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| Volume 5: Among the Stars, like Giants | Part VII: .... Let No God Tear Asunder |
THE air was cold in his lungs; cold, chill and with the taste of death. All around him was noise, screaming, shouting.
He was standing before a monster in white armour, shouting, challenging it. He dared it to kill him and....
.... and it did.
He had been asleep, although with no dreams that he could remember. Everything had been peaceful, quiet and tranquil. Just one nagging thought held him back, although he could not describe what that thought was.
And then he had been called back, called by the one voice that he could never forget, could never ignore. He had tried to return, only for the voice to depart, and from then it had been a fight, a struggle, clawing and writhing and shouting defiance.
He would return. He would.
It was a fight. He knew all about fighting.
There was a war. There had always been a war.
He had been fighting a war.
And he awoke to one, or rather, to war's aftermath. Smoke and fury and the moans of the dying and the sepulchral silence of the dead.
The air was cold. Beneath him, the black rock was cold.
He was cold, very cold.
He sat up, and remembered his name.
John J. Sheridan.
And he was alive again.
* * * * * * *
It was a dream. It was all a dream. It could only be a dream.
Or a nightmare.
Emperor Londo Mollari walked through the dead corridors of the Imperial Palace, seeing no one. His guards were nowhere to be found. His servants were nowhere to be found. Morden was nowhere to be found.
It was a dream, that was all. He was old and frail, his mind weak, no longer able to tell the difference between reality and illusion.
Above him, far above him, he could hear the sky breaking. Lightning flashing. A storm was upon him. The same storm he had faced for more than twenty years.
He stopped by a window. Purple curtains completely covered it. He remembered ordering them. He had not wanted to look outside. He had not wanted to see what had become of his home. He moved the curtain aside and looked. He had been blind for too long.
The first thing he saw was his own face staring back at him, and he was disgusted by it. It was almost the face of a stranger. Old and careworn and very, very weak.
No, not a stranger. A man he had first seen in a dream.
So, it had arrived. No matter how hard he tried to run from his fate, it always caught him eventually. He had once heard a human story which he found mildly amusing. A man in a market place in a city somewhere was shocked to see Death staring at him. Oddly, Death looked surprised. In terror, the man sought guidance from a holy man, who advised him to ride like the wind across the desert to a far-distant town. Arriving there that same evening, he felt a hand on his shoulder - Death, come to claim him. The man protested that he had travelled an impossible distance to escape. Death smiled wryly, confessing that he had been surprised by their earlier meeting, as he knew he must claim him here, so far away, that very night.
One cannot run from death. All one's footsteps merely lead one back to it, in a never-ending circle that grows smaller and smaller with each turn.
It would be good to see G'Kar again.
He had hoped once.... He had hoped he could have avoided it. He and G'Kar had become friends. Good friends. The best of friends. What reason could they have to kill each other? None that he could see.
He still did not know why. There would be a reason, but he had no idea what it could be. He did not care any longer.
It would be good to see his friend again. He just wished he could see his other friends one last time. Urza, Jorah, Lennier, Delenn....
Timov. Oh, dear Timov.
He was a failure. A failure as a man, as a husband, and as an Emperor.
At least he would die dressed as an Emperor. He wore the white, the crown. The crown inset with a new jewel, the strange black gemstone given to him by Morden. A very strange gift, probably some device to control or monitor him. All part of some great scheme. Londo did not care any more.
He walked on, encountering no one, not caring if there was anyone here to encounter. He knew the palace better than anywhere he had ever been. He had grown up here. He had spoken with the friends of his youth here. He had dreamed such great dreams here. He had known his first woman here. He had not left the building in five years, not since Immolan.
He would die here. A fitting end.
He wanted to die. Oh, he wanted so much to die. He had yearned for death for years, but he had never been brave enough to grasp it. And now death would come for him.
He reached his throne room. It was empty, of course. He was not surprised. He was moving slowly now, his hearts weak. Each breath was an effort. He could hear the sky breaking, but not the movement of his own blood.
He looked around, seeing the evidence of a fight. There was blood on the floor. He wondered idly why no one had come to clean it up, and then he laughed at the absurdity of the thought. There was always blood in this room. It was stained with the blood of billions. What matter a little more?
He sat back to wait.
He did not have to wait long. A harsh, bitter howling announced G'Kar's arrival.
* * * * * * *
"Welcome back to the world."
The words startled him. It had been a long time, a very long time since he had heard any words spoken. That last time, the speech had been alien, ancient, utterly contemptuous of him and all he stood for. This time....
This voice was also alien and filled with power, but also with weariness. It was familiar, but changed slightly. He turned, and looked down from the altar where he sat. Someone was looking at him. Someone he knew.
"Sinoval," said Sheridan.
The Primarch nodded once. "It worked, then. It is good to know this was not all for nothing." There was a tinge of bitterness in his voice. Sheridan looked around and saw what seemed to be an enormous battlefield. He was in an immeasurably vast chamber, with scattered pinpricks of light in the ground, the walls, the sky. Around him were the bodies of the slain. Aliens such as he had never seen or even dreamed of, alongside some he recognised. There was a human, dressed in an archaic suit, a look of surprise on his dead face.
One other person was alive, another human, someone he recognised. She was kneeling over the body of a human woman. He knew them all. He just could not place their names.
"You did this?"
"I brought you back. The rest of us are not permitted the peace of death, Sheridan. Why should you be more fortunate?"
"Why? Why did you do it? I was...."
Asleep.
At peace.
Resting.
Dead....
"I had my reasons. I will explain them to you later. I think for now you need to rest."
"I have done enough resting." He looked back at the living woman. Her face was heavily scarred, and there were streaks of grey in her dark hair. An image of her filled his mind - younger and more slender, beautiful, and with no silver in her hair.
"How long?" he breathed. "How long was I...?"
"That all depends on which calendar you use," Sinoval replied dryly. "By the reckoning of your dead homeworld, twelve years, seven months, two weeks and three days. Reckoning to the hour and minute is alas beyond me at the moment."
"Twelve years?"
There was another name, one that he had not forgotten, the one that had brought him back.
"Delenn. Where is she?"
A flicker of dark amusement showed in Sinoval's infinite eyes.
"I rather think she is on her way here," he said.
* * * * * * *
Everything was madness. The sky was filled with rage and fury, breaking open as the clouds clashed, and behind them....
Behind them L'Neer could see hints of something alien and terrifying. It was whispering to her, and, so she thought, to her alone. It was speaking of madness and rage and vengeance.
She resisted, just. She had never known anything so powerful. That urge for violence, that senseless, thoughtless desire just to kill and kill and kill, to bathe in blood, to forget all grief and responsibility and burden and reduce oneself to an animal....
She had seen the Aliens before, but she had never faced them alone, as she did now.
She stared up at the sky. "I will not do as you say," she said, her will iron. "I make this choice. I am a rational being, and there is a choice in all things."
