Awareness bleeds into Shepard slowly. First: the molten heat of it. Everywhere. Falling, maybe. Heat, then fall. A wandering thought: I'm being spaced again. I'm being—spaced. No suffocating emptiness, because this time she's not—attached. Body unhooked from self. With the rest of her lost in the blaze, the only thing she's got is her dimming awareness. Which floats. Which loses every thought before she can grasp at it. And even without much of a body, she is still in horrible pain. Consciousness: it hurts.

Whatever is left drifts in this boundless, scalding place. Sink. Drift. Sink. Time is nowhere to be found, and neither is Lilith Shepard. Nothing but the embodiment of ache.

It drags on, somehow. Drags through. Stinging venom, a flickering flame, the god-awful heat.

It hurts.

Until it doesn't.

A blink of dark, and the drawn-out burn is put out by a rush of cold, and there's a gasp – surging, undeniable relief, but she's drowning as her lungs inhale water. Wait—lungs. She has lungs, which are wet and choking; wet and squeezing, but-her limbs are reattached. Her face, her stomach, her neck. It's all there. Body, consciousness, body are one again.

The drowning stops on an exhale, and she stills her frantic writhing.

Shepard blinks open her eyes. The first thing: a murky, hazy dark. She wonders, idly, why she stopped drowning; why she doesn't need oxygen. No answer, of course. No anything yet. The second thing: her hands. She glances down and sees them covered in glinting, undamaged skin. Her Alliance fatigues glimmer blue on her stomach. She touches her face, and almost jolts back when she finds it smooth. No split eyebrow. No red-glowing scars. Just her. Just Shepard, whole. Why wouldn't I be whole? Something—happened—why am I here?

She is distracted from trying to answer that by a glimmering above catching her eye. Automatically: Sunlight. She commands her legs to swim towards it, and they listen, strength surging through them as if the flames never happened. Flames. Why were there flames? Something important. Something I'm missing-

Her head breaks the surface, and with it, she is overwhelmed.

The nagging feeling chewing through the back of her mind dissipates with the beauty. Lapping at her sides, turquoise water. The brightest pastel-blue sky graces the horizon. Its breeze brushes past her, carrying the sweet, balmy scent of mango, of salt, of lush greenery. Shepard blinks the sunspots out of her eyes as she turns around, in awe. Far off in the distance, there is a glittering white shore, hills of sand and grass extending beyond it. As the rushing in her ears fades, she catches the sound of birds calling in the distance; of the rustle of trees; of her own steady breathing. With this – with all this — everything in her sighs and softens, panicked brain lulled to a stop. She almost wants to float on her back and just—stay. Rest, for once.

She doesn't, because a flicker of movement on the distant shore catches her eye. A rush of adrenaline tries to kick in at that – body screaming enemy – except it doesn't, it can't, the hush of this place too strong. Something inside her is tugging warm, too, as if knowing that there is no danger. Not here. Not now.

So she swims forward, towards the blot on the glassy sand. Her limbs move with ease and purpose, as if this were the simplest task in the world. Why wouldn't it be simple? Mind still dripping slow; she gets closer, not thinking. Not analysing or worrying or holding back. Just doing, for once.

The figure starts to move, and something about it seems—familiar. Something—

Closer. A little closer, and she can see the figure better, now, against the glare of the sun.

Right when her feet touch sand, she recognizes him.

Thane.

Everything inside her body rushes to a stop. Stunned into stillness. That can't—be—

He steps forward and she knows it is. It can't be, but it is.

Heart jumping up her throat, she's—she's running. Splashing through sand and water and grief, she stumbles, and there he is. In front of her. "Thane-" Her hands grasp at his skin, trying to see if he's solid and oh, god, oh god, he is and he is real and he is here.

She stops moving, stops searching, her hands stilling on his shoulders. Looks at him in both shock and awe, because he's supposed to be dead but he's standing right in front of her, and she's with him, and that's not—possible. Not possible, but still happening. "You're here."

He moves, eyes wide. Wraps his arms around her in the warmest, softest hug she's ever—ever had. His skin is smooth and a little damp, the forgotten scent of him rushing back: mint and salt and something sweet. And he's—talking, right by her ear, in that melody-deep voice of his: "I am, siha."

Siha. Shepard never thought she'd hear him say that again.

The force of it almost brings her to her knees. You're with him. This is really happening. Frozen shock melds intosomething bigger; something impossibly crushing, and she exhales, hard. Unfreezes. Wraps her arms around him, ribcage pressing into his, and her fingers are digging into his back and she's holding him so tight and she feels like she's—choking—because he's got his lips on her hair, and he still smells like mint and weathered leather and how could she have forgotten? How could she have forgotten this?

