The doors to the starboard observation deck slid open in front of her. Inside, the room was dark and still. The transition from a brightly lit corridor to a lightless room played across her eyes, and all she could ascertain was the negative space of Arius' form in the middle of the starfield. She stepped through the portal, and the doors quietly shut behind her.

"Shepard," he voiced without turning.

"Arius."

"Trouble sleeping?"

"I could ask you the same."

"Hm."

She relaxed into one of the sofas to his right, leaning on her left arm as she gazed out of the dark room into the light-speckled void. As was common when peering out into the seemingly limitless expanse of space, a contemplative mood hung in the room, and some time passed this way in silence.

"Since you're here, I wanted to thank you for something," he shared. "My time aboard the Normandy has been the first in eons that I've been able to be entirely myself in a place. It has been unexpected… and even if it leads to an end, I'm thankful for the opportunity."

"There's no need. I'm glad you're here with us."

The silence settled again, and they both continued to float mindlessly through the expanse. More time passed, but none could tell whether it was seconds or hours.

"Can I ask you something?" she posed at one point, breaking the quiet. He didn't answer back verbally, but her eyes had adjusted to the dark by now, and she saw him nod. "You've lived a long time; Do you have any regrets?"

"One, I think."

She did not expect the speed at which he had answered her. "One? Only one? Really?"

"Only one that I still think about."

She wasn't sure if she should ask, but he resolved her dilemma.

"Do you have time for a story, Eden?"

"Got all night, Arius."

It was the same answer he had once given her, and he could not help but snigger. There was another long pause in which she imagined he was collecting his thoughts, after which he began to tell his story, and the deep rumbling of his narrative spilled into the shared space between them.

"As Javik may have told you already, the Protheans believed in something called the 'Cosmic Imperative' - that the strong must flourish by dominating the weak for the greater good of all. Consequently, every organic race that reached a space-faring threshold under their watchful eyes was given a choice: join the ranks of the empire willingly or be conquered. They justified this cultural reconditioning by claiming that if the races who opposed them were stronger than they were, then they would take their place as the galaxy's dominant civilization. This code of theirs, this 'Imperative' - it percolated down through all levels of their society. As a result of this and of their unique abilities that facilitated instant knowledge transfer and personal transparency, life under Prothean governance was simultaneously maximally productive and uncompromisingly severe. I spent thousands of years living with and under Prothean doctrine, and it naturally followed that this particular groove became one that ran deep in me. Low-level considerations became secondary, even expendable, to the success of the overarching plan. I became, in a word, harsh. I wouldn't say that I had an entirely callous disregard for life, but a certain sense of prideful arrogance comes with unchecked power over extended periods of time."

There was a long pause again, and still, Arius did not move from his standing, watching position in front of the viewing window. She could only guess what memories he swam through but was reminded of two stories: his account of the Black Captain, his promise to himself to resist the isolative effects of time, and the cold yet seductive tendencies of calculated power in Javik's Peregrinator of the Empire. It seems like he had faltered for a time.

"The fall of the Protheans from their mantle when the Reapers invaded was an event I had never imagined possible. Putting aside the advantageous relay manipulation strategies employed by the Reapers, the fleets of my cycle and the fleets of today were and are but a fraction of the combined number and firepower of the Prothean military. For a galaxy-spanning might to be laid so low, so quickly - I was devastated. When their species' harvest had concluded, and my last-ditch attempt at saving a colony was smashed to pieces, I deliberated the merits of trying again. By this point in my life, I was very old - possibly older than any of my kind had ever been, and I was very tired - I had seen what the Reapers had done to the people that had once taken me in, as I see now, and those scenes erode every inkling of joy you possess. The closeness of that call I made between trying once more and taking the easy route out - I cannot measure it."

The silence after his admission was loud, like the delicate coin toss of that decision arrived on the wings of a clap of thunder. It was a decision that would weave the next galactic cycle of events, most of which were unperceivable and untraceable from its starting thread.