She believed the words, but she wondered if they were strong enough.
Everything had become madness. Their escorts had fallen to slaughtering each other. G'Kar had disappeared, running howling through the streets. She had tried to follow him, but she had hesitated and he had vanished from sight. Ta'Lon had disappeared as well while she was trying to follow G'Kar.
Vir was still with her. That at least was something. She was not totally alone, although his assistance would probably be minimal.
"I'm to be Emperor," he kept saying. "They said so. They all said so. The dreams said so. I'm to be Emperor."
She stayed with him, walking slowly and warily, keeping an eye out for G'Kar and Ta'Lon. They had to be here somewhere. There must be some people who were not affected by the madness. She could not be the only one.
She hesitated, filled with doubt, and the whispers grew louder and more powerful. She closed her eyes and steadied her mind against them.
I am a rational being. I have a choice.
I do not choose to listen to you.
She opened her eyes again. "Of course!" Vir shouted, startling her. "Of course! Where else?" He ran forward, moving faster than his girth would seem to allow. L'Neer hitched up the hem of her robe and tried to follow him. She must not lose him as well.
Besides, there was the faint possibility that he actually knew where he was going. If so, he would be the only one.
She could barely keep up. She rounded a corner....
And someone crashed into her, sending her tumbling to the ground, her legs tangling in her robe. She tried to kick free, but then she felt the tiny pressure of a blade in her side. A Centauri was lying on top of her, pinning her down, and there was a knife in his hand.
She said nothing, waiting for him to speak, looking in his eyes for a sign of madness.
It was there, but it passed. "L'Neer of Narn," the Centauri hissed.
"Yes," she whispered. She was not afraid of dying, but she was afraid of dying without seeing G'Kar again.
The Centauri rose and stepped back. He sheathed the dagger, and she noticed his hand was trembling slightly. "Come with me," he said. "My name is Durla."
"Where are you taking me?"
"To see a friend. She wants to meet you."
* * * * * * *
The war drew to a close much as it had begun. The Vorlons, unwilling to risk greater and greater losses, turned to defence and stealth. The assassination attempt on Jorah Marrago in 2273 had seriously hindered his plans, and Tirivail and her Witch Hunters had suffered heavy losses in the attack on their mountain monastery.
The greatest weapons the Vorlons had, as they proved to terrifying effect, were the gateways. Created millennia ago as a means of communicating with the universe of the Aliens, they could also be used to communicate the other way. The Alien ships were terrifying and the power of the Alien manifestations absolutely devastating, as was seen on Proxima 3, Tressna, Kara, Brakir, and many other worlds.
While she was recovering from her injuries Tirivail elaborated on her earlier hypothesis. Her agents had managed to recover a gateway - a crimson orb the size of a Minbari heart - from the Cult of Death based on one of the Minbari colony worlds. They had managed to keep it secure, even during the attack on the monastery.
Tirivail at last found a use for it. The exact sequence of events is unclear, but on the basis of the reports she passed on to her colleagues on Brakir and later to Commander Kulomani, it seems that she herself contacted the Alien intelligences beyond the gateway.
She had prepared for the attempt by months of meditation, but even so the experience nearly killed her. Seldom has anyone stared so closely into the face of death, and no one who has done so has emerged unchanged. Somehow, however, Tirivail survived.
Although she authorised the Brakiri Witch Hunters to make the information she acquired widely available, she apparently stipulated that Marrain should never be told how she had obtained the knowledge. It is not clear if he ever discovered what she had done.
Tirivail claimed that the beings already at large in this universe were little more than foot-soldiers, and that she had seen the greater intelligences which lurked in the Alien realm. Their lords and generals continued to direct the war from their own homeworld, a place she described as a vast graveyard, filled with the memories of a universe of the slain.
These more powerful Aliens could not yet emerge into this universe, she stated, as the present gateways were not large enough. Something she called the 'greater gateway' would be required, but as that, once opened, could also permit transport from here into the universe of the Aliens, their lords were apparently unwilling to take that risk.
However, Tirivail had already speculated that under certain conditions the Aliens might be able to manifest without the requirement for a gateway. If these conditions were sufficiently favourable, she believed the Lords themselves could potentially manifest here, even to a being she called the 'God-Emperor'.
After she had recovered from her ordeal, Tirivail began tracking down more cells of the Cults of Death, in an attempt to stop their rituals. The universe had been filled with death and destruction for over a decade, and many worlds had fallen to the Aliens. Every world which fell and every person who died only added to their power. She believed they were perilously close to breaking through in force - without whatever risks might arise through the use of the greater gateway.
But as she investigated, she learned something disturbing. She knew that many of the smaller gateways - orbs, mirrors or boxes for the most part - had been seeded throughout this galaxy. The Vorlons had kept many of them on their own worlds, but others had been lost, or become objects of worship for primitive races, or for the Cults.
Almost all those gateways had vanished. She received reports of a Godlike figure with three infinite eyes and knowledge of the world beyond death who had appeared and seized them. The same story cropped up over and over again.
Meanwhile the Aliens were growing stronger. However many battles they lost, people died, and all that meant was that they were winning the greater war.
And when Tirivail returned to her monastery she learned that the orb she had acquired was missing as well.
Williams, G. D. (2298) The Great War: A Study.
* * * * * * *
The voice of his God-ancestor sang in his mind, promising war and death to his enemies, to those who did not deserve his service. He had tried to resist them before, but he had been mistaken. Even the greatest of wills cannot endure forever.
The black heart beat within Satai Takier of the Minbari. It was all he could see. The lord of the Aliens filled his mind, whispering seductive promises to him.
With a wave of his arm he brought on-line the weapons system of the Grey Council's ship. He had personally ordered the installation of the most powerful weaponry available to the Minbari, cannibalising Vorlon and Alien technology recovered from the rubble of their attack on Minbar.
Beneath him, Minbar turned in space, ignorant of the Gods above.
So many people, so many lives. No bombardment would destroy them all, but it would kill enough, for the time being. His warriors would conclude the process. Takier would ensure that the last Minbari alive was brought to him personally, to complete the great cause.
Minbari shall not kill Minbari. What foolish weakness was that? The strong killed the weak. That was always the way of things. The weak either became strong, or they died. The Minbari had been too weak for too long, and it had fallen to Takier to strengthen them. He had done the best he could, but even he had his limits. Those who remained would be weak forever.
He studied the weapons system carefully, selecting his first target. Yedor, of course. The hope and centre of the Minbari people, where Valen had lived, and wed, and created his laws.
Where so many people lived. So many walking corpses.
Takier prepared to activate the system, then paused. New senses, heightened beyond even his natural perceptiveness, were telling him something.
Death, even here, on this vessel. And not just death, but....
A particular smell. The smell of one who has been dead, and has returned.
