The Bar at the End of Time (Mass Effect, FemShepard/Liara)
The Bar at the End of Time
Paring: FemShepard/Liara
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Pretty much my whole play through of the three games
Summary: The telling of tales is an honored and sacred tradition among the remaining population of the galaxy after the Reapers defeated the combined forces at the Crucible
Disclaimer: None of the characters belong to me
A/N: This is a fill for a prompt on ME kink meme ( http://masseffectkink.livejournal.com/4611.html?thread=16960003#t16960003). I hope I did some justice to the absolutely awesome idea behind this prompt. And, I hope everyone enjoys it. Just for your information, the bold, italicized sections are the promter’s written parts of the story; the intervening words are what I added to the story.
It has been many centuries since the failure of the Crucible at the Battle of Normandy. Now the civilizations of the galaxy no longer exist, and the remaining few survivors scrabble amongst the ruins and sail in ageing ships, forlorn against the stars. But they know of one place, far from the destruction of the iron demons, where one can rest, and repose. A rotting hulk of a space station, where waits for you a small bar, populated by weary travelers, memories of lost souls and the stories they tell...
The Bar at the End of Time
You hear the hum of many souls and many species through the thin metal walls and the salvaged wooden door. You walk in, wafting away the smoke of cigarettes and the acrid smell of bootleg alcohol from the air. Even here, at the end of time and civilization, people find time to indulge in their vices - perhaps nihilism reminds people of the pleasures their ancestors once enjoyed. Here you slowly observe the dying embers of the galaxy. In a darkened corner of the room sits an aging human mercenary, clad in darkened armor over darkened skin with darkened eyes sunk deep in his darkened scowl. Beside the fire sits three young turians, eager to fight on until the slow tar of attrition renders them the same as the rest. Just beyond them, an asari of unknown age cradles a withering photo, whilst a raloi whistles unhappily behind her, out of sight, and soon perhaps, out of mind.
Here amongst the throng of voices, of unfamiliar chirps and barks, a common theme sidles its way between the sounds of despair and lost hope - they all gather to share their lives with other lives. You have often partaken in such affairs, huddled among unknown people, to speak of tales of battle, or brotherhood, or the lost.
But today, you'd rather have a drink.
A small hydroponics farm is what keeps the bar populated - it provides some sustenance for the remaining people of the galaxy, and it provides for those inclined to imbibe, to indulge in the ancient tradition of drinking and forgetting. Perhaps in an older time, the burning of the ashen moonshine would be dismissed as worth naught but for the stripping of walls, but here it is perhaps a palliative for the soul, a way to forget, or for some, a way to the arms of the eternal black.
You take the glass to your lips and swallow it whole.
There is an eternal refrain when a soul asks another for a story. It is heard only in this bar, and yet those few who remain in the galaxy know its solemn dirge. To your surprise, it is addressed to you, but you do not turn to face your questioner, for protocol dictates that you provide a tale of your own making, even if the daggers still rest against your heart. In the dying of the light, one searches for some semblance of familiarity, a blanket for the soul. It is a luxury you must share.
"The end of time has rendered my soul desolate. Come my friend, and tell me a story of the galaxy."
You slowly set your glass upon the peeling woodwork of the bar top. Without turning, you take a breath, and you tell a tale of the galaxy...
Your voice wafts into the air softly, melodiously and diffuses through the room like the sweet smell of incense covering the stench of sadness and despair that clings to every person in the bar. Your voice sounds like your mother’s did almost four centuries back, a century before the Reapers, when you were a child and she used to lull you to sleep with tales of fantastical courage, heroism, valor. Your words captivate every ear in the room for you speak of the great Shepard. The bar has gone quiet and your voice sounds disproportionately loud against the background of humming machinery and the breathing of the patrons.
