Nine Hundred and Eighty-Three Years
It is a quiet thing, to stand in the ruins of a life. To see what was, and what should have been. And mourn.
She stands in the Temple of the Justicar and watches. The dust has not settled from the destruction that was wrought. The fading particles floating dead in the air are struck by the shafts of light filtering in through broken stone as they carry along limply with the current, and they cast amber spears through the air, and across the scarred memories of the walls.
She is the last of her kind. In body, and in knowledge. The records, the histories are gone. Destroyed in the attack. Forbidden to exist outside the Temple. Doomed to be forgotten by the arrogance of those who kept it.
Thessia would never fall. The Temple never harmed. The knowledge could never be lost.
Rubble shifts, faltering under its own weight, and a few shards of stone fall from their place high above, crashing to the floor on the far side of the room, scattering across the polished marble patterns she first walked four hundred years ago. The sound hurts her ears but she doesn't flinch.
She watches all that was known pass her by, one by one, like murals on a crumbling wall. A failed mother to one surviving daughter, and now, the only surviving daughter of a failed Order. And so it is true, the words she spoke to the One she served according to the Third Oath—the only time in four centuries she felt a measure of peace:
'My knowledge will die with me. And when I die, it will not be in bed.'
She fights and struggles all her life, and she is tired. And so she will rest in the respite brought by the death of her way of life.
And as rest comes, so with it comes memories of that One. The One of the Third Oath.
His memory has come before, but never entertained for long. It is sweet in its pain, familiar in its comfort. The foolish indulgence of a tired, old woman. And she is too weary to fight it.
He is young and bright, in thought and in presence. It is painful to look at, even as it comforts—a reminder of what was lost, and the darkness that claimed in the absence of a daughter. A darkness that claimed both daughter and mother.
It is that brightness that first attracts. That remains with her. And she is tired. And there is nothing to distract, to see what was and what should have been, and decide what is to be.
And so she makes a decision.
And she leaves the Temple of the Justicar for the last time.
Three Weeks
It is night when she arrives at his dwelling for the first time. The sky pours its violet over the sea, even as the water raises its fist back, and the black ripples warring against the horizon throw over the light they catch like drowned stars.
He is a silhouette on the beach, and he turns to her as she descends the final steps, wooden boards creaking under her feet.
"Is anything wrong?" he greets, soft words carried by the salt-tinged air that brushes her cheek as the horizon brightens just a shade at her approach. "Your message wasn't clear. I thought you would be on Thessia for the foreseeable future."
Her future is no longer foreseeable. And so she walks by instinct as she did in her youth. "The Temple of the Justicar lies crumbled beneath the destruction. The records are lost." She looks out across the sea, and it watches her in its movement, just as he watches her in his stillness.
And he is once again the immovable, as he was in the time of the Third Oath. "I am the last of my kind," she says to him, to herself. "The time of the Justicar is ended."
And her with it.
"Can the records be recovered?" The question finally comes.
"I will make record of what I know for any who come after and wish to rebuild the Order. It will not be enough."
He does not patronize. He says simply, "Is there anything I can do?"
"I wish only for you to listen, and understand."
Hesitation marks his pause, and the horizon shifts its color again. "Okay." He does not understand yet, but he is willing to listen and that is enough.
And so she gathers her thoughts in the silence, and the ocean moves with them. It lifts up its waves, and carries the golden threads of the rising dawn upward and downward, until they weave together the water and sky.
"It's beautiful," he speaks her thoughts, and she realizes she has not spoken for many minutes.
She watches the water change its color to match the glimmering threads. "The sea is very important to my people. It is old. Older than any of the creatures that live within it, or along side it. It was long before they were. It will be long after they are gone."
She turns to him. "Should a man desire such a thing?"
The blue of his eyes returns the morning light as he watches her, and finally, "If he'll be happy, should he not?"
"And what of her happiness? What is to become of her when he is gone? Has he considered her, or only himself?"
She speaks as normal, but the question is a quiet one, and it stills the air between them until he lowers the guard of his expression and says, "The choice is hers."
The choice has already been considered, and no answer has come. And so she steps forward brazenly as would a maiden, even as he remains immovable, and she places her touch against his cheek, his skin a warm jolt beneath her fingertips as she forms the most shallow of melds, thoughts brushing like whispers.
