Character(s): Commander Nolan Shepard with brief mentions of Tali'Zorah vas Normandy.

Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing. The Mass Effect trilogy belongs solely to BioWare and EA.

IMPORTANT NOTICE: This piece takes place in the same universe as my some of my other ME fics, including (1) Wishful Thinking, (2) Into The Void, (3) Prometheus, (4) Elevator Revelations, (5) Heart, (6) No Exit, (7) To Build A Home, and (8) In The Distance, Fading.

Ahem. I guess another explanation is in order for this fic. While I have Happily-Ever-After fics planned upon completion of 'To Build A Home' and her two sequels (which will kinda follow BioWare's canon endings), this fic will function as a bridge between the end of ME3 and those Shepard/Tali Happily-Ever-After fics already mentioned. As a one-shot, this fic is my version of a "fixed" and hopeful ending in which Shepard doesn't necessarily die, where the geth and EDI aren't destroyed, and the Reapers are really gone for good. It may seem like he does die, but he doesn't, trust me. I'm just leaving it open for interpretation at the moment. :-)

All will be revealed once 'Swan Songs' has been rewritten.

So, please, enjoy.

Constructive criticism is, as always, welcome. Please, no flames.

Beyond The Dying Light

oOoOo

Commander Nolan Shepard woke suddenly and inexplicitly.

He gasped for breath as he came to, and allowed some time for his eyes to adjust. In actuality, his shadowy world was comprised of darkness. An inky blackness filled with inhuman shrieks and explosions, ghostly sounds that flitted in and out of existence.

He doesn't know why it's so difficult to think. In the deepest recesses of his mind, he realizes that he can't feel his legs, and he knows that he should panic, but he doesn't. He just . . . doesn't. He tries to move, but he's weighed down with something heavy, something unbelievably heavy that's crushing his legs and his lower abdomen, and painfully pinning him to the ground.

As his eyes adjusted, he finally began to detect faint sources of light. From there, his eyesight gradually improved until he discovered that these were not synthetic in nature at all, but a multitude of small fires where debris or some spilled chemicals had caught aflame. Everywhere he looked, rubble littered the ground. Where once the Citadel had been pristine and beautiful, it was now little more than a derelict-looking space-station. He could still see beyond the thick window and into the void of space, where Reapers floated helplessly and lifelessly by. For a moment, he looked upon them with confusion, until comprehension dawned and everything came rushing back.

It had all been a dream. A nightmare, a hallucination, or whatever else you wanted to call it. There had never been a Catalyst morphed into the form of the boy he could not save, never been an ultimatum. And whatever he'd pressed before passing out from sheer blood-loss had certainly done the trick; the Reapers were no more.

His victory was rather short-lived as he finally noticed the window itself. It bore an enormous crack down its center, and he looked at it intently, wondering if this would be the very thing to take his life again. Suffocation. He remembered its sharp burn in his chest quite well.

He allowed his emerald-green eyes to wander aimlessly as his eyesight flitted in and out of focus. Nearby, he could see Anderson's crumpled form, blood pooled around him, and knew that not everything had been a dream. If he looked hard enough, he might just find the Illusive Man's body, too. One man who had been a hero in life, the other a hero in death.

Only then did he look down upon his own body. A heavy piece of debris had fallen onto his lower torso and legs, covering him almost completely. He should feel its crushing weight, feel the searing pain, but strangely enough, he feels nothing. No pain, and no triumph. He was only distantly aware of the danger this situation posed, being that paralysis of the spine might be the most likely culprit for this numbness. Despite his knowing that he should panic and attempt some action to regain some feeling in his legs, he cannot bring himself to do anything. There's no reason to.

Thus rendered unable to lift his upper torso from the ground, he had a limited view of his surroundings. He was completely and utterly alone. In that moment, he thought of Garrus and Tali. They seemed a long way away, on a far-off, distant world, and he vaguely hoped that they and the rest of the Normandy's crew had survived.

No. He could not bring himself to believe that they'd died, and were lying somewhere as lifeless husks. Not when so many others had died beforehand, his team dwindling with every mission to take its toll. Even after Akuze, loss still stung. Especially when he still believed himself responsible for his people's untimely deaths. Always the same unending questions that tormented his subconscious mind: What if I had done something differently? Why hadn't I tried harder to save them? What did I do wrong?