A possibility she never imagined. Hundreds of dreams upon dreams realizing themselves all at once. Her cheeks hurt. Her cheeks ache from the smile she did not realize was on her face. It hurts, really, as the unbearable, rooted weight of grief of the past few months morphs into relief. A tumour ripped out and replaced with something better. Just as powerful and just as difficult to contain as her grief once was, the relief spills out of her. Unashamedly, there are scalding tears in her eyes. Unashamedly, her Commander persona dissolves into dust. Just like that. Just with him.

A minute passes. They hold each other. Both half-crying, maybe. The sharp whisper in the back of her head tries to get her to stop, to compose herself, because it's pathetic but that hard voice holds no sway here. Not with Thane. Another minute. The desperate, clawing relief starts to settle down, and she brings her eyes up to his. Chokes on her breath, because he's staring at her with thatlook: that overwhelming warmth. "Siha. I missed you."

Another brilliant smile, stomach warm. "Missed you too, Thane," she says, quieter this time. Reverent. He traces his thumb over her wet cheek. Wipes it clean. She leans into his hand, into him, into this impossible place. She wants to stay here. Like this, forever. Maybe I will.

Shepard's fingers also find his face. She runs the tips across his cheek, his jawline; the faded memory of all the ridges and freckles coming back into focus. How could she have forgotten? How could the memory of this have faded? Eventually, she finds her voice. "Where … are we, exactly?"

"Across the sea. As I promised you."

Across the sea. "I'm, what, dead?" A knotting of her throat at that. A little bit of panic cutting through some of the buttery warmth, because there was a mission. Yes, she was on a mission. The most important mission of her life, wasn't it? And if she died, did she complete it before going out? Did she—?

He brushes a strand of hair from her forehead, expression a blend of tenderness and easy uncertainty. "I do not know for certain, Shepard. Perhaps. But you are here."

Saltwater trickles off her hair and down her neck, her frown deepening. Perhaps?

"A mission. I think I was on a mission. Did I finish it?"

"I do not know that either, siha. I am sorry." His voice is rough—a little sorrowful, maybe, that he can't answer her overwhelming questions.

Another question is on the tip of her tongue, but she meets his gaze, and none of it matters. Her mission, whatever it was, crumbles into insignificance. She's here. With the love of her life, who she thought she'd never see again, and her mission does not matter in this place. Here, an impossible dream came true. Here, she can't stop her head from leaning forward. From feeling his breath on her chin; from her heart thudding in her chest; from meeting her lips with his. Hands looping behind his neck.

Warm and wet, his lips move against hers, fingertips trailing down her jawline. Salt and honey. Breath hitching, she digs her nails into the back of his head, pressing her body close to his—a desperate awe overtaking her. Devouring the moment because she never thought she'd get this and him and them back, and his tongue is slipping across her lower lip, and her head is foggy and giddy and it's—the gentlest sensation. The gentlest place she's ever been. Another idiotic, unstoppable smile of hers interrupting the sloppy kiss, a rich laugh, a relief still so intense her legs are weak. Hands, shaky.

They part, both breathing a little bit harder. But his breaths don't catch like they used to, like they did in the hospital.

A breath. Space stretching and compressing all in one. Something climbing up her throat. Dripping down her chin. "Thane—listen." Hands cupping his jaw. "I never got the chance to tell you, and I'm sure as hell not wasting this one." Shepard's chest squeezes tight with the knowledge of it, with the nights she spent whispering it to herself alone, with the certainty of it:

"I love you."

Saying it is coming home. Saying it and seeing the way his eyes widen, and brighten, and the way he starts to smile makes everything worth it. The heat worth it. Dying worth it. The beach behind them stretching out, palm-trees glowing in the flickering gold light, and she can see it. A life here. A life built on sand and water and thick, hot days. Nights under the stars. Getting him to laugh—that syrupy, low laugh—with her jokes. Target practice in the hills. Blooming, dewy-pink flowers. Swimming in the shallows; diving for pearl-white shells. Each day ripe for the picking. Together. No sickness and no mission and no end. "God, I love you," she says, again, eyes flicking from the beach and back to his. She could say it over and over; she could say it so many times he'd get sick of it. He won't, she knows, but she's going to try.

With a tender smile, he says: "As I love you." He takes a shaky breath. "Remember that."

