Work Text:
Strength was a difficult thing to define. As a child she'd had some pretty skewed views on it. There would be a guy walk by with bulging muscles and that was her image of strength. She supposed that was one way of looking at it, but it was one of the more shallow ways to classify something so vital.
In recovery from the brink of death for the second time Shepard was afforded a lot of time to think. Most days were spent in monotony, waiting for the next pill or meal. Generally visitors had the same thing to say. “You’re so strong”, or “How could you do it?” Her response was typical of a colony kid. “It had to be done.”
Maybe that was a better way of looking at it. Being strong wasn’t a physical thing, it was a concept; something that could only be real in a moment it was required. Everyone called her fearless, but she had always been afraid. The responsibility of it all, and most of all the Reapers. Shepard wasn’t strong because she had no fear, she was strong because she ran headlong into that fear fists blazing. It had to be done.
It brought a good measure of shame to know she had let herself slip into depression more than a few times. Everyone said it was understandable. There was nothing left to fight. Just staying down for a while could be, “Good for your soul.” She took them for the silver platter excuses they were, and turned her nose up at them. No, she would get back up. When the sadness rose and the tears came she would soldier on. Giving up was not an option.
Making herself eat when everything tasted so bland. Taking those few shuffling steps that were all her weakened body could manage. She had fought so hard for everyone’s future, and she’d be damned if she was going to spend hers wallowing in a hospital bed.