Chapter 3: The Final Test

Ethan trudged through the dense undergrowth, keeping on a constant line to the west. All around him the sounds of the rainforest could be heard: the chirping of various insects, the wind gusting through the fern leaves, the gurgle of the water in the streams. But Ethan wasn't concerned about those. Mentally blocking them out he scanned his surroundings constantly, eyes darting left and right, his ears trying to pick up the sound of a predator before he saw it.

The forest might seem idyllic, with its vibrant combination of green grasses, ferns and trees, contrasted with the stunning reds, yellows, purples and oranges of the flowers, all beneath an azure sky and a warm sun but Ethan knew its true nature. The forest was a killing ground, a natural battlefield. The flowers, with their oh so pretty petals, were more as likely to spit poison than smell nice. The trees that towered in grandeur above the forest floor were actually killing the plants beneath, depriving them of the nutrients and sunlight that they needed and the shadows they cast? Although cool and a good place to rest weary muscles Ethan knew all too well they were the favoured hiding spots of Varren and other such things that wouldn't pass up a tasty meal of human flesh.

As he walked he remembered how six years ago, just after the day he'd decided was his eighteenth birthday, he'd been walking in the forest, to get some root or some such thing his master wanted to show him the uses of. It was just past midday and the forest was swelteringly hot, the sun blazing down in a sky devoid of clouds. Having acquired the root he was making his way back to the house on the peninsula, but the son was so damn hot, like a furnace in the sky. So, setting down his pack, he laid against the trunk of an old and wizened tree and fell asleep.

When he awoke it was to the sound of growling. His eyes flying open and surging to his feet he had found himself face to face with a Varren, a big one. It had been at least thirteen feet long, head to tail, with a hide as dark as night and eyes as red as blood. Opening its cavernous mouth it had roared at him, displaying a huge array of fangs, the two primary ones around as long as carving knives and just as sharp. Slowly the two had circled one another, each never breaking eye contact with the other.

The Varren made the first move, pouncing straight at him, mouth open in a roar of bestial fury. Diving to the side he just managed to avoid grim death, the Varren's putrid breath wafting by him, seeping into his nostrils, a stench of meat and decay. Straightening up his hand had flown to his side, drawing a survival knife, ten inches long and wickedly sharp, and holding it reversed. The light filtering down through the gaps in the forest's foliage had glinted on the blade, grabbing the Varren's attention. Remembering all his training from his master Ethan had positioned himself directly in front of the Varren, which was pacing around him, growling and snarling. Then he had closed his eyes and the whole world had receded. The only sounds had been of his breathing and the Varren breathing. Without his eyes to guide him he had tracked the Varren using only his ears and then he had heard it, the perfect moment of stillness, the calm before the storm. The Varren leapt and he had leapt forward to meet it.

His blade had sliced in through the Varren's open teeth, slicing across one side of its jaw and then exiting, raking along its head until finally it scythed into its right eye. The Varren had howled as the globe burst, spurting red blood and pieces of matter across his right arm, staining the handmade shirt all the way to the elbow. Then, with a sound that was half terrifying and half pitiful, the Varren had surged forward, bowling him over and laying open his right bicep with it claws in three parallel lines. And then it was gone, howling into the undergrowth.

Shaking his head and cursing himself for a fool for slipping into his memories and thus putting himself at risk Ethan refocused his mind and forced himself to stay alert. His master would've had his hide if he'd seen that lapse, or a Varren would've. Casting aside such thoughts he moved on.

Hours later, as the sun finally dipped below the horizon and darkness began to descend, Ethan decided to make camp and, looking around at his surroundings he started thinking tactically.

"River to my back, ten and a half feet wide, fast flowing. It's impossible to ford due to current and I'd hear something trying to leap it. Open perimeter, roughly seven meters in diameter, allows for construction, fire pit, the works. Why not? Won't find a better place than this in a while."

And so he got to work. He emptied his pack on the ground, examining the contents. Then he took the tubing that would form the skeleton of his shelter and put it together, driving the foundation pieces into the soft soil and building upwards. Then he draped the waterproof covering over it, securing it in place with lengths of twine. Stepping back he admired his handiwork, the shelter was just as wide as he was tall with three solid walls and one that had a decent sized opening, allowing for easy access and exit. Then he took several good-sized stones from the riverbank and arranged them in a circle, thus preventing the fire he would start within that circle from spreading and burning the surrounding ground.