Something in his gaze. Something—off. She frowns, the movie-like reel of images of their new life together stuttering. "Everything okay?"

He turns his head. Looks away.

And when he meets her searching eyes again, they're glassy. Welled with tears, still, but they're not happy anymore. She almost lurches back from the whiplash, the gentle-sweet feeling fading.

Their new life slipping out of reach, he says: "You must return."

Confusion, first. Teeth biting at the inside of her mouth. "What? What do you mean?"

He looks straight at her. Into her. "Do not anchor yourself to me, siha. You must live instead. You must live."

His words don't make sense. This does not make sense, because she just told him that she loves him, and this place is beautiful, and there is no reason at all for her to leave. None. So why is he—why is he talking like that? Why is he looking at her like that day in the hospital-like this is the last time? That can't be right. She just got here. It can't be right, and she won't let it be.

So Shepard shakes her head. Determined. Holds onto him, hard, fingertips sinking into his arms. "No. I'm staying. I'm not losing you again, okay? Whatever's wrong, we can work it out."

He closes his eyes, inhaling slowly. Swallowing hard. The heat of the sun feels a little hotter. Oppressively shining and taunting, burning the back of her neck. The chirping of the birds is grating, somehow, grating and Thane is still staring right into her and he's still—talking like this is goodbye—

He says: "I will always be with you."

A hot-iron-feeling worming its way through her chest. Stop. Stop. "I'm not leaving you, Thane," she says, voice unwavering. Resolute. Her hand reaches up towards his cheek, and she's trying to get him to see. To get him to realize that she belongs here. With him and in this life and on this beach.

But then she blinks.

But then she's in the middle of the ocean, Thane standing at the shore, nearly lost in the glare of the sun on the water. At the distance, her throat seals itself shut, and she's trying to swim forward, a choked "No-wait!" slipping out of her mouth. Body desperately pushing towards him, pushing harder than she ever has, she tries to get back to him. But the water refuses to part. The beach refuses to get any closer. Stop. Stop. Not again. A gripping force latches onto her right leg, and the sharpest pain she has ever felt wrenches through it—her shriek cut off by the water flooding her mouth, her nostrils, her eyes. The last thing she sees is a blur of brilliant white and blue.

Ignoring the jagged stinging behind her eyes, she tries to kick up; tries to do anything but sink. But her right leg is useless. But she's drowning.

Still, she fights. She fights because this is not happening again. She won't let it. Come on, Shepard, get back up there—swim—!

The brutal, invisible force contradicts that thought by sinking its teeth into her left arm, which goes motionless with a deep, nerve-rending ache—there's a scream stuck behind her clenched teeth in there somewhere. But still, Shepard struggles upwards, with the ghost of Thane's touch, the mint on her tongue, the glimmering promise of that place and that glean above her are all a taunt. A taunt that keeps getting smaller as she's dragged deeper; as the force does not relent. It reaches the sand-covered bottom of the sea. And it keeps going.

Her kicking, twisting body is broken through the mud-hardened surface of it. Eardrums pop. Ribs, skull, teeth crack. The sea and her love and her promise disappears, and there is only black. Void. Ignoring every broken part of her body, still, she fights: I'm getting back to you. Like it or not.

The merciless force lets her limbs go.

Weightlessness and disorientation only last for a split second before Shepard tries to move. She tries to go back up. Start swimming again and return to that paradise, that Thane. But she can't. She can't, because she can't feel anything. Can't find it. Not her limbs. Not her ribs, or her nose or scalp or toes or hands or knee or hips—they're all gone. Unhooked and unanchored, she is useless. And whatever is left of her – consciousness, spirit, soul, whatever — is sinking into a black mud. A boiling black mud. She'd scream if she could, but her throat is gone and there is only suffocation, there is only burn, there is only a desperation so huge she wants it to crush her—she wants Thane—

Her eyes open and she's choking on an operating table.

Voices: Shit-she's awake! She burned through her last dose-up it to the next one. Now!

Blinding light. Scattered, fractured vision. Anchored to her body, but in the worst way possible, because there is an intolerable pressure on her left arm. A leaking from her right leg. Agonizing, terrible heat everywhere else. She tries to lift her head—to get up and get out and find Thane, but hands are holding her down, and something is blocking her throat, and she can't breathe, and all she wants to do is move, and—

She's already in the red zone, if we—

Do it!

A hissing. Air being pushed into her mouth. A rustling, a sigh, and she is forced back into the void; into the black mud.

Her body shuts out. Eyes drift closed.

Loss, again.

There is nothing. Until there is something.