The God-ancestor was hissing in anger at the blasphemy, but Takier only smiled. To return from the dead, that was an abomination against all that was right and true. The Lord knew this, and so did he. There was only one person that could be.
Once the greatest warrior of his age. Takier had doubted once, had suspected it all to be propaganda or myth, but now he knew beyond all question. Only one who had died and returned could feel like that.
Every journey begins with a single step. Every task begins with the first breath.
Everything has to start somewhere.
And how better to begin the destruction of his ungrateful people, than to end the walking blasphemy that was Marrain the Betrayer.
He smiled and closed his eyes, listening to the whispers of the God-ancestor.
* * * * * * *
The rational part of his mind had ceased to function, replaced by a howling madness, the product of an entire lifetime of broken dreams, of lost friends, of defeat after crushing defeat. Da'Kal, Neroon, Michael Garibaldi, Lennier, Sheridan, Lethke....
All those dead friends. All those losses. The Great Machine and Epsilon 3 disintegrating into a billion shards of rock. The Vorlon tearing apart the council convened for peace. Na'Toth, his friend, his assistant, working for Sinoval all along. Da'Kal's treachery and anger and hopeless, twisted love.
So much weighing on his soul.
So much burning inside him. So much buried by years of duty and devotion and determination and goodness....
So much to erupt to the surface in anger.
So much to blame on one man.
Londo Mollari.
There was no one to stop the being that had once been G'Kar as he ran towards the throne room, moving with a speed and stamina that belied his age. He felt like a much younger man, like the man who had fought the Centauri, the man who had dreamed of feeling the Centauri Emperor's neck between his hands.
He was there, sitting on the throne, his face shrouded by shadows. The Narn entered slowly. His eye, gone, smashed from his skull. Da'Kal had wielded the weapon, yes, but the Centauri had been to blame. All of them, all of them personified in this one man.
Their Emperor.
"G'Kar," breathed the Emperor. So old. He was so old and fragile, as if he would break at the slightest touch. "Old friend.... so good to see you again."
The Narn walked forward slowly, his muscles tense, his heart racing. Let the old man talk. Let him witter on his final, futile words.
"I have tried to hide from this, to run from it, to bury myself, but it cannot be done. Death, you see, cannot be avoided."
There was blood on the floor, and G'Kar stopped, puzzled. He had been very observant in his younger days, and even with his single eye he often saw things that others missed.
"I had hoped differently, yes, but.... ah.... what good are hopes to men of our age, eh?"
The Narn was not listening, slowly tracing the patterns on the floor. Not Centauri blood, no. Human, perhaps, and a smell from beneath the floor. Not Centauri either. Or human. Or Narn. Alien.
"It would have been better by far had I died a long time ago, rather than live to witness this. My people, G'Kar, we have been through so very much. Payment, yes, for our crimes and our hubris, but where does payment stop? How much interest will be exacted?"
A trap. Ah, yes. The subtlest of things. The Centauri were cunning and subtle. A trap here, at the moment of his triumph. Carefully, the avenging Narn stepped around it and continued his walk towards the throne.
"I made a promise once, one of many, to an old friend of mine as he lay dying. I swore I would make our world better. There are so many of my people suffering and dying because they are not of noble birth, not born to the purple as we are. Almost twenty years I have had, and I have done nothing to help them. Ah, G'Kar, I must have been the most worthless Emperor ever to take this seat."
He continued walking. Only a few more steps.
"And who will take this throne after me? I do not know. I do not know if anyone will. I could well be the last Emperor of Centauri Prime."
Almost there.
"But you, G'Kar. You were my friend, my greatest friend. The others.... they are all dead. Perhaps even Jorah. Perhaps even he. Only you and I left, as it was in the beginning."
The Emperor rose and walked towards him, haltingly and slowly. The Narn stopped, suspecting some stratagem, some deviousness.
"I want you to know one thing, G'Kar. Well, two things."
The Narn tensed. Here it came.
"Firstly, you are my friend. And secondly....
"I forgive you."
The Narn hesitated, and then, with a furious roar, he moved forward, clutching the Emperor's neck with his hands, feeling the soft skin give way and the bones tremble. The Emperor looked up at him, his eyes dark, but filled with understanding.
That only made him squeeze harder.
* * * * * * *
He stood alone on top of the pinnacle looking over the galaxy.
Above them all.
It was easy to be a God up here. He could see anything he wished, anyone he wished. They could be as large as real life, or as small as insects, but he could see them all.
This must be how the Vorlons felt. Above the universe. Powerful, ancient, knowledgeable, wise....
Gods.
But with all their power, they had made a mistake. Actually, they had made several, just as he had, but only one had been irreversible. They had brought the Aliens through. In doing so they had damned themselves and this universe and potentially all other universes as well.
And Sinoval was the only one who could undo that. The Vorlons were wrong, and could be defeated, but the Aliens were unnatural, and would have to be destroyed.
He tapped his fingers on his thigh irritably. There was only him. No one else. No one else who could know, who could understand, who could do what had to be done....
And it was almost time. He had gathered everything he could. Oh, he had missed some possibilities, but he had gathered enough.
Sheridan was returned to life, to lead the galaxy he would leave behind.
All he needed now were those who would come with him.
The First Ones, yes. They were old and powerful and tired and they understood. They wanted to leave this galaxy anyway, to go beyond the Rim. They would end up going further still.
Marrain.... once his business on Minbar was done, he could say goodbye to his homeworld and come along. He would not pass up this opportunity. Marrain respected Sinoval, he owed him, and he would not let this happen without him.
Talia.... no. She had another task. A task as great as his, in a way.
Marrago.... no. He had done enough, sacrificed enough.
Kulomani.... no. Men like him would be needed here, to help Sheridan rebuild and shape what would remain.
G'Kar.... no. He had his own fate and it was winding around him, pulling him and Londo together. Sinoval could see them both on Centauri Prime, completing a very long and tragic dance.
L'Neer.... no. She would be the heart of the new world. She was the light, and he could not take her into darkness. Besides, the weapons she wielded were not the ones he needed.
Then who? There must be someone else.
The sound of footsteps reached his ears, and the faintest of smiles touched his face.
Ah. Of course. Who else?
Susan reached the top of the pinnacle. Her eyes were puffy and red, and she was short of breath. He recognised the fury in her bearing, however. Twelve years and the finding of true love had mellowed her slightly, but he had seen enough of her rages in recent years to know that the anger was still there, would always be there.
"She's dead," Susan spat.
"Yes," Sinoval said, with a smile. Ah, Susan. He could quite honestly say she knew him better than anyone else. "That's the trouble with mortals. They do that."
"She's dead," Susan repeated.
"Yes, but before she died, she lived. Free of the network, free from chains and slavery. Free. And she died so that Sheridan might live."
"You.... Damn you, you always know what to say. I.... I hate that."
"I've had twelve years to think over this plan. Yes, I know what to say, and what to do."
