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"I hope you can forgive me for all the years I spent in sleep and … and …" Thane's words faltered. There was nothing beyond hope for forgiveness, and Kolyat would either offer that or he would not. It seemed unlikely that any words of Thane's would make a difference at this point. But he must try, mustn't he? Not trying is how they had come to this circumstance in the first place.

He clicked off the recorder and deleted the message. Perhaps he would write out what he wanted to say next time. Reading from a script had to be better than realizing halfway through that he had no idea what he wished to communicate, or how to do so.

It was a relief when the knock came at the door—at least, for a moment it was a relief, and then as the door came open and Shepard came in, a smile on her lips, her presence, too, became a torment and a reminder of his own inadequacy.

"Do you have some time to talk?" she asked.

It was on the tip of Thane's tongue to say no, to begin pushing her away, but he knew as certainly as if she had told him that she found all too few occasions to curve her lips in a smile. That one came so naturally to her in his presence was … flattering, indeed, but also a reminder that he had a certain responsibility to allow her to feel that happiness and not to squash it out of hand. "Of course," he said at last, waving her to the seat across from him. "I was just … I was attempting to record a message for Kolyat."

"How are things going with him? Are you in touch regularly?"

"We make the attempt, but it is difficult." He shrugged. "I imagine all things worth keeping are."

"I got an email from Bailey earlier today. He wanted to let me know that he has Kolyat working for him. He said 'helping deal with some trash from the Wards, maybe make life better for some kids like Mouse.'" She quoted it carefully, frowning a little as she tried to get the words just right. "He said that he had encouraged Kolyat to keep in touch with you, that life's too short to let people go."

Thane was struck by her words—by Bailey's generosity and her own; by the reminder that life was short, particularly his own; by a longing for his son and to go back and undo the mistakes he had made. So many emotions that he had difficulty holding himself still under their onslaught.

"I'm sorry," Shepard said. "I thought … it seemed like good news."

"It is," he assured her. "Just a reminder of how terribly I went wrong and how much I owe to Bailey—and to you." He hesitated. Perhaps he owed her the chance to know more about his life, and how he had come to this place. She had helped him as she did the others: unhesitatingly, offering her time and her concern and her efforts on his behalf. She deserved to know how he had come to a place where he needed her help. "I never explained—I suppose the story of my wife's death took you by surprise."

Shepard's eyes met his across the table. "You don't talk about yourself much; about your people, but not about your life in specific. I figured you would tell me when you were ready, and if you didn't … I try not to pry."

"It isn't that I don't trust you." It felt important to make that clear to her. He wanted her to know how different she was from … anyone he had spoken to in years, little as that fit with his decision to put distance between them. "I'm not used to trusting anyone, especially since Irikah was killed. I appreciate your patience."

"Will you tell me now, then?" she asked.

He nodded, hoping he could keep the memories back. It seemed wrong, somehow, to sit in Shepard's presence and lose himself in memories of another woman, to dwell in his memories of Irikah in the presence of a woman who made him feel awake again. Neither woman would think the less of him for it, he knew that, but it felt strange all the same. "I tried to keep my work clear of our home life … I assumed that would be enough to protect Irikah. I was wrong, and she paid for my error with her life."

"I can't imagine she would blame you for that," Shepard said softly. She was leaning forward, her elbows resting on the table and her hands clasped in front of her.

"I hope not. I can never know." He looked down at the table, unable to resist the pull, the memory so familiar. "Laser dot trembles on the target's skull. Smell of spice on the spring wind. Sunset eyes defiant in the scope." He could see those eyes, staring back at him, feel the wind in his face and smell the spice in the air.

"That was Irikah." It wasn't a question.

Thane nodded. "That was how I met her. She saw my targeting laser as she walked by and threw herself in the way."

"Amazing. Had that ever happened before?"

He shook his head. "Not before, or since. She—she woke me up." The memory drew him again, and he was back there, in front of her, watching her body tremble with indignation, the rarity of facing someone down who wasn't afraid of him, her mouth moving, her voice. 'How dare you?'

Shepard waited in patient silence until he brought himself back to the present again.

"You and I," he said at last, "we were trained to sacrifice ourselves to save others. How often does a civilian step in the way of a bullet to protect someone they'd never met?" He shook his head, thinking of it, remembering how stunned he had been, frozen in place. "I thought she was the goddess Arashu come to life. She met my eyes through the scope and … my purpose faltered."

"You couldn't stop thinking about her. You had to meet her," Shepard guessed, understanding him.

"Yes. The memory … possessed and endowed me."

"As it still does."

He nodded. "I sought her out, I explained to her who and what I was, I fell on my knees before her and begged her pardon. She … saw that I was asleep, and she awakened me, introducing me to the world beyond my work. Eventually she forgave me. Later …" He closed his eyes, those memories too intimate, too personal to relive in the presence of another, even Juniper. Especially Juniper. "Later she loved me," he finished in a whisper.

Shepard waited a moment, let him collect himself. "And then … she was killed?"

"Yes. I—I let myself become complacent. I thought Irikah and Kolyat were safe. I stayed away too long and my enemies came for her."

"Who was it?"

"Batarians. A slaver ring that was preying on hanar outer colonies. I'd killed their leaders. They paid the Shadow Broker to find out who I was, but they were afraid of me, so they went after her."

"You told Kolyat you hunted her killers down."

He met her eyes, remembering the cold anger that had filled him, the purpose that had driven him. "How could I not? Being who I am, what I am, how could I have done anything else? Irikah had awakened me; with her gone, I returned to my battle sleep, allowing my body to do what it was trained for. It hunted her killers. Murdered them." His eyes faltered before the fearlessness and directness in hers. "I was taught to grant death quickly, cleanly, to minimize suffering, but them … I let them linger."

Shepard was silent until at last he summoned the courage to look up at her again and found that there was no condemnation in her eyes. "You were operating on instinct, Thane. By your own rules, you can't blame yourself."

He shook his head, rejecting her undeserved forgiveness. "I made the choice to hunt them. They are the only lives I have ever taken of my own choice, the only deaths on my own conscience." Unable to remain here, sitting across the table from her, looking into her eyes, he got up.

"Thank you for telling me," she said softly behind him.

"I haven't spoken about my wife in—" He frowned, realizing that he couldn't measure the time because it had never occurred before. "I don't think I ever have. I … didn't have anyone left to tell it to."

"I hope you know you can tell me anything." Without looking, he could tell she had gotten to her feet.

"I appreciate that," he said in what he hoped was a suitably distant voice.

"Thane—I—" She was coming closer to him now, her voice softening to a whisper. "Maybe I haven't been as up-front as I should be. I have a hard time talking about …" She stopped, taking a nearly audible moment to collect herself. "I'm here for you, Thane. Whatever you need."

At that he could no longer keep his back turned to her. Of its own volition his body moved toward her, his eyes meeting hers. "You …" With an effort, at the last moment he pulled back the words he wanted to say, remembering his determination to protect her, and himself, by not letting this happen. "You are very kind. Thank you for listening, Siha." The last word, the endearment, slipped out before he could stop it.

That she recognized it for what it was he could see in the way her eyes changed color from brown to a deep green. "What was that word?"

"Siha." In that moment, standing there so close to one another that he could feel her breath, he surrendered to the inevitable, to the knowledge that what his soul and body desired was far greater than the fear, to the reality that he was awake and would remain so as long as she was in his life, to the certainty that no matter how hard he tried to fight it, he would eventually succumb to his own desires and hers, regardless of how torturous it would be to love knowing how short the time ahead would be. "I … Someday I will tell you what it means."

"Will you?"

"Yes." It was a promise, to both of them.