"With my rebellion crushed and my decision made," he continued, "I fell to Earth. Once the dust had settled, I attempted to apply to your people what the Prothans had done to the races they had favoured - I tasked myself with following the blueprint they had set to create the perfect galaxy-spanning empire... only I was alone and with no technology. What I did have, however, was time. I started with the basics and worked up from there, one day at a time. I found an appropriate clan, sought skilled leaders, and then convinced a few others to follow. Helped identify and cultivate reliable food sources. Assisted in establishing basic rules of literacy, mathematics, then commerce. Basic training of armed forces. Dissemination of local religious beliefs and authoritative hierarchies. Basic infrastructure, scalable food production, and planned development. Rules, regulations, taxes. Eventually, that band grew into a clan, then a settlement. That small settlement grew into a town, then a city. The city grew populous, its coffers fat, its people powerful, and its works renowned. I had begun to believe that I had done it - that the tools I had lent had helped establish a good, stable start - and that by helping build the perfect state, as the Protheans had done, would quickly usher humanity's salvation."

Then, she heard him chuckle in the darkness, but his laughter was twisted with bitter humour. "But humans… humans are very different from Protheans, and you are perhaps one of the few living who know what I mean when I say that. There is a cloak over your hearts... and the paths you tread are many. For many years, I didn't understand how such extreme dualities of thought could exist in your minds, but its outcome was thus: at the dizzying height of the city's trajectory, I watched it devour itself and completely collapse," he said, snapping his fingers, is if every light in the sky could blink out at once. "Everything that I had helped build up was lost. All that work, gone."

"That sounds rough," she offered.

"I wish it had stopped there." He bowed his head. "Seven times, Shepard. I tried seven times... and seven times, it failed. The cities had everything they needed to thrive and more, but it became clear to their inhabitants and me that the reason for their fall had not started by the besiegement of some external enemy but by their own hands - tyranny, hubris, corruption, deceit - like snakes popping up in the walled garden of antiquity that is your namesake. Humans take their history and modus operandi for granted, and in hindsight, it seems to me like the most obvious thing, but from the outside looking in, that is not always the case. This was a new story for me; there was none like it in the traditional narratives of the Protheans.

"I nearly gave up hope. After seven exhausting attempts spanning many years and constant toil, I finally accepted that my approach would not work: a tower built on an unstable foundation can only remain standing with external supports, and I was but one man. I reasoned that I was missing something fundamental, so I pondered long and hard about what I had been omitting. I realized implicit expectations with the Protheans that I had taken for granted - things that humans possessed, too, but in a different sense: sight, truth, and speech. The primary race of Protheans had four eyes, mnemonic touch, and were unafraid of venturing into the unknown. They were attentive and forthright - saw everything as it precisely was and then communicated it clearly. Once I understood this, I abandoned my methods; instead of perfecting the state and expecting society to change, I focused on society, hoping that the place would eventually rise out of it. I made one last try - people are more complex and take far longer to fashion than bricks - but they can be far more resilient.

"I began teaching a different set of skills that everyone knew implicitly but rarely articulated: I taught and cultivated the importance of honesty - to not deceive or speak in falsehoods, for this sends us off our path. Of vigilance - not only for the enemy beyond the gates but also for the snakes that lurk in your hearts. To speak - to arrive into being our thoughts and to warn each other of the decay that erodes our mutual foundations. Of meaning - to do the difficult things for ourselves and our neighbours, for in doing so, each small victory lifts us all. Of course, it would be hypocritical for a teacher not to also live by their principles, so barring revealing the nature of the Reapers, I did just that - I lived as myself among them and stayed with them continually, season after season, year after year, generation after generation. And after a long time, slowly but surely," he revealed, smiling, "a city emerged all on its own, and it was magnificent."

A current of emotion had pulsed to life in the dark room, and through his words, she could hear pride bursting at the seams of his tale.

"Taking into account the period, what followed was an astounding rate of progress on all levels; culturally, technologically, socially," he listed, drawing his right arm back as if to draw and lose an arrow from a bow, "they hit the mark again and again. I was astounded by their accomplishments - but was deeply apprehensive that this iteration would topple like the others. I withdrew my support bit by bit, and to my delight, the city remained stable even as it grew. I witnessed that its leaders and people never diverged from their true path despite the power they now wielded. With the proper guidance and much luck, their descendants all led with the same devotion and passion, indeed a rarity to see and something I cherished immeasurably. It was as good a start as I had ever hoped, and I was glad to have made the right choice on that dark day before my fall.

