Flinging herself around at great speed has been Shepard's natural talent for a long time, longer even than she's been doing it wreathed in fire. The pheonix blooms out from her, streaking behind in plumed tails and the trailed edges of wings, spreading with a strange, impossible weightiness. Something this heavy, this large, ought not to be able to get airborne, and even if it could, should not to be able to turn and twist in the air so acrobatically. But she does, falling back and flirting under his wings to send gusts of hot air and send Archangel off-kilter, spinning away to avoid the playful retribution...

...it's a good flight. She loves this, the freedom of it; she's going to thorne because she wants to, and because it's the right thing to do, not because of anything that tells her she has to. And if she hadn't? She could have gone anywhere else, and it would come to much the same.

Freedom, that's what she has here. Freedom, and him at her side. Who could want more?