"John doesn't look very alive."
"No. His reason for living is not here yet. But she will be. Soon."
"What?"
Sinoval pointed out across the abyss of space, indicating one very small speck of light.
"You see. She's coming."
* * * * * * *
"It is true, then? I confess I had doubted. Propaganda, although to what end I could never really understand. Sinoval.... thinks in ways the rest of us cannot match. He is not really Minbari any longer, and has not been for many years."
Takier paused. "But then, are you Minbari any longer? Marrain, enter. I imagine you have been here before."
Marrain stepped into the dimly-lit blackness of the Grey Council's chamber. He was cut and scratched, his clothing torn, his right arm hanging limp. Still, Takier saw, he was a true warrior, the kind he had always known must once have existed.
"No," Marrain said. "This ship was not built until after I.... died. I have never been here before."
"Ah? Then look around. What do you think?"
Marrain did so. "Impressive," he conceded. "Yes, impressive, but that changes nothing. Valen was a fool. He always was. He knew nothing about leadership and less about power."
"You knew him, of course. It is fascinating to speak with one such as yourself. The things you have seen, the people you have known.... You should have come to me years ago. I could have found a place for one such as you in my service."
Marrain smiled, a wry, charming smile. "I do not think so.
"Valen spoke of a thousand years of peace that would follow him, a time which would make all warriors obsolete anachronisms. I wished for a thousand years of war to follow that, to spite him, to prove him wrong, to show him that our ways and our heritage were not so easily undone as all that.
"We have not yet had a thousand years of war, but what.... twenty or so? Not bad, by any stretch of the imagination, and it is not done yet.
"I dreamed of a day when warriors would rule Minbar again. Not mewling priestlings or prattling Rangers or workers elevated beyond their station. Warriors. True warriors. Few enough even then, fewer now, but there are some."
"Really?" Takier said. "I have not encountered any. Sonovar and Kozorr were the last."
"You are a warrior. You could have found a place on the walls of Shirohida."
Takier smiled. "Flattery indeed. I thank you."
"But you are no leader."
Takier's smile faded.
"There are true warriors. Your daughter is one, and your blindness to her virtues only proves your weakness in other areas."
"I have no daughter!"
"You have had two, as I understand, but I only know Tirivail. She is brave and beautiful, filled with fire and passion. A true leader should know the skills of all those under him, and you have wasted her talents all your life.
"But even so, you are leader here, chosen by your peers and your people. You are a better leader by far than Hantiban, and him I would have followed to the pyre had he not betrayed me. It would be an honour to serve Takier, leader of the Minbari people.
"But...."
Takier's eyes widened. "But what?"
"You are not Takier. You are the creature possessing him."
Takier's eyes flashed and the voice of the God-Emperor sang in his mind. It reached out through him, and long, barbed tentacles burst from his flesh. Strength and power flooded his body, a greater strength than he had ever known.
"Death!" it cried with his voice.
Marrain smiled, and raised his dechai. "I have known death, remember. I did not fear it then and I do not fear you now."
He moved forward.
* * * * * * *
At first Timov found it hard to believe this was real and not a dream. The fires, the screams, the cries of madness. She half expected to look outside and see the byakheeshaggai looming high over the city.
Was madness bred into her people? Were they all flawed? Were they all doomed to repeat the same sins over and over again? Would the cycle of fire and fury and madness stop when they had finally learned?
She laughed, an odd, giddy, girlish sort of laugh. She was still adjusting to being free again. She would never have waxed philosophical like that had she been feeling normal.
It was too bright. Despite the darkness of the sky, everything was still too bright. Her eyes hurt. Around her, things moved in the shadows. None of them spoke to her, and she was rather glad of that.
Now where was Durla? Had he managed to get lost out there? Had he.... had he succumbed to the madness?
No, she did not believe that. His will was strong. He would survive, and they would not be gone long. He was one of the most strong-willed people she had ever met.
He had done a lot for her. A great deal. He seemed to admire her. He was young and handsome. Her knees threatened to give way and she had to hold the wall to steady herself.
No! She was Timov, daughter of Alghul, first and only wife to the Emperor of the Centauri Republic. She had a duty to perform and she could not let some silly, girlish crush get in her way. She was married to Londo. She loved Londo....
But he had never bothered to try to rescue her. All those years in that dark cell, and he had not lifted a finger to free her.
She felt old and weak. Terribly, terribly weak.
The things in the shadows around her surged forward, just before she heard the movement outside. By the Gods, they had sharp hearing. They stopped, and admitted Durla, who was accompanied by a young Narn woman.
Durla's face was strained, his right hand clenched into a very tight fist. He began to breathe more easily as he entered the house, and opened his fist slowly. Timov was sure she could see flecks of blood under his nails.
The Narn girl looked calm, although she was whispering softly under her breath. The language was Narn, of which Timov had a passing acquaintance, but she could not make out what the girl was saying.
"My lady," Durla breathed. "May I present...." He paused, gasping for air. "The lady L'Neer of Narn. L'Neer, may I present...." He paused again.
"I can speak for myself," Timov said sharply, stepping forward. The Narn looked at her cautiously, a hint of wariness in her eyes. "I am Timov, Lady Consort of the Centauri Republic."
"I had heard," L'Neer said carefully, "that you had been imprisoned for treason and that the Emperor was planning to divorce you."
Timov took a step back, puzzled for a moment. Then she forced a smile. "The first is true. As for the second.... I cannot say, but as I know nothing about it, I am still Lady Consort."
L'Neer smiled, and the smile transformed her face, tuning her from wary to stunningly pretty - for a Narn - with a gentleness and a kindness some might call simplicity. Timov, however, could see the keen intelligence behind her guileless expression. She for one knew better than to look only at the surface.
"I am sorry," L'Neer said. "I am.... a little drained. Something is happening outside.... I feel much.... calmer here...."
"Hatred," hissed a voice from the shadows. One of the aliens was lurking there, only the faint glow of its eyes visible. "Loathing for all that lives. It seeps through the door of the dimensions, from its black home, through the Bleed that you call hyperspace, to here. Soon they will emerge, and bring death to all."
"Who...?" asked L'Neer. "The Aliens, yes. Sinoval told me about them, but why is it calmer here?"
"This building used to be a temple," Timov said. "A place of holy men. Perhaps...."
"Foolish...." hissed the alien voice. "Dark Masters created us.... blessed us.... Powers of the mind. We shield ourselves from emotion.... all is weak.... When there are enough.... we can shield others...."
"Who are you?" L'Neer asked again. "Do you work for Moreil?"
"Moreil Warleader.... missing now.... perhaps dead. We are Faceless.... empty.... once like you.... but changed.... made better. Zener, dark scientists, in service to Dark Masters.... changed us...." The thing stepped forward, but it was still hazy. The shadows seemed to wrap around it. Only the eyes showed. "Assassins, we. Spies. Infiltrators. Dark Masters are gone, but still we serve. We serve their legacy. The Chaos Bringer."