"But, I suppose all things ultimately come to an end. There came the point after being with them for so long that I knew I needed to leave the place that I had called proudly called home. Those closest to me had grown older than was natural, and I needed to see the condition of the rest of the world; I had been in a bubble of my influence for far too long. Once I had completely withdrawn and saw that they no longer needed my help, I left.

"The land was vast, and my movement was slow. While I travelled, I often thought of that city I had left behind and its people who had accepted me. I had driven myself away from them in my quest to see progress, but as with most experiences in life, having something taken away reveals its value. I constantly wavered about the possibility of returning until fate one day intervened: The region was hot and arid but was flanked by rivers fed by snow melting in the mountains at their source. The rivers flooded yearly, which enriched the region's soils; however, this particular year, something was gravely amiss - I had seen enough seasons to recognize the early warning signs that the coming snowmelt was far greater than what was seen in centuries, perhaps millennia. Knowing that the levees we had built would not withstand the coming water levels, I knew I needed to warn them, or utter devastation would follow."

There was a power to his telling, and she was hooked on the sense of urgency in his words.

"In those days, I spent all of my time on foot. Given minimal food and water, I could run for days, as could your ancestors. I ran along those rivers without stopping," he told her, "across the breadth of the land back to the city to warn them of the flood to come. And when at last I reached them…"

There was a hitch, then, in his voice, so full of emotion that it seemed like he stood before the scene at this very moment, his desperation stunned into silence. "...I found the city already in ruin."

He shook his head, unable to, even now, believe what he had seen. "Yet the magnitude of my shock was dwarfed by my anguish when I discovered the reason for its fall. In my absence, the others beyond the wide, open doors of the city gates," he explained, "after years of trying to covet its wealth, had banded together and laid waste to it and its people. I will spare you the details of just what kind of atrocities the city's people had been subject to under their occupation, only that Reaper enslavement seems somewhat kinder in comparison. The city's people had done everything right, welcomed all, and still, they had been felled by their own…. and for no reason other than spite."

Arius' hands were firmly balled into fists and the muscles in his forearms tensed visibly, almost to the point of shaking.

"I killed them all," he confessed to her with a breath that seemed to chill the air in the room. "Every last one."

His admission released the tension in his body, and he seemed to deflate. The silence rushed to fill the auditory void again, but the traces of his words stood imposing in Shepard's mind like a weathered epitaph for a people long forgotten in some corner of human prehistory.

"I was angry for a very long while after," he admitted. "Angry that the snakes in your people's hearts would drive you to kill your brothers and sisters and destroy in every form the ideals they had aspired to. I was angry that my continued sacrifices had been fruitless, that I had made the wrong choice yet again, and that I remained impotent against the enemy I had been chasing my entire life. In my indignation, I wrote humanity off as both unaidable and unsalvageable, and I departed that land, resigning to spend my remaining days silently watching the inevitability of your collective suicide…. But that was not to be my chagrin's apex."

He brought up a hand to cover his face in regret or perhaps shame, of which she wasn't sure. "I became angrier still when, much later, I realized with dismay that I too had possessed snakes in my own heart all along… that I, in turn, had killed the very people I was trying to help. The spite I held in my poisoned heart was no different from that of those I had silenced, and I saw how I had unwittingly become the antagonist of my own story; in the final act killing the person that I aspired to be… and betraying myself."

He sighed deeply, and his hand slipped back down to his side with his exhale. "Worse still, I don't think the city's people would have wanted me to avenge them in the manner I had. After all, they had not been so different at one point, and they had known this - it was at the root of their compassion. An old verse from one of humanity's well-known religious texts emerged from the region: 'Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the Earth'. Modern translations have obscured their original meaning, as is sometimes true of old texts. The original Greek word 'praus' that 'meek' is based on means 'power restrained by choice'. It never meant that the weak and harmless would inherit anything, but rather those who have weapons and know how to use them but still keep them sheathed would inherit the Earth. I've been thinking about that line ever since.

