Work Text:
G chord.
C chord.
E chord - no - yes, E chord - but accidental, trying to make A minor chord. Beginner mistake. Sloppy. And distracting. Annoying? No, not quite annoying. Hard to be annoyed at a beginner’s practicing. Mistakes predictable, to be expected. Annoyance at such things an undergraduate’s folly. Time, maturity, patience. Time develops maturity, maturity develops patience. Consistent pattern. Outliers, of course. Yet, pattern still present, consistent, across species. Mordin had been alive for some time, had gained maturity, was very patient.
Still, practice distracting from work. Also, lab not appropriate venue. Would need to correct if any work was to be done.
“Shepard,” Mordin suddenly said. Commander slightly startled by the noise, fumbled to keep from dropping the guitar. “Apologies, don’t mean to be rude, but must ask - nowhere else on the ship for you to play that thing?”
“Sorry, Mordin,” Shepard said sheepishly, idly fingering the fretboard. “Joker got this old thing at a pawn shop on the Citadel since he knew I always wanted to learn to play, and pretty much everyone but you has banned me from practicing in their areas since I’m… not that great. I think Tali said it sounded like an elcor being stabbed to death.”
“Accurate description,” Mordin noted. “I presume other crew members gave similar assessments?”
“Garrus said it sounded like a turian mating cry,” Shepard said with a grimace. “I’m… pretty sure he was joking.”
Obviously. Turian mating cry more similar to out-of-tune banjo in terms of sound. Mordin didn’t bring this up, though. Not relevant to discussion.
“Why not practice in cabin?” Mordin asked, glancing at Shepard. The Commander paused, still fiddling with the fretboard. “No one else up there. No one to annoy. No important research from which to distract.”
“Well, yeah, it’s just…” Shepard let words trail off. Out of fear? Absentmindedness? No - shame? No, not quite. Embarrassment? Yes, that was it - embarrassment. Reason embarrassing, therefore reluctant to divulge. Clearly not sensitive or dangerous secret - therefore, open challenge to uncover, elucidate. Like discovering cloacal rash fellow student had attempted to hide during graduate studies. Similarly embarrassing, yet necessary to learn and resolve for research to continue effectively.
“‘Just’ what?” Mordin asked, after silence continued without Shepard continuing their sentence. “Acoustics? Can’t possibly make you sound worse. Worried about bothering hamster? Effects likely negligible in that case. Anxiety over possibility of being recorded by hidden camera? Practicing elsewhere not a solution, Cerberus placed observational equipment everywhere on the ship, audio as well as video-”
“It’s the fish,” Shepard blurted out. Rapid-fire salarian thought process expressed as speech clearly more effective interrogation technique on humans than any form of torture. “I mean, what if the vibrations, you know… kill them?” Shepard was clearly aware of how ridiculous their theory sounded out loud, offered awkward smile to compensate.
“Play loud industrial music in cabin all the time,” Mordin pointed out, waving his hand dismissively. “Fish not dead from that.”
“I know,” Shepard admitted. “It’s just… they die so damn easily, I’ve learned not to take chances.”
“Your penchant for piscatorial homicide notwithstanding, vibrations from guitar unlikely to cause fish any harm,” Mordin said, finally looking up from his work in full. “Regardless of current inability to play an A minor chord properly.”
Shepard raised an eyebrow. “You could tell that was what I was trying to play?”
“Of course,” Mordin nodded. “Sang, as I told you. Dabbled with instruments. Know my chords, Shepard. Can tell a failed attempt when I hear one.”
“You can play an instrument,” Shepard said incredulously, setting the guitar down, leaning forward in their chair. New information clearly hard to believe.
“Dabbled, as I said,” Mordin said. Came off too much as hedging statement. Needed to clarify. “Interested in music, art, as indicators of philosophical, cultural evolution. Human music, instruments, of particular interest. Wider range of types and genres than most species. Instruments especially unlike most species. Totally different from those of turians, salarians.”
“I haven’t seen many salarian instruments,” Shepard admitted. “Or salarian musicians. Any salarian artists, for that matter.”
“Uncommon,” Mordin agreed. “Yet - not inexplicable. Many kinds of intelligence, intellectual expression. Art one of these. In human culture, stereotype of artist as troubled, anxious, mentally tortured. True for salarians as well. More so, perhaps. Salarian artist aware of brief lifespan, aware of societal preferences, expectations toward science, technology, espionage. Not much room to develop skills. Not much time to make great works of art, to create masterpiece. Life of a salarian artist focused on work made with tools, not tools themselves. Result: salarian instruments simple, functional, without embellishment or unnecessary features. Again: music the focus, not the tools used to make it. Turian instruments similar, for different reasons. Turian music primarily military-focused, simple instruments easier to transport and use for military purposes”
“And humans are different?”
