Chapter Summary: "I spoke to God today / And She said that She's ashamed / What have I become? / What have I done?" —Five Finger Death Punch


Shepard: "Wrong Side of Heaven"

"I'm no hero, and I'm not made of stone.
Right or wrong, I can hardly tell–
I'm on the wrong side of heaven
And the righteous side of hell."
—Five Finger Death Punch

Three.

Hundred.

Thousand.

All dead, because of her. And she'd do it again, without hesitation. Because what were three hundred thousand lives compared to all the civilizations of the galaxy? Trillions more had been saved. This was war. Casualties happened. Collateral damage. And sometimes, sacrifices had to be made for the greater good.

Shepard whispered this over and over to herself like a mantra, clinging to what felt like the last shreds of sanity. The greater good. What a stupid cliché. Used by war criminals the galaxy over and throughout history to justify their atrocities. Good for whom? Not for the innocent citizens of Aratoht. Not for the three hundred thousand batarians—civilians, families, children—she'd killed when she'd destroyed their entire star system.

She remembered vividly the incident on Feros, where one colonist had died when a stray bullet missed a Thorian creeper and hit Macha Doyle right between the eyes. Her face had haunted Shepard's nightmares for weeks afterward, angry and accusing. One. She'd killed one, and still thought of it only with pangs of nausea. Never had she imagined she might consider that a good day.

Acceptable losses, Garrus had said.

One is too many, Shepard had countered.

Now she huddled on the floor at the foot of her bed, hugging her knees as if she could physically hold herself together. There was too much to do for her to have time to wallow in self-pity, but she couldn't fall apart in front of the crew. No one could see her like this. It would undermine their confidence in her command. No, she had to get up, get up now, drag her sorry ass back to the CIC and pretend to be whole so they could go stop the Collectors and make all of this mean something.

As if on cue, EDI's voice piped up from the console by the door. "Commander Shepard, Sere Krios requests entrance."

Shepard clenched her teeth. "Tell him to—" she began, then stopped before she could say go away. She sighed shakily. "Fuck it. Let him in."

The door whispered open to admit the one person for whom, as she was beginning to learn, she didn't need to wear her mask. "Siha, are you …" Thane trailed off as his eyes fell on her trembling form. In three quick strides, he was across the room and kneeling beside her, brow furrowed with worry.

Shepard took a deep, steadying breath as she met his gaze. "I'm fine," she lied.

But those huge dark eyes saw right through her. He reached out a hesitant hand, then, gently and so very, very tenderly, Thane brushed tears from her cheeks that she hadn't even realized she'd shed. And it was that simple, small act of comfort that finally shattered her.

She could take Hackett's halfhearted, party-line recriminations; hell, she'd expected far worse. The fearful silence of the crew similarly came as no surprise. Even Joker's stunned, solemn speechlessness fell upon her with an appropriately chastising weight.

But the admiral's conspiratorial praise had been a little harder to swallow. Doctor Chakwas's kind, sympathetic gaze, even more so. And Shepard had flat-out ignored Kelly's offer of counsel, lest she break down right there in the CIC—or laugh in the poor girl's face.

And now this.

Shepard had never even tried to deny that she was attracted to Thane, and he'd made it quite clear he felt the same. But their relationship had been blossoming slowly, and they both had been content to let it. Until now, the only real physical contact they'd ever had—outside of the occasional battlefield first aid—had been simply holding each other's hands while they chatted in the life support bay. Neither of them had yet said the word "love."

But that's what she saw in his eyes now, what she felt in the touch of his fingers on her face. Love, deep and fierce and above all, unconditional.

Truth be told, it frightened her. Hate, she could handle. Hate, she could understand, could even go along with. God knew she'd hate herself until her dying day for what she'd done at Aratoht. But love? She didn't know what to do with love. Who could possibly love the monster who'd murdered an entire star system and three hundred thousand people?

She didn't deserve love.

Yet she was drowning in it anyway, dissolving in it like a sand castle in the pounding surf. Her face crumpled, and she suddenly flung her arms around him, burying her face in the soft leather of his jacket and sobbing like a child. He stiffened briefly in surprise. Then she felt his cool hands slide slowly across her back, and melted into his embrace.

Shepard clung to him as she screamed and cried. His strong, solid presence was the eye of her storm, her one lifeline amidst the guilt and horror and grief and rage and pain that thundered and shrieked within her. And Thane held her—gently, patiently—silently stroking her hair until the storm finally blew itself out.

As her sobs quieted to miserable hiccups, self-consciousness began to set in. A faint tingling in her palm made her realize it had found the open front of Thane's vest, and now rested intimately on bare scales. But before she could withdraw it, she felt his fingers wrap around hers, pinning her hand in place. The slow, steady beat of his heart was somehow soothing.

"Siha." Pressed up against his chest as she was, his crushed-velvet voice vibrated through her in a rumble that would have been comforting, but for one detail.

"Please," she whispered brokenly, "Don't call me that. Not anymore."

His heartbeat under her hand stuttered once—the only indication that her words had affected him at all. "Why not?" he asked, his voice soft and very controlled. Shepard couldn't bring herself to look at his face.

"Because I don't… I'm not…" She swallowed hard as even more tears threatened. "I'm no angel, Thane. I'm not this heroic figure everyone makes me out to be. Innocent people are dead because of me."

"And many, many more are alive because of you."

Shepard choked back another sob. "I'd do it again, too. That's the worst part. Given the chance—I'd do it again."

"Shepard. Look at me." Thane's fingers found her chin and gently but firmly tilted her face toward his. She closed her eyes. "Look at me," he insisted, worry coloring his tone with a harshness that surprised her, and she obeyed.

His eyes were wide and dark and serious, his stare intense and magnetic. She couldn't look away if she wanted to.

"That's precisely what a siha is," he said. "She does what she must, to protect those she can. And may the Gods help those who stand in her way."

Shepard straightened, pulling away just enough to face him fully. "But—"

"But she is not the Goddess Herself," Thane continued before she could voice her objection. "She is not all-powerful. She is, as your people would say, only human." He stood, leaving her staring up at him, mouth agape. "Think on that, Shepard."

She could only watch as he made his way to the door. But before it could close behind him, he paused and turned back toward her. "You understand, don't you, that they would have died anyway?"

Still huddled on the floor, Shepard drew her knees in even tighter. "I know. But then their blood wouldn't be on my hands."

Thane tucked his hands behind his back and fixed her with a look she couldn't quite name. "On the contrary," he said, somewhat reprovingly, "you did what was within your power. Had you done nothing, you would have had the blood not only of Aratoht, but of the entire galaxy on your hands."

Shepard shot to her feet, searching for a retort but finding herself speechless.

Thane gave a small bow. "Good night… siha." And he was gone.