Timov watched L'Neer straighten. "Sinoval sent you away," she said. "All of you. After what you did to the Vree, he had no need of you." Timov smiled. As she had thought. The Narn girl had some spine to her.
"Still we serve. Always. Always serve. Without service, what are we?"
"I want nothing to do with you!" L'Neer spat, and turned for the door. Durla laid a hand on her arm. She spun to face him.
"Stop this!" Timov cried. "Both of you! Durla, we need her. And as for you, young lady, show some respect for your hosts. If you leave here you will be taken by the madness, just like everyone else."
"I am a rational being," L'Neer said. The words had the feel of a mantra. "I have the right of self-determination. Nothing can control me."
"I think, dear child, you will find that it can, but enough of that. Your G'Kar is here, hmm?"
"Yes."
"We need to find him. We will need his help in cleansing my home of this.... madness. Centauri Prime has known too much fire. Too much by far. Will you help us, child?"
L'Neer looked at her. Timov smiled inwardly. The answer was never in any doubt.
"Yes," she said.
* * * * * * *
He drifted through the corridors of light, moving with renewed purpose. So long he had been a prisoner, directed by the anguished dreams of sleeping captives, that it was hard to believe he had a direction at last.
I am Alfred Bester.
He repeated that litany to himself over and over again. It was good to have a name. A name meant an identity. An identity meant connections. Connections meant friends and family and loved ones.
All those things meant he was real - not an illusion, not a dream, not a constructed memory.
He was Alfred Bester and he was real.
This was a scouting mission, he knew. Just a reconnaissance. The timing was not yet right. He would need help, and the others - their identities known, but fading like a dream on waking - were resting, exhausted almost beyond measure.
He was to look, to scout, to divine the lie of the land.
To be ready.
He had learned to navigate the pathways of the network by now - he could hardly have survived so long otherwise. But he was still nervous. This area was heavily guarded, both by the Vorlons and by their sinister allies. The corridors here were purer and brighter, uncorrupted by the darkness, and that was good. But it also meant there were fewer shadows to hide in and more eyes to see him.
He moved slowly, carefully. Time was not important here, and it would do his people no good at all if he were to be captured and imprisoned again. He had a duty, a responsibility....
He had a name.
He was Alfred Bester.
He hid from the searching eyes of the network. More than one Vorlon itself travelled these corridors, moving in their true form, brilliant, dazzling creatures of light. On more than one occasion he thought that he had been spotted by them, but he remained hidden.
The Vorlons had studied hyperspace extensively. They knew it well and had used its unique properties in all manner of creations, the network being only the largest and most ambitious. There were Vorlon bases in hyperspace, spy satellites, communication networks. The Vorlons themselves were capable of travelling in hyperspace if the path between the beacons was clear enough, although they much preferred to use their ships.
Still, hyperspace was larger and more complicated than even the Vorlons understood, and he was able to use that complexity to hide from them and conceal his passage. More than one sentient race had lived, evolved and died in hyperspace, and fallen to the Well of Souls at the point of death. He had spoken to the Well and learned the secrets he needed to know.
And so it was that he came to his destination, hidden and shrouded, unseen by the tireless eyes of the Vorlons.
It must once have been truly impressive, and it was an awesome sight even now. He knew that his human brain could not truly comprehend what he saw, and the information he perceived was not really what was there. Still, that could be compensated for, in time.
There were colours he had no words for, angles and designs he could not trace, moving in and around each other.
There were also places where the evil had entered. Quiet, silent, dark places, filled with the stench of death. Yes, even Vorlons could die. That was a thought at once uplifting and sobering. They were not the real enemy after all, whatever they had done.
But leave the Aliens to Sinoval. He had his task, and his concerns. His people were his responsibility, and he did this for them.
He looked around carefully, taking in as much detail as he could.
Alfred Bester took special care, and he thought he had found sufficient weaknesses, enough vital information. His mission completed, he set off on his return journey, but he could not deny himself one last look before he did so. The Vorlon city was truly awe-inspiring.
The Vorlon homeworld even more so.
* * * * * * *
Sleep had eluded him lately. He had not slept well for as long as he could remember, and Proxima as it was now was hardly conducive to restful slumber, but there was something else.
David Corwin was thinking. Plans, dreams, reflections for the future.
It had all gone wrong somewhere. He was no prophet or mystic, but he still had a feeling that this was not the way the galaxy was supposed to be. It should have been different.
He sat up in bed, sighing. He had no idea what to do, but he had to do something. He had been imprisoned on Proxima for so long - by choice at first, admittedly - and around him the galaxy was moving. People like Sinoval were shaping its affairs. Alien races were in charge, in control, and humanity had been relegated to a forgotten world, segregated there forever.
"It shouldn't be this way," he mused to himself. The trouble was, he had no idea what way it should be.
"Talking to yourself?" said a familiar voice. He smiled.
"Susan."
She appeared before him, ethereal and ghostly and beautiful. He had never really got used to this. It felt.... strange, that she could be on the other side of the galaxy and still appear before him, but then he supposed it was not so very different from a commchannel. The human mind could adapt to anything.
"I didn't mean to disturb you," she said. "I can never work out what time of day it is over here. Sinoval tried to teach me to know the times in different places on different worlds, but I could never get my head around it."
"I have no idea," David admitted. "It isn't really day or night here any longer. We sleep when we're tired, eat when we're hungry and that's about it."
"You didn't look like you were sleeping."
"I was thinking."
"About me?"
"Always," he smiled. "But no, I was just.... I'm sorry. Susan.... has something happened? You look...."
"Bad day at the office. David, there's.... something you should know. There's...." She stopped. "No, forget it. A very bad day."
"I wish you were real," he said softly. "Really here, I mean. It's at times like this I wish I could hold you and tell you that everything's going to be all right."
"You can tell me, if you like. I might even believe you."
"Everything's going to be all right."
"Liar."
He laughed, and settled back against the wall, looking at her. "He's planning something, isn't he? It's all coming to a head."
"He's always planning something, but yes. He's bringing things to some sort of conclusion. I don't know the details. I don't know if it will work. I don't know.... anything. I just knew I wanted to see you before.... Oh, hell, listen to me. So, what's been keeping you awake? Besides thoughts of me, of course."
David looked at her again. He knew her better than he knew anyone, and he knew she did not want to talk about whatever was troubling her. He felt selfish for wanting to raise his own problems, but he knew he needed to talk to someone about it, and he valued her insight more than anyone's.
"We missed something. We missed an opportunity a long time ago, and we're still paying for it now."
"Who's us?"
"Humanity. Somewhere along the way, we let things slip away. And now look at us. We're stuck here on this dead world, no home, no Government. The greatest battle this galaxy's ever known is going on around us and we're bit-part players in it. Er.... no offence."
