Events of the chapter: Shepard discovers something concerning and asks for Jillian's help. She also receives an unexpected call from Liara, who seeks a favor.

Garrus is pulled into an emergency meeting with Primarch Victus & the Alliance leaders. Later, he and Tali meet at a bar for some much needed downtime and take time to catch up a little.

PART II
Chapter 16: Comfrey*

2 years, 4 mo. after the end of the Reaper War
Okanagan Valley, British Columbia, Earth

It wasn't even noon yet, and already the day felt over.

The sky spat in Shepard's face like she'd insulted it for being too grim. She huffed and jerked the hood of her jacket up, the snap of its fabric banishing water into the air. Aside from December's deep shroud of white, winter in the valley had passed without remark, and the falling snow warmed to stubborn rain by February. Everything was uncharacteristically damp. God, was she ever sick of the damp.

Struggling for traction on the muddy hillside, Shepard began to slide down, nearly colliding with an overgrown patch of sagebrush before catching herself with a firmly planted boot. A sudden pain shattered in her ankle. She cried out. It tore up her leg and lanced her back. She froze, her eyes widened and unfocused. A long breath. Take a breath and let it pass.

At least she wasn't dizzy. It was enough that her hips ached and that her chest felt heavy, or that her knees were rusted in place. But she wasn't going to stop. Nothing could stop her. Not the rain or the mud. Not the creeping feeling that her body was falling apart, returning to the form that had crossed the skies of Alchera.

Cautiously, she made her way down until she came to the edge of the property. Her foot sunk into the slick muck of the orchard bed. It had become a mulch of moldering leaves and droppings left by rapacious deer that grazed the hillsides. Each step dredged up the scent of spring: a tepid bog of fetid fish-stink and worms, of roots and twigs and insects long dead in the dirt, rotted with the thaw. It was the volatile perfume of eleventh-hour decay.

Shepard trudged toward the first alley. She lifted her head and listened. The orchard was nearly silent. The birds had not returned, nor had the bees. There was only the squelching of mud under her boots and the patter of rain.

When she crested the second hill, she surveyed the trees below. It had been two weeks since she'd last inspected them up close. The nascent buds of the apples and cherries were still shut tight, but the buds of the apricot trees had opened, hugging to their scraggly branches like knots of frost and ice. Plants full of hope and vigor, they'd bloomed despite the dreary weather, before pushing out leaves. A kind of temporal protection against extinction.

Gently framing a blossom between two fingers, Shepard ran her thumb over its white petals. She smiled. They were soft and speckled with water. They were as delicate and new as the hair on a baby's head.

In an instant, the rain began to pick up. She would have missed the beeping of her omnitool had the orange halo around her arm not stood out so plainly in the gray. Her smile grew as she saw the name that appeared on its display.

"Liara!" she cried after answering.

"I'm so happy to hear your voice, Shepard. How are you?"

"I'm…"—she was looked up at the colorless sky, and a fat drop of rain hit her in the eye—"doing okay." She ducked to take cover beneath the tree. "Yep, doing okay."

There was a pause at the other end of the line. "I don't believe you."

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" asked Shepard, unsure of how to reply. "I haven't heard from you in an age. Where have you been? What have you been doing? Where's Javik?"

"On the Citadel, currently advising the new Council security committee. They're very interested in hearing the Prothean perspective on galactic-wide defense. No one wants to take chances when it comes to the possibility of another Reaper style threat."

"They can't ignore a 50,000 year old man, I suppose."

"Shepard…I don't want to lie to you. This isn't a social call."

"I guessed as much. You're not one for chats. Out of the blue, that is. "

"Is that a joke?"

"What? No, of course not," said Shepard, stifling a laugh. "What I mean to say is you prefer speaking face-to-face."

"You know me well," she replied quietly. "What do you think, then? About meeting face to face? I have something I need to ask you. A favor."

"You can't ask me now?"

"I'd prefer to see you in person. It's rather a delicate matter."

"Delicate?"

"I'm already in Sol, on Mars. Are you free tomorrow?"

"I am. But I can meet you there if you want—"

"There's no need. I'd prefer to meet you on Earth."

"Sounds—"

"I'll see you tomorrow."