Content with his work Ethan turned his back to the river and went in search of firewood. His search for kindling went well and he soon had a sizeable amount of sticks and twigs clenched under one arm. As he searched for other, larger, pieces of wood that would serve as fuel for the fire for hours Ethan found himself thinking that acquiring a weapon of some sort was probably a good idea. He was painfully aware of the absence of his sword and the two old pistols his master let him use for live ammo.

After a few minutes searching Ethan found what he needed. A towering tree, which stretched upward into the sky, seeking ever more sunlight, with a deep rich brown colour to its timber. Walking around it he found a branch, ten feet long and practically as straight as possible.

Positioning himself next to the trunk Ethan exhaled, twisting his neck. Then, blue witchfire spreading down his arms, he took his stance. In one quick motion he brought his hand down in a vicious chop. Bolstered by biotic energy the strike clove through the wood, close to the trunk, with the ease of a hot knife through butter. The branch crashed to the ground, severed from the system that had sustained it.

Picking the branch and his pile of firewood Ethan made his way back to his camp. When he got there he picked up his small box of tinder, strips of dried bark and fluff, soaked in flammable liquid and then dried, and half emptied it into the center of the circle of stones. Then he took his flint and struck it against a stone, causing sparks to fly into the air, glowing brightly then fading into nothing. Striking the flint again he watched as the sparks landed on the tinder. Gently he blew on the tinder, adding more oxygen to fuel the fire. Slowly the sparks began to grow into small flames. Carefully he added the smallest and thinnest of the kindling, watching as the fire caught on those as well. Then he added more sizable pieces of wood, all the while taking care not to smother the flames, thus depriving them of oxygen. Soon he had a sizeable fire going, providing heat in the cold night air.

Content with his fire Ethan turned to the branch he had taken from the great tree. Taking his flint once more he used its edge as a means to cut and shape the tip of the wood. Slowly the wood was reformed into a crude spear-tip. Taking it to the river he plunged the spear tip into the water and held it there for a moment. Then he drew it back out, the water droplets turning a glowing orange as they reflected the light of the fire. Taking it to the fire he thrust it into the hot charcoal at its base. Slowly the heat drove the moisture from the wood, hardening the spear tip. Finally satisfied with his work Ethan withdrew the spear from the fire and plunged it into the soft soil. Then, gathering a small blanket around himself he fell asleep, drifting into the dark bliss of a well-earned rest.

The next day he struck camp and traveled ever onwards, using the butt of his new spear as a walking stick. It took him many hours, and thankfully no beasts of the forest gave him trouble him, save for the Pyjaks, which got under his feet at the worst times, but eventually he reached the destination that had been given to him by his master. As he crested a hill his deep blue eyes took in the sight, a sight that took his breath away.

What he saw was the great corpse of the MSV Valiant. Twisted and broken metal lay everywhere, only partially reclaimed by the planet's vegetation. The ground, once scorched black by the crash, was only just recovering, a small stubble of verdant grass growing. Vines twisted around the remains of the sundered ship, which had once carried the hopes and dreams of so many. The years of exposure to the pitiless elements had discolored the once shining metal, turning it a rusted, black color but on one huge piece of the destroyed hull, in flaking paint, was the name: Valiant.

Slowly he made his way through the veritable forest of black, rusted metal which had once gleamed in the light of suns all across the galaxy. As he walked through the spires of broken ship he kept on having this nagging feeling that he'd been here before. He felt almost as if he could hear the chatter of people at work or the shrieks of children at play. Despite the noonday heat he felt his skin grow cold and goose flesh rise on his arms. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as decaying metal creaked and shuddered under its own weight. Despite the evident amount of time it had lain here Ethan could still faintly smell the chemical odors of fuel and disinfectant, harsh compared to the natural smells of the planet's forests and coasts.

He rounded a corner and beheld a sight that surprised and confused him in equal measures. Two mounds of stones lay side-by-side, roughly seven feet long and three feet wide. As he approached them he caught sight of a metal box lying between them, oddly unsullied by exposure to the elements.