A pressure squeezing her skull. An annoying, relentless buzzing coming from somewhere else. A stretched tightness all over her skin.

Awareness starts there. Small. Fractured. In pieces she cannot reassemble. Thoughts, if any, are disjointed and fuzzy. Patchy radio static.

Muffled voices, sometimes: We already lost her—we can't keep putting her body through—need more time—siha, you must live.

I don't—want to. Not like this. Not here.

You must live.

Awareness grows. It grows, a seed she never wanted planted, because it is ruthless. Because her body is back, and with it comes a persistent, needling itch. A constant lightness in her bones that feels wrong. A sharp ache that throbs behind her elbow and knee and head.

Desperately, Shepard wants to sink back into that turquoise ocean. Her mind latches onto it—a lifeboat in the misery of semi-consciousness—and she tries to go back. Return to the sea. To the honeysuckle breeze, the glittering coast, the love of her life. Maybe she can think her way there. Imagine her way there. Wish her way there. If she just tries hard enough, she'll suddenly find herself at that seabed and swim her way back to Thane, and everything will be okay. She won't be here.

Except awareness will not allow her that mercy, and it sharpens its knife, and it wakes her up.

The first thing: a white ceiling and a blurred light.

The second thing: a hand pressing down on her chest, wrenching her mouth open, tilting her head back. She flinches, body trying to roll away. Except she's too weak, and the hands are pulling that choking feeling out of her and wiping the spit off her chin, and she is not being attacked.

Third: "Commander Shepard?" A bright light shining into her eye. Anderson? The voice sounded like him. Deep and warm and powerful. What's he doing here? Didn't he-?

"Shepard, if you can hear me, blink twice for me."

Blink. Blink. When did Anderson become a doctor? Didn't he-?

The voice says something else, but it's fading, getting lost in the rushing of her head. Something's missing. Wrong. The mission. Anderson. I need—Thane. Did I finish my mission? Ask. Ask Garrus. Ask Thane.

A hissing. A cold washing through her limbs. A fading room.

When awareness visits her next, it is angry. It does not start slow, no—it crushes her with its full force.

The mild ringing in her ears turns into a full-blown whine. The voices around her seem to shout and yell and bellow. The beeping machines shift into the emergency alarm of the Normandy, skull-crushing and insistently loud. She blinks open her eyes, wanting to tell off whoever is turning up the volume on everything, but the light is a spotlight—a Reaper-beam, and her mouth tastes like rotten oil and metal. The air—antiseptic so strong her eyes water; her throat burns. A pathetic, breathy whimper slips out—shut up—and then her skin. Touch. Hands all over her. Hands pinpricking her arm, her leg, her head. Voices loud, voices asking, voices too close. Bed itchy beneath her. Bed tilting until she's propped up.

Wants to say: shut up, shut up-!

But the doctor grabs her attention first. "Shepard?" Not Anderson. She glances at her, and almost laughs. No, that's an asari. "Can you hear me?"

Shepard wants to spit that she needs to stop yelling at her, but she doesn't, because somewhere she's aware that that's probably not what the asari doctor is doing. Still. She's overwhelmed by being dragged into this loud, uncomfortable, and scratchy world—this world that holds no paradise-blue or mango scented air. This world that holds no—no—

Shepard does not finish that thought.

The doctor is waiting. Taking a breath to try and ground herself, she tries to remember what the question was. Can you hear me, right? Swallowing, breathing, she then speaks through a sandpaper-throat. "Yes." Quiet and croaky. She tries again. "Yes." Better. Still a whisper.

The doctor's eyes light up. Not Anderson, because-yes, that's right. She remembers now. Anderson died. Anderson died on that platform. He did, and she did not.

The room tilts, sickening, with the knowledge of it. She looks away from the doctor as she clenches her jaw, and the loss breathes down her neck. Ignore it. No other choice. "… glad to see you're awake and lucid. I'm Dr Kelese. I'm sure you have questions, but we can address those later. First things first - pain scale? From 1 to 10."

Pain … scale. Pain. I should be in pain. London. Mission. Reapers. A beam. My mission. Did I finish it?

The question is on the tip of her tongue when awareness cuts straight through her thought process, and the numbness of shock runs out.

Something is missing! Something is missing! her internal alarm system screeches, a panicked bird. And she looks down. And that's when she sees it – or when she doesn't.

Her right calf. Right above the knee. There's … nothing there. Just a swollen, bruised thigh that ends too early. And—her left arm. Ends too soon.