"I should have been better than that. We, who hold others on the edge of our swords and scales, are expected to be the best. I had proved that day to myself that I was not. That's one of the reasons I admire you, Eden. You struggle and may draw your sword - but only when you really need to. You've done the right thing, even if it's much harder. And I know that you're not alone in doing this, and it is my hope that everyone learns in their hearts to pursue those things to them that are meaningful and not expedient. You hold the galaxy in your hands; you have the authority and, in some senses, the power to choose, perhaps more than anyone else. Yet, despite the pain of your past and the horrors of the future, you still shoulder the responsibility and do what is right.

"This is why I'm here on the Normandy instead of elsewhere… and why I decided to live amongst you without pretenses for the first time since those days. The Normandy is a microcosm, a modern, distilled version of the city. It functions because of the strength of its leaders and its people - its crew has individually and collectively seen the threats when no one else could, spoken the truth when no one else dared and inspired others into action to right the wrongs. It's called to those from the far reaches. It's grown and remained stable. It has ended impossible wars, forged unimaginable alliances, and progressed the galaxy's state unprecedentedly. It's even been destroyed by the others…" he said, and with a breath filled with joy and pride and all the things a man had lived and hoped for, "and it rebuilt itself all on its own. It is truly magnificent."

In her mind's eye, she saw the stretch of time connecting prehistory and the present snap back like an elastic band, suddenly revealing the underlying loop that connected them all. Arius' ancient city and her Normandy were the beginning and end of the ultimate human odyssey; What had started as words to a small human tribe was ending with all tribes in the galaxy united. Untold iterations of having its metaphorical walls broken and rebuilt had produced what could be considered the final form of the city: a figurative tower so mighty that even the god of her forefathers could not topple it. Arius' will, revenge and redemption had come full circle, and Shepard finally understood what the Normandy meant to him; his raison d'être. After three cycles of running, searching and wandering through time and space, he had, at last, found his way back home.

Then, he turned away from the window toward her, and she saw his unique eyes reflect the light of the stars with full, unforeseen brilliance. They stood as two bright, green orbs of light suspended in the dark, and from the mood that had settled upon her by both tale and hour, she couldn't help but imagine they had been twin photons once released by the giants of the past - that after journeying together across the universe, had at last by impossible chance reached her eyes. She felt then, at that moment, while his words sank into her, those fleeting feelings of awe and profound understanding that often-times accompanied the dreaming world - in that brief moment glimpsing at the souls of humanity and this wanderer of the stars. And then, after that ephemeral moment had passed and he opened his mouth again, she was pulled back to the opaqueness of the waking world, and the magic vanished.

"Hmm. That felt oddly… cathartic," he remarked, placing a hand over his chest, releasing himself from the intense emotions that had gripped him. "This may be the first time I've told anyone this." He exhaled, and the tension drained. "I think I'll retire now; the day's fatigue has finally caught up with me. Goodnight, Eden."

The move for his departure from her arrived too quickly, and she wanted sorely to call out to him - to beg him to continue telling his stories or even to have him sit close and stay with her in silence within that timeless bubble of twilight they shared for just a bit longer. But at that moment, her mind couldn't find the combination of words to match the feelings she recognized had long taken hold of her heart.

"Thank you for sharing that with me. Goodnight, Arius," was what she said, and the betrayal of her heart to her mind left her frustrated and disappointed with herself.

It was an aftereffect of his powerful storytelling, or maybe it was due to the feelings that stirred within her, but after he had left, she felt her universe fade a bit. The stars outside the viewing window looked dimmer, and the dark between them emptier. The Normandy seemed empty and quiet; She felt alone in it.

She sat back against the couch as thoughts zoomed through her head, thinking about what he had shared, realizing the magnitude of what he had revealed to her. It was a full measure of what she had glimpsed of him after his unexpectedly personal playing at the Eclipse party. His untold story had unearthed deep insights into who he was and why he acted in the way that he did… and perhaps in a broader sense, how they all had. She left the room and headed back to her quarters, deep in thought.

Her sleep that night was turbulent, and with every twist and turn followed dreams filled with giants, men, and a flood sent to drown them all. In her semi-unconscious turnings, she clung to life upon a raft on the surface of the silencing waters, dipping and rising with the waves between confusion and clarity for what seemed like days. When she awoke in the morning, she felt exhausted by the ordeal, as if it had been real. Then, her thoughts and feelings from the previous night began to settle upon her, and in the lucidity one finds oneself in before the weight of the day descended, she resolved herself to her decision.