"Speak to me now as a man without lies, or I will never be yours," she says, and his intentions carry through her like the ebb of the tide. He is young and bright, and it hurts to look at. "Do you desire me truly, or only in body? Will you still desire me when time has passed, and taken with it the excitement of the new, and the thrill of conquest?"
He does not like the question. But he does not block himself from her, allowing the tide to flow freely between them.
"I desire you truly." He speaks into the salt-tinged air and into her mind. "You."
And it is enough for her. "Then I have made my choice."
And she wonders what her future will be for the last time.
Four Months
It is a quiet mid-morning when she remembers for the first time the young hesitations that mark a bonding. The sun is a flare of white in the sky and against the window, and it casts its diamonds across the sea as she sits cross-legged before the glass, warmth and light hers for the moment.
And then his reflection joins hers in the glass as he bends down and places his lips against the top of her head in a brief kiss. "Morning."
The words are muffled against her crest, and the smile of his lips. A smile she allows herself to return. "The dawn welcomes you. As do I."
A soft gust of breath against her scalp. "Thank you both. Breakfast?"
"I will join you in a moment."
He nods and his hand lingers on her shoulder, a whisper of hesitation filtering through the fledgling mating bond she has been gently establishing these weeks, and then he moves to the kitchen. "I hope you'll be okay to join me for something else next week."
His tone is contrite as he pulls a frying pan from the cupboard, and she watches him in the glass, waiting.
He sets the pan on the stove and meets the gaze of her reflection. "There was a message waiting for me when I woke up. From my mother." He turns on the burner, and breaks eye-contact. "She wants to meet you. Us."
He is young. The stove now requires all his attention as he adjusts the pan until it sits perfectly center on the heating ring. The only way it will function.
It stands a clumsy contrast against the immovable leader of war she has known—that she pledged herself to willingly during the time of the Third Oath. And she realizes for the first time to what extent maturity had been unfairly thrust upon a youth. And how young that youth truly was.
She feels old and tired.
The sun has moved against the glass, and his reflection doubles as she looks out into the horizon once more. "I will be glad to meet her."
The changing light has taken the sea with it. The diamonds have fizzled out, leaving only a plain blue staring back at her. And she finds herself preparing to present herself to an elder mother for the last time.
One Week
It is midday when she meets his mother for the first time.
Crowds move outside the viewglass as he touches the skycar down, and the seat rumbles under her as the engine dies. But none passing by outside pay them any mind, even when they exit the car and make their way to the correct address. And she is thankful.
He touches the panel on the door of her dwelling, and an empty tone sounds. And then Hannah Shepard is standing in front of them, looking at her.
Hannah's gaze is the Northern sky of Thessia, clear and bright, and within it lies the wisdom of a matriarch. And the cutting discernment that passively dissects what dares stand before it.
"Hi, Mom."
Samara folds her hands as a maiden and bows her head to the woman nine centuries her junior. The mother who raised the immovable. Who raised a child at all.
"Elder Matriarch," Samara says. "I am honored to stand before you."
Silence falls, and two look at her oddly.
"The pleasure is mine," Hannah says, and there is laughter in her voice. "But I promise, I'm no matriarch."
Samara does not raise her head. They will not understand, but she does not raise her head. "You are the mother of my bond-mate. You are my elder matriarch."
One still looks at her oddly, but understanding does settle behind Hannah's eyes as she looks at her, and beckons them to follow. "Please, come in."
She leads them into her dwelling, and memories pass by on the walls, and rest upon shelves and desks. Images that tell a story of infancy to adulthood. Of a proud mother surrounding herself with the life she raised.
Samara cannot bring herself to look at them.
And then they are sitting in Hannah's living room; a young youth, an old youth, and a relic silently accepting the gaze of the elder youth.
Hannah voices the irony. "How old are you, exactly, if I may ask."
It is a fair question, and one she expected. "I will be nine hundred and eighty-four of your years this winter."
Shepard raises his brow at her to match the quirk that forms on his lip, and it dimly occurs to her she has never revealed her exact age to him. He has never asked.
A line creases Hannah's forehead. "And Asari only live a thousand?"
"An approximation. Some only reach seven or eight hundred. Others, fourteen or fifteen."
"Being a thousand, you could still outlive my son by centuries?"
'What is to become of her when he is gone?' The thought returns as it has many nights. And it is dismissed just as blandly. "I have lived a hard life, and bear the scars of it," She offers instead. "It is unlikely I will outlive him for long."
