A/N: Yep, I'm continuing this… the ficlet that wouldn't end. As I keep playing, I keep coming back to this piece and thinking of things to add. Maybe I'll stop, but for now, I'm still going to add on to this. Spoiler alert – I've played up through Palaven and Ash's first email, so events through that point may be referenced. Thanks for reading and to all who reviewed! I'm really humbled by a lot of the comments!
Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing
Under my eye;
Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing
Over the sky.
One after another the white clouds are fleeting;
Every heart this May morning in joyance is beating
Full merrily;
Yet all things must die.
It rained, Shepard.
But, I didn't count on you showing up.
The stream will cease to flow;
The wind will cease to blow;
The clouds will cease to fleet;
The heart will cease to beat;
For all things must die.
All things must die.
Ineffable.
That was another one of the words.
There's a magic you have that's stronger than my grandfather's. There's a pull and force around you that bends the rules of nature, and it's something that I can't express or explain. Maybe if you'd been around during those two years to give me more calendars, I could find some words for it.
But, all I know is that I feel it too.
All I know is that one minute, the rain had arrived and it was beating down on our bodies with liquid fire, and the air was filled with the terrible thrum of death. And then you and Anderson threw us into action, and we were in the eye of the hurricane: calm and clear, surrounded on all sides by the storm.
But the storm is still raging, Shepard. Maybe you have the magic to stop it, but right now… It still lives in my bones.
Spring will come never more.
O, vanity!
Death waits at the door.
See! our friends are all forsaking
The wine and the merrymaking.
We are call'd–we must go.
Laid low, very low,
In the dark we must lie.
Anachronism.
That was one of the words, too.
You and Anderson fighting together; me, sprinting to the Normandy's dock. It felt like something unreal, like something out of time. It could have been all those years ago when you gathered me up from Eden Prime and Anderson shook my hand and welcomed me aboard. Us, together.
The familiar has a strong pull, and it would be so easy to forget…
But, when you stop and look around, everything's different.
The same people, but nearly strangers now; the same ship in name, but not in fact; and I can't pretend that's Kaidan jogging beside me.
When we met Liara on Mars, and we both just stepped into place behind you… It would've been so easy to let go of the fixed rope and float back in time. But, that wouldn't do us any good, so I made myself remember all of the hurt and the unanswered questions, and I hope you can understand that. I can't let myself fall, Shepard – not when I don't know what I'm falling into.
She's a beautiful ship, your new Normandy. But, she isn't the same. And neither are we.
And I can't forget the storm.
The merry glees are still;
The voice of the bird
Shall no more be heard,
Nor the wind on the hill.
O, misery!
My dad used to joke that thinking in a soldier was dangerous. There isn't much else you can do in intensive care, though, except for think.
Well, think and worry.
Everyone I care about is out there somewhere, and the storm seems less real the longer I'm in here. The people on the Citadel see the war outside only through their viewscreens, amused spectators thanking their dieties they're not stuck out there, and the inflow of refugees makes it seem like this the one place that is safe.
But I can see the Presidium from my window. And I can tell that we're still sitting in eye: it's too calm and too perfect. It's an atmosphere as artificial as the one they pump through the fake clouds and fake sky. This whole place has never felt alive to me - not like the Wards with that little dash of grunge and dirt that smacks you in the face with the ugliness of reality. Too clean. Too perfect. And, although, as things get worse out there it's beginning to fray, I still wonder what it'll take to shatter the mask.
They did too good a job of rebuilding after the Battle of the Citadel. It's too easy to forget if you're sitting in the eye, the other side of the storm is coming fast and hard.
Hark! death is calling
While I speak to ye,
The jaw is falling,
The red cheek paling,
The strong limbs failing;
Ice with the warm blood mixing;
The eyeballs fixing.
And the rain almost swept me away too, Shepard.
But, of course, you know that.
They said you came to see me before I was awake, and I've had a lot of time to think about it, but I still don't know how I feel.
Again, it's too easy to fall.
When I opened my eyes, I saw the shadow of a man beside me, and for a brief moment when I thought it was you, I couldn't breathe. Of course, realizing it was Udina didn't make me feel any better, but that's a different point.
This whole thing is just strange. I've become so used to the idea of you that I don't know what to make of the man anymore. They talk about you a lot on the news vids, you know. You're either the galaxy's only hope or a traitor who left humanity behind, depending on who's talking. And, that's part of the problem: you've become bigger than yourself – even to me. How do you tell your deepest fears and insecurities to someone who's less human and more a myth?
It's the magic I mentioned earlier, Shepard. You have a force that compels beyond magnets, and people follow in your wake. You have a power that can't escape notice.
And it's too easy to fall.
The fame, the aura – I still can't say what it is exactly. But, it's there and I feel it. We all do.
It's something that I don't have, unless any of it has rubbed off on me over time.
Maybe it has.
Maybe that's why I'm still alive when I feel like none of us should be.
Maybe that's why Udina wants me to be a Spectre now.
When I stood at your elbow while you went before the Council, I never thought that one day it might be me. But, a lot has changed since then, and sometimes, I don't think that anything's the same.
But one thing hasn't changed: you make me feel good enough.
And I think that I need to do this.
Nine times goes the passing bell:
Ye merry souls, farewell.
The old earth
Had a birth,
As all men know,
Long ago.
And the old earth must die.
So, I think and I wait, Shepard.
And I worry.
I'm not sure if there's anything left to discuss between us, or even how to bring it up if I wanted to. Knowing what lies in wait for us, everything seems small and inconsequential in comparison. Myopic, again.
And then I remember that you're my unanswered question.
And, I don't think I can let that go.
So, I'll think and I'll wait and I'll hold onto the rope and rappel.
The storm is still coming for us, Shepard, and we're standing in the middle of it all.
So let the warm winds range,
And the blue wave beat the shore;
For even and morn
Ye will never see
Thro' eternity.
All things were born.
Ye will come never more,
For all things must die.
Poem: All Things Must Die by Tennyson