PART II
Chapter 8: Rose of Jericho*
It's possible I am pushing through solid rock
in flintlike layers, as the ore lies, alone;
I am such a long way in I see no way through,
and no space: everything is close to my face,
and everything close to my face is stone.
I don't have much knowledge yet in grief
so this massive darkness makes me small.
You be the master: make yourself fierce, break in:
then your great transforming will happen to me,
and my great grief cry will happen to you.
-Ranier Maria Rilke
1 year, 8 mo. after the end of the Reaper War
Okanagan Valley, British Columbia, Earth
Garrus' voice draws out in a long vibrato. "Not a day goes by that I don't think of you. You know that, right?"
That rumbling whisper when he asks her. Her heart flutters. She's fifteen all over again and talking to the cutest boy in school.
"Mmmm."
"I'll talk to you—" The vibrato stops.
"Garrus?" Patience. "Garrus!" Confusion.
"Shit! Talk—I love—"
Dread. The line's dead.
A chittering rumble over her shoulder: the disturbing, familiar sound that foretells tragedy as reliably as any Greek chorus. She freezes. Disbelief washes over as she turns her head. A Reaper stalks through the lake like a hunting spider, the water half way up its legs.
"Perhaps Reapers on holiday."
"Think those things can swim, ma'am?"
"Do not be afraid, Siha."
The trio of departed friends stand in a line at her side.
What are you doing here? You're dead.
"Reapers also dead. You, Shepard?"
I'm still here.
"Are you? What did you choose, Commander?"
Choose?
"There is a song that calls you home. Like the song the Rachni sing across the expanse of stars—a song to reach you. Across the stars, from across the sea. "
I don't understand.
The scrambled static of a marauder's cry bursts from the direction of the house. Shepard twists her head to look, then back to the Reaper. It is motionless, a moored effigy writ large. It hasn't made a sound. She watches it for signs of activity, but it's as inert as the mountains that encircle it. The marauder's cry grows louder. It crescendos into a frantic, stuttering wail.
She swings her arm over her shoulder as she bolts through a tunnel of trees. There's no weapon there. Her armor is heavy, her steps even heavier. The cherries gush beneath her boots. Dark red stains give way to slicks of blue, a freshet of blood that washes down the incline leading to the house.
"COME ON!" James hollers at her. Standing at the end of the path, he cradles his shotgun in his hands. "THERE'S NO TIME!"
They dash for the courtyard. A single marauder groans with its back to them. It stands amongst the wildflowers—still in full bloom—its hands seizing the sides of its head as it writhes. Jerky movements that strain and contort.
Can they feel pain?
As if hearing her thoughts, the marauder staggers and turns. It still has a face—a turian's face, swallowed by dull plates of metal. Its brow lifted and eyes wide, it seems frightened. She knows this face: its blue markings above the nose, and along its scarred cheek and jaw. Fraught tears cloud her eyes as she extends her hand and takes a tentative step. His silvery talons reach out for her. Sheathed cables and sinew choke his arm.
The startling boom of a Reaper's cannon. "GO GO GO!" James pulls her back, then shoves her away, hard. Stumbling back, she falls to the ground.
It is too late for James . The cannon eviscerates his body and catches the tall, dry grass on fire. The flowers burn.
JAMES!
The flames rise. Garrus' pained face flickers behind the hot air as his transfiguration completes. Shepard watches helplessly from the ground, unable to move her legs.
Cipritine, Palaven
Garrus opened his eyes. He began to turn his head but stopped immediately. The skin on his neck throbbed, and moving felt like it might tear the delicate membranes underneath. But even without looking, he knew he was laying inside a room, and not a tent or a shelter. He knew by the nauseating smell of recycled air, the kind tinged with metal and saturated with the stale breaths of too many people. He surveyed his field of vision. A figure sat in a chair next to the bed, arms crossed and head titled back, his mouth hanging open as he snored.
White face with red markings. "Qui-Quidros…" Garrus said, his voice raspy and dry.
Quidros stirred, his snoring stuttering to a stop.
"Hey, pal, wake up!" he said louder.
"Wha?" Quidros lifted his head and cracked an eye open. "General Vakarian! You're awake, sir."
"Well one of us has to be."
"Feeling better enough to make jokes, I see," quipped the sergeant. "Hang on, I'm going to fetch the Primarch. He's in the next room."
