rage and self-loathing buried in my chest. The pillow did not contain the faintest trace of rain pine.

My sister called one day, as I lay in that lifeless state. Ma and pa were on vacation now, they'd just left yesterday, and did I need anything, and should we meet in the meantime? I told her that the Relentless' hull was just beginning to be dismantled, and yes, I'd love to meet, but no, I had so much work to do. I had just too much work to do. Well, she said, we could always do it another time.

Sure, I said, call me. I disconnected.

And then I could see Saren, sitting in front of an old terminal and peering into a pixelated image on the flickering orange screen. Pleading with a microphone. Call me, Solas. Call.

Please.

Damn it.

I stood up and peered inside my closet. Yes, the white uniform of the legion was highly visible, especially among my autumn coats in browns and greys. I pulled it out and inspected it. Pristine. Did I dare?

I changed into it, careful to not catch my fringe or talons. Then I left, Desolas' sword strapped across my back.

Fortunately, it wasn't late enough for the taxis to evacuate the residential levels for the entertainment district. One came within minutes of my request, and I told the driver to take me to the air shuttle terminal. My mind was in turmoil and I did not trust myself with driving even with the autopilot. I had to restrain myself from crumpling the edges of my shirt, and I diverted my frayed-nerve attentions to the already battered seat. The radio was playing synthesised pop songs I'd never heard before. My head hurt.

It was much the same story on the shuttle. I wasn't alone, but for all intents and purposes I might as well have been. There was no music, only the rush of the air and the occasional rattling of the window when something hit its natural frequency. I put the sword over my knees and examined it. Wrapped my fingers around the hilt, remembering the very first time. They were the wrong fit, then. They still were. But had I accepted that?

Saren's would've been the right fit.

I sighed. Yes, they would've. But he had a road of his own, now. He's always been on a road apart.

I hailed a taxi at the destination terminal, too. I only knew the address, not the way there, and I didn't want to look it up. If I must forget this place, I might as well make it easier. The gates to the quad were jammed open. The elevator entrances were illuminated by low-hanging fluorescent lights, which let me see the puffs of dirt I kicked up as I walked across the courtyard. I had to squint to find the staircase. It was very cluttered. There was plenty of junk—wooden beams, sheet metal, broken appliances. But as I passed the third floor, I saw that someone had cultivated a whole potted garden around the landing, and it made me smile. I remembered the memorial park, the heavy smell of the ocean.

The balcony was no less crowded. There were oversized storage bins, and even an upside-down bicycle hanging overhead. I stood in front of his door; checked the time. It was eighteen. Would he be asleep?

I pressed call.

"Saren," I said plainly, "it's me."

One long, long minute later, the door opened, startling me. "Come in."

I can't tell if he'd been asleep. He was dressed casually. There was a fresh kettle of water boiling, and the stainless steel mugs were on the counter beside it. The light in the commons was off, but a lonely yellow strip lit up the kitchen.

"I guess I better explain myself, huh?"

He regarded me with a pensive expression. "You don't have to."

"That's why I came."

"I see." He turned his back to me and paced slowly to the window. There weren't many buildings between us and the mountains. I could actually spot a few stars.

"I don't know why I came," I confessed, and followed him.

"You wanted something."

"I don't know what I want."

"You wanted my brother."

"I did," I said, defeated.

"And now?"

"I don't know." I simply didn't. "It's hard to say." Pause. "It's just hard."

Hard for both of us. There was a pause of a minute or two.

He shifted his weight. "I apologise."

"Why?"

"I should've seen it. If only I looked deep enough." He closed his eyes. "If only I tried."

I put a hand on his shoulder, as gently as I could manage. "It doesn't matter. I'm all right. Are you?"

"Of course it matters."

"Are you?"

But I could tell by the way he let my hand rest where it wanted. "I am."

"Will you accept my apology?"

"Yes."

My throat was suddenly constricted. "Truly?" I croaked.

He looked back at me, unfazed. "I'll get you some tea."

I looked back, too. The water had finished boiling.

We sat in the commons like we had the very first time, but it was starlight that rippled across the dark tea in my mug instead. We were quiet for a long time.

"I can't see the stars in the city," I said.

"They're brighter in the mountains."

"Have you been out there at night?"

He put his drink down and nodded. "Hiking, yes. Good time of the year."

"Night hiking. Still not as impressive as night duelling." I smiled at Desolas' sword, lying across the table. Saren was silent.

"Well, it's getting late." I was halfway done, but I didn't want the silence to stretch on. I couldn't bear it. "I should go." I stood up and straightened my suit.

"The last RT is in ten minutes."

"Thanks."

When I made to step out of the commons, he reminded me quietly: "Baratus, you forgot your sword."

I swallowed. "Perhaps I should leave it here. Until I'm off in two days. If you're still up for that."

