G. 5,550 words. A glimpse into the life Koris and his partner have made for themselves, post-war on Rannoch.
The pathway up to their house is bordered by two messy lines of bright orange morning bursts. Kael’renis, in the ancient tongue. A flower that Zaal had read about in texts as a child, considered little more than a weed by their ancestors. Like all plants on Rannoch, they’d grown thickest and best when surrounded by quarians. An absence of three hundred years had almost been enough to choke the little orange blooms out of existence, but not quite. The best agriculturalists from the Civilian Fleet had put their minds to the problem of jumpstarting the flora, with help from the geth, and the results had not been wanting.
Zaal had planted the two straggly rows himself, knee deep in the dirt, dust clogging his filters, sticking deliciously to his face when he’d removed his faceplate in a moment of rare spontaneity. The fortnight’s infection had been worth every mote.
Read on AO3.
