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Commander Shepard woke before the nurses came.
The morning light filtered weakly through the broken blinds. Cutting across the sterile whiteness of the temporary hospital ward. Shepard lay on the narrow bed, bandages crisscrossing her chest and abdomen where the Reaper beam had struck. The armor that had protected her...her second skin...it was gone. Melted, shattered in the explosion, leaving her flesh bruised, burned, torn, and worse. Blood loss had been heavy near fatal, but luckily the medics had stabilized her.
Now...the pain was relentless.
Her left leg throbbed with every heartbeat. She could still feel the weight of rubble crushing it, the bones twisting under the citadel ruins. Her left arm lay just as useless its weight in a rigid cast from shoulder to wrist. Her ribs protested every shallow breath, and her midsection screamed with every twitch of muscle.
Breathing still felt like inhaling through cracked glass.
They had told her she shouldn’t stand yet without assistance.
They had told her she wasn’t cleared for transport.
They had told her Admiral Anderson’s funeral would be streamed to her bedside.
Yet she refused to lie there.
She pushed the blankets aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The pain instant slicing up her spine, and thighs trembling under the strain. She gritted her teeth and tried again, staggering upright. The world tilted the bright lights swimming. Her body shook violently. Sweat slicking her hair. Her eyes hard and defiant, reflecting the sterile fluorescent lights.
"I..I can do this..." she whispered through clenched teeth. She had to. She was Commander Shepard, N7, savior of the fucking galaxy. A soldier first, wounded second. Giving up was a surrender she wasn’t ready to give.
A nurse suddenly appeared in her peripheral. The nurse she was cautious and gentle. "Commander. Please, you’re not ready to..."
"I’m going!" Shepard snapped, voice raw and brittle. Pride and desperation twisting together. "Even if it kills me. I’m going!"
The nurse stepped closer, extending a steadying hand. Shepard shook her head, trying to force her weight to her good leg alone. Pain shot through her shattered limbs, nausea threatening to rise. She faltered. The bed frame threatening to pitch her backward.
Her fingers clawed at the sheets.
Shepard gritted her teeth. She would not ask for help. Not yet.
Her legs threatened to collapse entirely. Her arm useless as it was dragged against her side. A spasm of pain from her torso made her gasp. She froze, every muscle trembling. Pride warred with necessity.
Finally the tremor passed. Shepard exhaled long and low. Her chest burning, her vision swimming. Slowly she nodded.
Just a small motion. Enough for the nurse to step closer. Shepard allowed her hands on her arms. Supporting her as she lifted upright again. Every step toward the closet was agony. Her feet felt heavy and alien, like they belonged to someone else. Every heartbeat sent fire through her ribs and down her leg.
The nurse helped her into her dress blues. Buttons fighting to align over the swelling and bandages, the cast, the bruised torso, everything. Shepard tried herself trembling fingers fumbling jaw clenched still refusing assistance. After many moments pass and when she failed for the third time, she relented. Stiffly letting the nurse secure the jacket and fasten the clasps. One sleeve had to cut to allow the cast to pass.
Shepard stared at herself in the mirror. Red hair tied back tightly, a few stray strands plastered to her forehead with sweat. Eyes bright but edged with pain and exhaustion. She looked every bit the Commander. The mask firmly in place. Underneath every movement every breath reminded her she was just a fragile, broken, human.
And yet, she continued refusing to ask for more help than necessary. She had survived a Reaper beam. She had survived the Omega 4 Relay. She had survived death itself. She could survive this walk to honor her mentor.
A nearby comms panel buzzed lightly pulling her attention from the mirror. The Normandy was still MIA. Communications through the heavily damaged Relays were spotty, garbled, if anything at all. The galaxy was fractured. It was still reeling from the Crucible blast. Yet, even in her weakened state, she longed to hear familiar voices, a tether to the crew she trusted with her life. Some proof they survived.
She exhaled slowly. She could do this. She would. Because Commander Shepard did not surrender not here, not now, not ever.