The answer is true and uncertain, and it quietly weighs down the conversation into a silence that shifts uncomfortably in its seat.
Shepard places his hand atop hers, and gives a faint, empty tilt of the lip.
"Can an Asari that age have children?" Hannah asks.
Shepard's touch tenses.
The photos on the walls and on the shelves watch her from their silent places, the captured and frozen smiles of her bond-mate and his mother judging her against themselves from every stage of their life. And such a successful mother could never understand such failure.
"If she wishes," she says.
Shepard understands.
Hannah believes she understands, and reaches for a kettle bleeding small trails of steam from its spout. "Can I offer you some tea?"
"I would like that very much."
One Hour
The car is quiet as the door shuts, sucking away the murmur of the crowds that shuffle by outside the glass, and the silence that fills its place is a heavy one.
He does not start the engine. "Are you okay?"
The crowds march, and she watches. "She is a remarkable woman."
The silence fills again, and his reflection looks at her as she looks past it. It is unfocused and doubled as it watches her.
"So are you," he says.
He is young.
"I am ready to return to our home now."
She does not notice she calls it their home.
Two Years
It is midnight when she speaks her thoughts for the first time.
The beat of his heart is a soft tempo against the rise and fall of his chest, and it travels through her as she pulls the blanket higher over them and rests her head on his chest, listening. Strengthening the mating bond as she would have in another life, long ago.
He circles his arms around her, and she feels young.
She feels old.
"Does it bother you," she says, and his confusion ebbs through the bond, through their contact, before he can speak, before she can complete her question. "That I cannot give you children?"
And his confusion turns to understanding. "No." His voice rumbles through her. It is the sound of the waves outside. A gentle wash, but deep.
And it cannot disguise the faint ache that sits buried beneath it, suppressed strongly by one who does not want to harm her.
And it is as she feared. "Speak to me as a man without lies."
The echo of the ache whispers slowly away until it is too far away to hear, and he gently squeezes her. "I'm happy being with you as we are."
He is not so young.
She lifts herself and gazes down at him, and he returns her look, soft and open.
And she touches his face. "But if it could be different, would you wish it to be?"
"What matters to me is if it's what you want. Do you feel different about it now?"
She does not know. But there is one who can give her the answer.
She settles herself back down and listens as his heart soothes, but her thoughts have turned to an uncertain future, and she no longer feels at rest.
"I may need to leave you for a short time," she says, and finally closes her eyes, sleep far from her grasp. "There is someone I must speak with."
Three Weeks
The stone of the Ardat-Yakshi monastery whispers its chill beneath her feet as she enters the shame of Lesuss with specific purpose for the first time. Halls once filled with the learned and the contrite now echo empty as the carved arches pass quietly overhead, watching her.
Few have returned and remain in the cold and silence of the monastery. Only enough to maintain and oversee. A few commandos, a matriarch, and two Ardat-Yakshi.
And Falere is sitting at the table, waiting for her. Her hands are folded atop the carved stone, and her look is passive, but she does not rise as she greets, "Mother."
And four centuries of disappointment and uncertainty pass between them as Samara dips her head with as much affection as the gesture allows. As much affection as she can allow herself to show.
It is pathetic and painful. "I'm glad to see you are well." And a pathetic greeting to match.
Falere is gracious, as she always is, and resigned understanding rests behind her eyes as she waves her hand in a gentle arc toward the open chair. "Pretense is not necessary, Mother. What did you come to speak to me about?"
The chair is hard and cold beneath her. "I have… found someone. Or I suppose he found me and I allowed him to."
Falere inclines her head. "We are not totally separated from the galaxy. News and rumors reach even here."
It should not have been a surprise.
"His species is young," Falere says. "And a short-lived one. Can you bear losing another mate?"
It is a thought that has already been faced, and decided. "The same amount of time remains for us both. Is it wrong to desire a measure of comfort in the end? A glimpse of what was stolen?"
Saddened though it may be.
Falere does not look at her. "No. It is certainly not wrong to desire what was stolen."
And the pain is shared. Perhaps more than she realized. And the realization strikes low.
But before she can respond, Falere regains her strength and meets her fully, practiced resignation flattening out the longing betrayed within her gaze. "Can he care for you so? Can he give you the comfort you seek?"
"We will care for each other." And then it is Samara who cannot match her gaze any longer. "But I still have not asked what I came to ask."