Liara's line dropped abruptly, leaving Shepard dumbstruck as she stood under the apricot tree, her arm still held to her face. Liara was only curt when something was bothering her. Whatever was happening must have been more serious than she was letting on.

Shepard, furrowing her brow, gazed up at the canopy of flowers overhead. Liara wanted a favor? And why meet in person, on Earth for that matter? Maybe she'd resumed her position as Shadowbroker. She might need sensitive intel. But what intel could Shepard offer? She wasn't an active officer or Spectre, let alone someone with their finger on the pulse of the galaxy. She was of no consequence as far as she was concerned.

While her thoughts flitted from one to another, her gaze flitted too, roving from flower to flower and filling her vision with details she'd overlooked earlier. The blooms on the inner branches were dotted with specks of brown as if stained by the wet. The stamens at their centers hung limp. And some flowers, which should have been pert, had begun to collapse in on themselves—wind-torn umbrellas, wrinkled and deflated.

Shepard pressed her lips together and shut her eyes. The rain grew to a nervous rattle against the trees. Deep behind her forehead, a thrum.

God, was she ever sick of the damp.

The Citadel, Sol System

Fingers still fiddling to close the buckle of his collar, Garrus hurried down the hallway with Sergeant Laren trailing close behind. They'd just settled down to dinner when he'd received a message from Primarch Victus: "PRIORITY MEETING, ASAP".

The embassy doors slid open, and the jagged scent of buffed metal whiffed out. It prickled Garrus' airways, bringing him close to a sneeze, but he repressed it just in time. He always hated that smell. It reminded him of being a cadet, of the times they'd been forced to prepare sites for important visitors or ceremonies, of scrubbing and polishing every surface by hand, right down to the last molding and finial. Work that could have been done by basic drones was done by artless grunts in the name of discipline. At least no poor bastard had suffered on his account.

The administrator behind the desk acknowledged the men with a nod. Garrus had become a regular visitor, performing daily check-ins after the Primarch had left last week. He turned the corner of the hallway and stopped short of the comms room.

"I need you to stay here, Sergeant."

"Understood, sir." Laren saluted and stood at ease.

Collar finally done up, Garrus entered, letting out a sharp huff as he keyed into the secure channel. Primarch Victus, Admiral Hackett, Admiral Bhatt, and Prime Minister Osoba appeared on the holo-vid—not people you'd want to keep waiting for long.

"Ah, General Vakarian. Thank you for joining us on such short notice," said Admiral Hackett.

"Of course, Admiral."

"I know you're all very busy right now, so I'll cut to the chase. The scenario we feared has come to pass. Word is the asari have formed an informal alliance with the salarians. The main driver seems to be economic in nature, but given what the salarians proposed regarding the Treaty of Farixen, I don't doubt that their partnership will include other arrangements."

Garrus tightened his jaw. His instincts at the meeting had been right. Not something he could gloat about now, however.

"We've only just begun recovering from the war," said Prime Minister Osoba. He stroked a pair of dog tags hanging from his neck. "The faith of the public is still fragile. We need to be careful. We can't be seen as stoking the embers of conflict."

"Will appearances matter once they have the rest of the galaxy in a stranglehold?" blurted Garrus.

The Prime Minister's expression turned grim.

Garrus blanched at his slip. His breach in protocol should have at least earned him a look from the Primarch, but his superior took no action.

"If we're to be prepared for the consequences," said Primarch Victus. "we'll need the cooperation of the krogan. We don't stand a chance without their support."

Admiral Hackett nodded. "We're on the same page then, Primarch."

"Is it wise to owe the krogan more…favors? Their demands for expansion will never end," said Osoba.

"A likely outcome. But there's a price to pay for everything—lose your hand or your foot, that's always the choice you have to make."

Hackett wasn't wrong, and it was obvious to Garrus what the right choice should be. "I don't know about you, but my bets are on the two-hundred kilo reptiles with guns," he added.

Admiral Bhatt, who was standing with her hands behind her back, tilted her head. "May I suggest one thing, gentleman?"

"Please, Admiral Bhatt," said the Primarch.

"We should speak with Urdnot Bakara. While curing the genophage went a long way in smoothing out relations, there are still those on Tuchanka who balk at the idea of linking arms with other species—with the turians, in particular." She unclasped her hands. "If you'll pardon me saying so, Primarch."

"What about Urdnot Wrex?" asked the Prime Minister.