She looked deep into the mirror one last time. Her hands brushing the collar flat over her bandages and the start of the cast. The nurse adjusted a misaligned button, her fingers gentle. Careful not to press too hard on the tender areas. Shepard gave a curt nod.
"Thank you" Shepard said softly. Her voice rough from exhaustion. "For everything."
The nurse hesitated "Don't thank me yet, you still need more to fully recover." Then offered shepard the wheelchair that had been sitting in her room. That was swiftly refused the nurse tried a pair of crutches. Shepard shook her head, determination stiff in every muscle.
"No" she said quietly, firmly. "I can walk."
The nurse’s eyes searched her face, then lowered respectfully. Shepard didn’t wait for debate.
With one deep breath, she took one agonizing step after the other. Fighting the pain that shot up with every movement, a fleeting thought passed through her mind:
"Oh, how Chakwas would react to this..."
She’d probably stride over, ignore my protests entirely, and start buckling me into a wheelchair herself while muttering, "Commander Shepard, you’re not walking anywhere today, so save the heroics for the battlefield. Now sit still."
The thought brought a brief, quiet warmth to her chest, a reminder of the crew she had fought to protect through every impossible mission. Shepard blinked, forcing herself to swallow the sharp pain and straighten her posture.
When she reached the doorway, Hackett was already waiting outside. His expression was soft but resolute. "Commander" he said his voice low, carrying the weight of concern.
"Sir" Shepard replied. Her voice steady, betraying none of the pain pulsing through her body. She straightened her posture, set her jaw, and gritted her teeth against the ache in her chest and legs.
He fell into step beside her. "You’re pushing yourself too hard." Hackett exhaled once through his nose and extended his arm.
She hesitated...pride flickering...then accepted it.
She looked straight ahead. "I’m fine."
"Not fine" he murmured, almost to himself "Just...stubborn. Always the same Shepard."
She gave a small, wry smirk. "Wouldn’t be me if I weren’t."
They moved slowly down the hospital corridor. The war had left its mark on the facility. Scorched walls, broken ceiling panels, flickering lights. The occasional groan of injured soldiers or muted alarms from damaged medigel dispensers echoed down the hall. The corridors itself was filled with wounded soldiers both alliance and alien who paused and saluted as she passed. Shepard returned every salute, though the motion cost her. She ignored the pain, ignored the burning in her limbs. She focused on the next step, then the next. Hackett stayed beside her...silent, his presence a steady anchor.
As they made there way down a set of stairs Hackett said softly "Anderson would want you there, you know. Not because he needs you...but because he knows you’d insist on coming, no matter what."
She swallowed past the lump in her throat and nodded. "I know."
With those final stairs they made it out of the makeshift feild hospital and onto a waiting shuttle. It shook as it lifted off. Shepard wearily allowed herself to sit. Her leg relieved to be off the floor. Her arm rested awkwardly across her bandaged torso. She exhaled, leaning back against the seat. Outside, London still bore scars of Reaper occupation. Sections of skyline were skeletal silhouettes. Craters swallowed entire streets. Recovery crews moved like ants through ruins.
Eyes closing for a brief moment. The weight off her leg, the respite from the constant effort to move...it was welcome.
The strangled hum of the engines, the muted chatter from the shuttle’s crew, and the occasional flicker of the damaged comms network. It created a cocoon of familiar comfort around her. She could breathe. For a moment, she allowed herself to just exist.
And then, her mind drifted.
---
She stood in an alliance simulation chamber, surrounded by an impossible scenario. enemies arrayed in traps and a no win situation. She had tried the obvious, instinct driven approach. Predictably, the simulation ended in failure.
Anderson’s voice guided her: "This isn’t about brute force, Shepard! Anticipate! Improvise! Turn the disadvantage into your advantage!" Taking a deep breath, she recalculated started thinking creatively. Using the environment and timing she managed to turn the impossible into a narrow victory. Anderson appeared on the observation platform his arms crossed and nodding with quiet pride.
"That’s the difference between a soldier and a leader an N7" He had said smiling now.