"What?"
Before Garrus could get an answer out of him, Quidros had sprung for the door and was gone. A few moments later, Victus strode through, cane in hand, looking more suave than injured as he nodded to their security detail. Lowering himself into the chair next to Garrus' bed, he rested both hands atop his cane.
"Garrus… we thought we'd lost you. Welcome back."
Garrus hissed as he turned his head toward the Primarch, his skin tender and raw. "What the hell happened?"
"I owe you my life, Vakarian."
"Huh?"
"You don't remember?"
"Remember what?"
"The rebels attacked camp when most of the men were asleep. We tried to defend from the inside. But they set fire to the camp. You saved me from the flames."
That must be why his skin hurt so much. "You're alright, sir?" asked Garrus.
The Primarch didn't answer right away, only flicked his mandibles. "Who's the one in the hospital bed?"
"You have a point. Wait, did you say hospital?" Garrus scanned the room, realizing he was in an actual building and not a ship.
"We were evacuated to Cipritine. The only place where we could be looked after properly and guarded."
Had the situation deteriorated so much that they lacked the ability to hold down a single city? Garrus worried for the New Aerians who had shown support for the Hierarchy.
"My sister. She was still in New Aeris. Does she know I'm here? Is she ok?"
"Not to worry, I've seen her. She came to the hospital after we moved you. Fortunately, she and her colleagues left a day before the attack."
"Thank spirits for that."
"Should you wish to contact her, she told the administrator she would be with your mother, here in Cipritine."
"Thank you, sir." Garrus swallowed, trying to clear the wooly feeling from this throat.
"No, thank you Garrus." The Primarch lowered his head in a deferential tilt. "I should let the doctor attend to you, I'm sure she'll want to check you over. I'll return later—I just needed to see with my own eyes. We can chat about what happens now when you're feeling a bit more mobile."
"Yes, of course."
Primarch Victus rocked himself up and out of the chair. The pair of soldiers standing guard saluted him as he left, their rifles in hand as they presented arms. Leaning into his cane, he stopped and saluted back, then continued on his way.
Garrus turned his head carefully. Bandages clung tight to the left side of his neck where the worst of the burns met his face plates. Flames. That was the last thing he remembered clearly. He had braved the flames around the main command shelter to rescue Primarch Victus. The Primarch was passed out cold, hit in the chest by a concussive shot. The men that were with him were dead. Slinging Victus' limp body over his shoulder, Garrus wore him around his neck like an armored towel and hauled him out of the burning shelter, yowling in agony as the Primarch's chestplate rubbed his seared skin down to an oozing, blue lesion. They crossed the camp, the rip of gunfire and screaming sounding off in the distance. Dust trailed behind them. Laren had staggered over from somewhere to help. Garrus didn't remember getting to safety or being evacuated from New Aeris; he had collapsed somewhere along the way. Already bleeding before he found Victus, he'd been shot several times with his shields down, but he wasn't going to leave their leader behind. If the Primarch died, there was a chance the turian Hierarchy would fall all together.
Humans would have surely celebrated Garrus and his actions, someone who braved injury and flames to rescue a leader. But a turian would know better: it should never have happened in the first place. He'd wondered why the rebels had been quieter than normal. Their latest attempts to provoke the Hierarchy had been impotent in comparison to the show of force they had put on in the months before. They had been using that time to prepare a large scale attack on the Hierarchy's main camp; they'd gathered rebels and resources from other cities, even from as far away as the colonies. Quidros had been right. Garrus' hesitation had lost them any semblance of control in New Aeris and had nearly cost the Primarch his life.
A tall, narrow window near Garrus' bed gave him a glimpse of the world outside. A sliver of Palaven at sunset—half lit, half-built—was framed like a painting on the hospital wall. He turned his gaze to the lights on the ceiling. Cipritine might not be a tenth as regal or formidable as it had been before the war, but it still had power. It had the kind of power that lights hospital rooms and facilities. And it had the kind of power that influenced the lives of those who did not have the same.
Laying in the hospital bed, with what might be more scars lining his face, Garrus felt like a fool, but more poignantly, like an aberration.
