Author's Note: Originally written for the Mass Effect LJ community's 2010 Secret Santa exchange. Though Thane is certainly not easy for me to write, I felt it was worth posting- I hope you agree.
Mass Effect 2 and associated characters are property of Bioware.
Kaddish
He has not seen his parents since he was six years old, when he left home to begin his training.
Mother and Father argue for days before the hanar come to take me away. I crouch behind the half-open door to my sleeping chamber and press close to the gap; Father raises his voice until Mother hushes him. "We cannot refuse this. It is an honor for our family," she murmurs, and Father sighs.
"I know it. But to have a son of mine raised a-" He stops, and coughs a little. His bare feet scuff along the floor, moving toward me. I draw back, but it is too late- the door opens, and Father stands there, and smiles. "It's time for bed, son. But first, we must pray, as our ancestors on Rakhana did," his arms reach down and lift me skyward; I curl against his chest. "And we have a story to finish, before you start your schooling."
I dream pleasant dreams, of school and stories and new playmates, of Mother and Father smiling proudly.
The next day, I leave our small house. Mother cries as I go, though I smile and wave. "I'll see you soon, Mother," I say, as she presses her lips to my forehead. Father hands me a little suitcase; the handle bites into my palm as I follow the hanar through the open door.
He is twelve now, still small-boned and delicate, shimmying through the heating ducts on his way to the target's living quarters. The little pistol nestles in the small of his back, cool against his skin even as the warm air blows past. After the second right turn the grate, as he was told, is loose; his fingers slip through the holes and draw the screen inward and he slips to the floor soundlessly.
My feet bleed for days after the first lessons and I cry, homesick, in my sleeping pod. Finally one of the older boys draws me aside. "It's for your own good, boy," (they did not use names anymore, after the first day) he says. "You've got to learn to move quietly." He taps the wire against his palm.
The space is nearly bare, empty of furniture and personal items, a place to hide rather than a home. The hanar hovers on the far side of the room, near the window, and it does not move as he makes his way across. He draws his weapon and levels it- six inches from the frontal projection to sever the brainstem- and thumbs the safety.
"This one has been expecting you, but it did not anticipate one so young." Its coloration shifts, reddening and pulsing ever so slightly. "It is fitting, one supposes. This one has come to believe it is not desirable to steal the young from their homes, to teach them to kill before they learn to reason. It objected to this practice. It attempted to interfere, and so it must die. Traditions must be upheld."
Thane does not speak; he is not permitted to speak. The pistol is steady in his hand. I am the weapon- it echoes like a mantra in his head and blocks out forbidden thoughts. His heart pounds. His fingers twitch. I am the weapon.
"You are not at fault. It knows this." It turns aside from him, allowing him a wider view and a better target. "This one knows many things, and has done many things- terrible things, regretful things. This one led you from your parents. For this, it is sorry."
"I'm sorry, Krios." The boy whispers to me. He brushes past in the narrow hallway of the dormitory and pushes a data disc into my hand. I am eleven years old. I have not heard my own name in five years.
I walk to my sleeping pod, and when I am alone I load the disc. Part of me believes it is a test. Part of me does not care. I scan the screen, quickly.
My father is dead.
I do not cry; it is not permitted. But for the first time since coming to this place, I whisper prayers to Kalahira before I sleep and in that moment I am six years old, held close in my father's arms.
"I go now to join the Enkindlers who gave us language, who raised us from the depths. I will pass beyond; I will be forgiven, and so do I forgive." The hanar's form flickers once, then stills. Its voice echoes in the empty chamber. "This one is ready."
Thane nods, ever so slightly, and pulls the trigger. There is a flash, bright in the dim space, and then there is nothing but the sound of his own breathing and a crumpled form on the ground before him.
We pray together, Father and I, in the darkness before I sleep.
Kalahira Wavemistress, gatherer of souls, watch over us. Wash us clean of imperfection and wickedness. Guard well our ancestors, and when our spirits depart this life, guide us to the afterworld.
FIN