I am endlessly thankful to Yawning Dragon, Gladius, Kadenex, Misfire Anon and ex-Clusum for reading the manuscript at various stages of completion and providing me with invaluable feedback and insights. Also to Heavenly Eros for taking my crude cover design and making it look gorgeous. To all the devotees of Mass Effect who keep the fandom alive with wonderful art and writing. And finally, to the authors of the series, for creating an amazing world and allowing us to extend it.
On June 7, 2020 I renamed the original asari character Olte to Elethea. She is only mentioned by name in chapter 21, Confrontation. The online versions of the story, here, on FFN and on AO3, I will edit at once to reflect the change. The offline versions—the pdf, epub and mobi files—will be edited for this, and other minor changes, at a later time.
Stepping back into the shrunken Mass Effect fandom, in which the Saren/Nihlus ship has always been a niche that is now kept afloat by literally a handful of unrelenting enthusiasts, I did not expect to find a new friend and creative ally (Sixtus), let alone two!
HeavenlyEros descended among us just as I came back from the summer hiatus and stirred the sleepy turian community into a state of cheerful excitement by showering us with art of unearthly beauty.
Nihlus turns a full circle, staring, unseeing, at the objects surrounding
him, too familiar to spark interest or insight.
“You win,” he says, like it needs saying. “Where is it?”
Saren stands by the door, leaning on the wall with his arms crossed and one leg bent at the knee. An uncharacteristically causal posture. He’s playing with Nihlus. The smirk that doesn’t quite reach the eyes confirms it.
Saren paces along the edge of the fountain. The air is cooler here and people tend to keep a distance because the wind occasionally sprays the walkway. He has chosen a public place for the meeting on purpose, to decrease the likelihood of drama. But it’s not helping with the anxiety. He starts clicking the strings staccato from the coda of Alienation with the gloved fingers of his right hand. The left is supposed to fall in line and do the percussion beats. But it doesn’t. Not on its own. He must think about it. What good is it if he must think about it? He crosses his hands behind his back, left gripping the right by the wrist, and does the strings only. Pitiful.