All attention is on you, but you pay it no mind. You are already lost in the retelling of a memory you have not shared in over two centuries. You unconsciously pick up and nurse the drink the barkeep has refilled like you watched Shepard do so many times; having picked up her habits by simple familiarity and proximity. Your blue eyes stare at a point across from you, but your mind is already light years away and centuries back. You had not thought to share something so close to your heart as Shepard, but when you caught sight of the deep blue eyes of the woman who had requested a story, your mind immediately jumped back to a time when hope was still alive for the galaxy.
“I first met Shepard on Therum trapped in a Prothean stasis bubble,” you say, vividly remembering seeing Shepard for the first time among the ruins of an ancient civilization. You shake your head at the cosmic irony of it all. If you had any belief in deity left, you would think the goddess was having a good laugh at the scrambling of such pathetic little creatures fighting against the power of the Reapers. You want to laugh yourself. Laugh at the futility of living, but you look out at your audience and refrain. You see that the patrons believe your words wholly. They are absorbed in the telling of your escape from the mines, your awkward fumbling with meeting this human species for the first time and interacting with them, your overtures for friendship and later love. They sit entranced as you regale them with the battles fought alongside a turian, a quarian, a krogan, and several humans (one of which was a fabled goddess). They believe every word for you are asari and your life is measured in centuries not decades. They know you speak truth, and they are the more captivated for it. For the audience present is young, with few exceptions, and they have heard of Shepard only as a myth and a legend and not the woman she was. So, you oblige the audience; but, you mostly oblige Miranda Lawson who asked for the story in the first place. As you speak, you turn to look at her and study her.
The human sitting at the bar is old, but that is only evident by the entirely white crown of hair atop her head and the experience in her eyes. Miranda still has the body she was engineered to have. And, she still takes pleasure it showcasing it in tight leathers. Her face is lined and small scars run across some parts of it, but she is still beautiful. Her blue eyes are still sharp, keen and clear. Her formidable mind still completely functional and under her expert control. You know that in a fight, Miranda would still be a fearsome biotic. The woman could probably take anyone in the bar. But, you can also see the exhaustion pulling at her proud shoulders. You see the weight of her near three hundred years taking their toll. You see the losses she has experienced are too much for the human soul to bear. Her blue eyes connect with your equally azure ones and she knows what you see. She nods her head subtly in indication of her acceptance; she lets you know she is ready. A small, sad smile crosses your face. Miranda will die soon; she has lived long enough. Longer than any human in existence. Your eyes sting at the realization that the last of the people connected to Shepard will die in the very near future.
Your heart hammers painfully in your chest. You have to look away to continue your story. “I thought Shepard a goddess as she faced off against Saren and Sovereign at the Battle of the Citadel,” you say remembering the heart wrenching moment when you thought Shepard was crushed under Sovereign’s arm. You also acutely remember thinking Shepard was unbeatable when she emerged limping, with broken ribs, from the wreckage but mostly unharmed. You thought her untouchable until you watched, your heart literally breaking in your chest, Shepard struggling to breathe as the oxygen escaped through the ruptures in her suit as she plummeted through Alchera’s atmosphere. Even now, you feel the painful stab of utter helplessness as you remember the woman you love dying before your eyes. You do not say how that moment drove you nearly mad with despair. You do not tell how every night for two years you cried yourself to sleep, the sadness seeping through every pore of your being enveloping you in its icy grip that clutched and poked at your bleeding heart.
You stop to take a long draught of the putrid alcohol. You enjoy the burn it leaves as it descends to your stomach; it is preferable to the burning pain in your heart. The bartender refills your glass without a word as you continue the story. You tell of Shepard’s defeat of death itself, lifting a small smile at Miranda who tips her glass in understanding. You continue, your rapt audience listening intently, with how Shepard fought the Collectors and destroyed the abomination of the human Reaper they were creating. You were not there for that adventure but you have heard it so many times over that you imagine being present at that horrible place where some of the true nature of the Reapers was revealed.