She forces herself to meet her daughter. "My hopes and dreams were bound up in my children," she says. "And the desire of a mother is strong. Stronger than I anticipated."
She does not know where the words come from, but she sits ready, prepared to accept whatever the answer may be. "Would it hurt you to see another born?"
And the question is asked.
Falere's answer is plain, and carries the practiced resignation of centuries. "What is mine to live cannot be changed. Why should that deny another?"
And it is not an answer.
And so she asks again, "But would it hurt you?"
Fault is found in the practice as Falere looks down to the carved pattern of the table, and a breath is drawn. "It would hurt more to see my ruin continue to destroy even those who do not share my fate."
The question is answered. Permission has been given, but the question is answered. And within it is the wisdom and kindness of a matriarch.
And a daughter who deserved better.
"I love you, my daughter." It is all she can offer.
"And I you, Mother."
She cannot stay any longer. And so she rises from the cold and hardness of the stone.
Falere watches her. "Perhaps, when she is old enough to understand, she can be brought here, and I can meet her."
"She would not be denied knowing her sister."
The light has now dimmed, Lesuss' star settling low over the jagged spires of the horizon, and Samara walks through the shafts of light it casts through the window.
Falere's voice comes behind, from her place at the table. "And perhaps I can properly meet the one who has tamed the sea."
There is teasing in her voice, and it plays and dances across the lightened stone.
And it plays across her face as Samara turns, and a glimpse of what was stolen is shared between them.
"The sea cannot be tamed." She allows the memory of the smile she would have shown in another life. "But if it is calm, it may allow itself to be known."
Thirty Minutes
The stars slowly drifting across the viewport watch her as she sits quietly in the pilot's chair, course laid into the computer, and the blackness of space surrounds.
And within it is the look of a daughter's eyes as she imagines another young girl living what she could not. A happy life never touched by cold stone, or the disapproving frown of a matriarch.
It is a look of pain and sadness.
And the answer she sought has been laid bare.
She lays her head back against the headrest of the seat and closes her eyes, and does not watch any longer as the ship sets about to take her away from her only daughter.
One Day
Wooden steps creak beneath her feet as the door of their home opens for her, and he is sitting on the living room sofa, reading a data pad.
He looks up as she enters, and the smile that begins to form on his face dies quickly. And she thinks that maybe she is not as unreadable as she believed.
He stands as she nears, a gesture of respect, welcome, and love, but she just places her hand on his chest and kisses his cheek. It is easier than allowing words.
"I cannot," she says.
She flattens her palm against his cheek and then retreats to the darkness of their bedroom.
Sleep does not come.
Five Years
Much time has passed since that first night she sought him out amid the sea and the stars. What feels like much time. It has been moving faster since she joined with him, carrying with it her perception of its passing until the seven years stretch into something much more.
A Human's perception of time she has been granted in her final years—an unintentional gift imparted by her bonding with her final mate. Her small bit of selfishness and comfort she allows herself in the end.
He has grown in the absence of war, and in the care given one another, and the awkwardness has long since passed. And she cannot deny she has also changed in the absence of conflict.
Her armor lies encased beneath their bed, unopened in two years.
Her days are spent in memory and consideration as she makes record of her knowledge of the Justicar. Over the months and years, sutra by sutra, she writes the Code of the Justicar. And he reads it.
He has been reading more and more as the time has passed, always found sitting on the sofa, data pad in hand. But he will not reveal what he studies. And it has become a youthful game they play. One she cherishes in its simplicity, and the strange intimacy of sharing something silly with another.
She feels young.
And then one day she completes her writing of the Justicar Code. And he reads the final sutra quietly and seriously.
"This is the completion of the Code?" he says.
"It is the completion of the Justicar."
The first of the morning light carries over the sea and strikes the window, and she looks at him through the golden thread that colors the air between them.
He is silent in the consideration of its light and the faint, blue glow of the data pad clenched in his hand. He taps a fidgeting thumb against the casing and looks at her. "Then you can have Falere back if you want her."
The out-of-nowhere statement strikes and she looks at him sharply. It is nonsense and inexplicable and wrong. "Speak to me plainly and carefully, husband. Why do you say such a thing?"
The data pad sits quietly but steadily in his hands. "The last few years, I've been studying Asari law. If this is everything the Code says, we can have Falere released from the monastery."