"Remember it"
---
The simple memory lent her strength now. Each laboring breath, each ache, each trembling muscle was a testament to the many lessons he had instilled in her. To the trust he had placed in her long before she had commanded fleets or survived Reapers.
She blinked bringing herself back to the shuttle. There was Hackett’s voice, how long had he been talking?
"You shouldn’t be a casket bearer, Shepard. Not with the extent of your injuries" he said, sternly "You can help fold and present the flag....but carrying the coffin....you’re not physically ready."
She looked at him, expression unwavering, voice quiet but resolute "I’ll carry him. I have to carry him. I’ll help with the flag too."
Hackett’s eyes flickered, doubt clouding his features. He knew her too well. He had seen the mask. He only begin to imagine how much pain she was hiding.
She met his gaze evenly. "Both" she said simply.
He studied her for a moment. Then slowly nodded. "Alright" he said, voice softening. "Both"
The shuttle rumbled under them. Shepard settled back gripping the edge of her seat. Eyes fixed on the distant horizon outside the viewport. Pain radiated through her body, every ache screaming, but she didn’t flinch. Not for him. Not for herself. She would carry Anderson. She would honor him. And she would do it on her own terms.
The shuttle touched down on a flat stretch of earth just beyond central London. Its landing straining the patched engines. Shepard’s legs were trembling when she rose to leave. Hackett extended his arm once more. She met his gaze, stiffened caming to attention. He let out a soft sign and met her salute.
The ground underfoot was uneven, littered with fragments of debris left from the final battles. Inside the cemetery white headstones stretched endlessly, neat rows across the rolling hills. Somewhere along the perimeter a fallen Reaper lay as a silent, blackened monument to the war. It sood as an unwelcome reminder of the cost they had paid.
Shepard took a tentative step forward. Every movement was agony, yet she refused to lean on Hackett. She had walked this far and she would not falter now.
"Slowly" Hackett murmured, falling into step beside her. His voice was quiet, respectful. Carrying the weight of a friend who had lost too much himself. "Don’t rush. You’re not alone."
Shepard exhaled through clenched teeth. "I know" she said softly matching his tone. However she kept her eyes forward. Keeping them fixed on the path.
Reporters waited near the enterance. Quietly lenses lowered in respect.
Within the grounds stood a large gathering of Alliance personnel. Most if not all stood bandaged and bruised, some on crutches, some missing limbs. A handful of Turian military stood alongside human marines. A pair of asari commandos stood near the rear at attention.
They had all come for David Anderson.
At the far end of the field, seven soldiers approached their arrival. Veterans of Anderson’s campaigns, some young, some old. They saluted Hackett, then Shepard. She returned it her Eyes steady and posture rigid.
"Shepard will be your eigth. She will carry with you." Hackett said his voice firm.
One older soldier’s eyes flicked to her cast. "Ma’am, with respect..."
Shepard’s reply was quiet but steely. "I’ve done more with worse."
No further objections. Hackett gave a subtle nod, and the group moved toward the waiting shuttle where the coffin had been waiting.
The doors of the shuttle opened gently revealing a simple black coffin, draped in the Alliance flag. Shepard took the lead yelling commands. Her gloved hands gripping the polished handles with a strength born of stubbornness. Pain lanced through her ribs, up her broken arm, down her crushed leg. Every step was a negotiation with her body, every motion a compromise between determination and agony. They waited a moment as drums began to roll and a bugle matched it started to sing marking the beginning.
A small group of rifleman passed them first down the path. Slowly they matched past flanked by flag bearers. They held alof with pride the flag of earth and the flag of the alliance. Allowing a moments pause Shepard and the other barers would soon followed as Shepard started shouted the commands. "SIDE STEP PORT........RIGHT STEP!"
The grass underfoot was uneven, torn in places by the destruction of battle. Shepard felt every divot, every root, every pebble. It all reverberate through her bruised body.
She inhaled sharply, her body threatened to give out but her posture was perfect...text book. No one would know the fire burning hot behind her eyes. Behind that mask of steel, she screamed in silent defiance against the pain.
