It was raining hard, turning the grass between the regularly-spaced burial markers incredibly green and the now-traditional red poppies into vibrant torches of color. It was cold, his breath coiling upwards as he picked his way along the ranks and files of monuments—many of which bore flowers, none of which were currently being visited.

The ground sloshed beneath his boots, the wind picked at his clothes. It was exactly the sort of bad weather one would associate with the resting place of heroes: the sky seemed to weep for their passage; the world seemed colder for the lack of the lives represented here.

Shepard's headstone at the military cemetery was like all the others when he eventually reached it: the traditional boots/helmet/rifle setup on a pedestal, the symbol of her religious affiliation etched into the pedestal above her name. In Arlington, back on Earth, the white crosses of bygone years remained, but the markers had been updated. Many people did not realize that quite a few of the markers' plinths were hollow, holding small urns with the ashes of the deceased.

Of course Shepard, having died in space, was not actually buried here, but it was here, nonetheless, that the curious or the prompted could come to 'find' her.

Lt. Commander Jalissa A. Shepard

2154-2183

He'd brought flowers with him.

He'd carried a few sprigs of lavender in the inner pocket of his jacket on Mindoir too, but in that case it seemed almost rude to leave the flowers for one woman on the grave of a different girl altogether. The girl in the grave hadn't known him. He'd had the uneasy feeling that leaving her Shepard's flowers would just…make the poor girl uncomfortable.

One was not as good as the other, so the lavender stayed with him, and a polite word to the girl in question was offered, as if she were just another sibling Shepard had lost on that long-ago nightmarish day. Surely that would have appeased anyone…lingering.

It had certainly appeased his sense of the rightness of things, the one that generated 'ghosts' for his own benefit.

He looked down at the current monument, the stern letters gazing back up at him, cold and impersonal, rain beading up and sliding down like cold sweat. The grave was impersonal, it looked exactly like every other marker for every other soldier killed in action in the whole of the cemetery.

It was unremarkable, and she would have been grateful.

The cold emptiness that welled up in him made him feel like a ghost, or an intruder, a sight-seer come to goggle at the relics of bygone warriors. According to common belief, any soldier laid to rest in one of these cemeteries bore the legend 'hero.'

The faint sound of feet marching drew his eyes to the requisite Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Every major military burial place had one. At the time of her death Shepard would, he suspected, have preferred to be filed with the nameless, faceless soldiers: a place for those who slipped through the cracks or fell into the haze of smoke that surrounded dozens of engagements. It was a place where none were forgotten, where all were remembered. There was…togetherness.

Overhead thunder pealed. He did not often hear from 'the Williams in his head', the memory of the enthusiastic but matter-of-fact gunnery chief. He heard from her now however, pointing out that the thunder and lightning were just a bit over the top. Graveyards were somber but rain and storm were just plain old depressing.

Strange that he should think more on Williams than on Shepard. It was Shepard he was looking for, some sense of her, some gut feeling he couldn't describe for another soul but had to find…or be sure he would not find.

Alenko heaved a sigh, sending a column of steam rising from his mouth. A fresh breeze brought to his nose the sharp, clean scent of the flowers in his hand. They were simple, the only flower he associated with Shepard and not for poetic reasons. She'd worn its scent once, as perfume, but the memory seemed to have lodged in his mind like shrapnel. He knew memory linked to a scent was often very strong…but this one seemed exceptionally so. It was the equivalent of catching sight of her out of the corner of his eye.

The handful of stems of lavender he meant to leave her seemed impertinent, an offering made to a woman who shared the same name as the one he sought, but who had nothing to do with her. The first time he'd ever brought flowers to her grave and the grave just wouldn't have them.

It was ironic, in a way, considering the terms upon which he'd last seen her…if it was her…

…something cold settled in his stomach. It was not what he was looking for, but it had a direct bearing on his self-assigned journey.

Once again, when confronted with one of Shepard's many markers, he found that she wasn't there. This woman the marker represented was a proud Lt. Commander in the Alliance Navy. Here lay the Hero of Elysium, the Savior of the Citadel, the First Human Spectre…

…but there was nothing of Jalissa here.

Not for him.

He shifted in the wet grass, then looked up, suddenly inspired, as if the ghosts of the dead represented here had reached out to blow cool breaths against his neck—not as haunting, malevolent forces, but as protectors, as the comfort some found in looking at the markers of departed loved ones.

Williams was here…she was here and it was Williams, not Shepard, who had spent most of this visit in the forefront of his mind. Shepard was his reason for being here…but it was Williams' memory which seemed to keep him company.

Williams was here, and she would not mind holding Shepard's flowers. In fact, she'd probably snicker at him for having gone to the wrong apartment, as it were.

-J-

Author's Note: Here we are, the end of First Thermodynamics! A very short installment for the Newton series, I'll admit. For Arrival, more of Jack, and the tying-up of several loose ends, stay tuned for Second Thermodynamics! I hope to see you there!

Thank you to everyone who has read and/or reviewed, faved and/or followed. Your support is greatly appreciated.

~Raven Studios