Can't be right. I had all my limbs with Thane. Can't be right. Can't.

"...I can see you're surprised by the amputations. We attempted to save your arm and leg, but from all the burn and crush damage, it just wasn't possible. I'm – sorry." A pained smile. Pity in her eyes. Shepard wants to snap: you could've just left me intact with Thane but you brought me back. Don't pity me! This is your fault!

She doesn't. The doctor keeps talking. "Once the injury sites are healed, you can decide if you want us to attach fully-functional prosthetics. Other patients have …"

The doctor fades out as she tries to piece what happened together. Her head is still foggy from whatever painkillers they gave her – must be why she can't feel whatever is under all the bandaged skin on her body – but she's pissed enough to wade through it: Okay. Okay. What happened? Missing limbs. Thane. The Reapers, first.

She cuts her off, scowling, voice still a choke. "The—Reapers. Are they gone?"

Dr Kelese stills. She stares at her with a sort of reverence. A sort of worship in those wide eyes that reminds her of a younger, more naïve Liara. Liara. Is she—? Are they—? "Yes. Every single one. The relays are damaged, as is a lot of our tech, but—the war is over. You did it, Commander."

You did it. Shepard sinks deeper into her pillow, a pounding relief behind her eyes—hearing that sentence alone once felt like an impossible fantasy. And now here she is, alive and breathing and the Reapers are not. Millions of years of harvesting, and cycles, and they are destroyed. The panic over her injured body fades into the background. The weight of the war, excruciatingly heavy, is gone. It's done. The mission, the war, the Reapers. It's all—done. She almost wants to cry. Her remaining hand trembles instead with the force of it, and she's too weak to clench it into a fist. Words fail her. Words and thoughts and feelings all fail her, because it's over. The cycle ended. The cycle ended with her.

Dr Kelese keeps talking as if nothing. "We believe your crew to be alive, but they haven't gotten here yet with the damage to the relays and all."

A moment. A second as she recollects her thoughts from the surges of relief, and lets those words sink in, too: your crew, alive.

That's good. Good and another relief, because she's not sure she could handle losing her Normandy crew. Another weight shed.

So. The war is over. Her crew survived and so did she.

And so did she.

Except. Except the billions or trillions that did not. Except Thane. Except Anderson. Except half my body. The Reapers took that, too.

An itching, dizzying feeling starts at her belly-button and spreads upwards. Outwards. The relief begins to morph into an ache so big she's not sure she can process it. Vertigo and whiplash and confusion, something inside her is aching. Relieved and hurting. Loose shoulders and a tight chest. Over and over: The war is over. I lost my hand. My leg. I was with Thane and then wasn't. I had him back and then I didn't.

Angry, horrible tears well up in Shepard's eyes, blistering hot. She wants to blow up the Reapers all over again, melt in their red-hot beam, shatter in their explosion.

An unbearable voice in the back of her head: you must live.

The doctor frowns. Checks a monitor. Asks, again: "Now, pain scale?"

She'd bite the inside of her cheek except she can't find it in her to move. A sort-of-lie, she closes her wet eyes and she says: "Eight."

Dr Kelese hums. Frowns. Gives her a dose anyway. "This should help you doze off," she says, clicking off the lights and leaving the room.

A thought: Maybe I can get back to Thane like this.

But before the dose kicks in, her muddled mind clears just for the smallest of moments. Clear and bright and cold, the hard whisper inside her says: don't be stupid. There is nothing to get back to. That entire reunion was a hallucination of a dying, drug-addled brain. It was not real. You never saw him again or told him you loved him. That paradise was a lie, and you are never getting back there. Thane is still dead. Always will be. Do not grieve over a dream, Shepard, that is pathetic and a waste of time.

A stinging behind her eyes. Too much. That cruel thought is too big and too much to confront right now – she won't. Can't. Can't face the blinding brutality of reality; of loss twice-over.

Shepard turns away from the cold, hard whisper and leans, deep, into the numbing fog that's creeping up on her. She keeps on trying to pretend she can return to that dizzying paradise, to that soft sky, to that gentle ocean. Pretends she will fall asleep and wake up next to Thane, sun in her eyes and mango on her tongue.

And so, with the painkiller's relentless, gentle embrace, she dozes off; the aching of her body and mind fading into more of an easy throb. But the one thing the drug cannot fight against is the enormous, crushing sense of loneliness that bout of cruel rationality brought with it - in her messy double-grief she is isolated, and Thane is still dead, and she is still alone.

It is a vast, dark cavern with no flashlight. No way out. And it's all she has left.