Step by slow step, they moved. The coffin swayed slightly with each motion. Shepard adjusted her grip, muscles trembling. Sweat dripped down her temple, strands of her long red hair plastered to her forehead. Every step demanded a calculation. One of balance, force, timing. Too fast and her leg might give. Too slow and the solemn procession would falter.
Passing the rows of headstones, the wounded gallery of soilders stood in attention saluting, the silent reporters who's camera softly clicking, Shepard could feel the weight of every eye on them. Not in judgment, but something like reverent.
The marble platform approached. Shepard’s muscles burned white hot now, but she tightened her grip again.Taking the first step up the low platform. It truly felt like climbing a mountain. She pivoted slowly, coordinating with the other barers. The pain causing her teeth to clenched, her every nerve screamed. And yet, her face was impassive, her eyes forward, every ounce of agony hidden.
Soon they finally reached the center of the platform. Shepard carefully shouted comands to aligned it, adjusting her grip to keep it level. Her leg trembled violently, her arm pulsed along with the drumbeat, but not once did not falter. "BEAERS HOLT!" The eight of them stopped in perfect unison "RIGHT, DOWN!" There heads drifted softly to look at the top of the coffin."UP!" they all lifted the coffin almost above their heads. Shepard's casted arm screamed in protest she could feel her broken arm falter. "RIGHT STEP!" The marched in cadance to aliagn themselves over the center of the platform. "DOWN!" She exhaled slowly as the coffin was set down. The team gently grabbed hold of the flag and raised it taut between their gloved hands, the fabric stretched flat at chest height. Shepard feels everything at once, and nothing at all.
Outwardly, she is immovable.
Her posture is perfect despite the tremor threatening her crushed leg. Her broken arm burns beneath the cast, her ribs flare with each measured breath. Her eyes remain fixed forward, unblinking, disciplined. The Commander mask remains flawless.
Inside however it is anything but steady.
Hackett’s voice carries across the cemetery, steady and formal as he begins. Words like leadership, courage, sacrifice, resistance drift through the air.
She hears them.
They don’t quite land.
All she can hear is the voice inside her head
Don’t let it shake. Don’t let it dip.
The flag feels impossibly heavy, though it weighs almost nothing. Her hands are slick inside her gloves. The muscles in her shoulders scream, but she locks them in place.
This is the last thing she will ever physically carry for him.
She focuses on the fabric between her fingers.
This is Something she can control.
Because she could not control the beam.
She could not control herself against the Illusive man's control.
She could not control the moment he died.
But she can control this.
When Hackett announces Anderson’s posthumous promotion for his bravery and actions agasint all odds leading Earth’s resistancethere.
Shepard’s jaw tightens.
Her mind betrays her.
The Citadel. The floor. The blood.
His hand in hers.
The way his voice had softened.
"You did good, child. I’m proud of you."
Her grip tightens on the flag almost imperceptibly.
I wasn’t done, she thinks.
We weren’t done.
Shes ripped from her thoughs.
Hackett speaks of legacy. Of mentorship. Of the next generation of leaders shaped by Anderson’s hand.
She feels that like a blade between the ribs.
You were mine, she thinks.
Not by blood.
Not by law.
But by choice.
He had chosen her.
Believed in her before the Council, before anyone.
Stood by her when Cerberus resurrected her.
Trusted her when the galaxy didn’t.
She swallows hard.
You were supposed to walk me down the aisle, she thinks suddenly. Her memory flashes back the Normandy SR1
---
It was her first night aboard. Anderson had called her to his cabin for a debrief. Really they had sat at the small table, sipping on Anderson's contraband whiskey. With the hum of the engines a steady backdrop. The spoke of many times, of missions, of the crew, of shore leaves theyd taken, of battles won or lost, of failures, of news they hear coming from earth, then the topic of relationships came up. Whether it had been from the steedy buzz or the fact it had been a moment since theyd seen each other Shepard had spoken freely, softening in ways she rarely allowed herself.