"As crucial as Urdnot Wrex was to the war effort, it's Bakara who holds the most influence over their people. She has the presence of mind to approach the situation with more…"—Admiral Bhatt swirled a hand in the air—"…sense. "

The Admiral was right, but the Hierarchy was already two steps ahead. They had foreseen the need to engage Bakara as an active asset months ago and had drafted an informal agreement. But there was no use in complicating matters now, the Alliance would find out soon enough.

"Think of it this way, sir," continued the Admiral. "She's the miracle that saved the krogan race. She's the mother of all mothers. And you don't say no to Mother."

The Prime Minister shook his head. "Well, when you put it that way…"

"I think we can agree that a new war should be avoided at all costs,"said Primarch Victus. "But now's not the time to sit idle while others take advantage of our efforts. Whoever we need to woo, we do it now. "

Sitting idle was what had gotten them into this situation in the first place, but voicing more acerbic comments wasn't going to do him or the Primarch any favors.

"Don't forget—we still have another card to play," said Admiral Hackett.

Admiral Bhatt drummed her fingers on her console. "Threatening the salarians with our intel will cause a big stir. I don't see them giving in easily."

"Look, if they don't take the bait, word of their sabotage will still get around," said Hackett. "Because we'll make it go around."

Garrus stifled a grin; politics didn't excite him, but retribution certainly did. "At the very least it'll piss off the krogan. A call for vengeance? That's something the salarians can't afford," he said.

"I wouldn't count on them licking their wounds for long. With backing from the asari, they won't be hurting for resources," said Admiral Bhatt.

The Prime Minister crossed his arms. "And the asari? If they decide the salarians aren't worth the trouble?"

"They won't," said Primarch Victus. "Their attempt to block the cure can only hurt the salarians in as much as anyone cares. They have a stranglehold on tech development, and the asari are desperate to retain their influence. It's worth the headache for them."

Frowning, the Prime Minister seemed to mull over the Primarch's words.

"The good news is we have some insurance on our fair blue friends."

"Insurance?" Osoba perked up and cocked an eyebrow. "Did you know about this, Hackett?"

"It's something we've kept under wraps for some time now, sir. But it looks like we may have reason to deploy that intel." Admiral Hackett's gaze fell on Garrus. "Only waiting on one more piece to fall into place."

Garrus pretended not to notice. Instead, he looked to the Primarch, whose stiff brow betrayed his thoughts. The reluctant leader's mind was turning; Garrus wagered he'd already run through the different scenarios and was five steps ahead of everyone else. When it came to gaining and maintaining an advantage, the Primarch was as shrewd in the board room as he was on the battlefield.

"Regardless, we should prepare for the worst case scenario should diplomacy or negotiation fail," the Primarch reminded everyone.

A young man appeared on the Prime Minister's feed and leaned in close to his ear. Osoba cleared his throat. "That will have to be a talk for another day, unfortunately. I have a cabinet meeting to attend to."

"Yes, of course Prime Minster."

"Thank you all for your time and your valuable insight. I'll trust you to agree on the right decision." And without warning, the Prime Minister's feed went dark.

The comms room was silent for a few moments before Admiral Bhatt spoke up.

"The right decision? What do you suppose he meant by that?" she asked, her face twisting in confusion.

"I think it means, Admiral," said Hackett, "that he wants us to go ahead with exposing the salarians."

The grin Garrus had stifled earlier crept back into his face. This was going to be one hell of a ride.

"Ugh, let's hope that's it until morning."

Garrus glanced down at his blank omnitool. It was late, but he was thankful for some downtime at last. He nodded a quick thanks to the bartender. The grizzled turian grunted in response and turned back to the dirty glassware piling up behind him.

"That meeting this afternoon! Did you see the look on Caria's face when Minister Tyllin called her out?" asked Tali, snatching at her drink.

"'This one believes you may not fully comprehend statistics.'"Garrus waved his arms loosely at his sides. "'Perhaps this one may provide a rudimentary review of ratios.'"

"Keelah, I thought she was going to drown in embarrassment. He basically called her stupid." Tali popped her straw into her glass and took a long sip.

Garrus shook his head. "Tyllin was right to shoot her down. Building a joint military base on Kahje is a terrible idea."