It is inexplicable and wrong. And her heart aches and he is young and foolish. "According to the Code, an Ardat-Yakshi cannot exist outside the monastery."
"But according to Asari law, an Ardat-Yakshi can be transported under Justicar supervision, without limit of time." He presents her the data pad, the completion of the Justicar. "And according to the Code, a Justicar may defer to regional law at her discretion, if such law is found to be in better service of justice."
The screen of the data pad is an ember that burns her eyes with the final sutra of the Code staring back at her in silence and hope and dread and doubt.
He places his hand over hers on the pad. "As long as Falere is with you, she is considered under your supervision, allowable according to Asari law. So which is in better service to justice? To leave an innocent woman to time, or to release her?"
Her heart is painful and fast, and she looks at him.
He squeezes her hand. "Maybe I can't give you a daughter of our own, but I sure as hell will help you get your own daughter back if you want me to. All you need to do is choose, and they won't be able to stop you. Stop us."
He is young and brash and full of fire.
And so she chooses.
And she dreads the hope that takes root, that she cannot survive if it is torn from her again.
Two Months
The overseer of the monastery stands before them, blocking their path, framed within the carved, stone arch leading into the rooms of the Ardat-Yakshi. And the frown is carved even more deeply into the ancient lines of her face as she folds her hands and speaks, "No."
One thousand years of bitterness and disappointment stares down at them, and it is as she feared.
But Shepard steps forward, shoulders set and chin bared as he meets the Ancient, and he is once again the immovable. "The Code is on our side. Who's on yours?"
The overseer looks at him and her frown deepens, but no answer is summoned. And the atmosphere shifts within the shadows that permeate the stone around them. An invisible exhale that deflates.
Silently, eventually, the overseer looks between them and then turns her gaze dead ahead and walks past, disappearing around the corner at the end of the hall.
A breath is taken in her absence.
Shepard looks, and a quirk touches his lip as he shrugs a shoulder. "Victory, I guess."
He is young and brash.
And she has chosen her mate well.
Twenty Minutes
The stars drifting by outside the viewport bow their heads to her as the mass relay that will take them home grows nearer and larger in the glass. And Falere stands behind her in the cockpit, hands planted on the headrest of the pilot's chair, leaning forward as she tries to see as much of the passing light as possible.
And within her eyes is the look of a young girl imagining her life away from cold stone, and the disapproving frown of a matriarch.
It is a look of wonder.
Samara lays her head back against the headrest and closes her eyes, and does not watch anymore as the ship sets about to bring her only daughter home.
Fifty Years
Little time has passed. What feels like little time. Love's perception of time she has been granted in her final years. It is shared between them, herself and the two with her, and memory is no longer a thorn in her heart, stabbing with each breath. The old has fallen away, swallowed up in the tide of the new. Her family.
The diamond-flickering ripples moving along the crystalline surface of the ocean water nip and lap at her calves as she stands with Falere in the light and warmth of the sun. Gentle flairs of biotic energy trail down Falere's body like licks of flame as she hovers her hand over the water, and pinches her brow, face set.
Within the rippling clear nipping at their legs, a faltering bloom of light embers to life and, little by shuddering little, begins expanding, easing aside the water that splashes and fights against it with each ebb of the tide. Until finally, the whipping, indigo threads flaring from the bloom steady themselves and weave together into an invisible ball pulsing against the water's surface like a heartbeat.
It is alive and perfect.
Samara watches the tide flow under and around as it struggles beneath the hidden weight indenting the water like a crater. "Your control has improved. You will be ready to undergo the Trial of the Justicar soon."
Falere smiles through the set of her face, and the soft flairs trailing her body show brighter.
"I told ya she could do it in under a century." Shepard's voice comes from the deck of their home where he stands sweeping away the day's measure of sand, his words easing across the beach in between the rhythmic thuck, thuck, thuck of the broom's thick, straw bristles striking the wooden slats.
They look at him, and Falere grins.
It is a memory Samara captures and secures away and treasures, and the youthful game has commenced. "If only she could have done it before you turned grey, husband."
A laugh bursts from him and interrupts his step, and he leans on the broom handle as he allows it to flow freely.
Falere turns to her, and there is mischief in her eyes. The mischief of a daughter. "I might have been able to do it sooner if not for the tide fighting against even the slightest technique." She speaks clearly to Shepard, but keeps the mischief of her gaze leveled at Samara. "Father, you tamed the sea long ago; could you please tell the tide to be calmer?"
