It was looking up and finding there was very little to look forward to. Probably the feeling all old men had when in front of a mirror, but this was different. This meant a very long, desolate, empty, unhopeful, hollow track, each step heavy, each morning a fight to care, each night yearning for the darkness of unconsciousness. He'd been there before, he'd tried to get out, to live again like the oblivious, and he had thought he did. He had been sure he did. Until, he was shown he was kidding himself, lying every day, pretending, faking it, and making it, barely. Like, when you technically obeyed an order, but it still felt like you hadn't. When you hit someone just enough to say you tortured, but hadn't. When you breathed in enough to say you'd smoked, but hadn't. When a girl eats just enough to say she did, but didn't. At the time, the realization had been too hard to port. But now? Now he had learned. It didn't matter if he went through the motions, it wouldn't be, it would never be. At least now, there were no more questions, no more uncertainty for the past, nor for the future, there had been time to accept the blow, the going back to reality. Maybe that was, the extra time he'd gotten. The universe's way to give him just a little more, a little taste to the living, the opportunity to say goodbye.
It was looking up and finding there was very little to look forward to. That was, looking up and finding there her lone, sterile, tired figure. Her unresponsive, lone, tired figure. Her in her death bed. He neared the phantasm of his happiness with the defeated resignation only the utterly lost could match, but he wished to be lost, to not know, at least then he wouldn't understand the magnitude of his loss. The machine to the side of her bed beeped the cruel and mocking pattern that matched her heart's mechanical, artificial pattern. If it was a person, an entity he could hate, he would, and he would do his damnest to destroy it, strangle it, make it suffer like everyone who was suffering her loss. He would, because he wasn't as good as her, he'd never be as understanding, as forgiving. He just watched the monitor as it sang a deceiving melody that had dragged him into false hope. And then, he dared to gaze down.
It was like looking at someone after a long, long time, and not recognizing them. That was the shock, that's how pale, how cold, how lifeless, and for once, how peaceful she looked. There was serenity to her, a serenity he hadn't given to her in life. He touched her freezing cheek, but wasn't startled. He knew the feel of the dead, and this, ironically, was no different. There was just a weight from knowing it came from her. But she, she wasn't worried, she wasn't stressed, she wasn't preoccupied, she wasn't the most capable person in the universe who had all life hanging off her shoulders, trying desperately to keep her identity and openness intact, to not let the darkness infect her thoughts. No, she was just sleeping. He massaged the cheek. How couldn't they see? She was just, finally resting. He brought his hand higher and messed up that short hair just the way she liked. She was relaxed. She was happy. This is how she'd described being happy, she just…hadn't figured. He smiled, just a little, but it was bitter, so bitter. It wasn't her he was worried for though, sure, she had deserved more, no. He just knew, he was waiting for hell. But before that, there was something. He leaned and touched his lips to hers. He kissed her, her chin, her jaw, her cheeks, her ears, her hair, her eyes, and then... "I love you." And he repeated. "I love you." And he whispered. "I love you." And he murmured "I love you, I love you, I love you." And he cried.
No one would have realized; there was no shaking, no sound, just tightly closed eyes, stealthy tears. And a tightly clenched hand. A tightly clenched hand as he disconnected.
"She has named you as her next of kin." The doctor said. "Sir… she's… not waking up."
Shortly after, he was given a venemous promotion.
5 months after her dead, a depressed man who just couldn't see why anymore stood in the middle of a new wasteland, created by war, that he knew no one ever crossed, no families, no kids,no civilians, held to his mouth that which would only harm him by his decision. Just one pull, and maybe, it would end. Maybe, he'd be with her. Maybe- maybe- he closed his eyes and prepared. Maybe- maybe- he didn't.
He holstered the weapon, turned, and went home.
Maybe, he'd betray everything she ever thought of him, she ever believed in, she ever admired.
Maybe, he would be unworthy.
Maybe, she would hate it.
Maybe, he could still.
Maybe, she'd want him to try.
11 months after her death, a man who was not escaping, not avoiding, not pretending, was promoted, and this time, it wasn't so bitter.
One year after her death, a man sat next to his date. "Why was he there?" he asked himself. The date asked if he wanted company back to his apartment. He said no. From then on, he would always say no.
2 years after her death, a veteran, a specter, a human, "rose into universal history", "the male version of Shepard" they said. He gave a light chuckle. No, he was just a line compared to her infinite paragraphs in history. Clueless, all of them.
He felt proud, though.
He felt good.
"Mark my words. You'll get far." Her voice whispered once, encouraging.
A man could feel her head in his chest, and he looked at her. Her mop of hair untamed, cute, adorable, rebellious. He played with it, and her dry chuckle came like so much before it, so real, that it threatened to make all fall from his eyes. His hand slipped down to massage her neck, he missed her. "Look at me."
She burrowed her head deeper, and he heard a soft, decisive, "no."
His throat closed, his grip on her tightened. "But I need you."
"No, go back. I don't want you here yet."
The man opened his eyes to find himself cold, and without her. He could stay, but he didn't, he fought, he stood up, covering the wound that had made him faint. He lived.
A lonely man looked at her picture in his omni-tool, and he didn't hurt no more. He loved.
13 years after her death, a re-known admiral went to oversee the establishment of a new prototype under his care, which reminded him of before. And there, he saw a man, that reminded him of before.
Reminded him of a lot.
The specter in charge of the operation was a woman, who yes, he could say, reminded him of a lot.
And something in his life made him know, know to the marrow of his bones, that history, would always, one way or another, repeat itself.
The admiral took the young reflection aside in the excuse of examining potential.
"Son," he began, and advised, like once a friend had done so for him, one that had died up there next to her. But now, he introduced the most cryptic of messages, he let the boy know without letting him know.
"Sir?" The young reflection asked.
"Dismissed." The admiral said. And as a friend had once done for him, he oversaw.
Years after the abrupt advice, an old man was visited by a seasoned soldier. The old man recognized the reflection immediately. The man, in a now great position, humbly stared at the old man, and asked a single question. "How?"
"Life." Answered the old man. "I had never felt happier. Later, though… it was never the same."
"Was… it worth it?"
The old man looked at the roof, his gaze longing and far away. "Yes." He said, and gave a genuine smile.
He wore this same smile thinking of her on his death bed.
Author's Note: My style can sometimes be confusing. The "friend" is Anderson. "Her" is Shepard. The unespecified protagonist, he, soldier, man, admiral, old-man, is Kaidan throught the years.