Okanagan Valley, British Columbia, Earth
Tossing her head side to side, Shepard pulled her tacky cheek away from the pillow, the thin, cotton cover soaked in sweat. She rubbed her arm across her forehead—absolutely drenched. Had the air conditioning gone out? Her limbs tingled hot, but when she felt the skin of her arm, it was no warmer than usual. The most vivid sensation was in her regrown leg. It didn't prickle with heat, but it felt cold and numb. Letting out a long breath, she sat up, then rubbed the leg with her weak hands, which hadn't quite found their full strength yet.
What the hell was that dream?
Satisfied she'd gotten the blood going in her leg, she scooted to the edge of the bed and stood up. The leg buckled under her weight. She didn't catch herself in time and fell into a heap, banging her knee on the bedside table as she went down.
"FUCK!"
Pushing herself off the floor, she gingerly slid back to the edge of the bed and sat. It'd been a long time since her leg had given her trouble. Why it chose now to act up was a mystery; she hadn't been overly active or hard on the leg. She'd been keeping up with her physical therapy exercises and stretches just as she was told. If this kind of thing kept up she'd have to get in touch with Alliance medical.
Shepard straightened herself out and got ready for the day, opting to choose comfort over formality in this dreadful heatwave. A cadre of growers wasn't likely to look down their noses at shorts and a linen button-up; this wasn't that kind of place, and they weren't those kinds of people. She caught a ride with Dusty Irving, the co-op's oldest and most experienced member. He pointed out local features along the way—the popular beaches, wineries, and hiking areas—and told a few stories about the ups and downs of agriculture in the area, chiefly the impact devastating drought had had on livelihoods some decades back. His ancient truck bumped along the well-worn highway, snaking through the hills and past a small lake, into the city center.
It would be Circe's first official meeting as part of the grower's co-op. The others members still seemed to be in a bit of a shock that Commander Shepard had joined their ranks (what celebrity would choose to spend their time here?), but they were polite and sensible enough to refrain from asking her questions about the war or her experiences fighting Reapers. In return, Shepard tried her best to focus on the meeting, to hide the worry that was bubbling inside her. It had been three days since her communication with Garrus was cut short and not a word since. It wasn't unusual for them to be out of touch for days or even weeks, but the circumstances had left her shaken. Something happened and she didn't know what.
By the end of the meeting, the group had drawn up some rough plans for dividing and sharing resources, as well as an agreement to commission a new water study. This had been an informative session for Shepard; she took as many notes as she could and memorized the names of every farmer and orchardist that came through the doors. All her years serving in the Alliance were already translating to the civilian sector.
On the way home, Dusty asked her about her future plans. Shepard was reticent, only volunteering that she was on forced sabbatical, and that she wasn't sure how long it would last.
"Mmm, I see." Lifting a brow, he shot her a sideways glance. "Have it your way then, Commander. Humanity's Hero is under no obligation to tell anything to little ol' me, that's for damn certain." He chuckled, laugh lines folding around his eyes like the dog-eared pages of a well-loved book.
Shepard squirmed in her seat. She leaned toward the window as they pulled up to the bottom of the gravel path, and the truck squealed to a sudden stop. Shutting the passenger door, she thanked Dusty and watched as he turned down the service road, waving until he disappeared around the corner.
That afternoon was spent performing a more detailed assessment of what work would need to be done with the trees and when. The remaining good apricots would need to be picked, and she would need to keep monitoring the apple trees for signs of pests and disease. There was mulching and fertilizing to be done. Pruning would need to be minimal but judicious until the deepest part of winter.
A puff of dust kicked up as Shepard lowered herself to the ground, pressing her back against the trunk of a mature ambrosia tree, a local apple cultivar that had come to be her favorite. Shepard gazed up into the wide, cloudless sky. There was something about the way the sun beat down here—the dry, penetrating heat that browned your skin like bacon but was still pleasant in the shade. Thane would have been comfortable here.
She turned her gaze to the water. No Reapers. The image of an oversized, synthetic water bug wading beachside made her chuckle a little, in a horrified sort of way. There was Ogopogo, a lake creature from local folklore, but that legend was as far as monsters in the Interior went. Maybe she would brave Reapers and lake monsters and get in the water today.
After going back to the house to change, she walked a path through the orchard and parallel to the precipice, which sloped towards a small, private beach. Large pebbles dug into the soles of her feet as she ventured in. Eventually, the rocks gave way to a sandy bottom that dropped off gently, allowing her to walk a ways before swimming sixty meters out. Shepard floated onto her back. She let all the muscles in her body relax as the water held her up toward the sky. Closing her eyes, she let the sensation of weightlessness overtake her; she could see the stars and planets, and the endless expanse of space. She missed that endlessness.