Shepard does not respond, and the thuck of the broom has fallen silent, and so Samara returns the mischief. "The sea cannot be tamed. But it is very calm. If it were not, I believe you would find yourself in much trouble very quickly."
And then, from the deck of their home, the dead, dull clack of wood striking against wood pierces across the beach, followed by a deader, duller thump.
And Shepard lies motionless on half-swept wooden slats, broom lying crashed against a nearby planter.
And the joy disappears like the tide.
"Father!"
Falere runs, and Samara follows. And his eyes are closed and his chest is still.
"Shepard." Samara kneels against the pain of the slats and touches his face, touches their bond. It is silent, and echoes back at her empty. No brightness of light cuts the darkness of the silenced mating-bond. No brash warmth greets and fills her.
No beat of a heart speaks. She moves her hands to his chest and begins compressions. "Falere, call the doctor. Quickly."
The rapid patter of Falere's steps disappears into the house, and Samara forces a steady rhythm into her hands as she looks into his face. He is pale and wrinkled and her Immovable. And she will not lose him. Not yet, not like this.
It is long until the medical shuttle arrives, and she is able to stop.
Three Hours
'What is to become of her when he is gone?'
The question has not come to her in many years, locked away and forgotten beneath the joy of the reclaimed, and the futility of spending worry on the inevitable. But as she sits with Falere in the waiting room of the doctor's office, and the coldness of the false lights above surround and remind, the question rises from its grave in its horrible simplicity.
Would she once again sit in a cold seat and listen as a doctor informs how she has lost everything a second time?
"Be at peace, mother." Falere's voice startles her—as does the touch Falere places on her hand. A hand she did not realize is squeezing the armrest of the chair. "It will not be as before. You will never be alone again."
Within her voice is the wisdom and kindness of a matriarch, and the forgotten simplicity of a child's love.
Samara releases the armrest and squeezes her hand instead.
And then the doctor enters the room and stands before them, and Samara does not let go of Falere's hand.
"We managed to restart his heart." The doctor does not delay, and she is grateful. "He is resting now and should continue to rest for as long as he is willing. He should also remain here for observation for as long as he is willing, but I get the feeling that will not be his wish."
The feeling is correct.
Falere tightens her hand over Samara's and looks at the doctor. "What caused this? He is only eighty-five years."
She does not understand. She has lived with him and accepted him and knows his people only live for a time, but Samara realizes she does not truly understand. And the failure to prepare her is yet another shortcoming added to the years.
The doctor speaks hesitantly, words split between them. "He is an advanced age for one of his species. He lived a very hard life before… before you. And he bears the scars of it. His history is catching up to him."
The words are a memory, of a story told on walls and shelves, of her inability to look at them and face a successful mother. And Samara lowers her gaze.
"I would like to sit with him, if that is acceptable."
It is acceptable, and two chairs are added to the room he lies in. He is pale and wrinkled and her Immovable, and she has not lost him. Not yet.
He still has not awoken by the time fatigue drags her eyelids, and she leans her head and allows the chair to claim her into a fitful rest.
Two Days
The familiarity of home—her home—surrounds as he settles himself back into the pillows and she lies down beside him, and pulls the blanket higher over his chest, dimming the lamp that stands watch on the nightstand.
Beneath its faint light rests a framed picture of three telling their story into the dim, golden glow; two smiling, and one too happy to smile.
She wishes she had smiled.
He turns his head against the pillow and looks at her, and his gaze is soft as he understands and joins her in remembering. "She's an amazing young woman, and only becoming more amazing each day." He reaches up, and his hand is a gentle kiss against her cheek. "She's going to be okay. And so are you."
He is older than her. Wiser. And she holds his hand against herself. "You will live long enough for her to complete the Trial of the Justicar. Until she can be her own minder. I command this of you, husband."
His distant smile is painted in the glow as he brushes his thumb over her skin. "As you wish it, my love."
They remain awake and together for a long time.
She no longer counts the passage of days.
Falere has completed the Trial of the Justicar, and that is enough.
She is free.
Both mother and daughter together are free.
And she is so proud.
And she is so happy.
And her love still lives.
She no longer counts time, but he still lives. And the life they have shared has washed away all else.
It is the warm sun and the clear water. A daughter restored, and love given.
It is not counted, but it is felt.
It is cherished.
And it has been lived.