The smile, as small as it was, had to been one of the more honest expressions she’d seen him wear. The Primarch was usually quite reserved, and there had been little to smile about, of late. The expression garnered a small smile on the Commander’s own lips—a recognition of the gratitude it conveyed. It was good to see him a little less guarded.
Shepard echoed his statement with a wry chuckle and fell in stride beside him. His long legs required a brisk pace from her shorter form, but she kept abreast of him as they moved along the Presidium walkway. They moved with a purpose only a pair of soldiers could carry: not in a rush, but with direction, intent. The civilians parted before them unconsciously.
Shepard kept an eye on their surroundings, unsure whether to revel in the brief respite and seeming tranquility, or to echo Vega’s earlier sentiment on how disillusioned the people of the Presidium seemed to be. The artificial sunlight glinted off the water, off the hulls of the skycars overhead, the air filled with the scent of flowers, and the beauty won out. Maybe it was the timing, the way Tarquin’s death threw the Presidium in stark relief, or the way Victus seemed intent on taking his time as they wandered, but, this once, she let the war take a back-seat to the present, to the moment before her now.Victus’ voice snapped her from her thoughts, drawing her gaze from the scenery and back to his face. She offered him a small smile. “It’s my honor, Primarch, truly.” She weaved around a diplomat with a reserved nod of recognition as they stepped up and through the turian embassies. “It’s the least I can do, to honor Tarquin’s sacrifice, and I believe it does us both good to be away from the Normandy, however briefly.”
{ Strange,he thought, to know these people. }
Every turian face they passed in the embassies had a name, a rank, a story. He could glance at them and mentally note their service backgrounds, their hours of operation, all the little idiosyncrasies that distinguished them from their brethren; the facial tics, the twist to the heel when standing in military parade. He was as familiar with administrators and diplomats as he once had been with corporals and mission specialists.
He allowed himself a glance down at the human beside him. It occurred to him, with a dreamy sense of distance - as though these observations had been made by a fixed point above his shoulder by a third, incorporeal observer - that they did not make so incongruous a pair. Turian height, avian flesh, hardened plating. Turian steel. These things with fragile, pierceable human skin a match does not make. But Shepard radiated will,and force, and diplomacy. He was not off-put by her alienness – sheaves of dark hair drawn tight against her skull, fleshly pale epidermis, a quintet of digits upon either hand. None of this mattered. She had a turian spirit, and one he respected.
Upon ushering her into Fedorian’s former office block in the embassies with but a minute, understated gesture, he considered her words. He’d heard Tarquin’s name invoked many times in the intervening months following the mission in the Kelphic Valley. Murmured sympathies, criticisms from Hierarchy loyalists accusing Command of allowing too many concessions, of weakening the iron chokehold on the Krogan DMC. This was the first time he had actually felt a damn was ever given about the man his son had been.
Adrien hesitated a moment; toeing the line between governor and father. The smile he had briefly offered returned again. A small, genuine lift of the cheek, mandibles no longer cracking with tension. “She’s a beautiful ship,” he acknowledged, “But I was beginning to feel suffocated." He poured out a glass of amber turian whiskey, and made a slight nod to the more modest collection of levo-amino liquors. What’s your poison? He did not bother to ask. The Primarch was subdued, contemplative. In this rare moment of mourning, he dispensed with pleasantries that did not need to be uttered, a symptom of his unguarded respect of the commander.
He did not bother with the lights. The room was still well illuminated by the open bank of floor to ceiling windows that filtered the crisp permadaylight of the Presidium. "Beautiful, isn’t it?” He said at last, quietly. He did not bother clarifying what he meant. She need only follow the direction of his eyes. “But I prefer the Wards. They don’t lie about where we really are. And the view is impossible to replicate anywhere in the galaxy. I grew up planetside. I knew military service offered the chance to see more of Citadel space – but it took years until I was stationed abroad, and years more until my view was anything more than the backside of a bunker. Not exactly as advertised, but enlistment is mandatory anyway.” He allowed a small chuckle, drink swirling in his grasp. Untouched.
“Tarquin also had a thirst for exploration. He took after me – couldn’t stand to be idle." His words died, like ash, in his mouth. "If I may ask…why did you enlist? I could read psych evals done on you for days and not get any closer to understanding." He still held onto the whiskey, unwilling to sip, as though imbibing the alcohol would wash away Tarquin’s legacy in one, final toast. An illogical fear, a father’s fear. For once, he was not a general, not a primarch. He was not even a husband or progenitor. At last, perhaps for the first time in years – longer even than the Reaper War, he would not deny – he was allowing himself to just be a man again. Turian: simple and fallible as anyone else.
"♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ ♚ "
Love you too hon!
"₩ ((Arrives late with coffee))"
“The Commander’s a helluva woman. Helluva leader. She’s incomparable. The way she commands loyalty could put too many good Hierarchy generals to shame. I respect her, of course, but I also like her. She’s got fortitude, and a will as steely as any turian’s. I’ve witnessed her humor around the Normandy, the easy way she has with her crew. There’s a lot to admire about her, from her tactical mind to her soldier’s instinct. Her compassion
But she’s also just one person, and I fear she’s burdened with too much. She’ll carry the scars of war with her for the rest of her life. Of that, I have no doubt. I won’t lie; it worries me to see the kind of tasks she’s forced to take on. It’s not my place to interfere, but I can see it. I’m old enough and experienced enough to see the signs. If she didn’t have her crew to bolster he when she stumbles, the galaxy wouldn’t have even a hope of being saved.”
