The wall was hard behind him and it swayed with the gentle rythym of the Narada II. The Foriegn Marshal was cool, deliberate, and the hand against his waist was casual at best. Nero's eyes narrowed slightly, his expression taking a light edge of irritation beneath his bemusement. The symbolic retreat was not something he'd missed, but it could be overlooked.

He leaned forward, against the white-haired man, his weight a counterpoint to the gentle roll of the ship, and extricated his hand. Nero set the glass blindly on the table beside them, and lifted his hand alongside Ephram's face. He took the man's chin between his forefinger and thumb and lifted his chin, just slightly, examining him intently.

"I believe the time for metaphor has now passed," Nero said lowly, his voice resounding deep in his chest. "Don't you agree Ephram?"