"Must've been put there recently." Ethan deduced, moving towards it. "But who by?" Slowly he opened the lid. "What the?" Inside the box was a rolled up scroll of Varren parchment, sealed with a small length of twine. Opening it his eyes read the flowing handwriting of his master.

Ethan,

If you are reading this then you have reached the destination this one instructed you to reach. Having done so this one finds it prudent to inform you about your origins. From what I could recover from the "black box" server from the ship that lies broken around you your full name is Ethan Lee Farrows. You were born on Terran date 22nd August, 2159. When you were four years old you and your parents were on board the Colony Ship MSV Valiant. Due to an unprecedented release of solar radiation the ship was damaged catastrophically. It crashed onto our planet Saheros. The casualties were total, except for you. The graves next to you contain the bodies of your mother and father, Duncan and Clara Farrows. This one identified them using a DNA scanner a few days after this one took you under its wing and buried them here. It took this one much work to complete its work but this one felt it owed them some dignity. Rest here for the night, meditate and this one will see you when you return.

Your master

Ethan was sent reeling, the scroll dropping from unfeeling fingers. His parents, his history, his full name, all had been simply dropped on him. He now knew everything that had been taken from him. Everything he had lost. It all made sense, the feelings he had experienced as he walked through the wreckage hadn't been feelings but memories, long since repressed or buried under the wealth of knowledge, both martial and academic, that he possessed. Emotions churned within him: sorrow at what he had lost, rage at his master for not telling him earlier and a strange feeling of completion, of final realization. Kneeling down before the twin graves his words came out in a hushed, halting whisper.

"Mom…Dad…I never knew you but I want….I want you to know…that I will always be grateful for…for you saving me. I…want you to know that I will never…ever…forget the two of you, despite the small of the time we spent together."

He stayed kneeling, searching internally through his memories. He stayed in that position as the sun dropped from its zenith. He stayed there, his knees pressing into the dark soil of Seheros as the sun slowly dropped below the horizon and the multitude of stars began to shine in the sable sky. The air grew cold but even though dressed in only a thin shirt of homespun fabric and trousers of the same fabric, he did not flinch or shiver. He was awake the entire time and despite his deep mental activity he did not fail to hear the sounds of the night, the wind whistling through the trees, the creaking of the old, blackened metal.

"I know you're there." He said, getting to his feet and turning around. In the gathering darkness his gaze was met by one glowing, blood red eye.

The Varren that he had last fought so many years ago stood before him, its spines quivering in the night air. Even from twenty meters away Ethan could smell its fetid breath once more, snaking into his nostrils. As the Varren opened its mouth, displaying its teeth, which shone like steel in the pale moonlight, Ethan bent down, his gaze never dropping from the Varren's. With one steady hand he gripped the wooden spear he had made. Then, now armed against his opponent, he took a broad stance between the graves of his parents, ready for combat, ready to kill. Ready to die.

As before the Varren made the first move, barreling forward, saliva dripping from its maw. And Ethan charged to meet it, twirling the spear in his hands as he ran. They collided, the right forepaw swiping at Ethan's throat. Leaping to the right Ethan narrowly avoided grim death, feeling the air part in front of the Varren's claws. Twirling the spear he struck the Varren across its shoulder blades, causing it to buckle slightly. It recovered, swiping again with its claws, this time aiming for Ethan's legs, forcing him to leap backwards.

As he made his move the Varren pounced, its jaw open, ready once more to tear his throat out and feast upon his flesh. Ethan tried to move away but the Varren was too quick. It slammed into him, knocking him to the ground. As he struggled before the Varren's weight he threw his head to the side, narrowly dodging the Varren's fangs, which would've taken out his throat if they had connected but which instead closed only upon solid ground. Spitting out a clod of soil the Varren drew back its great head; all the while Ethan was scrabbling, trying desperately to grab onto the spear he had dropped. The Varren lunged again, just as Ethan's right hand curled around the haft of the spear. Adrenaline coursing through his veins, Ethan swung the spear across his body in a vein attempt to protect his throat.

CRACK!