"Nonsense." He stood, too. Picked up the sword and pressed it into my shaking hands. "We have practice tomorrow." And then a light frown appeared. "Unless you want to practice right now?"

"Tomorrow." I gripped the scabbard tightly and made my way out. "Let's practice tomorrow."

"Good night, Baratus."

The door slid shut behind me.

That night marked the end of his recovery, and the beginning of mine. Or so I had thought. We know now, of course, that he has never truly let go of the fury and the terrible sadness in his spirit; rather, he'd drawn it into himself to fuel his ascent through the Spectre ranks, until the Council preferred to turn to no one else, until they could turn to no one else. But that was years later. The Saren of autumn 2157 was finally at peace.

I, too, found peace in the afternoons we spent training; in the preciseness of his strikes and in their lethality; in the outlines of his raised spinal plates, visible through his undersuit. I found peace in the knowledge that he was not Desolas, and never would be. We went to my apartment sometimes. He scoffed at my collection of frozen foods and I came back the next day with armfuls of groceries for the first time since I'd run errands for my mother. I felt accomplished. I felt less accomplished when I managed to set the cryo-foam off, but that's another thing altogether.

Desolas would've snapped a picture of my pan on fire and kept it for blackmail, no doubt. I smiled at the thought in the privacy of my kitchen.

Time has a way of slipping away between my fingers. One moment it was all sun and sky and warm summer breezes; the next, it was the endless grey of early winter. But the little practice room was windowless, and the passage of time stopped for me when I was inside, learning, laughing. Living.

The end of the beginning came too soon; it was inevitable.

"Baratus," he said one night, tapping my arm to get my attention. "I can't make it tomorrow."

"Why not?" I stopped struggling with my broken fastener and looked at him.

"I've been called in for evaluations."

I stopped completely. "What kind of evaluations?"

"Physical. Psychological." He paused. "Biotic, too."

"Cabal?"

He flicked a mandible. "Or so they'd have me believe. I think it's them, Baratus."

"Oh. Good luck, then." Relax. You knew this moment would come. You've always known. Even before the Grand Marshal set his fingers to the haptic interface.

"Thank you."

I looked into his eyes, and almost caught my reflection.

The news came a week later. I received a duplicate of the official letter, of course, but I didn't open the e-mail until Saren told me the relevant contents himself, behind the closed doors of my office.

"I'm flying to Menae in sixteen hours," he said.

I closed my eyes. "That's some very short notice."

"My leave officially ends tomorrow. Good timing. In fact, I'm getting an extra day out of it."

"One extra day. What will you do with it?"

"Are you free tonight?"

I leaned back. "Yes. What do you have in mind?"

But I already knew the answer.

The staircase going down the side of the escarpment wasn't quite treacherous, but it was steep enough that we held each other's hand as we descended, guided by a series of minuscule lights embedded into the stone steps. When we reached the bottom, I automatically took a deep breath. The smell of the ocean was fainter than before.

The Plaza looked ghostly in the night, lit only by the reflection of the city carried on the distant waves, and the pale Menae, half-full. The wind brought a hint of saltiness—and the sound of music. There was a performance in the Spire.

It was a majestic choral piece; I wasn't a connoisseur and I couldn't remember which it was, but I could swear I had heard it before. We stopped to listen. Beneath the walkways, I glimpsed little creatures scurrying in and out of sight.

"Ascension," he said, looking up. The tip of the Spire was barely visible over the cliff edge. "Concert must be almost over."

The potted trees and shrubs were still green. Hardy plants, with waxy leaves that resembled the stone of the Temple even more in the moonlight. The white marble was reminiscent of less pleasant things in its depths: the skulls of turians of ages past, the heart of the Monoliths, the light that shone from the depths of the monsters' eyes. But we marched onwards with the Litany of Ascension, on to the centre of the memorial.

"I can't believe it's been four months," I said, crossing my hands behind my back.

"Four months. Five days."

"Is it?"

He nodded.

"How long do you think you'll be away?"

He walked closer to the base of the obelisk, reached out, touched Desolas' name with his talontips. "I can't say. A year. Maybe more."

"Running dark?"

"Possibly."

"If there's anything you need—"

"Thank you," he turned to look at me, "but I have everything I need."

There was only silence left. The concert was over.

On the way back, after I'd dropped him off at the terminal, I began to feel the grip of unease twisting my guts. He may never come back. He might actually never come back, and I wouldn't even know. The view of the city grew blurry.

But you know how he is. When I arrived at my office the next morning, tired and lacking sleep, I found Desolas' sword on my desk. There was a folded note attached, written on a scrap piece of paper with the legion's beamer to the side. I didn't read it.

And this is the end, as they say, of the other beginning. The days were long, but the years were short, and he didn't come back to Palaven for quite some time. Not once more during my remaining tenure there.

Yours,

Baratus Malivian

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