Garrus had been through this grief already and so it was a familiar feeling to him, but the familiarity didn't make it any easier. This grief was more intense than that of the prior mourning period two years ago, when Shep had been spaced. The galaxy had reeled with the information, attracted more to the mystery of it than not. Alliance wouldn't state the official cause of death, just that she was killed during a routine mission. The Turian wondered, bitterly, whether they would do such a disservice again.
He hadn't been there, he'd been Citadel-side. At the time, he'd wondered if being there would have changed anything and now, that thought was forefront in his mind. Could he have saved her? He found himself wondering. So much of his life had been moulded around the woman, she had spurred him into action, taught him, eventually loved him. It was Shepherd's death that lead to him retreating to Omega to become Archangel, the Turian everybody loved to hate, the token bad-boy. That was how he had dealt with the grief then; bullets between the eyes of every merc he could find, the arc of blood and the crumple of a body. It would be a disservice to Shepherd to do that now; she had made clear her disapproval of such actions in the past, persuaded him not to kill for the sake of it. He didn't know what to do now.
He couldn't get used to thinking of her in past tense. It was just a week ago he had held her in his arms, kissed her forehead, promised her a life away from all of this once it was over- all the pain, the death, the stress. Joker had said her anxiety levels were off the chart, and Garrus wondered whether he had helped or not. She had done this for him, this much he knew. It didn't make it any easier.
He'd feared the worst when, after she lugged him back to the dropship, the final Reaper beam exploded in a cacaphony of debry and hot angry fire. He hadn't seen her, but he'd seen enough to know nobody could survive that. So, you could imagine, he'd almost leapt for joy hearing she'd reached the Citadel. Then, nothing. Radio silence. Hackett couldn't reach her. Anderson was dead, too. At least he died with Shep. At least, Garrus thought, she hadn't died alone. She had died with a friend, older even than her friendship with him.
Shepherd had died two years ago and things had started going wrong, and now she was dead, permanently this time, and he wondered, would things crumble again? Omega, Sidonis, failed relationships, a dead squad. All of it hung heavy in his head. He'd thought that unbearable. But this time, there was no Omega to get his mind off of it, there were no merc squads, no seedy bars where he could smack people for threatening him. It was just a galaxy half dead, and a whole lot of empty spaces.
Like her locker, cleared out of her weapons, her armour, her poetry books, as soon as her body was confirmed. The empty seat in the mess hall where she would no longer sit and eat. An empty space on the duty roster. They'd been merciful enough to at least allow him access to her cabin, a week, they'd said, for him to collect close personal items. He'd noted the disapproving tone.
Yes, he'd been through this grief before. At least before, she had only been a friend -yes, a good friend with a very supportive waist but a friend nonetheless-. But, shit, now she was... had been, the woman he loved. They were old wounds, split open and rubbed with salt. And it hurt more than he'd imagined possible.
An intense feeling of loss bubbled in Garrus' chest, twinned with a quiet anger. Of course she died, she'd do anything for the galaxy, anything except live. Hadn't she done enough? She'd died once already but she'd had to do it again just to make a point. The final full stop in her Alliance file, just to prove that she was determined and capable.
But, the question in his mind: why her? Anderson, Hackett, someone should have done it instead... The one thing he'd gotten right. Gone, snuffed out just like that.
Damn, everyone else was celebrating - the reapers destroyed. Sure, the mass relays too and thus the galaxy was cut off, but things were moving along. Comms had been restored. But he couldn't, he just couldn't sit down with a drink without her there too.
It was joker who had heard first, uncharacteristically quiet as he summoned Garrus to the conference room. EDI didn't speak either, just stared at Jeff, looking almost confused. As confused as an AI could look. A private vid call. He'd assumed from Palaven command, but it had been Hackett. The connection was shoddy, based in twenty year old technology, and the hologram patchy and monotone but he'd understood that look in Hackett's eye. Regret that he had sent another good soldier to their death, the grief of losing a friend, the fear of having to report it to her only surviving friends.
"We found a body." Was all he said. His voice didn't shake, and that alone made Garrus angry. He'd been so angry since it happened. So, so angry. He knew what this meant.
"And, pictures are being sent for confirmation but there's no reason to believe it isn't her."
The vid had cut out here. Garrus had looked at the floor, and kept looking even as it stuttered back to life, hands behind his back, chest puffed out proud, a fine soldier, the picture of emotionless, even though inside was crumbling.
"She was a damn fine woman, Vakarian. Soon as we're back on our feet she's getting a military send off, highest honours, maybe even a statue."
Garrus hadn't spoken, he hadn't been able to. Anything he could have said wouldn't have sufficed. What could he say? She was the love of his life? She saved him from himself? She was the one thing he got right, the woman who missed a shot just to make him feel good, all of that, gone.
"She was a damn fine woman, and her sacrifice will be honoured."
Garrus nodded. It was all he could do.
Afterwards, he'd gone off the ship and just shot off into the forest for a while. nobody had stopped him although EDI had been curious as to the grief response in a non-human organism, Jeff had dissuaded her from an interrogation. It had been dark when he returned, threw the rifle aside, went to the crew deck and drank till he fell asleep.