As she relished the quiet void in her head, a dog barked in the distance, its low bay encroaching on the silence. Vaguely aware of the noise, Shepard ignored it and kept her eyes shut. She drifted away with her thoughts; she didn't hear the splash of the water, or the sound of a woman's voice calling. When she finally opened her eyes, her vision was mottled from the sun. Still on her back, she could see a dark blob moving toward her from the corner of her eye. Shepard bolted upright. A black ball of fur was paddling toward her at an easy clip, its tongue protruding from its droopy mouth in a dopey expression.
A gray-haired woman came barreling down from the neighboring vineyard. "CHARLIE! Charlie! Charlie, come!"
Shepard laughed in surprise as the dog swam a circle around her.
The woman shouted again, "Charlie, no! Charlie, come, now!"
The dog took one more circle round, then paddled back toward shore, its eyes glued on the woman who was now calf-deep in the water. Shepard followed behind the dog, then walked toward the shore.
The woman—her frame slight but erect—stood with her hands over her hips. She chided the dog in a gruff tone, "Charlie! You see, she's perfectly fine!" She gestured to Shepard, then held her hand up in apology. "Sorry about that, miss. Mister here thought he was bein' a hero."
Shepard smiled as the dog ran up and sniffed at her legs, as if making sure she was okay. "Not a problem. Cute fella you have. Big fella!"
"He's a retired rescue dog. Probably saw you floatin' there and thought you needed help. You must be Commander Shepard, then?" Her eyes darted to Shepard's exposed shoulder cap where the worst of her raised scars protruded. "I'm Jillian Ly, I run the vineyard here."
"Oh, yes, I didn't get a chance to meet you at dinner last time. I heard you were feeling under the weather. Circe Shepard, pleased to meet you." She held out a wet hand, then glanced down at her swimsuit. "Sorry, I realize I'm not really dressed for the occasion."
Jillian laughed. "Less is more, as they say." She shook Shepard's hand, then dried hers off on the thigh of her loose pants. "I'm headed back up—I've ought to finish pruning the vines before the day's done. But it'd be good to have a proper chat once you're, uh, feeling more 'suited'."
"Understood, ma'am." Shepard saluted her.
Jillian eyed her suspiciously. "Good to meet you, Commander. Chat soon." Turning on her heel, she waved her dog over. "Come on, Charlie." Charlie bounded up, his gait stiff and heavy.
Shepard grinned as she watched them hike up the hill. Rear Admiral Jillian Ly, huh? What are the chances.
In the dappled light of the common room, Shepard dried her hair with a small towel and stood at the wide window between the shelves, overlooking the wildflowers in the courtyard. For a moment, she saw flames flicking up from their stalks, and Garrus' tortured face as they rose higher around him. Her heart raced. Resting a hand on the side table, she took a slow, deep breath, and reminded herself that it hadn't actually happened.
Her mother's books were still in a stack on the side table. Shepard threw her towel over a kitchen stool and picked one up. She browsed the books already on the shelf; their spines were dusty and cloth bound, looking like they hadn't been read in ages. She swept her hand over the second row, letting her fingers bump along until she came to the last volume. Something peaked out of the top—paper, she thought—sandwiched between the pages.
She put her book back down on the table and tilted the other title from the shelf. The book appeared out of place with the rest, its cover a layered amalgam of soft, textured hues—a colorful crayon fog. The Dark Interval. It was a collection of letters. Thumbing through the pages, she saw that every letter in the book was addressed to someone different: friends and acquaintances who the author had corresponded with. People who had lost someone close to them. When Shepard came to the split where the folded papers were tucked in, she removed them and held them above the book. A passage had been lightly underlined in pencil. She read it out loud:
"No constellation is as steadfast, no accomplishment as irrevocable as a connection between human beings which, at the very moment it becomes visible, works more forcefully in those invisible depths where our existence is as lasting as gold lodged in stone, more constant than a star.
This is why I agree with you, my dear friend, when you say that you mourn those "who go away." Alas, only those can go away from us whom we never possessed. And we cannot even grieve the fact of never really having possessed this one or that one: We would have neither time nor strength nor justification for doing so."