The Varren's teeth closed upon the spear shaft, the immense power of its jaws snapping the wood like dry kindling. But to Ethan's good luck shards of wood ripped into the soft lining of its mouth and the back of its throat. Writhing in pain the Varren eased the pressure on Ethan's body slightly, which was all he needed. Bunching his legs underneath the Varren's torso Ethan heaved, using all his strength. The Varren was launched off him, sent rolling in the dirt.

Leaping to his feet, Ethan stared at the two pieces of splintered wood in his hands, one of which still retained its sharp, killing, point. Hefting the blunt piece he launched it at the Varren, all it did though was make it angrier as the piece of wood rebounded harmlessly off its forehead. A deep, throaty growl emanating from its maw the Varren lowered its head and scraped its back-leg against the ground before finally charging forward, primal fury burning like the sun in its one remaining blood-red eye.

Time seemed to slow for Ethan and that moment, he could see the world in infinite detail. He saw the spittle foaming at the sides of the Varren's mouth; saw the strands of saliva hanging from its jaws. He saw the blackened paintwork flaking off, small flecks stirring in the wind; he heard the creaking of the trees, bending in the wind. He felt the wind on his back and the cold air in his lungs. He saw the Varren coming towards him; savage, bestial, unthinking save for its desire to kill.

Hefting the remaining shard of spear in his hand, he threw it with all his might. It flipped end over end, flying straight for Varren and Ethan's hope, his fear and his will to survive went with it.

A day later the elderly Hanar sage stood at the bottom of the path that led up to the dwelling he shared with his student. Above him the sun worked its way along its eternal path across the sky. Behind him the waves waged their near-everlasting war of attrition against the cliffs. And before him lay the primordial beauty of the jungle, verdant greens and browns before it dropped away into black shadows.

"We are all small against the grandeur of nature," he thought to himself, disregarding the usual formality with which he spoke due to his solitude. "War may shatter the galaxy, thousands or millions might die but the sun will still shine, the mountains will still stand. We are all naught but dust against them." Slowly he considered why such thoughts had come to him. He knew he was getting no younger. Soon would be the time for him to journey on and see if his gambit had paid off, to see whether The Enkindlers were real. Soon he would have to talk to Ethan, to tell him all he must know. To tell him why-

A sudden rustling shook him from his soliloquy. Slowly he readied the neurotoxins he naturally possessed, directing them to the tips of his tentacles. The beasts of the forest mostly ignored him but every so often a young Varren would make a try of making him its meal, an attempt it lived through if it was lucky. He mentally prepared himself for combat as slowly the leaves parted.

The leaves parted to reveal Ethan, sweat drenched and with a few new cuts and bruises but otherwise fine. Mentally directing the neurotoxins to dissipate, the old Hanar moved towards his student, gliding over the ground. As he drew close Ethan bowed deeply from the waist.

"Master," he said, keeping his eyes on the ground. "I have done as you have asked."

"This one would like to know if you have anything to say?" he replied, falling back once more into the typical polite speech of his race.

"Yes master, I do." Ethan replied "I'd like to thank you, for what you did for my parents. Also I would like you to know that the great Varren I told you of is dead."

"Indeed? This one would like you to tell it of all you experienced."

"As you wish master." And with that Ethan began the report of his experiences.

By the time Ethan was finished the sun had already reached its zenith and had begun dipping towards the horizon. Both he and his master were now in the courtyard of their residence, Ethan sitting upon a small chair, his master hovering before him

"It seems you have had quite an experience, my student."

"Indeed, master."

"This one is very proud of your achievements. You may take the remains of day as you will. This one will summon you when it is necessary for us to talk."

"Thank you, my master." Came Ethan's reply, after which he got up, bowed and went to his quarters.

Several hours later Ethan heard a noise like nothing he had ever heard before. It was like the buzzing of many insects in flight, but multiplied several hundred times over. Grabbing his sword from his desk and looping the belt around his waist he ran to the front door. There he found his master just outside, staring up at the sky. Just as he stepped outside a shadow blocked out the light of the waning sun. Above him a craft of gleaming silver metal flew through the sky. It flew over the rough dwelling built on the peninsula, heading to the west.

Instantly his master turned to him. "Identify." He asked, uncommonly brusquely.

The profile of the craft, which was busy setting down around half a kilometer to the west, triggered a memory in Ethan's head.

