Disclaimer - I'm not affiliated with BioWare, don't have any claim to the Mass Effect universe or its characters, and don't receive any compensation for writing this. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

A/N: And thus concludes my little fic. Thank you – a thousand times thank you! – to the readers and reviewers and, again, to the good people of BSN for humoring me and my meta-timeline questions. I don't deserve half of what certain commenters have said, but I hope this final installment does not disappoint.

2185 – 3 months after Horizon

Every nerve in Ashley's body hummed.

She took a deep breath, closing her eyes as she fumbled in the darkness for the beeping data pad that rested on her desk and had so insistently roused her from sleep. Though she logically knew it wouldn't be the message she'd been waiting for – some fashion of reply to the note sent so long ago – she couldn't prevent the anticipation and anxiety from creeping through her, a strange and unhappy tingling spreading from fingertips to toes. She had promised herself she would not wait breathlessly for a reply; and though she had not waited, body and will were often times two things divorced. She could not temper her physical reaction – even as each day passed.

She forced open tired eyes and scanned her inbox, frowning lightly as she released the breath that she was only mildly aware that she had been holding. Nothing. Well, nothing but a note from Two.

Darling Princess,

I bring you wishes of a joyous morning! Observe, I wrote you a poem:

Is this the face that launch'd a transport ship,
And rode with me to see the topless towers of Ilium?
Sweet Princess, make with me immortal memories,
All is dross that is not viewed with the Warrior Poetess.
O, thou art fairer and more intimidating than the evening air
Clad in the beauty and gunmetal of a thousand stars;
And none but thou shall be my traveling companion!

We leave for Illium in two hours. I think a change of scenery will do you some good. Don't try to pretend you didn't get this – I know you did. I'll be waiting for you.

XOXO,
Two

Scowling, she flipped the switch of the shutter control, allowing the dim, rainbow-hued light of early morn to illuminate her room. She grabbed her pack from where it rest in the corner and began gathering the things that she needed; muscle memory and a familiar routine took care of the work, while her mind began to wander.

Two weeks ago, Liara had asked to arrange a meeting at her office on Illium – certainly not the first time that had occurred since Ashley began working with the Circle of Friends, but a request usually only reserved for very interesting intel. She had expected the information to be interesting, but what she had received was nothing short of incredible: irrefutable evidence of the Reaper existence and that the Collectors had been allied with them.

Though she guessed the information's true origin lay not with Liara but with someone else, suspicions certainly reinforced by Liara's refusal to receive compensation for the intelligence, Ashley had said nothing of it to the Circle, and neither had Two or Anderson of it to her. Shepard had still not responded to her letter, but she believed that he had sent something else to her: undeniable, concrete proof. To the soldier who had spent over two years leaving no stone unturned, no rumor uninvestigated in a quest for such evidence, it was a wonderful gesture – but it did nothing to satisfy the needs and wants of the woman who still, despite her best efforts otherwise, held out hope for a proper reply.

The weeks had been busy. The new intel confirmed through other channels, the Circle had sprung into action. Two had been formally partnered with Ashley – with Reaper involvement undeniable, it made sense to have an expert on psychology involved in any future missions: Two would be able to discern the taint of indoctrination.

Ashley enjoyed the reversal in roles as mentee became mentor. Two was a quick study, surprisingly receptive to the brief field training that Ashley had provided. Though the man was old and stocky, he was nimble and quick-witted. They made a good team, working easily together, often moving in sync without the need for verbal communication or hand signals. She was nervous about the implications of bringing the old man into the field, but her excitement at having once again gained a team member who understood her and truly knew her overrode any initial hesitations. It was hard not to draw a parallel between Two and another man with whom she had once worked, but body and will were not as divorced on that front.

Ashley paused to leave a quick note for her family – informing them of the white coat's ordered "vacation" time – and found Two standing in the small road outside of the family's home, arms crossed over his broad chest, a pack similar to hers slung over one shoulder.

"You butchered Marlowe," she grumbled with a grin, stopping to give him a one-armed hug about his free shoulder.

Two scowled in mock-irritation, his green eyes twinkling. "And here I thought we'd have a nice trip. But, no! Already she starts in with the accusations of plagiarism!"

She looped her free arm through his, carefully picking her way down the path that led to the colony's port. Normally, she had to threaten Two with a muzzle to stop his unsolicited advice from flowing forth; now, he was being unseasonably quiet. She glanced over at him, trying to hide the concern from her eyes. Was the old man nervous about heading into the field? "So, what's the cover story, the mission?" she asked breezily, hoping that some idle chatter might help him through whatever was so plainly troubling him.

