A/N: And the end! I was tempted to just write "red, green, or blue?" but... yeah. I'm a little disillusioned with how things were wrapped up. I hope DLC changes things, so I left a bit of an opening if there's anything to amend.
Heartfelt thanks to the readers and reviewers, and for all the kind words. Hope you enjoyed tagging along for my ME3 journey. :)
In my memories, you were warm and soft.
You still are.
Last time you came to me, you offered promises and platitudes. This time, last night… you offered me your heart.
I can see it in your eyes, Ash. Your mouth says one thing, but your soul sings another.
You know what I know, don't you?
There's no point in hiding anymore…
When I was a boy, I could tell when it would rain, long before the first clouds would darken the sky.
My arms would tingle like a thousand fingers running over my skin; deep in my stomach, I would feel a nervous fizzle that crawled down my legs and through my body.
And the skies would open, and it would storm.
My father said that it was proof of my connection to our land, the mark of my birthright. I didn't have the way with crops that he or my brother did. But, I was an extension of the soil, he said; I heard nature's voice, could tell the land would be nourished.
It was the magic of the earth, he said - the calling to pick up a till and hoe as he had done and his father had done before him.
All this was before we knew of industrial accidents and element zero exposures, before the first human biotics were known or publicized, before it was acknowledged that some biotic mass effect fields could act as lightning rods.
Rational explanation can take the magic away.
But I never lost that sense, the connection or the feeling.
As I spent more time in trenches than in fields, it extended to other things. When you've been a soldier for as long as I have, you gain an "other sense" for when something big's about to happen. And after Mindoir, I learned to hear through silence. History is important; it's part of who we are.
I can feel the first splatter of raindrops against my skin, hear the crackle of lightning echo in my ears.
I think this is the end, Ash.
I think I'm going to die today.
I'm a soldier, Ash, and I've seen more than a few situations that no one else believed we would make it through: Virmire, Ilos, the Battle of the Citadel, when the Normandy exploded, even facing down the Collectors on what should have been a suicide mission.
And by all rights, I've died already.
But it's never felt like the end to me.
I've never believed that any of it would be the end.
This time… This time I feel it, Ash. I've met a wall that I can't climb, I'm trapped under a sheet of ice and can't punch my way through.
Yes, this is it.
Today… today the storm that looms on the horizon will unleash its fury upon us.
And I doubt that I'll survive the flood.
I need to say my goodbyes.
I just wish we had more time.
I always thought we'd have more time, somehow.
To find you again and to lose you so soon…
But I'm thankful for what moments we shared.
They were simple and direct, beautiful and imperfect. Shibui.
And as I step into the tempest's gales, I'm glad that I have an answer.
I love you.
And I've even had the chance to tell you that, and to hear it from your lips in return.
I'm so very grateful.
It's an imprint bigger than my heart.
How do you measure a man? How do you quantify a species or the galaxy or all organic life? Does a synthetic being have a soul?
I don't know; I don't think we ever can or will.
But I do know now how I want to be remembered. Not as a biotic or a survivor, not as a hero or a savior.
I am John Shepard, a farmer's son, who always tried to do what was right. I don't know how to quantify success, but, if it's decades later until we meet again, then that will be the greatest victory I've forged.
And I want to be remembered as the man who loved you.
Always.
Even when it wasn't easy or it wasn't evident.
Love may be beautiful, but it's imperfect too.
Your love.
It's made an artist out of a soldier.
So, today, I wage my final war.
I weave my tapestry.
And I will take my threads and make my knots.
And it will be for you.
Let me tell you about time...
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
- Dylan Thomas