The Twelfth Night seemed to stretch on forever, mocking him in the sweetest voices with prospects and promises about the aftermath of defeating Sovereign; enticing him with notions of heroic receptions and a Council that finally believed in him, that would be on their knees upon his return, begging and pleading for a forgiveness that they had not earned. It spoke to him in sweeter ways still: that maybe she had not really died on that hideous planet, that maybe upon their return to the Citadel they would be waiting, the Captain and his team of Salarians. And she would be there. Smiling and laughing about how he couldn't steal all the glory; that he had had to share it with the rest of his crew. Because that's what they were now: his crew. Not the Alliance's. Not Captain Anderson's. Not anybody else's. His crew. He had labored and suffered to bring them together; convinced with noble blood and silver tongues. With promises of loyalty and aid in dire situations. With notions of justice and revenge and correcting the wrongs that had been flung wrongly both on his people and the Citadel speices: the Turians, the Quarians, the Asari.
It was he who had taken the dire steps that no one would. He, who had defied the council, and Udina, and everything he had stood for to break his ship free from lockdown, to ensure that his crew would see another day, that his children would not live in fear of the synthetic hoard of Geth. He had done everything right. And still it had not been enough. Still the Council did not believe him of Sovereign's threats. The closest he had come to that was their experience on the Ascension. They had seen the creature, seen its massive size and overwhelming power. And still they did not believe.
And still the Twelfth Night called to him. Begged him to let go, to abandon his friends, his family, to embrace eternity and spend forever wrapped in paradise with her. To forget his troubles, this worthless galaxy. To be rid of Mindoir, Akuze and Torphin. It caressed his soul, easing the screaming of his dying squad mates, the pleadings of his colony, of his brother and parents as they were slaughtered before him. It whispered of a life of ease, of relaxation, of nothingness. They did not need him here. He was not valued by anyone. He was simply a tool, used by the Council to take out trash that they could not legally touch. To traverse through areas where they had never set foot; and to bring down people they pretended did not exist.
Shepard closed his eyes from the rushing night sky beyond the window, and gripped tight the tags around his neck.
Yes. The Twelfth Night offered him the sweetest of perditions.
But he had worked to do. And so he turned, and snapping his eyes open, left the room, and the night, far behind him.