Author's note: Part I takes place immediately after the war, made up of shorter chapters/vignettes. The main story contains four major arcs, and there will be multiple companion stories posted separately. This is character driven story with some larger plot elements at play.

Each chapter will also contain the title of a song that inspired a scene or helped me set the tone/mood.

Please note: I will be rewriting a lot of Part I at some point in the future. This is my first fanfic, so it was a bit bumpy starting out. My writing has improved quite a bit and I've learned a lot since I started. I am open to any comments or thoughts you may have! I'm happy to hear from readers regardless of whether you liked or hated something - it's always nice to hear what you think. Ill trust you to be honest and forthcoming :)

Note: This chapter was revised on 04/06/2023. Updated for prose, but story and dialogue remain unchanged.

PART I

Chapter 1: Furrows/Tilth

3 years after the Reaper War
2189, Earth

A family of quails skitters past the low fence of the garden. With the smell of smoke still lingering in the air, Shepard can taste the acrid soot that thickens in her mouth. A prescribed burn. She hates them, but they're necessary. She clears her throat several times. It's warmer than she expects it to be for this time of year, and the sweat clinging to her neck makes her feel present in the world. She's just turned thirty-five, already nostalgic for some way of life that died a long time ago.

Still, except below the elbow, Shepard brings her forearms down to strike the hard, unyielding earth. Her hands tremble as she clutches the heavy mattock—not a weapon to kill living things, but a tool to cultivate life. Her fingers gnarl around the handle in an awkward grasp. They look more like talons than fingers.

3 days earlier
2189, Palaven

"General Vakarian, sir! The shuttle due to pick up the Dalatrass is experiencing a malfunction with its drive core. Remaining shuttles in the area were assigned to the TSF Laurus for colony business. It will take approximately two hours to complete repairs."

Garrus strained to keep his mandibles from reflexively tightening against his face. Another fuck up on his watch and Primarch Victus would have his head on a plate.

"We can't afford to keep the Dalatrass waiting, not with a new treaty on the line," he barked. "Tell the mechanic he has one hour to complete repairs. Hell, I don't care if you have to strap a million thrusters to it, just get your ass up in the air and get her here safely." Garrus let out a sigh and ran his talons along his temple. A headache was beginning to crawl its way up the backs of his eyes.

It had been a good six months since he had had anything resembling decent sleep. No one had really slept in the last three years. Restoring the mass relays, rebuilding entire worlds and fleets—this was the monumental work that followed a devastating galactic war. But the last six months had been the worst of it. Negotiations were at an impasse amongst the Council worlds; the account of actions taken or not taken had soured relationships between species. And while the asari posed a problem for everyone, the salarians were by far the worst offenders when it came to roadblocks. To make matters more complicated, a chorus of krogan and quarian voices were clamoring to join the Council. The situation had built to a distracting din.

The threat of the Reapers may have been quashed, but the once unstoppable machines were still wielding their influence over the galaxy.

Garrus rapped on the Primarch's door and listened for a reply.

"Enter," said the Primarch, who was seated at his desk with an empty glass in hand.

"Sir, there's been a complication with the shuttle. The Salarian delegation won't be arriving for at least another two hours."

Under normal circumstances, the Primarch would hardly scoff at such a problem. But the profound losses of wartime meant that all sectors of turian society—the Hierarchy included—were experiencing shortages, and it was reasonable to expect hiccups along the way. This hiccup, however, was one they could not afford.

Primarch Victus held Garrus' gaze for a few moments. "Well, I suppose that's a relief—maybe I have time for a drink. Listening to that slippery woman talk makes my fringe fall limp," he said, setting his glass down gently. "Diplomacy is supposed to be about making peace, but if my experience so far is any measure, it's more like war."

"Worse than war, sir. At least when someone on the other side of a battlefield pisses you off you can just fire a round and call it a day," replied Garrus.

The Primarch's subvocals resonated in a chortle. "I do miss the challenge of the fight. But I suppose there is a strategic art to diplomacy too." He tapped a talon on the desk. "Let's proceed as planned when they arrive. Any word from Urdnot Wrex?"

"Yes sir, I heard from him this morning. He's had his hands full with all the clans vying for priority on the new colony. He's given us permission to proceed as planned. "

"Good. We're going to need him on our side if we want to win anymore concessions from the salarians. Thank you, Garrus."

Earth

Shepard draws a slow, greedy breath and permits it to escape her lips. Her fickle hands stop trembling, then she lifts the mattock once more. It crashes down as a voice on her audio stream interrupts.

Announcer: "Welcome. You're listening to ANN News for Monday, April 24th , 2189. This is the news at the top of the hour... Treaty talks have resumed on the turian homeworld of Palaven. Primarch Victus of the Turian Hierarchy received Dalatrass Linron and the Salarian Union delegation at the steps of the Taetrus Memorial, which was recently erected to honor the lost Turian colony of Taetrus..."

The mattock cleaves a broad gash in the soil, revealing dozens of pill bugs, some curled into protective balls, others scurrying away from whatever had exposed them. Shepard crinkles her nose in disgust.

Announcer: "The failure of previous talks between the turians and the salarians has intensified pressure to find a mutually agreeable solution to the shortage of military forces in Council controlled space. The delegations are said to have made significant progress this weekend. In a statement made this morning, the Hierarchy announced that the Salarian Union has agreed to some of the more divisive portions of the draft agreement."

Primarch Victus: "After many long and...spirited... discussions over the last few days, the Dalatrass has graciously agreed to allow a limited number of krogan forces to serve under the guidance of the Turian Fleet. This has been a natural point of contention, of course, given our histories. But I believe our worlds will, in good faith and comity, come to an agreement that benefits the entire galaxy."

Shepard continues to listen as she sifts through the loosened soil with her fingers, tossing any rocks or large pebbles into the bucket by her feet. Things will grow a lot better if there aren't any obstacles for roots to reach down deep, nothing preventing water and nutrients from penetrating the soil.

Primarch Victus: "I would like to take this opportunity to thank one of my most trusted men, General Garrus Vakarian. General Vakarian has been instrumental in the success of this week's talks, providing us with insight that has turned the tide of these delicate negotiations."

Bending down to reach for the mattock one more time, Shepard stops halfway through her stoop. A crow, perched high in a ponderosa pine, mocks her with its harsh, rattling caw.

Announcer: "General Garrus Vakarian, former C-Sec officer and head of the Hierarchy's Reaper Task Force, served aboard the SSV Normandy and Normandy SR-2. Fighting closely alongside Alliance Commander Circe Shepard, General Vakarian distinguished himself..."

The mattock clatters to the ground; a small cloud of dust billows around Shepard's feet. Her eyes sting. She squints towards the hazy sky and wipes the back of her hand across her moist cheek. She flees, heavy footed, to the back door of the house.

Inside, Shepard sinks into a deep, leather chair. She inhales slowly, until the air in her lungs feels like it will split her torso in two. She exhales slower still. She reminds herself that living always comes down to the breath.

Song: "Born in a War" – Future Islands
You're scared / That when a strong man cries / Is when a strong man dies