Back in 1983 when I was fourteen and taking French in high school, I was paired up with someone in France. For years, we wrote back and forth to one another - these were the pre-PC/internet days, remember - and we were even able to meet up during two visits I made to France over the years. He was a very kind person, very giving and gentle. We had a lot of discussions over the years, on all sorts of topics. But most of all, we had friendship, one that I treasured very much and deeply.
The last time I heard from him was in 1999, a few months after my son was born when he sent a gift. After that, he stopped communicating. For years, I've wondered what happened to him, why he'd stopped writing, and I haunted the internet searching for any clue to what happened. Toward the end of last November, right after what would have been his 54th birthday, I found my answer. He died February 7, 2000. My greatest fear had been proven true.
Still, because I never knew for certain, I had hoped he was still out there, somewhere. I won't speculate as to what happened, and the notices and obituaries I found did not state the cause of death, but I have a suspicion. None of that matters, though. He was a dear friend, and I loved him for that, both when he lived and now.
In an effort to keep his memory fresh and alive, I created a Shepard to write about based on him, right down to how he looks. I commissioned @blasteddoodles for his picture (I only have two good photographs of him), and boy, did she deliver! Thank you, my friend, for capturing his likeness so well! <3
Tu me manques, mon ami. J'espère que ton esprit trouvera la paix. (I miss you, my friend. I hope your spirit finds peace.)
(forgive any grammatical errors - it's been over 20 years since I last spoke or wrote French)
The observation lounge is dark when Alexandre slips inside, the only light the thousands upon thousands of pinpricks scattered as far as the eye can see outside the window. But he isn’t alone. He pauses a few steps in and tilts his head, then offers a soft smile to his left, then walks over to the window. He leans his shoulder against the wall, angling himself to prop himself into place while still getting the best view. Well, almost the best view. The actual best view comes up behind him, slides his arms around him, and murmurs in his ear, “Tu es en retard.”
Wrapping his arms over the ones around his waist, Alexandre replies, “Non, je suis à l’heure, mon étoile. Tourjours à l’heure.”
Kaidan huffs softly as his arms tighten. Alexandre expects an argument – after all, there are the two years he was ‘dead’ and Cerberus rebuilt him to account for – but surprisingly, it is absent tonight. Turning his head, he asks, “Tout va bien?”
Kaidan inhales deeply, his chin coming to rest on Alexandre’s shoulder. “Tout va bien,” he agrees quietly.
Everything is fine. Well, there is a war on, and the Reapers are gaining ground, but for this moment, in this place, at this time, all is fine, and that is a fine thing, indeed.