You love her.
It’s a fact that spans all the universes you and she meet one another.
It’s not always grand— most times it would be contentment with the glances shared between the both of you, the pause of breath in the spars you make, the comfortable silence, the private talks, and tea.
Sometimes it would be in the high of being and being with her, the lightest kisses swapped in the dark hours of what is your night, the soft touch between lovers, nuzzling to her side and making love--
You love her.
You love her with all your being, with all your life, and whatever else left in your heart—
It’s a universal constant. Your Universal Constant.
But it’s also a fact that one of you dies from the hand of the other.
Between the run in at T’kuvma’s flagship, awry away-missions gone wrong, and the coup at Terra; it goes like this.
Sometimes it is Michael who shoots T’Kuvma before he slices Philippa from her back, rather than finishing her assailant; Michael who gets swept away as the whole brig falls away; Michael who doesn’t get up after being struck in the head after a scouting mission gone wrong; Michael who has her heart struck by Philippa and her sword—
Sometimes its Philippa who gets speared by the mek’leth; Philippa who gets crushed seconds before the USS Shenzhou gets saved by the Europa; Philippa lying in a few feet away, Michael failing to catch her; Philippa who dies between Michael’s hands in the takeover—
This is a truth in all universes you are together, and all there is left is for you to grieve.
(And oh, how the universe grieves for you so.)