“Very,” Mordin smiled. “Longer lifespan, lesser emphasis on military supremacy, greater variety of music, greater variety of instruments. Often, instruments themselves works of art, designed to be as aesthetically pleasing as music they produce. Asari instruments superficially similar in artistic intent, yet aesthetic variety more limited. Asari have more standardized aesthetic style reflected in architecture, music, ship design. Human variability reflected in wide aesthetic range. One guitar: rectangular head, pear-shaped body. Another guitar, from different creator: curled head, circular body. Both guitars. Both produce guitar music. Functionally, the same. Aesthetically, could not be further apart.”
“And this interested you,” Shepard said, resting their head on their knuckles.
“Fascinated me,” Mordin confirmed. “Told you once that personal interest in music, culture negligible. Not whole lie, not whole truth. Interest currently very limited - more important things going on - yet, at the time, human music an obsession. Wide variety of musical forms indicative of disconnected, decentralized cultural progression, individualistic cultural focus. Wanted to see if biological link could be established. Also, liked the music. Interest fleeting, but still indulged it longer than probably should have. Around three months.”
“During which time, you learned to play human instruments.”
“Dabbled,” Mordin insisted. “Became fond of human folk, bluegrass, gospel. Pace usually fast, focus on lyrics appealing. Similar to patter songs. Studied banjo, mandolin, guitar, violin. Had most success with mountain dulcimer. Simple instrument, easy to learn, appealing superficial aesthetics. Stuck with it the longest. Briefly played in salarian jug band, the Erinle Ramblers. Cover of human song ‘John Henry’ hit number twelve on Citadel charts, cover of ‘I’ll Fly Away’ number twenty.”
“This I have to hear,” Shepard grinned. Expecting another performance, like “Scientist Salarian?” Would have to be disappointed, then. Mordin was not about to relive his folk music days in front of Shepard. Not for free, at any rate.
“Can look it up on the extranet,” Mordin said, eyes and hands returning to work. “Good excuse to relocate to cabin and continue guitar practice there, now that lethality to fish no longer a concern.”
“Sure,” Shepard chuckled, grabbing the guitar. “Nice talking with you as always, Mordin.”
“Likewise,” Mordin agreed. “Perhaps study chord charts more closely, get the A minor correct next time.”
He waited for Shepard to leave the lab, then sighed in relief. Finally, could get back to work. On the verge of a breakthrough before being distracted by old dalliances with human music. Not worth focusing on. Not worth paying mind. Not worth…
His eyes glanced to one of his supply crates. Involuntary, spurred by dwelling on old memories. Knew what was in the crate, of course, related to aforementioned old memories. Tempted to get it out, relive old memories. Not productive. Still - productivity already delayed. Harm in delaying it slightly further minimal, now that fate of the galaxy no longer an immediate concern.
Mordin opened up the crate. Two objects, protected by insulating foam and fabric, First object, framed picture of Mordin and several other salarians, showing off instruments. Publicity photo, celebration for hitting number twelve. Sentimental. But sentimentality sometimes beneficial.
Second object, worn-looking wooden instrument, hourglass shape, soundholes shaped like atoms. Resembled a violin designed by committee. Mordin pulled it out of the crate and set it on the table. A few quick strums, twists of the pegs to tune it. Out of tune for years now, took longer to resolve than anticipated. Wouldn’t indulge himself with enough time to play out a full song, but a few lines still enough to scratch the itch.
Chords came automatically, as if Mordin had stopped playing just yesterday. D. G. D. A. D. Steady. Steady. High. Low. Tune came out just as it always had. The salarian joined his voice to it. Shaky. Out of tune. No worry. Not like anyone around to hear him.
“Some glad morning
When this life is over
I’ll fly away
To that home on God’s celestial shore
I’ll fly away”
The chorus. Voice even shakier now. Not the best song for Mordin to sing. Always had trouble hitting the high notes, even more trouble holding them.
“I’ll fly away, oh glory
I’ll fly away
In the morning
When I die
Hallelujah, bye and bye
I’ll fly away”
Mordin sighed and stared at the dulcimer for a moment. Then, put it away. Done playing for now.
“‘Some glad morning,’” he mused. “Some glad morning, perhaps. Not this morning. Not finished yet. Work to do. Places to go.”
More old memories entered his mind. Unbidden. Unwanted. Inconvenient. Didn’t like reflecting on these ones. Always raised more questions than answers. But perhaps even that meant something. Perhaps-
He bowed his head. Inhaled sharply. Exhaled quickly.
“...Mistakes to correct,” he finally said, voice soft. “If must fly away, would prefer to leave my mark first. Not much time. Not much time to make a masterpiece.”
Back to work. But there was still music, hummed under the salarian’s breath, a lyric or two slipping out from time to time:
“When I die
Hallelujah, by and by
I’ll fly away”
Some glad morning. Some glad morning.