Kaius Vakarian, Brontide.
Brontide - The low rumbling of distant thunder.
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It will happen soon.
He has had months to prepare, years, and still he is not ready.
Solana is in with Niva now, tirelessly playing nurse since daughter is a role her mother no longer acknowledges. That memory has been gone for months. Down the hall, in his childhood room, Garrus sleeps the deep sleep of an exhausted soldier who knows rest is always in short supply and must take what little he can when the opportunity arises.
Even apart from the devastating scars, Kaius does not recognize his son. The weariness is new. Alarming. In two years, Garrus has aged twenty.
This, at least, Kaius understands all too well. He has aged forty. He sees an old man in the mirror now, tired and slow. It is no wonder his wife does not recognize him. He does not recognize himself.
He cannot remember the last time his entire family was gathered under this roof. Niva would know. Niva would have known. Before. Kaius has an excellent memory for certain kinds of details; even now, he can picture crime scenes and interrogations from his past, and recall the exact method he’d used to file his reports. Niva was the one who remembered important dates and anniversaries and occasions. Hers were the gentle reminders pulling him from worlds of broken laws and criminals back into a universe where children had birthdays and holidays required observing.
He stands at the door to her garden for a long time, one hand splayed against the glass, his head bowed over his outstretched arm.
When the door opens, instantly overwhelming him with the familiar scent of the flowers Niva loves—loved—loves, Kaius forces himself to enter. The path is overgrown. It has been too long since she was able to tend this place, and he does not have the touch. His hands are used to death; they are not tender enough to coax delicate blossoms from the unforgiving earth as hers are. Were.
The glass walls of the enclosed garden are sturdy, but do not completely silence the low rumble of thunder in the distance. Dark clouds blot out the sun as the storm bears down. It will happen soon. Summer storms always do, in this part of the world. He’d fallen in love with Niva during a summer rainstorm, a thousand years ago when they were young, because she’d laughed and thrown her head back instead of running for cover when the rain started.
He picks a velara fruit from the tree his wife has tended from a sapling. He dislikes the fruit at the best of times, and this one is bruised and overripe. Even worse.
Nutritious, though, his wife’s voice chides him, just as she used to do before. You need to keep your strength up, dearest. We both know the worst is yet to come.
Rain begins to fall against the glass, sudden and pounding, just as he’d known it would. Lightning crackles above, momentarily illuminating the garden. He imagines Niva’s arms flung wide, her sweet voice laughing as she embraced the downpour instead of fleeing from it.
Slowly, bite by bite, bruise by bruise, he eats the fruit.
It will happen soon. Tonight, perhaps, or tomorrow. He will sit until the storm is done, and then he will return to her side, his hands still smelling of the fruit she loves. Perhaps it will coax a smile from her, though she won’t remember why.
He has had months to prepare. Years. And still, still he is not ready.