You do not reveal the rescue mission to save Feron, and the Shadow Broker’s subsequent defeat at yours and Shepard’s hands. You withhold this detail because that is still your vocation. And, though, you know your network shrinks every day, you will still fight to the last to continue to provide what little hope you can to what is left of the galaxy. So, you skip to the discovery of the Crucible on Mars and the ensuing race against time.
You realize that you are telling yours and Shepard’s story. You are chronicling the five years you both lived and loved. It seems like so much longer than five years to you, an eternity. But, at the same time it seems like no time at all, a mere moment. You wonder for a minute if you have gone on too long, if your listeners are bored. You quickly inspect the patrons. Everyone is engrossed in your memories. A flash of understanding strikes you, you are weaving a tale of hope, you are sparking life into young hearts, and you are stirring the will to fight. You have all the time in the world because all anyone has is time now, so you continue.
You relate the story of how Shepard cured the genophage with awe tingeing your voice. You still feel the enormity of that moment. It was a remarkable instant in their history as a galactic community. Out of the corner of your eye, you see an old krogan raise his glass in solute, in honor of Shepard. Of what Shepard had accomplished for the krogan people. Hers was a name that every krogan knew. Shepard was a name that would never be forgotten among his people, no matter how close or far their extinction may be. A moment later you see similar solutes of honor from a table surrounded by quarians and a few Geth as you speak of the quarian and Geth alliance Shepard ensured.
And finally, with a heavy heart (breaking all over again at the mere memory) you retell of the greatest offensive mounted against the Reapers; a cumulative effort with every sentient species partaking in one form or another. You pause because your throat is constricting and your eyes are stinging again. The silence is deafening as everyone sits and remembers the day itself, or in most cases the stories passed down about the day the offensive was mounted. It is a silence indicating sadness and defeat but also honoring the ones who tried and fought to the last. You finally compose yourself enough to continue. You tell of the push to reach the Citadel through the open portal on Earth. You speak of the failure of the Crucible to engage. You recall in haunting detail the utter decimation of the galaxy’s combined efforts.
But you do not end there, you speak of the remnant that fought and will continue to fight. You speak of the many that stood, and yet stand, against the tyranny imposed by unfeeling and uncaring sentient machines. But mostly, you speak of how much you loved Shepard. You tell of the great love you both tended and nurtured during the atrocities of war. You try to explain the inexplicable strength of your love; of Shepard’s love for you. But you do not expound on how you loved each other. You do not go into the details that, even now almost three hundred years later, still make your body and mind tingle, and your heart ache with loneliness. You did not tell of how mouths and fingers would suck, push and press into and over skin in a frenzy borne of desperation. You do not speak of how when Shepard’s naked body surged and pressed against your own in the physical manifestation of love (that still beats in your heart) you literally melted against one another, your minds finding a freedom in the unity of two becoming one that the universe and its fate disappeared from your collective consciousness. You did not say that at those moments you looked eternity and it looked back into you; and you did not fear. You do not share the transcendent experiences; those are yours and yours alone.
You do speak of the flood of hope, that even now almost three centuries after Shepard’s death, flowed through your veins. Hope; distilled by loss though it was. If not for your own cycle, then for the prosperity of the next one. The Reapers would be defeated. You know it without a doubt.
You turn to Miranda, “We are the legacy left by Shepard.” You approach the old woman knowing she will not survive long past this night. You know you will never see each other again on this side of eternity. You take her hand gently, mindful of her years. It is warm in your hand and you are glad that she has lived long enough to ask this story of you. You kiss her cheek and are pleased at the genuine smile that lights her face and eyes. And you finish the tale speaking directly at the woman that had once returned to you the most precious thing you had ever lost.
“Despite the Reapers, the destruction, the losses, we are unbent, unbowed, unbroken.”
Upon the end of a tale, there is one tradition that cannot be broken. A solemn and unhappy refrain. You and your patient listeners raise your glasses and speak the words that have echoed throughout the bar for untold years.
"Here at the end of time, we drink - A drink to those we've lost, a drink to those who live, and a drink, in hope of peace in eternal rest..."
FIN