"Now..Now!" She spoke in a mock offense. "Even if anyone was brave or foolish enough to see past...this whole ‘Command Shepard’ thing" she says gesturing to her entire self. She begins to admits softly, tipsy "it’s not like I have any family left to take my half of a ceremony..." she laughs "it would be so awkward having that drastic visual."
Anderson’s grin had been gentle and his voice steady and warm. "The Alliance is your family, Shepard. Every last one of them would show up for you."
"And you?" she had asked. Hesitant, almost laughing into the glass she brought to her lips.
"Hell, Shepard!" he had said tipping his head with playful mischief "I’ll even play your father and walk you down the aisle myself."
She had laughed aloud at that, a bright, unguarded sound. Thankful she swolled her whiskey or it would be all over the table. Andrrson then added, with mock seriousness "I’ve seen you dance. I’m going to have to wear my combat boots. Especially for the father daughter dance...I'd hate for my toes to be broken through the rest of the night."
Shepard continued to laugh "Oh I'll have to find you a pair to match your suit then"
"It's a promise" Anderson raised his glass up for a toast.
---
Shepard could remember the warmth in his eyes.
Shepard's mind reteadied in the moment as she heard the yelled in distance "AIM! P" BANG the rifled salute had begun with the first volley. "AIM! P" BANG the seccond volley. "AIM! P" BANG the third and finally volley.
Hackett’s voice carried evenly across the cemetery.
"He requested no spectacle. No parade. No unnecessary noise." A faint breath passed through him...almost a sigh. "I suggested a full twenty one gun salute."
A small pause.
"He informed me that if I did, he would personally rise from the grave and punch me."
A ripple of restrained laughter moved through the crowd.
Hackett’s mouth twitched not quite a smile. "Given the strength of his right hook...I decided not to test that theory."
The humor faded gently, like the last light of day.
"Anderson believed the mission mattered more than the ceremony."
Hackett’s voice fades into the wind into the rustle of dress blues and the distant hum of a city still rebuilding itself.
Shepard barely hears the end of words.
Her hands remain steady on the flag. Her fingers curled into the fabric. Knuckles paleing beneath white gloves, but her thoughts are nowhere near the podium.
He would still hate this.
The marble.
The speeches.
The rows of dress uniforms and rigid posture.
Anderson had never been one for ceremony. He tolerated it, endured it, but he never belonged to it. He belonged in briefing rooms with sleeves rolled up. On battered docks overlooking the Presidium. In cramped cabins on board starships with a glass of something strong and a story he pretended not to care about telling.
He would’ve leaned over and muttered something under his breath by now.
"Hackett’s laying it on a little thick, don’t you think?"
Or maybe:
"If this gets any stiffer, someone’s going to snap."
Her mouth almost twitches.
Almost.
Instead she thinks of how he’d threatened to come back and punch Hackett if there was a twenty one gun salute. The absurdity of it. She could imagine the certainty in his voice when he said it. Like death was just another regulation he intended to argue with.
You didn’t want this, sir. She thinks. All the polish. All the pageantry. You’d call it a waste of good marines standing around when there’s work to do.
The wind shifts.
Then the first note sounds.
Clear. Hollow. Cutting.
The bugle begins to play "The Last Post."
It threads through the cemetery air like something ancient and unyielding. The sound pulls at her ribs, at the space just beneath her sternum where grief has lodged itself like shrapnel.
She stiffens instinctively.
Not taps.
Not this time.
She doesn’t know why that distinction matters, only that it does. "The Last Post" is farewell. Honor. End of duty.
“Taps” is finality. Burial. A door closing and locking behind it.
She’s heard both too many times.
Too many times
The notes drift over the white headstones, over Anderson’s coffin. Over the distant shadow of a dead Reaper lying broken against the skyline, its massive corpse a reminder that victory and loss had arrived hand in hand.
How many more times?
The thought arrives uninvited.
How many more times in my life will I stand like this?
Hands steady. Spine straight. Heart breaking in increments too small for anyone else to see.