"I don't know," he replied with painful honesty, his voice unnaturally tight.

She frowned, patting him on the arm. "You're nervous," she accused bluntly.

"No," Two replied, drawing a sharp breath, "it's not that. I'm uneasy. Usually Anderson is fairly forthright, but he's hiding something – and I learned long ago to never trust a politician who's hiding something. He said we'd pick up more information from the ship we're meeting in Illium."

She raised a brow, tilting her head to stare down her nose at the small man. "So, we're working with someone – someone with a ship? That's new."

Two nodded vacantly, his mind engaged by the puzzle that Anderson had left for him. "You've heard the buzzing from the Circle, I trust. Do you think it's your knight in shining armor?"

She blinked, caught off-guard by the veiled reference to Shepard. Recovering, Ashley snorted, shaking her head lightly. "Anderson can be an evil man, but I don't think he's that evil," she replied quietly, suddenly otherwise consumed by thoughts of her own.

Since the mysterious intel had made its way into her hands, stories had been traded amongst members of the Circle that Anderson had taken a renewed interest in his former protégé, and was working quietly on an informal basis with Shepard. Though there was nothing concrete, the rumors were enough to cause Ashley to retreat to the safety of Two and her family on Amaterasu; the last thing she wanted or needed was to bump into Shepard in some Presidium hallway, especially in the absence of any reply.

"The note said they'd be docked in slip 34," Two whispered matter-of-factly, his calm tone contrasting with the gnarled, clammy hand that nervously gripped the data pad from which he read. She shifted in her seat, turning to scan the numbered posts by the motley assortment of spacecraft as their transport ship slid into dock.

30 … 31 … 32 … 33 …

Abruptly, Ashley gasped, her body shivering fiercely, as if some strange and foreign alchemy had turned her blood to ice. Two glanced up from the data pad in alarm, gently placing a small hand on her shoulder. "What is it, child?" he asked sharply, lifting and straining to follow her gaze.

Ashley turned back around, her eyes shutting firmly as she grimaced, her brows knitted together tightly.

Onetwothreefourfive.

She opened one eye halfway, praying that the scenery of her bedroom would reach her – had it all been some terrible and twisted nightmare?

It had not.

Her eyes shut tightly once more and she resumed the familiar routine, as if by reciting the numbers she could will reality away.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four-

Two's voice, laced with amusement, interrupted her belabored counting: "It appears we sold our politician friend short, Princess. He must be a very evil man indeed."

Apprehension, building as she and Two approached the appointed docking slip, eased away as Ashley saw only one woman stood out front to greet them – and no Shepard. Confusion rose in its place, reflecting the apparent paradox of his reasoning: would he not see her even now, even as she was ordered to come to him? But this was not the time for some emotional and visceral reaction: there was still a mission to consider.

"Welcome abroad the Normandy, Dr. Carver," the tall, curvy brunette barked, not bothering to look up from her data pad as she heard them approach. "I'm XO Lawson, and I'll be dealing with you exclusively for the duration. I don't want my Commander needlessly disturbed."

Ashley paused, studying the other woman coolly, her arms folding across her chest. Lawson was, admittedly, highly attractive, the woman's title of XO not lost upon her. And the way she spoke of Shepard suggested more than a casual interest.

Her Commander?

The fingers of envy reached deep from within her belly, slowly creeping to squeeze against her throat. Ashley suppressed the urge to scream, to question, hackles already raised. So as Shepard refused to show his face to her, so as Shepard refused to acknowledge receipt of her letter, he would be so bold as to send a replacement – her replacement? – in his stead.

And the logo that rested on the woman's chest … Of all things, she was Cerberus. 'Traitor' did not seem such a vile affront now.

Her intuition on White Coat Number One had not steered her wrong – nearly a month after Horizon, it had been revealed that One was the source of the Circle's breach. He had accessed Ashley's personnel file and psych profile, and he had forwarded the information to Cerberus.

She did not believe in coincidence: her being spared, Shepard being on Horizon and plainly expecting to see her, she had been so certain it was all part of an orchestrated plan whose broader implications had not yet been revealed to her – and it all had been, and she had played her designated part beautifully. The betrayal, and the subsequent fallout from her actions, had proved more invasive than any wound that she had ever suffered.

Any remnants of initial relief, any pangs of jealousy, gave way to profound anger: as he had ignored her note, so would he ignore her now, even as she boarded his own damn ship. She clenched her jaw, hands balling into tight fists at her side. It was a strange and confusing turn to consider Shepard a coward, but he was proving to be one.