Shepard knit her brow. Whoever underlined this passage must have been grieving someone. Maybe Katie, when George died. That would make sense. But a forgotten document, used as a bookmark? She put the book down on the side table and unfolded the papers. The pristine, ivory pages stuck together, stubborn and crisp like autumn leaves still clinging to their tree. The script, handwritten in pencil, was made of neat, uniform letters and carefully spaced lines; whoever had written it must have considered its contents important enough to commit to paper in a such meticulous way. She read:
"You are dead.
I'm writing these words to remind myself that you're not here anymore.
It's been two months since the destruction of the Normandy. Since the day you were taken from us. For the past six weeks, I've been staying at my family's orchard in BC. I applied for personal leave after our short term ran out. I'm not ready to go back yet.
That day, I watched the Normandy go down in flames from the shuttle's viewscreen. It just snapped, like a cheap child's toy. There was an explosion and it was just…gone. But the worst part didn't come at that moment. That was later, when they told us Joker had stepped out of the escape shuttle, alone. I had watched you die and I didn't even know it.
I thought I knew how to deal with survivor's guilt after we lost Ash. Understanding that her sacrifice saved us all helped me to stop feeling guilty. The problem is, I don't understand what happened here. Even the Alliance doesn't know who attacked or why. It was like a phantom ship from an old sea tale. I've spent time searching for reports that match, but nothing's turned up. How does anyone think this is ok? The Alliance's most technologically advanced vessel gets blown to pieces, and one of their brightest officers, a Spectre no less, just…dies…and they don't want to know more? I wonder if the rest of the crew feels the same way?
I wanted to stay, but you ordered me to leave. I did as I was told. I wasn't going to disobey my commanding officer. And when I scrambled onto that escape shuttle, I thought you'd be following right behind. I can't stop thinking: what if I had just stayed? Had tried harder to pull you out of there? I should have insisted, been written up for insubordination. I'd have let them throw the whole damn book at me if it meant you would live. I shouldn't have left you there.
To be honest, the whole thing makes me furious. Joker chose to disregard the chain of command. He stayed with the ship, even after you called for evacuation. He put his commanding officer's life in jeopardy for a ship that he wasn't going to be able to save. There was no good reason for you to die.
I haven't confronted him, in case you were worried. I'll leave him to fight those demons on his own. But you made your own choices too. Choices worthy of Commander Shepard, I know, but they left Circe in the dust.
Maybe it's wrong for me to feel angry with a dead person. Maybe I'm angry for my own reasons.
My mom—bless her worried heart—keeps telling me I need to say goodbye. That it's part of the grieving process. How do you say 'goodbye' to someone who you've only just said 'hello' to? That night before Ilos…I've thought about it a lot. Anyone who knows me knows it would take a lot for me to renege on my duties, to breach protocol. So why did I do that? It wasn't really like me. Was it lust? Fear of death?
The more I've examined my feelings, the more I've come to believe I didn't just 'give in' to my attraction for you. I think I summoned the courage to say yes. To say yes to something good in my life, to the possibility that we could have a future together. That night was special to me, Shepard. I wouldn't give it up for the world.
I loved you, and I didn't even get a chance to say it. Would you have said it back if I did? I don't know. I'll never know. And knowing I'll never have an answer is more painful than hearing 'no'.
So I need to say goodbye to you, and to that little hope. There is no body to mourn, no grave site to visit, no place to go and talk to you. This letter is all I have.
You were whip smart, a talented biotic, and one hell of a soldier. You made me laugh, and you made me think. We had some good times together. You were my friend, my confidant, even my lover. You were my commanding officer. You were all these things to me.
And you are dead.
I love you, Circe. Rest in peace."
"Kaidan…"
Shepard's wet eyes lingered over the last two lines. I love you, Circe. Rest in peace. Folding the letter along its creases, she tucked it back into the book and placed the book back on the shelf, a pang of guilt broadening in her chest. It felt like an invasion of privacy, what she had just done; it was a glimpse into Kaidan's heart that she would never have been privy to otherwise.
She thought she'd understood what happened between them on Horizon—they'd talked about it, after all. Her last conversation with him on the matter had been final and decisive. Too much had changed between the time she died and the time she had been brought back to life, but there was a lot more going on under the surface than she had realized. And if working with Cerberus was the coffin, then Garrus had surely been the nail.