((-whispers- If you don’t already follow imperatorvictus you should go do that. ‘Cause holy cow—what a muse and the mun’s a total sweetie.))
Shepard inclined her head once again, this time in agreement. A soft, sad smile crept across her features and creased the line of her brow at the mention of Tarquin’s picture. Victus had been nothing but professional since his arrival on the Normandy—the cost of his duty to his people in this war. She was only now beginning to see the father, the man under the title. She was honored for the glimpse.
“Of course. I’d be honored, Primarch."
She met his gaze evenly when he turned his attentions on her. Her spine straightened out of reflex. Shepard held a great deal of respect for Victus—she empathized with him, as a soldier pulled from the battlefield to lead. She understood his sacrifice, and admired him for it.
His words cracked her visage. Her eyes widened, a small, lopsided grin curving her lips. She chuckled and shook her head. “I was merely doing my job, Primarch. Without your cooperation, and the turian Hierarchy’s willingness to work with us, I doubt I would’ve changed much on my own.” She bent slightly at the waist in a bow. “Really, it’s I who should be thanking you, for your assistance and willingness to take up a mantle you didn’t want.” Shepard straightened and met the turian’s gaze. “So, if anything, it’s about time we set aside our differences. You helped make that possible. “
His mandibles drew up in a small smile. It was restrained, but genuine, and the single expression seemed to transmit the full measure of the Primarch’s gratitude – for her help, for her words, for the full summation of her character. A character he could respect. He inclined his head at her formal bow.
"I helped some, yes.” He agreed, “Spirits, it wasn’t easy. But I helped.” His faint smile widened at his own words, for some much-needed levity. The Primarch paused, thoughtful. “Walk with me, Commander." His long legs carried him forward with assured, unhurried strides. The eternal, synthetically generated sunshine of the Presidium cast sparks upon the waters, the hum of skycars rustling the branches of the carefully tendered, alien flora.
Adrien was determined to appreciate the beauty he so often hurried past. Today, he would take nothing for granted. Not the pulse in his veins, not the relatively intact peace of the Citadel, not the remarkable human at his side. All these things, and more, he would be thankful for – because he had, for so many years, taken his son for granted. It is every father’s expectation to have their child outlive them, to selfishly slide into oblivion without the pain of ever witnessing his child pass away before their time.
{ And so, in Tarquin’s honor, Adrien was going to appreciate being alive. }
"I want to thank you again for this, Commander. You had no official prerogative to accept this…admittedly unorthodox request.” Amber eyes flicked to the woman beside him as he lead her through the turian embassies, diplomats expressing their respect to the pair of them, “It means much to me.”
"((gently sets url here))"
Commander Shepard. [A slight fluttering of mandibles] Hnh. I’ll have to condense everything I have to say about her. First and foremost, there is no human I respect more than her. My respect is not given freely, it is earned. The Commander has earned it, and then some. She’s a force unto herself, a leader with the quality to inspire total devotion — her crew would follow her to hell and back. Spirits, damn it, so would I.
I’m not what one would call naive, but if anyone’s capable of uniting this fractious galaxy, it would be her. It is not just a duty to work alongside my ally, but an honor. Never before has so much rested on one individual, but she is the pride of her people, and she has already changed the fate of the galaxy — for better.
“Primarch.”
Her posture echoed his own, driven by the formality of his tone, of his address. She tucked one hand into the other behind her back and spread her feet shoulder width apart—at ease. She inclined her head briefly at the address.
There was a fluctuation in his subvocals—hesitance, if she was reading his posture right. Spending time with Garrus had taught her to pick up on the more subtle tones of turian inflection and posture, but not all. She kept her expression neutral as he spoke and masked her surprise.
“Of course, Primarch. I’d be happy to honor his memory.” She inclined her head once more, this time in respect. “He was a good soldier, and the world is less for his loss. It would be my honor to assist you.”
He appreciated the way she comported herself to show respect, soldier to soldier. Adrien acknowledged the gravity she was lending to assuage the wounds of a tired old veteran, and he reflected again on how he was thankful that the war had, at least, brought them together as allies. It was an honor and a pleasure to have worked alongside her, even if they had not always agreed.
“Given that the Normandy is already docked in the Citadel, I’d like you to accompany me to my offices. There, at least, I can raise a toast to my son’s name. I’ve…kept a picture of him. It’s the only one I have."
Avian eyes flickered over her, taking in her alien features, her stance. "Thirty years ago, you would have been my enemy. Not even five years ago, my people continued to view your race with suspicion and contempt. Today we may walk together in good accord and think nothing of it. The union between our species has been healed because of you. I cannot ever pay you back for that.”
“–Commander.”
There was formality in his approach, a somberness in his hooded eyes and the hard set of his mandibles. He stopped a respectful distance away, arms folded in the military fashion behind his rigid back, spine ramrod straight.
“I have a request." The faint flush of hesitancy seeps through his subvocals, belying his otherwise unyielding demeanor. "A personal request, and one which I have little right to ask. For once, it isn’t duty that drives me, but it’s…the need of a grieving father. Today would have been Tarquin’s birthday. His last, we spent apart, each of us serving in different clusters."
He met her eyes with an even stare, regardless of the raw content of his words. "I would be humbled if you would help me honor his memory. You allowed him to make the turians proud – to make me proud.”