The friends sat in silence, content to let the conversation breathe. With the big shots gone, the fanfare and spectacle of formality had died, replaced by the grit of subordinates: officers, ministers, and experts left to perform the vital, unsexy work envied by exactly no one. But line-by-line details were the lifeblood of deals. They knit muscle to bone and breathed life into deflated promises; they allowed the Council to function as the civilized body it was designed to be.

At the end of the day, the subordinates stumbled out of their pokey chambers and makeshift meeting rooms, and found their way back to their temporary quarters. Back to their gray, plain walls and their gray, unyielding mattresses. Garrus, on the other hand, stayed far away from his quarters. A nagging insomnia had taken hold of him since he'd arrived, and the thought of laying in empty room for hours on end depressed him deeply.

Nursing a brandy, he took stock of his surroundings. The mood at The Bad Mistake was decidedly subdued. There was a pall of blue lighting bleeding from every edge, rendering the interior a mottled contusion of people and furnishings. Between the slumping patrons and the dirge-like turian ballads bleating over the sound system, the Kithoi Ward mainstay read like a den for the forlorn. But Garrus and Tali hadn't exactly been spoiled for choice this late in the night cycle.

Two seats over, a turian woman sat with her eyes closed. She held her body perfectly still aside from mandibles that throbbed in time with the music. At the other end, a quarian man drummed his fingers on top of his helmet and sighed. Garrus flicked his mandibles.

"Interesting saying to display in a bar." Tali raised her chin toward the wall behind the counter. A large holo-sign in white script read: The worst mistake is the one you don't learn from.

"Huh." Garrus leaned in and whispered as he eyed the old bartender. "Must've been one hell of a mistake."

"A broken heart, maybe?" Tali whispered back.

True or not, Garrus raised his glass to the sign and drank.

"Speaking of broken hearts…what do you make of your chances of receiving a seat on the Council? Sounds like they weren't convinced the quarians would make a big enough contribution."

"Not good. But we did a lot of favors. We kept ships flying and systems running. It's time we were recognized for that."

"Admiral Raan was pretty confident."

"Like Shepard used to say, we've still got a trick or two up our sleeves."

"Care to share?"

"You know I can't."

"Fair enough."

Chin resting in her hand, Tali rolled her straw around in circles along the edge of her glass. "I wish she were here… Shepard. She would know what to do."

A heavy lump sat in Garrus' chest. It felt wrong to carry on without her. She'd made this entire summit possible and she wasn't here, not even as a figurehead.

"Maybe I should talk to her…" said Tali idly.

Garrus gripped the top of his glass and tapped a talon against its side.

"…or, you know, not." Tali dipped her head down and took a slow sip from her straw.

"We shouldn't trouble her with this right now."

"You don't think she'd be interested?" she asked swiveling in her seat to face him. "She's probably bored to death out there."

"To tell you the truth, I'm worried about her."

"Really? She seemed perfectly happy the last time I spoke to her."

"Come on, this is Shepard we're talking about," Garrus said, giving Tali a pointed look.

"What can we do? We can't force her to share anything she doesn't want to."

"I know. Trust me, I've tried." Pressing the tip of his tongue to the roof of his mouth, he struggled to swallow. That last sip of brandy tasted bitter, somehow. "I don't know…wish I could tell you."

Another long, turian plaint echoed through the bar. The lyrics spoke to honor, to sacrifice, and to the virtues of fealty. Its slow drone began to build: a throbbing cantata of drums and voices in counterpoint; the doublet a parade of syncopation, brutish and driving like an unbridled call to war; the beats and baritones stuttering; a rabid lapping of sounds, each galloping faster and faster; the composition feverish and bleeding until it succumbed to the bang of a single gunshot, and the music stopped.

The sudden glut of silence caught Garrus off guard. He jerked his head toward the door, expecting to see a platoon of soldiers in formation by the vestibule, awaiting his orders. There was nothing. Whatever was in this drink was doing him in.

"I'm sorry, Garrus."

"What for?"

"That must be hard, with everything else."

He sat up a little taller and poked his elbow out at her. "I'd say the same to you."

"I just want to go home," she sighed.

Home. What was that anymore? It was the thing they'd been fighting for, but neither of them had found it. For Tali, it was merely a matter of reaching it, but for Garrus, it extended beyond physical presence. There was always something to be done, other places to go, other priorities to attend to that kept him from feeling it in his heart.