How many more flags will she help fold?
How many more names will be etched into stone?
How many more bugles will split the air while she pretends the sound doesn’t hollow her out?
The final note hangs.
Lingers.
Fades.
And for a fleeting, selfish moment, she resents the music.
Resents that it gets to end cleanly...resolved...precise...while the grief does not.
Beside her one of the other marine holding the flag breathes out carefully, professionally. The crowd remains silent.
Commander Shepard stands unshaken.
But inside, something quieter speaks...not to the Alliance, not to the crowd, not even to Hackett.
Just to him.
"You would’ve hated this.
And I would’ve let you complain about it the entire way through."
The bugle begins again, different.
Shepard feels it like pressure behind her eyes.
Sixteen white gloved hands hold the flag taut between them. The fabric shifts faintly in the breeze, but none of them allow it to dip. Not an inch.
At the foot of the coffin Hackett stands back straight. Chin lifted. Waiting.
The command is given quietly.
They begin.
Moving together synchronized not rushed, not hesitant, but measured, and deliberate. The kind of precision that only comes from too much practice. From too many names. Too many platforms like this one.
The long fold is made first the flag halved lengthwise with exact care. Fabric drawn taut. Edges aligned perfectly. Shepard’s shoulders protest immediately. A reminder of the hospital lights, the smell of antiseptic, the weeks she spent unconscious then the days spend wondering if she would ever stand straight again.
She does not adjust.
She does not ease the tension.
The flag halves cleanly.
Again.
Each movement forces her to shift her weight, and that is where the real pain lives.
Her leg had been shattered. Rebuilt. Reinforced. It works now, technically. It bears weight...kind of.
Standing at attention for this long sends a slow, grinding ache up through her ankle and into her knee. The joint feels tight, like the metal and bone don’t quite trust each other. There’s a deep throb lodged behind the kneecap, sharp whenever she subtly redistributes her balance to keep from swaying.
She refuses to sway.
Another fold.
The triangular sequence begins.
Precision. Ritual. Muscle memory.
Each time she lifts the fabric and presses it down into the next tight angle, the small stabilizing muscles in her thigh burn. The scar tissue along her calf feels stretched too thin. Her lower back tightens to compensate.
She keeps her breathing shallow.
In.
Out.
Don’t let them see it.
The fabric shrinks with each fold.
Her hands are steady.
Her body is not.
The final triangle forms and rests in her palms. She presses along the edges. Palms checking the seams, ensuring the corners are sharp. Perfect.
Her jaw tightens.
The inspection complete.
She passes it across to the marine infront of her.
The folded flag then gets passed down the line. It moves from marine to marine, each offering a final salute before presenting it to Hackett. The last marine give a slow ceremonial salute.
With that the other bearers take a step back in perfect unison and march off the platform.
Shepard remains.
she prepares for the turn.
A crisp about face.
The movement is second nature. Heel pivot, spine straight, shoulders square, but her body is not recovered nearly enough for the ease this movement once was.
She pivots sharply on her injured leg.
White hot pain flares up her shin and into her knee, sudden and electric. For half a heartbeat her vision begins to blur at the edges.
She locks her core.
Forces the tremor down.
The turn is flawless.
No one sees the flicker of strain behind her eyes.
She steps toward Hackett. For a moment, they simply stand there, two officers bound by the same loss. Hackett slowly lowers the flag. Shepard receives it into her hands. Hackett gives the flag one last slow salute. His goodbye.
It feels impossibly light compared to the weight inside her chest.
She turns toward the crowd.
The walk across the marble platform is measured. Controlled. Each step deliberate so the limp that's pushed through the abuse Shepard has put on her healing leg doesn’t show. The surface is smooth, unforgiving. Her boot strikes send small vibrations up through bone and metal.
Her leg feel unstable now. The fatigued from holding tension too long mixed with the over use. Her muscles tremble faintly beneath the fabric of her uniform trousers.
She reaches Kahlee.
Stops.
And lowers herself.