"UT-47 Kodiak Drop Shuttle." Ethan supplied, remembering it from one of his lessons.

"Very good." His master replied. "Now Ethan, stay here. This one will see what our guests want."

"But, master surely-" Ethan tried to protest but his master cut him off,

"This one did not offer a suggestion Ethan."

"Very well. As you wish." And with that he span on his heel and made his way back inside.

He had only got to his room when he heard the gunshot spilt the still air.

His heart in his mouth, Ethan started running. He tore through his house, his mind conjuring scenarios he didn't want to even consider. He barreled down the rocky peninsula, not caring as the sharp-edged cut at his feet. His chest heaved and his legs ached but he didn't feel it. His gaze was fixed at the location of the shuttle's landing zone, where the gunshot had come from. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as his legs gained another boost of speed. But it wasn't enough. Stopping just within the shadows at the edge of the clearing his blue eyes took in a sight that turned his blood to ice.

His master was on the ground, the levitation pack that was powered by his own energy no longer functioning, and blue tinged liquid that was the Hanar equivalent of blood was pouring from a bullet hole in his side. Around him were four scavengers, judging from their mis-matched, out of date, armor, which were either scorched or punctured by bullet holes.

"Stupid Jellyfish," stated one of the scavengers, a Batarian without a helmet and mis-matched shoulder-pads who held a smoking Carnifex Heavy Pistol. "Trying to get in our way."

"Yeah," said another, a helmeted human whose leg-guards were of a different style to his chestplate, which itself had a large crack down one side. "Come on, lets go find what's left of the Valiant."

As the other two scavengers joined in the conversation, talking about cuts or other such things, Ethan felt anger start to course through his veins, swallowing the grief. His vision narrowed on the four men who had taken from him his master and his friend. Blue witchfire, tinged not this time with white but black, almost as if it were drawing the ink from his tattoo, course across his entire body and ever so silently he drew his Kopis, the blade shining silver.

With a cry of anger and anguish in equal measure Ethan used his biotics to hurl himself forward into the midst of the scavengers. The Batarian died within a heartbeat, his throat crushed by a biotically reinforced punch. Sweeping his legs low across the grass, Ethan brought down the helmeted human, who died screaming as Ethan drove his blade straight through the layers of ceramic plating that covered his stomach, before ripping it upwards, through his ribcage, eviscerating his heart and lungs. The third, a Salarian dressed in only the thinnest of armors, could only watch in muted horror as Ethan, using his blade, which was still thrust into his comrade's chest, as a base from which he cartwheeled, thrusting his feet, aided by biotics, into the Salarian's chest, crushing the bones of his rib-cage which speared his vital organs.

As Ethan righted himself and ripped his blade from the mutilated torso of the human the last scavenger, a barefaced Turian, finally pulled his rifle free. Bringing it to his shoulder he sighted on the glowing blue bastard who had just taken apart his buddies.

"I've got you now, you son of a bitch." He said, his voice raspy. But before he could squeeze the trigger a voice, dripping with hatred and wrath, interrupted his though processes.

"Not a chance in hell."

The swordsman's hand shot out, blue and black biotic fire flowing from it. It enveloped the rifle he held tightly in trembling hand, flowing over every bit of it. Then the man clenched his fist and the assault rifle cracked, deformed and twisted before finally just shattering in his grasp, leaving him holding two lumps of black plastic. Immediately he stumbled back, tripping in his haste to get away. Scuttling backwards on his hands and knees he finally hit the side of the small shuttle he and his friends had used to get to this damn planet. Looking up he gazed fearfully into a pair of deep blue eyes that stared back at him with as much sympathy as he would give a bug he crushed beneath his heel.

"Spirits, no!" he cried as the young man hefted that bloodstained blade of his. "Mercy I beg of you!"

The blue eyes did not lose their hard look.

"No." was the only reply he got as the blade swung in.

His shoulder rising and falling as he drew in great gulps of air, Ethan turned his back on the now decapitated Turian and ran to his master's side. Tearing off a strip of his shirt he tried desperately to plug the bullet hole in his master's body. As he did so his master stirred slightly, turning what counted as his head to look up at his student, who had tears running down his cheeks.