Miranda Lawson finally glanced up at the pair, aiming her cold blue eyes first at Two and then meeting Ashley's gaze. A wave of recognition spread across her face. "Chief Williams," she stated as she recovered, a hint of something edging past the brusque, business-like manner of her accented speech. "Captain's Quarters, Deck One. He'd like to see you. He's with Garrus."

So that was it: the duty of the emissary was nothing but to serve a summons. Unable to face her in public, Shepard would send for her – like a ruler would a subject, like a father would a disobedient child, like a judge would a prisoner, like an executioner would the condemned. And Garrus, a former friend, now sat accomplice to her fate.

Over two years ago, she had hurled a book across a desk, powered by a pent-up rage she hadn't previously been aware that she possessed, and she had shattered a hapless glass; three months before, the same deep-seated angst had lashed out against a man, words of a different nature tearing through what was left of them, and creating insidious fractures in what little she had clung to. Though words could forge a bond, her note was but simple epoxy: they had too many cracks to mend in that one application.

What was the news he could not tell her here? Had he found another vessel?

Call her Shylock, for she had sinned: the pound of flesh she exacted on Horizon was to be her own!

Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.

But she had no want of sadness now.

"I would prefer not to," she said firmly, lips tightly pressed into a line.

"What?" Two gaped at her, green eyes widening.

Ashley turned to face him, waving a hand in Miranda's direction. "Look, if Shepard's moved on, I can deal. I've been through worse. We don't need some big discussion-"

A sharp bark of laughter interrupted her.

"Shepard? Moved on? With me?" Miranda gasped, offering the pair a dismissive snort. "No. Where did you get that impression? He's been brooding up in his cabin since we went though the Omega-4 Relay, and I can guess the cause." She motioned towards Ashley, a slender brow raising.

Ashley scowled, unsure of whether she was being mocked. "Shepard doesn't 'brood.'"

Miranda's brow inched higher, lightly tapping her data pad against gloved fingers. "Oh, Shepard broods now," she replied tartly, the acidity returning to her tone. "It's a small crew, and I watch it closely. I know you sent him a note – did you gain some great catharsis from it? Shepard got to embark on a suicide mission knowing – what was it? – 'I can't lose you a second time.' There was no catharsis for him in that."

Horizon had been outlined as their final chapter, but Cerberus had not believed that she'd draft an epilogue. It had not been about her: Cerberus had clumsily crafted a scenario to secure Shepard's peace, and she had managed the opposite. She knew the scope of Shepard's mission, the risks inherent, when she'd sent him the note. In her darkest moments, she had begged for one last chance to see him, one last chance to express all that had been left unsaid, and when given the opportunity, she had squandered it. She couldn't let it rest at that. Still, the novel had been allowed to close without protest; was her message the prologue of a sequel, or one final dagger, desperate and selfish?

Oh, hell.

Ashley recoiled abruptly. Miranda's barbs stung, though not nearly so much as the sentiment behind them: as deeply as Shepard's silence had afflicted her, so had her attempt cut through him. There was nothing that could be said when facing the threat of another death, and by then so much time had passed without reply…

Sending her the intel was his grand gesture – the appreciation of her work, the pride in and recognition of that which she championed. Shepard had yet no partner to help him find his voice and give him balance; that was a role that she had always played.

Seeing Ashley's reaction, Miranda turned away, staring out at the skyline of Illium as she regained composure. "We didn't know it was you escorting the doctor – don't read into his absence," she sighed, motioning idly towards the airlock. "It's the same layout as the old Normandy. Elevators are at the back of the CIC. Doctor, you should stay here with me – at least until the fireworks are through."

Whatever the crew thought of the ashen woman, slowly stalking towards the back of the CIC, they blessedly said nothing.

There would be no fireworks this time.

She had seen enough of destruction for one lifetime. She was not passive now, no longer rendered inert by circumstance outside of her control. There was only strength, only decision, only one purpose.

Each event of her life, no matter how tragic or confusing at the time, was another part of her story. There was always sense to soothe the inner turmoil: she had faith that the phrases of her life were perfectly planned by an author – breathing form to her works through broader plan and design. There was a reason yet for this chapter currently being penned, and for the epilogue she had sent months before.

She took a deep breath and stepped into the elevator, timidly pressing the button to the top deck with trembling fingers. Shepard had been resurrected, his flesh reconstructed – but he was just a man.

Ashley watched the doors of the elevator shut in silence, forcing away unwilling tears welling in the corners of her eyes. It had been years since she watched the life slowly ebb from his body, and she could never release him – and he stood now less than a deck away.

O, never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify.
As easy might I from myself depart
As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie:
That is my home of love: if I have ranged,
Like him that travels I return again,
Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,
So that myself bring water for my stain.