They'd crashed on a small garden planet. Quite a few ships had crashed in various places, but basic communication relays had been set up, so rescue was on the way and as he understood it, alternate forms of travel were being developed, with the use of quantum entanglement cables. All prototypes, but the universe needed to get back on its feet. In the meantime the Normandy was fine. They had rations, Medigel, enough spare beds and parts to do repairs. Enough to last. The clean up operation could take a while.
He remembered that wry smile in the scope of his rifle as she'd made her way up to his nest, back on Omega all of a year ago. Seeing her, a flash of red hair, a smirk on her lips, after hearing the rumours, after hoping, wondering, it had felt amazing. She was alive.
And again, on Palaven's Moon. He'd heard her voice before he'd seen her, green eyes glinting with defiance as she stared at the burning silhouette of Palaven, the scene only filled her with determination, the need to defeat the reapers to pay for not one, but two burning planets. He'd wanted to hug her right there but it wouldn't have been appropriate. And smiling, always smiling, her smile even wider when she recognized her Turian.
There was no such hope this time. Her body had been pulled from the rubble in the Citadel, pictures sent over for confirmation. He and Dr Chakwas had confirmed, as required in military rules.
She-.
He didn't want to remember her like that; a bloodied mess, hair clotted with blood and dust -not hanging long and beautiful like it usually did- and she hung, too limp, at angles her body shouldn't have bent at. Glassy eyes and broken body. Thin, ragged wounds cut into her body, fingers permanently clenched, and her mouth no longer smiling. The Shepherd he knew was always moving - running from deck to deck, checking in with her crew, joking with Joker over comms. Heck, even her dancing. She didn't just lie there. She'd never let dust clog her military uniform or leave her hair unbrushed. She was a proud woman, a strong woman.
He had stared a long time at her, tracing her face through the photo, scanning for any sign that it wasn't her. Staring. At the scars he recognised - one on her collarbone where a husk had gotten hold, one on her side where cybernetics had been implanted- and at all the ones he didn't. Too many to count, inflicted during that final stand. He'd stared, looking for anything that gave up the big cosmic joke. Someone out there was laughing at him, this couldn't be real.
She was Shepherd. She'd cheated death. She'd taken down a Reaper. She'd done the impossible so many times it was becoming impossible to call anything impossible. She'd loved him.
And just like that, Shepherd was no more. Liara had offered to do the honours, but he had insisted, and placed her name up on the board, next to Kaiden and Thane. He had saluted, then retreated, not to his quarters but to hers.
The fish needed feeding.
Bed smelled like her. Like that soap she used, her shampoo, her moisturizer; that he'd watched her put on so many times, too many to count, after sleeping in her quarters. She'd needed the company more than ever this past year, and he'd taken to visiting at least once a week, when he could spare it. She always seemed thankful, fell asleep with her head on his chest and he, with his hands in her hair. The bed another empty space he had to fill. It felt too big a burden for him alone.
He didn't want to take her things, then all of this would be real. All of her models, her books, her dog tags.
He'd known the cost of war would be great but this was too high. He knew that as they recovered, more people would turn up dead. It was inevitable, he had adjusted to that months prior, but never even entertained the thought that Shep wouldn't be returning. Palaven had burned and it hadn't hurt like this. Shepherd had been a constant, the one person he could depend on and trust, the only human for him.
She could have lived another 80 years. They were supposed to grow old together. This wasn't how it should have ended.
Shepherd, defiant till the end, sacrificing herself for the greater good even as she bled out and shifted on broken limbs. Even as Garrus sat aboard the Normandy, claws twitching nervously, refusing medical attention till he knew she was OK.
And she wasn't, and now here he was, an empty cabin, lying on a bed for two. There were vids from news channels and extranet sources. He played them, for once praising Khalisa's invasive journalism. She looked so lively, so determined, her words displaying such she was going to stop the Reapers no matter what.
But where did that leave him?
No weight had been lifted for him, no great relief, even as the galaxy stood saved. The woman he fought for was no more. He had helped save the galaxy but couldn't save her. All he had left was a bootleg VI, a picture, and the memory of a smile in the sniper scope as she stormed towards him.
And the galaxy felt a lot less interesting, a lot less meaningful and a whole lot more empty now she was gone. Now the stars were just another empty thing to him. Just him and the view out into the night, he felt as though his chest was the last empty space he had to fill.
And when he finally slept, he dreamed of her; her hair plastered to her face after a shower, tinkering with guns in the armoury, dancing terribly and not giving a damn. He dreamed of every forehead touch. He dreamed of her. The woman the galaxy was now lacking in, the woman who had filled his world and who had now left it empty.
He knew what lay in the future - rebuilding Palaven, dealing with the losses, relocating families and refugees. It would be a far cry from tracking mercs through warehouses or investigating colonies; he never thought he'd miss it until he did. He'd fooled himself, perhaps like everyone, into thinking Shepherd was invincible.
And maybe there would be people who could claim Shepherd had helped them when they needed it -had been rescued by or had lost trinkets returned to them - but only he could claim to have had her love.
It was going to be a long, long week.