Beneath the glow of Seleucia’s monitors, Valkurius lounged in languid contemplation, bronzed skin bare, discolored for the play of vibrant blue and red from the readouts. The chair was cool against his bare back, not yet body-warmed from his impressive heat. Another sleepless night. With Matria Horizonwalker in captivity, they could begin the next step of the plan.
Scattered across the main monitor was a series of maps detailing Dominion outposts, and his augmented eyes raked over the lengthy information cataloged beneath each. They only needed something small, something set apart, something–
A quiet chime announced the arrival of new information, and the Cassian tapped the air in front of him with a quiet thrum in his throat. The maps minimized automatically, and after a moment, the monitor splashed with a bright, flickering image of a familiar face. Valkurius was silent for a long moment, golden gaze lingering on the planes of the holographic features, the lines of puffy scarring across the bridge of his nose, the cocky curl of lips.
“Mr. Sarr,” Valkurius thrums in a hum, narrowing molten, golden eyes as he stared at the young lady before them and the infant she cradled in her arms. “If she is being truthful and the child is indeed one of ours, then timeline dictates that he is certainly not mine.”
The Cassian overturns his palm, raising his brow and watching the expectant woman. “There are particular situations that must occur for pregnancy to happen, and I can confirm that they have not happened within the span of time it would take for this to be a possibility at all.”
"So I must say… welcome to fatherhood, Mr. Sarr. It is a long and perilous journey, and likely the most difficult one you will ever face.”
It was a quiet night, heavier than it should have been and she didn’t know why. The weight of the war around them lingered, regardless of their distance. Tohr had arrived just in time for her to finish cooking a pile of food initially intended to be divided up for care packages–an idea she gleefully abandoned in light of the old stone’s company. The silence between them was companionable, a simple sort of comfort taken in each others’ presence.
When the chime of her datachron came, the commander had stepped out of the top floor onto the patio to smoke a cigar, leaving the little lady curled up amongst the pile of pillows on her papasan. She squirmed until she could reach the device on the bedside table, then rolled onto her back and keyed in her code. A brief message popped up, bright white letters throwing brilliance against her cheeks.
See, Mignonne, hath not the Rose, That this morning did unclose Her purple mantle to the light, Lost, before the day be dead, The glory of her raiment red, Her colour, bright as yours is bright?
Ah, Mignonne, in how few hours, The petals of her purple flowers All have faded, fallen, died; Sad Nature, mother ruinous, That seest thy fair child perish thus ‘Twixt matin song and even tide.
Hear me, my darling, speaking sooth, Gather the fleet flower of your youth, Take ye your pleasure at the best; Be merry ere your beauty flit, For length of days will tarnish it Like roses that were loveliest.