At least Kaidan had seemed to find some measure of love—or whatever he called it—with Miranda. To Shepard, they were two sides of the same coin. They complemented one another, and both deserved to have a little bit of happiness in their lives.
Shepard slotted her mother's books onto the shelf, at the end of middle row—her little addition to the Alenkos' stately library. Inhaling through her nose, she was determined to keep her tears at bay. The empty feeling of being abruptly cut off persisted like a stubborn stain. Her hangups about the letter swirled with her anxiety about Garrus, churning up a messy soup of dread and sadness. The letter was only the latest ache in a succession of pent up griefs. The end of the war had dredged up emotions long stockaded behind service and duty, forced into the light of day by no will of her own.
If her mother could see her now, she'd be shaking her head at all the tears she'd allowed to leave her eyes. She could hear her tapping her reedy fingers on the table, taking that preachy tone she always took when Shepard let defeat consume her. "Circe Isobel Shepard—never forget you're a Dallinger. Dallingers don't lie down and cry, we get up and keep going. Now get up." That message, inculcated in the Dallinger line for generations, was a way of life. There was no defying it.
The tapping continued. Confused, Shepard swung her head about, searching for the source. Was she still dreaming? Finally, she looked toward the left corner of the picture window. A striking, dark bird pecked at the top of a fence post in the courtyard. Jeweled with vibrant blue wings and matching long tail, its black head was topped with a slick, pointed crest that swept back long to short. Its sharp beak dug into the wood as it tried to get at whatever was hiding inside. The bird stopped, then titled its head toward Shepard. She looked back without moving. It stood up straight, standing perfectly still as it studied her face with its small, round eyes. They were sharp and clear. It was a handsome bird. An intelligent bird.
The bird hopped to the next fence post, glimpsed back, and then flew off, somewhere into the covert of pines that shaded the property. Shepard remained unmoving, still staring at the post where the bird had been. The tears she'd dammed off began to roll down her cheeks as she pressed her lips together, feeling feeble for worrying about Garrus' whereabouts.
Just as the tide of emotion had threatened to wash her out to sea, her omnitool pinged quickly three times, the setting that indicated an urgent message. It was Kaidan. Shepard wiped away her tears and sniffed, her military ability to regain composure still quick as ever.
"Hey, thanks for answering." His voice was strained.
"Hey. Why thank me?"
"Um, just…you know, after what happened in Vancouver. I thought you might still be reluctant to take my calls."
"Of course not. I was just thinking of you, actually."
There was a hesitant pause. "Oh? Why's that?"
"Uhhh, well, there are pictures of you all over the house—it's kind of hard to avoid. You know, your mom told me a story about you saving the class hamster."
"Heh, of course she did."
"Oh, hey! Why didn't you tell me your neighbor at the vineyard was Jillian fucking Ly?! "
"I didn't? Must have slipped my mind. My mom didn't tell you either?"
"She just called her 'our neighbor Jillian'. I'm not sure how you omit the fact that the first ever female rear admiral is living next door. She spoke at my Academy graduation! She's incredible."
"Yeah, she is…"
"So what's up?"
She could hear Kaidan's shaky breath through the line. "Um…there isn't really a good way to tell you this, Shepard."
Her heart caught in her chest. She'd already tried to deny the call was bad news, but the urgent notification and tenuousness in Kaidan's voice had already given it away. There isn't really a good way to tell you this: that was the herald for heartbreak. Was it about Garrus? As a general, Kaidan was still hooked into the proceedings of the Hierarchy, and if there was anyone they'd ask to break bad news to her, it would be him.
"Tell me what?" she asked, her eyes frantically scanning the tree line for the bird.
Kaidan cleared his throat. "James is dead."
*Rose of Jericho is an unusual desert plant also known as the 'resurrection plant'. It can go several years without water by curling up and going dormant. It goes completely dry and may look dead to the eye, but once watered it comes back to life like nothing ever happened.
Author's notes: If you would like to understand the circumstances surrounding James' death, I suggest reading the companion story Semper Vivum. The fic is complete (about 25k in length)and has been posted at the same time as this chapter. The next chapter of Taproot will address the fallout from his death. Thank you for your patience for this chapter :)
Song: "Frozen Pines" - Lord Huron
On the night you disappeared / Oh, if I had seen it clear / But a strange light in the sky / Was shining right into my eyes / There was no one else in sight / Just the endless frozen pines