The doors opened abruptly.

The days that they had shared, the lives that they had lived, the people that they had been were no more. But from the ashes of the old could still rise something new – and there was hope.

Ashley swallowed, steeling herself mentally against the task ahead: it was now time to pick up the pieces once again.

Quietly, she crept to the solitary door on the deck, pressing her ear against the cool metal – there were barely audible elevated voices, and the air sung and rippled with agitation from biotic fields present in it. Jagged shards of conversation drifted to her:

"-not any better than the last … really? ... no reply-" Tinny tones, mildly amused, touched with tinges of metal. Garrus.

"-don't know! … too much time … is worth it all-" Ashley didn't need to see who that voice belonged to; her body's tell-tale reaction was enough to identify it, a wave of shivers cascading from her crown down her spine.

Her fingers walked across the metal, her breath shaky, as she pressed the button for the door chime and braced against the wall, as if she were seeking cover in a fire-fight. It seemed a silly motion as the door to his quarters hissed open, though it also had seemed perfectly reasonable at the time.

For the second time that day, the figure that greeted her was not the one that she had expected. Spotting her pressed there in makeshift cover, small dark eyes widened, mandibles clattering in surprise.

Garrus glanced back over his shoulder, still mulling through what to make of this unexpected development. He quietly reached a talon to Ashley's lips, pressing lightly in the universal sign for 'silence'. "Just a message from the CIC – our operatives are on-board," he said hurriedly, shifting position to shove her forward and exchange places.

A light, stannic whisper met her ear: "Good luck." The door swooshed shut behind him, a distant hiss sounding from the hallway as the doors to the elevator opened. He was gone.

And they were alone, though Shepard didn't know it yet.

Her eyes drunk in the scenery: civilian life apparently had some perks. Used to the spartan comforts of a military vessel, the wasted space and opulence of the Captain's Quarters was jarring – he had two desks, a large fish tank, a collection of model ships, and no fewer than two separate seating areas. But Shepard would not be appeased for long.

His voice sliced through her idle observations, the air around him crackling and humming with the dark blue aura of his biotics as he sat, stooped, across from a terminal: "Great. Now, are you going to read this or not?"

There he was: a survivor of Mindoir, a Vanguard, a marine, the Captain of the Normandy, the first human Spectre, the savior of the Citadel, the hero of Elysium, the defeater of the Collectors, risen from the dead – and rightfully a god amongst mere mortal men. His life was the quintessence of myth: already Herculean tasks had been elevated to the things of legend after his death – and neither could death contain him.

It had been deceptively easy for her to imagine the Commander Shepard not being affected by anything of the corporeal realm. But observing him there, she was acutely aware of the dishonesty of lore – this Shepard was fallible, mortal, and very human.

His elbows were propped on the desk before him, head firmly resting in his hands. He had sounded tired, worn, exasperated. He no longer glowed from within through fissures in his skin; the only light touching his form now was the blue tint of his biotics, an unconscious manifestation of his frustration that cast a surreal and ghostly light upon his body. But it was no ghost: it was the Shepard that she had long tried to remember, that she had only viewed briefly in days that were no more – it was Shepard, the man.

Never believe, though in my nature reign'd
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
That it could so preposterously be stain'd,
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good;
For nothing this wide universe I call,
Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all.

She planted timid, light steps towards where the he sat, moving to stand slightly behind him on his left. Shepard did not turn as she approached, his years of training and combat experience alone necessary to inform him that someone stood near.

"Thoughts?" It was an order couched as a question. His finger jutted forward towards the blinking cursor on the terminal in front of him.

She stooped, bending slightly over his shoulder in order to read the indicated solitary line of text: "Ash – I'm sorry. I couldn't give you hope, tell you everything, and then die on you again. I need you to understand."

Shepard was trying to pick up pieces of his own.

Her throat was her compressed by a wall of emotion as the memories of Shepard's death, buried away so long ago, unwillingly invaded her mind once more, recalling a depth of emptiness that she long compelled herself to ignore. And she understood.

It was his apology, his long-awaited and oft-begrudged reply. Still not composed, still struggling with things incapable of true expression, of a deluge of feeling long acknowledged as ineffable.

She wanted to speak, to acknowledge the words, to acknowledge her presence standing behind him – but something else overcame her. Her hands wrapped around the back of his chair and found his waist. She lowered her head fully to rest in the familiar nook where shoulder met neck, inhaling sharply: sandalwood, the smells of combat, the stale, cloying sweetness of his sweat tinged with the acridity of smoke. Ashley bit back a laugh as felt Shepard tense and then lean his head against hers, his nose buried in her hair, shoulders heaving with the same motion. She wondered what smells of hers he was happily inhaling.