"None taken," she replied acidly.
"You seem to think this'll be over soon, and I.... I have a feeling it will, as well. I have to hope you'll win, or none of this will matter because we'll all be dead. But what about afterwards? What happens then? I can't imagine Sinoval will be able to hold things together. It's not his style for one thing, and this is an alliance built for war, not peace. Will everything just fall apart when it's done? Everyone return to their own lives?"
"We don't know. Perhaps. I haven't really thought that far ahead."
"You've been busy. I, on the other hand, haven't been. I've had nothing but time."
"So what are you going to do about it?"
"I have absolutely no idea."
Susan laughed. "I have faith in you. And hey, we have to win this war first."
"I have faith in you," he replied.
"I have to go," she said softly. "He's going to need me. I just.... I just wanted to say...."
"I know."
"I love you."
"I know."
"You brought me back. I was on the edge of madness, and you brought me back and you don't even know how much that meant to me and...."
"I know. I love you, Susan. Good luck."
She closed her eyes, and her image disappeared.
David lay back down, staring into the darkness above him. It was strange, but the room seemed to smell of her hair.
* * * * * * *
Everything was going black, his hearts weakening.
It was not hurting, not as much as he had feared.
He would not strike back, and to hell with his vision. He had killed so many people he had cared for. He would not kill G'Kar, not here, at the very end.
He did not know what was wrong with his friend, and he did not care. It was.... fitting that he die this way. As he had foreseen, more or less, but in his dream he had been killing G'Kar as well.
No.
It would not happen that way. His friend would live. The galaxy needed him, far more than it needed Emperor Londo Mollari.
His knees buckled and almost gave way. His vision was blurring. He could barely see.
Almost the end.
He could hardly breathe.
His hearts....
So loud....
So very loud....
G'Kar shook him and his head snapped back.
The crown fell from his head.
And in that one single moment, as it had with G'Kar, a lifetime of hatred, of impotent rage, of fury at hopelessness and helplessness, all surged to the fore. His people, destroyed and devastated. His world, enslaved by aliens. His armies defeated. His friends dead. His promises broken.
His entire life a failure.
And he knew who to blame for it all.
The Narn before him.
Moving with a speed he had not been able to muster even as a young man, he brought his arms up, and his hands locked onto the Narn's throat in an inexorable death grip. The Narn's one eye showed his surprise, but he did not break the lock.
Neither of them did.
* * * * * * *
The four walls of his cell loomed around him, flames dripping down the stone, shadows dancing and whirling. Above him the weight of all the earth and blood was oppressive, dark and powerful and twisted.
Sweat was trickling down his back. Everything was so hot.
Morden had stayed on the balcony as long as he could, staring out across the burning city and looking up at the breaking sky. The sight of the clouds tearing apart and black lightning crashing between them had been breathtaking but also terrifying. After he had heard the voices for the first time, he had had enough, and had fled.
From one extreme to the other. From above, to below. From the heavens....
To the deeps.
He had gone immediately to the cells, at the very bottom of the palace. There were no guards there of course. The madness would have taken them. He had been trained to resist psychic attacks and he was still calm, but that would not last. Eventually he would succumb.
So he had come here. He had access to every key to every door in the palace. Opening the cell door with just one hand had proven annoyingly difficult, but he had managed it in the end. Oddly, the cell doors could be locked from the inside, and he had done this, although again it had been difficult.
He had then thrown the keys through the barred window. There had been a satisfying chink as they landed on the stone floor outside and then....
Silence.
He could hear nothing down here. No screams, no flames, no shattering sky. He had sunk into the corner of the room and cherished the silence. How long, he wondered? How long before thirst or madness took him? Perhaps he would die of blood loss first. The flimsy bandages on his arm had come loose, and were already soaked with blood. There was a very unpleasant smell coming from the wound.
He had always imagined death from blood poisoning and gangrene to be incredibly painful. Perhaps he would get to find out.
If the madness did not take him first.
There had been silence for a while, but then the voices had come. Whispers at first, quiet and slow and easy to dismiss. Then they had become louder and louder, more pervasive, more invasive, more familiar.
His friends, the few he had ever had. Mr. Edgars. Londo.
Most painfully of all, his dead wife and child, for so long no more than ghosts and half-remembered dreams buried beneath years of service and duty, now painfully resurrected.
He closed his eyes, resting against the hot stone walls, and wondered how long death by dehydration would really take.
* * * * * * *
Marrain was a warrior, had been a warrior all his life. He remembered as a child standing on the cold battlements of Shirohida, in the pouring rain and lashing winds, endlessly practising the forms of combat beneath the ever-angry eyes of his father Murgain.
He had died once, and he was not afraid of death now. He had passed beyond fear in all things. All that remained were the memories of two lives, well-lived and full.
You are nothing, Marrain! You will always be nothing! To think that any child of mine could show such weakness.
He darted back out of reach of the Alien's thrashing tentacles, spinning around on the ball of his foot to block another attack. His shoulder burned with pain and his dechai was becoming heavier and heavier with each passing moment.
I shall be as the stones of Shirohida. Hard and unfeeling. Cold and remorseless. I shall be the coming of the cold.
The creature's tentacles were too long. This chamber was vast, easily big enough for it to use its enormous reach. He could dodge, but not indefinitely, and he could not attack. It was whispering to him; soft, seductive sounds of madness. That was easier to ignore. There were so many other voices filling his mind.
That is contrary to my orders, Warleader. I am instructed to bring her to Shirohida with all haste, in the best of health, naturally. I am also instructed to let nothing stand in the way of this.
He blocked another attack, remembering his training with his father. Always dodge, never block. A powerful blow can shatter your defences and kill you even if you block successfully. Dodge and it will not strike you in the first place.
Of course, he was a Wind Sword, as resolute as the mountain. The mountain never falls, and nor would he.
He is my lord. When I swore my oath of fealty to him, I did not recall a clause that would permit me to break it.
Takier's body was split asunder, more and more of the lashing tentacles emerging from it. His face was still his own, stern and unyielding, set atop a monster's body. His own arms moved amidst the swirl of tentacles.
I am fully aware that what we.... do is physical only, and has nothing to do with the emotions. I am fully aware that on the battlefield you are my leader, and that I am to obey you. But this is not the battlefield.
This was a battlefield and Berevain was dead, twice. He had failed her and let her die twice. Once a thousand years ago, and again now. Mere minutes before.
No! Be resolute. The mountain does not feel! The mountain does not cry!
So does he. I love you both. Is that wrong?
Swimming in memories, a block to the pain - but were they? Or were they just pain of a different kind?
He darted back, knocking aside more thrusting attacks. He was backing farther and farther away from Takier's body, farther and farther away from the killing blow.
This is our wedding day. This is our wedding day....