He should be accustomed to loss by now, having already lost so many, but he's not. It's his constant companion, undeniably foreign and impossible to understand.

Somehow, there is comfort in the knowledge that he is to die here. Die for his people, for the galaxy and all of its inhabitants. For Tali. There was something poetic in that. Something almost noble. In retrospect, it was a good death. The best a soldier could ever hope for. Wasn't it?

In his death, he would not be forgotten. His sacrifice would be remembered, possibly until the end of time, and his story told for centuries.

This said, he suddenly became aware of the fact that there was something very wrong with his ear-piece as the audio kept flitting in and out of existence, leaving him with an uncomfortable silence for one moment and then disturbing static the next. Fortunately, his hands were not buried beneath the rubble, and so he was able to remove it from his ear. He held it in the palm of his hand for the longest time.

And still, he lingered, touching the small N7 symbol engraved upon it. It was covered in dust, and some blood, and he tried to brush it all off with one finger. The symbol was important to him. N7. The most elite of the Alliance military. First and foremost, he was a soldier and that was all he'd probably ever be. A soldier. Not a husband, nor a father. And, once, the Alliance threw him away without ever really trying to locate his mangled body. More importantly, it took them over two years to erect a monument on Alchera to the SSV Normandy and its late crew-members. To Ash, and Pressly, and so many others. What a shame.

Suddenly and without warning, he threw the thing away with a distasteful grunt. The ear-piece clattered across the strewn debris and settled in the dust, looking oddly out of place in such a desolate environment. That done, he settled back down on the rubble, feeling his bones and muscles ache with weariness. He was only distantly aware of a trickle of something warm, sticky, and wet trickling down the side of his face. He touched it, and his hand came away with fresh blood. It was matting his short, tousled hair and drying on his cheek.

He swore quietly at the sight.

A moment later and he realized he was shivering in his hard-suit, his body feeling cold and numb. His vision began to fail, clarity lost to hazy shadows and blurry outlines.

He had the oddest sense of déjà vu. An overwhelming sense of hopelessness and exhaustion but without the burning pain. The very sensation he'd had during his first death, where he knew he was going to die and began to accept it.

Yes. He was going to die.

He would have laughed if he'd had the strength to try. A spacer by birth and living a life raised aboard Alliance starships and space stations, this was to be his third time on Earth, humanity's home-world. Humanity's cradle of life where it was born and nurtured for centuries. The planet tied up with humanity's history and goals and ambitions. So it seemed that he had finally come home to die.

He stared unseeing into the dim light, seeing nothing and everything all at once.

It would be so easy to lie down and rest awhile . . . shut his eyes for only a moment. . . .

A faint light cut across his vision, but he neither saw it nor truly cared. Faint voices in the air, but he wasn't listening. A multitude of lights bobbing in the distance. One cut away and began to approach, a voice shouting something indiscernible.

Then, he blinked and the light was close enough to blind, but he was so far gone already, he hardly noticed. He was fading. A voice echoing around him, faint and lost.

"I've found him!" the voice cried, sounding urgent. "I've found Shepard!"

And this was nothing like his first death. Asphyxiation.

This time, there was no pain. Just a dull chill that settled over him like a blanket.

This time, he could die with a smile on his face, content in the knowledge that he had given his all for the galaxy.

There would be no more speeches, no more medals, and no more ceremonies. More importantly, no more Commander Shepard, first human Spectre. Only a formless ghost would remain. An echo.

"Over here! Over here!" The voice was incessant, disturbing his thoughts with its garbled tongue. He didn't want to be found, didn't want to live. He just wanted to rest . . . A peaceful, undisturbed sleep. . . .

Not even Tali could blame him for that . . . could she?

No. Not even thought of Tali, all silvery eyes and contagious smiles, could bring him back now. Not even that faint whisper in the back of his mind . . .

"Come back to me. . . ."

More voices. More lights. He felt himself being poked, prodded, and shifted. But it was already too late.

As his eyes fluttered shut, a chorus of urgent cries cut through the darkness like a knife. A flurry of activity as he stepped off the precipice and into the vast realm of the unknown.

Please, read and review to let me know what you think! I mean, come on, I love random messages. :D