Chapter Text
“Tell me another story about the Shepard.”
“Well, it is getting late but…
Okay, one more story.”
A Life of Service
A Mass Effect story
Prologue
Mindoir
Liara feels numb.
She wants to die.
She had already lost her once.
Now she has lost her again.
Looking around the field, as though in a fog, she sees the impossible crowd of mourners stretching to the horizon like a wave of darkness sweeping the land. Dress uniforms of a dozen militaries blur together in a bruise palette sea of somber dress. The entire council is represented here today. If there was nothing else they could agree on it was that respect should be paid to fallen heroes. Heroines. The casket is closed. It is closed because it is empty. It is empty because nothing remains to be collected. Draped heavily in the flags of every council race, it is the rainbow in the dark cloud of the ceremony. She died a Spectre, after all. The warm arm around her shoulder is small comfort. She barely feels the tears that drip absently from her cheeks.
Ashley Williams takes the podium, ironclad bearing belying the pain Liara knows she’s feeling inside. They had served together, it seemed like a lifetime ago. Saved each other’s lives countless times. She touches the datapad on the podium, commencing the Alliance’s portion of the funeral proceedings. Seven Marines in sharp blue uniforms march into position to the left of the stage, rifles held at port arms across their chests. An eighth stands to the side, bugle tucked under her arm. A ninth, facing away from the audience, stands at attention.
“Lieutenant Cross.”
“Here, Ma’am!”
“Lieutenant Commander Lopez.”
“Here, Ma’am.”
“Chief Masterson.”
“Here, Ma’am.”
“Gunnery Chief Sanders”
“Here, Ma’am.”
“Commander Shepard.”
There is no sound but the wind passing over the plains, as the name is spoken. Liara collapses into sobs. It’s absolutely unfair, to know that she will never answer again. Why must they taunt her so? Why must she alone be doomed to lose her loved ones again and again and again? Somewhere, in the back of her rational mind, she knows that’s a petty, juvenile thought. So many died in the war, so many loved ones were lost. What makes her think she’s special? Grief is a powerful force, however, and in that moment, she feels absolutely alone.
"Commander Freyja Shepard."
The silence is deafening. She wants to scream, to fling herself on the casket, to rage at the heavens.
"Commander Freyja J. Shepard"
The Marine facing away calls out a loud, sharp, guttural command. The sound jars her out of her thoughts. The arm around her shoulder squeezes tighter at her startled jump.
"Present... Arms."
Seven rifles shift and snap to position as one. Seven rifles point to the sky. Seven Rifles issue their report. Once. Twice. Three times.
The Bugler raises her instrument, a somber melody carries over the assembled sea of mourners.
Liara barely hears them.