The descent is slow. Its not ceremonial, but necessary.
She shifts her weight carefully, bending the uninjured leg first. The injured one resists. The joint doesn’t want to fold under load. There’s a grinding tightness, a sharp pull through the scar tissue along her thigh.
She lowers further.
The pain spikes halfway down bright and nauseating, and for a terrifying instant she’s not sure she’ll control it.
But she does.
She guides herself onto one knee.
The dirt is soft beneath it. The pressure from the weight sends a jolt straight up her leg, like kneeling on exposed bone. She keeps her expression neutral. Keeps her shoulders square.
Gently, she places the folded flag into Kahlee’s lap.
Kahlee’s hands wrap around it.
Shepard leans forward slightly, speaking in a voice meant only for her.
"He was a good man. I was lucky to know him. He told me that he wanted a have a life with you after the war. I’m sorry he couldn’t."
Her shoulders begin to shake. Silent at first, then violently. Tears spill freely down her face as she pulls the flag to her chest, pressing it there as if she can still feel his heartbeat beneath it.
Now Shepard has to stand.
This is the worse part.
She shifts her weight forward subtly, planting her boot firmly.
Push.
The injured leg protests violently. The joint feels unstable under the sudden demand. Her thigh muscle spasms sharply. There’s a sickening pulse of pain that makes her breath hitch before she can stop it.
Not here.
Not now.
She straightens through sheer stubborn will
Forcing her weight upward slowly and carefully. Masking the hesitation as dignity.
Once upright, she locks her legs into parade stance before the tremor can show.
Salutes Kahlee.
Turns.
And walks to her seat with the same measured, controlled stride.
Every step hurts.
Every breath feels tighter.
But no one sees Commander Shepard falter.
Not today.
As she sinks slightly into her seat she looks over and watches as Hackett removes one glove and steps forward. Offering Kahlee his bare hand. She clasps his firmly, a silent acknowledgment between the living.
When he releases her, Kahlee stands.
The crowd rises with her.
Soft murmurs begin; stories exchanged in low voices, remembrances, laughter strained through grief, and even anderson anecdotes traded like precious currency.
Shepard remains seated.
She can’t hear them anyway.
The pain from standing so long gnaws at her leg. The strain from kneeling pulses sharply through bone and muscle not yet ready for ceremony.
But that isn’t why she stays seated.
She needs a moment.
Just one.
Before she has to stand again.
Before she has to be Commander Shepard again.
Before the next bugle call finds her.
She doesn't know how long she sat there for but mercifully noone had bothered her during the time. She took a steady look around the crowd had dispersed. The sun had begun to desend in earnest.
Shepard sat still in her chair, feeling the weight of the day settle over her. She took in the sight of the sunset.
Anderson’s memory hovered with her. Silent encouragement, quiet pride, his trust as palpable as the weight she had carried today. She felt the ghost of a hand on her shoulder and exhaled. Letting herself finally fully feel the ache, the exhaustion, the grief.
Shepard nodded to Anderson’s coffin. Her body trembling with fatigue, but her posture faltered, her eyes felt like they where burning.
“You didn’t keep your promise,” she whispered.
Hackett’s voice, calm and soft: “It’s time, Commander.”
Shepard rose slowly the pain flaring in every joint, every muscle. He allowed herself the personal mercy to take Hackett’s outstretched arm. She felt the mask drop and crack against the dirt. Her body relaxed into his welcome support, she allowed her leg to limp, allowed her broken arm to rest agaisnt her chest comfortable, allowed her cadance to slow uneven, and allowed herself to breath out the exhaustion ever movement gave her.
For the first time since she evacuated Earth, she could let herself simply be a daughter, mourning her mentor and friend, not a savior carrying the galaxy on her shoulders.
"My doctor is going to be pissed" Shepard breathed, more air than voice.
Hackett chuckled quietly. "Then I suppose I’ll be the one taking that call." Hackett gently pats the top of Shepard's hand wrapped around his arm.
She almost smiles.
"Good luck, sir."