"Hey, we didn't ask for this. But we've gotta do it anyway, right?" he shook his head. "That's just how it is."

She snickered. "Keelah, isn't the truth."

He took another sip of the strangely bitter brandy. The turian woman who had been sitting quietly at the bar was now facing the wall and dancing (if you could call it that). It was more like a malevolent serpent had taken possession of her body and was trying out its new skin. Garrus didn't know the woman, of course, but he felt embarrassed for her just the same.

"You know, if you'd have told young me that this is how he'd turn out," he said, turning back to Tali, "he'd have called you a lying tirrur-tut."

"A what?"

"A…uhh…" His mind was too fuzzy to give a coherent explanation. "You know, there isn't really a good translation for that."

"Tell me, what did young Garrus want, then?"

"Mmm, let's see…" He wanted to tell her the truth, that he'd had thoughts on being a designer or an painter when he was a fledgling, but it was easier to tell a half-truth than to explain how he'd fought with his dad, bitterly, over what was and wasn't a stable career. "What did I want? A brand new M-98, a copy of Grim Terminus Alliance, and lifetime access to Fornax," he said coolly.

Tali erupted into a guffaw. "Such a simple young man!"

"I know it's hard to believe," Garrus said in a loud whisper. "But this handsome piece"—he gestured to himself—"was once a naive kid."

"Excuse me?" She laughed again and rolled her eyes. "You are so full of crap!"

A heavy thump pulsed through the bar. Garrus mistook it as part of the music at first, but the sound stopped right behind them, and they both glanced over their shoulders to see Sergeant Laren. Collar undone and sleeves rolled up, he was out of breath.

"General…s-sorry to interrupt, sir. We have a situation at the embassy. Turian protestors have handcuffed themselves to the railing on the balcony. C-Sec is already on scene, but they say they won't leave until they speak to someone in charge."

"What the hell are you doing here, then?"Garrus asked, irritated.

"I, uh, went to the establishment across the way after we split up."

Tali leaned out to look toward the window. "Across the way? But the only thing there is the strip—"

Garrus kicked her in the shin.

"Ow!" She kicked him back.

"Why don't you go on ahead, Sergeant. I'll be right behind you."

"Yes, sir." Laren saluted and hurried out of the bar, rolling his sleeves down as he went through the doors.

"Damn." Glass still half-full, Garrus took one last swig and whacked it down on the counter. "Sorry to drink and run. Take care of the check for me?"

"Hey! You still owe me from last time!"

He rose from his seat. "I'll wire you the credits later."

"Yeah right! That's what you said last time!" she shouted after him.

"Sorry!"

"BOSH'TET!"

Okanagan Valley, British Columbia, Earth

The buzzer at the storage building had been plastered over with a piece of ragged duct tape, presumably because it was broken, but knowing Jillian it was more likely to keep interlopers from disrupting her work. Shepard pounded on the weathered, steel door.

She listened for a response, for the sound of footsteps or a voice calling out, but she couldn't hear anything over the plinking of rain on the roof. There was no answer. The flutters in her stomach turned to tremors. She pounded again—harder this time—hard enough to make the bones in her hand tingle.

At last, there was a deadened clunk. The wide door rolled open as the former admiral leaned all her weight into its handle. It screeched and juddered to a stop. Jillian stood in the half-opened threshold, gawking.

"Commander Shepard…"

"Sorry to bother you. I tried the house first but there was no answer," she said hesitantly. Water dripped from the rim of her hood and streaked down her hot, flushed cheeks.

"Holy hell! Come on in out of the rain, sweetheart," Jillian said, peering outside with a pinched expression. "It's raining cats and dogs out there." Grabbing Shepard by the wrist, she pulled her inside then shut the door.

Shepard wiped her face with the back of her hand and lowered her hood. The building was still. Between the dense, concrete walls and the dearth of windows, she could hardly tell it was raining outside, though the water on the floor was evidence enough that she'd languished at the door like a stray cat, wretched and mewling for comfort. Her soaked clothes sucked up the chilled air of the storeroom. A vein of ice cracked through her spine.

"Here, let me get you something," said Jillian, disappearing behind a long row of casks. They were stacked three high and smelled of rich coffee and smoke.