Marrain looked through the darkness, through the writhing mass of tentacles, to Takier himself. He was watching intently, studying with a tactician's eyes. Takier had always been a tactician, a strategist. A skilled warrior in his own right, but first and foremost a leader. He was moving his arms, directing the flow of the tentacles, each barb and spine part of a larger whole.
Some part of Takier remained.
When I fight, it is at the van of the battle, knowing that I may die just as those who follow me may die. You.... it has been easy for you to send others to die, harder to risk death yourself.
The heart remained. The head remained. The soul remained.
Death is nothing but the release from our obligations.
Remove the head and the body will die. Marrain had no way of knowing if that was true in this case or not, but he had little to lose.
I regret that I have never told Jorah how much his friendship means to me, and that I will never see him again. I know this.
He was a warrior. He was not afraid of death. He had never been afraid of death.
And I do regret not being able to help you. Twelve years ago, at Golgotha, I could have helped you. I should have tried harder, but I did not, and that I regret, and now it is too late.
He tensed, waiting for the opportunity, looking for the right moment. He launched a half-hearted feint, testing Takier's defences.
I did not love you then. Perhaps I should have done. Perhaps I should love you now.
Gone. She was gone. He shook her memory from his mind. He had to concentrate, be resolute, be determined.
The mountain does not cry.
Go!
I will not leave you, my lady!
Go! I will hold them here.
They will kill you. There are too many.
Then I will die.
Gone. Everything was gone. Two lifetimes had passed and all he had left were his memories.
There was an opening, a tiny fraction of space in which the limbs were not moving. Marrain burst into motion, charging forward, weapon raised. He ducked beneath one blow, leapt over another. Takier tried to react, but Marrain was inside his defences now.
He struck the bladed edge of the dechai across Takier's face, and he stumbled back. A rain of black, scalding blood poured forth, burning Marrain's arm. He was not afraid of fire. He had lived with it for a thousand years.
He prepared himself for another blow, but the creature's arm reached up and caught him, holding him back with supernatural strength. Power and fury blazed in Takier's single eye.
"Once a.... traitor...." he hissed, a strangely natural voice filled with hatred and disgust. "Always a.... traitor...."
Marrain struggled against the grip, trying desperately to complete the blow.
There was a sudden, agonising stab of pain in his back, and a violent force threw him backwards. The dechai fell from his hands as he was hurled into the darkness. The floor rushed to meet him and he landed with a jarring impact, his body shaken, blood filling his mouth.
You feel nothing,. What is life worth without feeling? That is not living, that is just.... existing. One day after another. An endless stream of.... of nothing. Did you love her so much that you would destroy the rest of your future without her?
Darkness filled his vision. He struggled to stand.
Till shade is gone....
"My.... lady," he whispered, although he had no idea to whom he was speaking.
To the last flame of honour, to the last fading breath....
A shadow fell across him. He blinked, shaking the blood from his eyes.
My service is yours to call, my blade yours to wield, my life yours to take....
He looked up, disbelieving, and then he started to laugh, coughing blood with each breath.
To stand at the bridge on the last fatal day.
Tirivail stood over him, battered and bloody, but unbowed. She looked past him, to face the creature that stood in the centre of the room, surrounded by a column of light.
"Greetings, father," she said simply.
* * * * * * *
And then, in 2275, it all came to an end.
In fire.
Williams, G. D. (2298) The Great War: A Study.
* * * * * * *
All was exactly as he had dreamed.
It had begun with the two of them, and now it would end with the two of them.
So many years had passed since that fateful day when they had been locked in combat, near to the death, when a shadow had fallen over them both. A dream had been born that day, forged from their shared experiences, forged from their joint love for their peoples and their determination to do right by the responsibilities they bore.
The unlikeliest of friends. The unlikeliest of allies.
Nothing remained now of either G'Kar or Londo but their hatred. Twin lifetimes of harshness and adversity. Loss, grief, torment, torture.
They remained locked together, spitting hatred at each other, trapped in a fatal embrace, each choking the life from the other. Old friends turned to enmity.
Londo's vision was fading, his hearts pounding. His grip was weaker, but still strong. He was aware of nothing but his hatred. The Narns were animals - primitive, barbaric monsters. They should have been wiped from the galaxy years ago.
Animals! Nothing more!
He thrust all the remaining strength he could into his death grip, and was satisfied by the widening of G'Kar's one eye.
Animals!
The Narn was trying to say something, but Londo could not hear him. His hearts were beating so loud he could not hear anything else.
Animals! Monsters!
His world was on fire, his people starving and enslaved. It was all G'Kar's fault. All his fault.
All his....
Something burst behind Londo's eyes and all the strength left his body. His muscles tensed and then went slack. His knees gave way and he fell, stunned and paralysed, crimson filling his vision.
He collapsed suddenly, violently, his head tearing from G'Kar's grip. The Narn fell off-balance and followed his adversary down. His head smashed against the edge of the throne and there was a brief shower of blood.
They landed at the same time, fallen apart from each other, lying still.
The throne room was silent once more.
* * * * * * *
All was silent, still, peaceful.
Tirivail stepped forward, the sound of her footstep breaking the silence. A sardonic smile twisted on Takier's face.
"Why am I not surprised?" he said. "You never could obey orders. Never."
Tirivail was wounded, but it did not show. Her gait was determined, resolute. She took another step forward. One of the tendrils slowly reached up to her face, brushing aside her hood. It caressed the blackened scars on her cheek.
"You were always weak," Takier continued. "I do not know how any daughter of mine could be so weak.
"That is what is wrong with our people. Valen made us soft. There was a time when only one child in three survived to adulthood. We were strong then - few in numbers, but strong in spirit. The early lords understood this. Even as times changed, as we grew more populous, as medicine and civilisation altered us, still some of us understood. We had to be few to be strong. There was no place for the weak. Better to be undermanned than to carry a coward into battle.
"Too weak. Always too weak.
"Like you, daughter."
Tirivail looked at him, looking past the alien mass that had torn apart his body, looking into the face of the man who had raised her, derided her, mocked her for as long as she could remember. She gripped the handle of her denn'bok tightly.
"I am no daughter of yours," she said.
Takier laughed, once. "I have always said that. I sometimes wonder if your mother betrayed me with another."
"She did."
The laughter stopped, the smile faded. "What?"
"She did. I am not your daughter and never have been. My mother could not stand you. Is it any wonder she turned to another?"
Takier said nothing. She took another step forward, letting the tendril caressing her face fall away. And another step.
Then the creature with Takier's face laughed. "Who? No, it does not matter. I do not care. Your mother has been dead for decades, child. You think it matters that she was unfaithful to me once?"
"More than once. Many times, with many different men. She told me when I was a child. I could hardly blame her. You were never loving, never caring. I never heard you speak a single kind word to her."
"Love is for poets, you stupid fool! I had my duty and my responsibilities. What need had I for love?"