"Ethan…" he managed to say, his normally serene, almost ethereal, voice changed to little more than a weak whisper.

"I'm here master, I'm here. Just hold on. I'm going to-"

"There is no point Ethan, this is this one's time."

"Don't say that!" Ethan begged "I just need to get you back to the house, I can do this. I can do it!"

"Listen to me Ethan," he instructed, abandoning civility in light of the circumstances. "In my study…the back wall. There's a safe. Combination 22-07-59. The contents are yours."

"22-07-59. Got it."

"Ethan. There's something you've got to know, about your training, the reason behind it. My true name, my soul name, is Xanthian. In the language of my people it means "He who prepares the guard". I was given this name because…" but the elderly Hanar was unable to finish. His body relaxed, his voice faded into nothingness and the faint light that was the only amount of Hanar bioluminescence Ethan could pick up blinked into darkness.

"Master?" Ethan asked, his voice hoarse. "Master?" He asked again, shaking the Hanar's body slightly.

"XANTHIAAAAAN!" He screamed to the heavens, his voice full of pain and loss.

An hour later he stood before the door to his master's study. The one room he had never entered unless asked to. He had buried Xanthian, weighing his body with rocks and letting the sea take him, as had been his will, told to him one evening as they had talked of the differences in religions.

Slowly opening the door, he stepped inside the room of gleaming wood. He ignored the great shelves of books, each penned in his master's neat, flowing script. He ignored the great window of leaded glass that allowed in the pale light of the moon. He did not even pause as he passed the polished desk, upon which rested even more papers and a small terminal. Finally he came to the safe, which was set into the exterior wall at the back.

Typing in the code, which he had ruefully figured out was his date of birth, he opened the thick metal door. Reaching inside he pulled out a duffle bag and a bundle, wrapped in oilcloth. Taking both to the center of the room he first opened the duffle bag, tipping its contents onto the floor.

They were clothes, finely made clothes at that.

"It must've taken Xanthian months to make these." Ethan thought to himself.

Doffing his torn and bloodstained shirt he put on the long-sleeved shirt of white cotton, doing up all but the last two buttons. Then he picked up a sleeveless black leather jacket, highly embellished with gold thread of the same design as his tattoo. As he picked it up felt his arms sag slightly as he felt the weight of it. Trying to figure it out he examined the jacket and ran his hands along it. After a while he figured out the cause of the extra weight. Between the two layers of leather his master had placed thin ceramic plates, which afforded both protection and mobility. Sliding his arms through the holes, he zipped it up to around three quarters of its length. Next he donned a pair of black trousers, around which he looped his sword belt and which he tucked into black shin length Varren leather boots, which had gold embellishments as well. Finally he turned to the last, but by no means least, article of clothing. It was a greatcoat of black wool. Slipping it on it fell to halfway down his shins. Adapting to the feel he realized that Xanthian had weighted the hem, adding an offensive capability to the garment. Added to the back neckline was a thick hood, to both conceal his face and protect him from the elements.

Bending down Ethan picked up the bundle of black oilcloth and unwrapped it. Within the mess of fabric was a pair of guns. And what a pair! They were a pair of M-4 Shuriken Submachineguns, but they'd been heavily modified. They had had their Mass Effect generators replaced with more powerful models, so a note found with them explained, adding extra stopping power as well as phasic jacketing for increased penetration of either armor or shielding and kinetic dampeners had been added to prevent recoil. To top it off they had been recolored as jet black with golden embellishment along the barrel. Provided with them was a set of dual shoulder holsters, like his belt done in black leather and decorated with gold thread. Slipping the guns into the holsters, he doffed his greatcoat and put on the holsters, before donning the greatcoat once more.

Striding to his room he packed a small rucksack with his few personal items and some supplies before going to the front door. Drawing the hood over his head, sheathing his face in shadow. Taking one last look at the place that had been his home for two decades Ethan began walking down the winding path. Within a few minutes he was at the clearing where his master had died. The beasts of the forest had already made off with the scavengers' bodies but he didn't care. They did not deserve burial. Opening the shuttle door he stepped into the cockpit. Telling the VI to plot a course to the nearest system hub he laid back in the seat and closed his eyes.

It was time to meet the galaxy.