Sheridan stormed into the room, trying desperately to calm his furious anger. Whatever was wrong with the President it was not something he could solve today, and there would be enough trouble just getting this piece of news past him.

Clark was there, seated at his desk, his face expressionless.

"Mr. President," Sheridan said. "I've…. received some disturbing news from Epsilon Eridani."

"I know," Clark said, not looking up. "General Ryan contacted me a few minutes ago…. You see, Ambassador, there are some people who think that the President of the Resistance Government of Humanity should know something this important before a foreign Ambassador."

"The battle was a setback, yes, Mr. President, but we…."

"A setback! We had everything within our grasp…. the station, the planet, that blasted Delenn, and we lost it all!"

"We were betrayed, Mr. President. Bester was playing his own game."

"And that surprises you? Ambassador, you're not half the observer you think you are if that was a shock to you."

Sheridan took the rebuke and mentally stored it away. There would be a time for repayment later. "Mr. President, our allies are ready to take the matter into their own hands. A large force of their capital ships will be in a position to assault Epsilon Three within a few days."

"You once said that you did not want to bring your allies deeper into this affair, for fear of what the Vorlons might do in retaliation. This is so important to them, to risk doing that?"

"It is. I regret that their objectives will be destruction rather than capture, but even that will be a boon to us. We will never be in a position to take over the Great Machine again. Better it should be destroyed than serve the enemy, don't you think, Mr. President?"

"I do not think. This attack is not to go ahead. And nor is there to be any form of reprisal against Bester. Not yet. Both of these problems will be dealt with in time, when it is right to do so."

Sheridan gave no visible sign of shock. He wished right now he could strangle Ivanova for her incompetence. He should have been given charge of this project from the very beginning. "Then what do you plan for the next engagement? We have too many enemies to leave them all unattended for another day."

"Indeed we do, and we haven't yet finished off one of our old ones. Sinoval, and the Minbari. I want him captured or killed, and his body brought before me. I took the risk of a direct assault on Epsilon Three because it seemed a likely chance, but it failed, and it was a costly failure at that. Two of our capital ships lost….

"Sinoval is our next concern, Ambassador. Direct your…. allies to him if they have so many ships lying around doing nothing. No action is to be taken against either the Great Machine or Bester for the time being. Do you understand me?"

"Perfectly, Mr. President. I will relay your…. instructions to my allies. Good day." He bowed his head slightly and left, his face completely empty of his anger. Disputing the issue would be pointless. Clark was obviously working to a different agenda. But why protect Bester…. or the Machine? There was something…. something here he just could not work out.

But that could be dealt with later. This scare might very well prompt G'Kar to open the temporal rift as soon as possible and send Babylon 4 and Valen back in time now. For the salvation of the present…. and the past…. he must ensure this did not happen.

Sheridan began to formulate plans to speed up his timetable. A call to Kazomi 7, a report to Z'ha'dum…. and a very important set of orders to Ivanova.

This was not over yet.

He looks at his face in the mirror, and the image that stares back at him is that of a stranger. He no longer knows himself. He no longer understands himself. He sees only the ghosts of the past, and the nightmare he has made of his future…. of all their futures.

The future is lost now, all his grand plans, all his dreams…. all the dreams he had once shared with his best friend. They are now as dead as Turhan.

Last night had shown him that, in all its bloody glory. The blood, the flames, the screams…. not all of it had been his doing, but how would the Shadow Criers have fared without his discreet support? How much of the carnage could have been prevented if the nobles and Guards had not been so paranoid as to regard the slaughter as a personal assault on them?

And how much could have been prevented if Londo had been permitted to carry out his own plans?

Londo was lost to him now. Everything was lost.

"First Minister," said a voice at his door. His personal servant. A young man named Kiron Maray. Malachi was saddened that he knew nothing of the young man beyond his name. "First Minister, there is a runner from the Court here. Your attendance is requested."

"I am ill," he croaked, trying to make himself sound unwell. It did not take a great deal of effort.

"Yes, First Minister. I will tell him so."

Malachi raised his head once more to look in the mirror. Where had it all gone so wrong? Where had one man's noble dream turned into a nightmare which consumed the entire planet?

Where?

She was not afraid, no matter how alone she was, how trapped by darkness, how expectant of their arrival, no matter how she could see her fate, she was not afraid.

"My lord," she whispered softly. "I am sorry. Forgive me." That was what hurt her most of all — the knowledge of how Sinoval would react. Without her around, without her to bear the burden of his anger and his pain…. without her, what would he become?

She was his conscience, his confessor, everything that would help him become the leader he should be, the leader he wanted to be.

It was too dark in here, and she did not like the dark these days. But then she did not like the light either, preferring a muted half-light.

She remembered Sonovar standing over here, watching in silence as she was broken at Kalain's hands. He had done nothing, said nothing, just watched.

Meditation was rapidly becoming impossible. She rose to her feet, wondering how long she had been here. She had never been good at gauging time, and after her imprisonment in the Hall of the Grey Council that handicap had got worse. She guessed a day or two, but she just could not tell.

The door opened, and someone entered. At least, she thought someone entered. There was a brief silhouette in the doorway, and then it vanished. "Is anyone there?" she asked, trying to calm her breathing.

There was no answer. No sound even. Not even breathing.

Sighing softly, she closed her eyes. "Lights," she ordered, opening them again.

Someone was standing opposite her, at the other side of the bed.

He smiled, and she let out a strangled cry. She did not recognise him, but there was something about him that was familiar. "Who are you?" she asked.

"Death," he said, in an almost lyrical tone. "Death, death, darkness and death. You know these things, don't you? I can see it. How much did you beg to die? It tells me you did, you know. It tells me."

She breathed out slowly and began to back away. The same madness she had heard in Ashan's voice. A similar tone, although more certain, less divided. "Who are you?" she said, trying to remain calm. "How is…. it…. speaking to you?"

"It is there. Always there. Would you like it to speak to you too? That can be…. ah. No. It says that cannot be done. You're too…. too strong now. Perhaps earlier. You were not so strong then, were you?" He began to circle around the bed, moving towards her. "On your knees, begging for mercy, crying, weeping…. screaming…. Perhaps then you might have been worthy, but…. there was no opportunity, and now it's too late. Now you've got to die."