"Valen knew love. And Marrain. Even Sinoval, it is said. All of them were stronger than you."
"Now there you are wrong, child. I never sought greatness as they did. All I wanted was to do right by my people."
"By killing them? By turning our world into a charnel house? Have we not suffered enough?"
"No! Suffering breeds strength. They are traitors. The loyal will survive. The loyal and the strong and the...."
"Is this how you want to be remembered? As a traitor to us all? To whom are your duties and responsibilities?"
"I.... They are...." He was faltering. "The loyal. To the loyal, of course. No one else.... deserves.... anything...."
"My mother was not loyal. Did she deserve death?"
"No.... she.... Silence! I will not listen to this. We will.... not...." He blinked, and an unholy light gleamed in his eye. "We are Death.... We...." The light faded. "Your mother was...."
"That is how they will remember you. As a traitor. You speak of loyalty. Where is your loyalty to your people? You could not even inspire fidelity in your own wife! Small wonder no one is loyal to you. Are you surprised they defected to join Sinoval and Marrain?"
"Traitors.... all of them.... I have no need for such as they.... No need...."
"Are you well? You look sick."
"I have no need for your sympathy, child! Just like your mother.... a treacherous.... adulterous...." He was hesitating, the tendrils withdrawing into his body, the few that remained lashing around wildly. Tirivail walked up to him, her mind calm, her hand still gripping her denn'bok.
"You are dying, just as you lived. Alone, abandoned by everyone close to you. Why? Look within yourself and wonder why."
"I.... I have no need for...." He looked at her. The two of them were right beside each other now. She was surprised to realise that she was taller than he was. He had always seemed so tall. He blinked, and smiled. "Clever," he whispered. "Very clever, child. I revise my opinion of you. Lies, wasn't it? All lies, every word. I am impressed." The eerie light suffused his face again, and a terrifyingly alien sound came from deep within his throat. "Did you truly think you could weaken me with your lies?"
"No," she said calmly, dropping back into a defensive stance. The barbed tentacles burst from his chest again. Effortlessly, calmly, hardly breathing, she swept them away.
"I thought I could distract you long enough for Marrain to sneak up behind you."
She caught the faintest blur of motion as Marrain swung, and then Takier's head went flying from his shoulders. His body spasmed and fell, tentacles lashing around in their death throes. Tirivail leapt out of the way, avoiding one frenzied bladed tendril. Another sliced a thin line across her shoulder, but she managed to dodge the rest, rolling aside.
She waited for the thrashing to die down, until she was sure the creature was dead. Then she walked towards the body and stepped over the foul-smelling alien form to reach Marrain.
He was lying on the floor, pierced by countless barbs. He had not been able to throw himself aside, and he had been struck dozens of times in the creature's death throes.
He was not dead. She had no doubt about that. Nothing could kill him. Nothing at all.
He opened his eyes and looked at her. "My lady," he said.
She stepped back a little and slowly extended her hand. He took it, and rose. They stood in silence for a long time, looking at each other. She was struck again by the weight of memories he must have known, the defeats he had suffered. In memory, it was always the dark days that were strongest. How much darkness was within his soul?
And how much within hers?
Takier was dead now. The man who had dominated her entire life was dead. Her father, whatever she had said, whatever lies she had concocted to distract him. She had watched her mother wither and weaken, trapped in marriage to a cold, bitter, unfeeling man, and she had resolved never to let herself be weakened by love.
Not letting go of her denn'bok, she leaned forward gently. She was taller than Marrain as well. She wondered idly if he had been taller before. Then she kissed him, and stopped thinking. A tear rose in her one good eye and she did not try to dash it away. She let it fall.
There was a soft splash as it hit the floor, and then nothing but silence.
* * * * * * *
Every movement was an ordeal to John Sheridan. Something as simple as twitching his fingers, clenching his fist, taking a step or a breath. Everything seemed wrong and alien. Dead for so long, unmoving and unthinking. His muscles should have atrophied, his flesh rotted. None of that had happened - Sinoval's doing, of course - but had that made him any less dead?
Simple biological processes he had taken for granted before now seemed like a strange and incomprehensible science. Walking, talking, breathing, eating.... He felt he could see every cell of the skin of his hand, the muscles moving beneath it.
And all around him were the whispers of the dead.
How could Sinoval stand it? All those voices all the time! Alien races he had never heard of, talking, whispering, muttering.
He could not tell what they were saying, but they seemed to be mourning. A great and terrible tragedy had consumed them recently, a tragedy somehow connected to his resurrection. They were grieving, but they did not seem to blame him.
There was meaning behind the soft sounds of their speech, but he could not translate it. He thought he detected a hint of.... fear beneath the grief.
He buried his head in his hands, wincing. He could not bear this. Everything was so wrong.
It was as if he were still dead and this was Hell he had finally been thrust into.
He looked up again and saw Sinoval standing before him, materialising out of nowhere. He cried out in shock, and then he calmed down.
"Don't do that," he said reflexively. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?" The words were instinctive, a hint of humour there, although he did not really understand the concept of humour any more.
Sinoval evidently did. He smiled. "Perish the thought. My apologies, Sheridan. I am used to coming and going as I please in Cathedral. Susan is used to it by now, although she was very upset when I walked in on her when she was bathing."
Sheridan creased his forehead, concentrating. "I'm sorry.... I'm trying to.... think...."
"Yes. It is hard for you, I have no doubt. Come with me. I have something that might help."
"What? No, never mind. Are you ever going to tell me why you brought me back? Or is this all just some complicated stratagem for revenge?"
"Revenge? Do you truly think so little of me? No. I promised to myself I would kill you one day, but that was a long time ago, and I certainly made no promise to bring you back. I have my reasons, and I'll explain them in time. Come with me."
Sheridan rose to his feet, a little unsteadily. He could feel all the muscles in his body moving, twitching and contracting in perfect synchrony. It was a very disquieting sensation.
He was so busy concentrating on the movements of his body that he hardly noticed where he was going. Cathedral seemed to be an endless stream of dark corridors. It was probably just as well he wasn't paying attention or he would have noticed that everything seemed to blur. Nothing in this place made sense, as if it were not properly mapped onto the same dimension as conventional space.
The two of them emerged into what was obviously a shuttle bay. There were several craft here, but one was different from the others. He looked at it, experiencing a nagging sense of familiarity.
"Here she is," Sinoval said softly.
The door of the shuttle opened, and a woman stepped out. At first Sheridan thought she was human, but then he blinked and his eyes adjusted and he saw that she was Minbari, although a little slighter than most, more graceful, dressed differently. He had a feeling he knew her, but for some reason he kept trying to imagine her with long dark hair, and this woman was bald, of course, like all Minbari.
She walked towards them, and then turned to look at him, fixing the full force of her beautiful deep green eyes on him.
Then he remembered. Her name, her face, their past together.
"Delenn," he whispered.