On either side of the central arcade there were more casks, these much larger than the others. Something about the way the enormous cylinders were arranged—so orderly and efficiently, all the way to the ceiling—reminded her of a graveyard.

When Jillian returned, she tossed a thin towel to her unexpected guest.

"Thanks," said Shepard, catching it with one hand.

"I keep them in the storeroom"—she began to undo her loose, tatty braid—"because this is where I do my morning yoga. Cool air keeps the circulation healthy, you know!"

Shepard threw the towel over her wet head. Cool air keeps the circulation healthy. It sounded like the kind of phlegmatic advice her granddad would've given Here was one of the best strategists in Alliance history; the architect of the Anhur Offensive; the first woman to be nominated for Admiral; by all accounts redoubtable, hard-nosed, and cunning, living in the countryside and making wine, doing yoga in red batik pants and an oversized Sorcerers tee tucked in at the waist like a baggy balloon.

The polarity of those two states—however sensible Jillian's explanations were—confounded her. Two years out of the service had been agonizing enough; retirement was beyond Shepard's comprehension. The idea of settling down anywhere long enough to pay off a mortgage or own appliances made her itch.

"So," continued Jillian,"What brings you—GAH!"

Shepard yanked the towel away. Charlie's mammoth head was pressed between his owner and a structural column. Jillian stared down with her math agape as he shoved past, his bushy tail smacking furiously against her leg.

"Excuse you!" she scoffed. "So rude!"

He made a beeline for Shepard. Scanning her all over, his twitchy nose went over some spots twice–maybe three times–in quick succession. Whatever he'd caught a whiff of seemed to concern him enough that he licked her hand and nudged at her wrist.

"Hey, buddy," she said with a flat smile. She tossed the towel over her shoulder and gave him a half-hearted scratch under the chin.

The fine lines on Jillian's forehead creased into furrows. "Circe…is everything alright?"

"Mmmm…" Charlie's attention should have cheered her, but it didn't. She flattened her lips. "Do you have a few minutes? I could use your help with something at the property. I…I just need another pair of eyes."

"Oh? Well in that case, let me grab my rain gear."

"Thanks."

Jillian disappeared behind the row of casks again, leaving Charlie to tend to Shepard. His eyes had just met hers when the weight of his rump slumped to the floor. An impassable mound of black dog.

Shepard stared back. Drool escaped his flapping jowls. She grimaced. He sucked his lolling tongue back into his mouth, snapped his chin up, and barked.

"Whoa…what's wrong, Charlie?"

No reply, of course. He circled round her, then a second time as he let out a long, pitiful whine—a sound she'd never heard from him before. There was an abrupt pang in her chest, as if a belt was being tightened around her ribs, notch by notch. Shit. Her mind sped through the list of side effects Miranda had warned her of: Inflammation? Nerve damage? Muscle spasms? Cardiac arrest? Would this be like one of those stories Auntie Iris used go on about? The kind where an animal could sense impending doom? But the feeling faded as quickly as it came on, and she convinced herself she'd just been surprised by Charlie's odd behavior.

The dog had stopped circling, sitting at her feet instead, still watching her face with deep concern. Before Shepard could investigate further, Jillian reemerged in her raincoat and mud boots.

"Whatcha barking at, huh? It's just Circe!"

Charlie stood up, poised to follow them outside.

"You stay here. It's too wet out. I don't want to have to clean mud off you today."

"Don't worry, we'll be back in two shakes, boy," Shepard said with hollow cheer and gave him a reassuring pat on the back.

He stared up at her again. His eyes didn't leave hers until she and Jillian turned to walk outside.

*comfrey - a flowering plant that has been used for centuries to treat wounds, bruises, and reduce inflammation from sprains and broken bones. Its name is derived from the Latin word "conferre" meaning 'to bring together'. Comfrey also contains toxic compounds that can cause severe liver damage over time if consumed.

Song: "Rows of Clover" - H.C. McEntire
At your heels, the steadfast hound / Crawl to cracks where the light gets through / Warm and golden, absolute / It ain't the easy kind of healing / When you're down on your knees clawing at the garden

Song: "A Lot's Gonna Change" - Weyes Blood
Born in a century lost to memories / Falling trees, get off your knees / No one can keep you down

Author's notes: end of Part II coming soon 💜