"You smell like soap, sweat, and smoke," she whispered, pulling away to stand once more.

"You smell mildly fruity, a little like flowers, and like guns and … gun cleaner," he replied quietly, his voice quivering. The colored air surrounding him faded as he braced a single hand against his desk, slowly levering his weight against it to stand.

She waited in silence as he collected his thoughts. He looked surprised, something she knew Shepard did not feel often.

After long minutes his head turned to his right, staring at something on his desk. She followed his gaze, past the volumes of books, past the medals of a much-honored career, past the Star of Terra, a single brow inclining as she found the object of his stare: an old picture, taken without warning, a determined expression etched across her face.

Whatever was left of the anxiety pooling within her evaporated in that moment.

"Pretty girl."

He drew a deep breath, a strange laugh resonating in his chest as he turned to finally face her. "Soldier, used to be part of my crew. She ..." He swallowed, eyes returning to the photograph. "She reminds me of what I fight for. She ... gives me hope."

Ashley licked dry lips, willing away a sudden lump forming in her throat. "She's … All these days and nights, you've been with her. You've been what she fights for." Her voice was gruff as she added, barely audible, "You've always made her feel good enough."

She lowered her head to stare at the two pairs of feet so close together and still so far apart. The air was thick, the intensity of the moment burning through her like a white-hot flame. But with so much still allowed unfelt, so much still allowed unsaid …

"Still? After everything?" she gasped, her brow knitting tightly.

The silence that followed spoke volumes in reply. Just as the woman became empty, preparing to shatter once more, Shepard cleared his throat and began:

"'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die."

It was Ulysses; it was her father's long before it became hers, and hers long before it became theirs. The passage that she had recited to steel herself against the news of Shepard's inferred life was the very passage that he recited now, to breathe life anew to something long condemned – as broken, unsuitable, dead – to reinforce things that could not otherwise be expressed. And it was all she needed to know.

Cool fingers gently tucked under her chin, a calloused thumb lightly tracing the soft outline of her jaw.

An unspoken shared bond ran through them, and there were no words of hers fitting for the moment. She could only whisper in silver reply:

"Tho' much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."

He applied gentle pressure to her chin, forcing her gaze to meet his. They held the stare for long minutes, and suddenly, wordlessly, he closed his eyes and leaned forward, moving to rest his forehead against hers as strong arms snaked about her shoulders.

"Ash, I-"

"I know," she interrupted quietly. "Skipper, I-"

"I know too," he said softly in an interruption of his own.

He shifted, and carefully, almost timidly, pressed his lips to hers.

History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.

Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.

Ashley pulled Two into a tight embrace, squeezing his shoulders as fiercely as her muscles would allow her.

"Easy, child!" he laughed, returning the hug with equal vigor. "You know you aren't rid of me yet. I'll write you daily with unsolicited advice."

"And I'll delete every piece of it without opening," she replied with mock-seriousness, furiously blinking away the tears that had begun to gather.

Two gave her one last squeeze before letting go.

She stared out at the illuminated skyline of Illium, allowing herself a smile. Theirs had been the mission both she and Shepard needed, though both refused to embark upon it of their own accord: a mission of reconciliation. And reconcile they did. Ashley's formal request for posting aboard the Normandy had been submitted to Hackett, and Shepard's formal invitation to join the Circle of Friends had followed shortly thereafter.

In her distraction, she almost missed Two's movement past her. Turning, she saw Two quickly sidle up to Shepard, jabbing the far larger man in the chest with a small, gnarled finger. "You may have a trusty steed, you may be wearing shining armor, but so help me-! If you don't take good care of my Princess, I will smite you!"

Shepard laughed, clapping the old man lightly on the shoulder, his eyes shining in admiration. "You and I both know your Princess doesn't need anyone to take care of her," he replied evenly, a large grin spreading across his lips. "I only agreed to let her stay aboard the Normandy so that she could take care of me."

After three days spent in orbit around Illium, the ashes had settled, and darkness had subsided to day. Two would be left without this partner, but she had never truly been his at all – and the old man was happy to know it.

A hand, large and calloused, quietly slipped through hers.

They were a blank page, a cover opened – a sequel in its infancy, waiting to be penned.

Works referenced:

Marlowe, Dr. Faustus, the Helen of Troy soliloquy (though thoroughly butchered)
Tennyson, Tears Idle Tears
Shakespeare, Sonnet 109 (first half)
Shakespeare, Sonnet 109 (second half)
Tennyson, Ulysses
Angelou, On the Pulse of Morning