A few hours before everything was finished the hyperspace probes picked up some activity moving in the direction of Epsilon 3. All the probes were destroyed quickly and efficiently, but that only served to confirm what they all already knew.

The Shadows were coming.

The temporal rift burst into life.

Space shimmered.

And then the Shadows were there.

Countless souls lay suspended in the balance. The destiny of the galaxy hung by the slenderest of threads. The fate of the future, and the past, rested on a few painfully mortal beings.

Consider: Jeffrey Sinclair, transformed into the Minbari prophet Valen. Facing the path of his own footsteps leading backwards in time to his destiny, and to his death. He stands on the control deck of the space station Babylon 4, readying himself for a time a thousand years gone, and committing those he knows now to memory, certain that he will never see most of them again.

Consider: John Sheridan, the legendary Starkiller himself. Seated at the bridge of the EAS Parmenion, he looks out at the fleet of Shadow vessels advancing on him, a fleet so huge and powerful that it will black out the sky in every direction. He thinks about mortality, and about the terminal virus even now developing within his body. He thinks about his love, about the last words he said to her, and the first lie he has ever told her.

Consider: Delenn, former Satai, leader of hope in the galaxy. Head of the United Alliance of Kazomi 7, she stands at the bridge of the Drazi ship from which she will observe the battle. She is no warrior, but she knows war, all too well and all too bitterly. She thinks about the man she loves, and she knows that he has lied to her. She thinks about the ruination of Minbar, about the countless dead, about the carnage at Kazomi 7. She thinks about the race that has done this, and her heart fills with anger, and a black, remorseless fury.

Consider: Michael Garibaldi, a human, one who never wished for anything but a home, a family, happiness and to do the right thing. That last wish has torn him away from the other three. His heart is beating fast, his head is pounding, and he looks out at a million things at once. His is the will that holds open the rift that will carry Babylon 4 to its destiny. But his will is weak, sapped by years of failure and alcohol and loss and self-doubt, and he wonders if he has the strength to carry this through.

And many others: Catherine Sakai, Zathras and Kosh, standing beside Valen; Ta'Lon, leading the Narn Rangers on Babylon 4; Dexter Smith, facing an enemy he was told was his friend, alongside allies he knows to be his enemies….

The Shadows swoop forward, and, seemingly acting as one, they open fire.

The Shadows were coming.

He listened as they died, and as they killed. His friends were dying in his name, were fighting a last stand so that he could complete his destiny. He wanted to be there with them, this one last time, but he knew that they were dying for his sake. He could not render their sacrifice worthless.

Are you ready? said the voice in his mind.

He turned to look at Kosh. The Vorlon was still, almost a statue. He wanted to hate Kosh. They were the ones who had done this to him, who had placed him here. He could not.

He did not know what to say, but the voice knew. Good. You are the closed circle returning to the beginning. I cannot be with you then.

He gasped as he felt its pain. It was light and beauty and agony all in one. The Vorlon was going to die, and both of them knew it. The sacrifice would be made willingly. Could he do any less?

"Are you ready?" said the voice from the commscreen. "Are you…?"

He turned to look at Delenn's face in the screen. She was…. beautiful. Her eyes, her bearing, everything…. was marked by a vibrant beauty and a passionate anger. She had taught him a lot since his…. return. He wanted to remain here, to talk with her, to share in her wisdom and to learn from her. It would not be possible.

"I…. think so," he said hesitantly. "I…. thank you. For everything."

"It was no more than my duty, and no less than my pleasure. Be well, and walk with…. Oh. Of course."

He chuckled. "It is all right. For you, it will always be all right."

"Remember me?" More of a question than a request. He smiled, sweetly and sadly. As if there were any other answer.

"Always," he whispered, and touched the image on the commscreen gently. It faded and he straightened, now aware, wondering how he could never have noticed before. She was his descendant, a part of him that had lived on. He felt so much better.

It was time now. After so long, he at last knew his destiny. He was the arrow that springs from the bow. No doubts, no fears. Just certainty.

"Are you ready?" said the voice by his side.

"Yes," he said simply.

"Good, good. Yes, is being very good to being ready. Now is right time to being ready, yes. Zathras is being ready for long time, yes. Zathras has grown tired of waiting sometimes, but Zathras is used to it. Zathras is patient. And now you are ready, yes. Good."

"What about the Enemy?"

"<Click, click> Is being not good. Enemy is being very strong. May get on board before we leave. That is being very not good, but have idea, yes. We get help. That is idea. We get help."

"Help? From where?"

"Past, of course. Two years ago, just as Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar entered Great Machine. There is ship there. Special ship."

"Which ship?" He was told, and then he smiled. "Ah, of course."

"Besides," Zathras added. "We have to stop them. It already happened, and if we do not, then…. time not go well. Paradox. Not good."

"No. I guess not."

"Well well. Greetings, my Minbari friend."

Shaal Lennier, Minbari poet, Ranger and long-suffering companion to Governor Londo Mollari, looked up from his meditation. He was not in a good mood. Peace had been hard to find. Of course, ever since Kazomi 7 it had been hard for him to achieve the necessary spiritual equilibrium, but in a darkened cell, filled with the soft cries of the dying, it was harder still.

And the voices were louder than usual. Something was happening. Something that the…. others regarded as being very important. It was possible that that related to Centauri Prime in some way, but he did not think so.

The instructions being relayed to him were becoming harder to ignore, but Zicree had been true to her word. He could control it, with enough effort and enough meditation. He was beginning to wonder if the price of that control was truly worth it.

And then the door had opened. A dull lantern shone in the room, hurting his eyes. A figure stood there, just beside the now-closed door. He did not know who this figure was, save that he was definitely Centauri, and his hair was very short. Lennier thought that indicated he was not a noble, but he seemed just too self-confident to be otherwise.

"Well," he continued. "Nothing to say? I know you've been alone in this cell for a bit too long, while all the attention has been on dear Londo, but I didn't think we should neglect you altogether." A pause. "Aren't you going to say anything?"

Firmly: "No."

"Not at all?"

"I have nothing to say."

"Oh, I doubt that. I doubt that very much. I think you have a great deal to say. Do your friends know about your…. ah…?" He stepped forward and gently tapped Lennier's shoulder. There was a brief surge of pain, and a hissing sound only he heard.