She looked to be having every bit as much trouble sleeping as he did. The sheets were twisted around her legs as she tossed and turned. She had found one of his T-shirts to wear, an old Proxima Swashbucklers one.

Dexter looked at her for a long time and then returned to his couch, silently cursing his over-developed moral sense.

He had only just lain down, when he sat bolt upright again.

He looked around, not sure what had caused him to react like that. He had.... felt something. Something terrifyingly alien and yet at the same time slightly....

.... familiar.

There was nothing in sight, nothing that had not been there three seconds ago.

But he was sure he had felt something.

He lay back down, his head spinning. The alcohol. That was it. Or perhaps some aftereffect of.... earlier. Maybe he was picking up Talia's nightmares. He couldn't help but grin. If she was having any more pleasant dreams, that might be fun.

Talia!

He leapt up in an instant and ran for her room. Not him, he knew that. Not him.

Her!

She was lying still on the bed, her head thrown back. Standing over her was a tall man he did not recognise, but then he could not see the intruder's face. His head was bent low over Talia's, and he seemed to be.... breathing in her air. Only it wasn't air, it was light.

Dexter ran forward, the instincts of a thousand youthful street fights surging in his body. The figure began to turn, but he was not quick enough to dodge Dexter's punch. He had been in countless fist fights in his life, and he knew he would be in a good many more, but he had never thrown a punch like that before, and he doubted he ever would again.

The man fell, collapsing in a heap. Dexter did not even look at him, but turned instantly to Talia. She was motionless, her eyes open but staring fixedly ahead. He put his hand over her mouth and was relieved to feel her breath on his palm.

Then an explosion of pain burst in his mind and he reeled, stumbling back against the wall. Looking up through eyes blurred with agony, he saw the intruder rising. For the first time he could clearly see its face.

It was oddly misshapen, as if made of wax that had started to melt in the noonday sun. Light poured from its eyes and mouth.

Greetings, brother, it said.

<The fabulist.>

The Vorlon's voice was a chill, cold thing. Vejar knew that Vorlon speech was entirely telepathic in nature. They had no tongue, no vocal cords, no lungs, nothing but energy, and their voices came entirely from their thoughts. They could appear to speak in whatever tone or language they wished.

Ulkesh chose to speak with the voice of the dead, the voice of a cold wind through an autumn graveyard, the voice of ghosts buried and forgotten.

Vejar said nothing. Damn you, Galen, he thought. What have you got me into? Thoughts of passion and fury began to take shape in his mind as he started to prepare himself for conjuring, truly conjuring, for the first time in years.

<Some thought you should die. Others said your life was as dust on the wind, faded from mortal eyes. But we are not mortal, and our eyes see what others do not.>

Vejar took a careful step backwards, flicking his gaze from Ulkesh to Lyta. Neither was moving, and he could not tell which of the two looked less alive.

<Now you have seen beyond the mist. Now you have transgressed our laws. Now, you will die.>

Well, Galen. Congratulations. You could not have chosen someone else for this suicide mission?

Finding his voice, and his courage, he looked up squarely into the Vorlon's eye stalk. "I am to be killed, just for having come here?" he asked.

<Yes.>

"Well, I see. There is a human saying you might not be familiar with. It has something to do with the relative nature of punishments for varying crimes." Vejar's mind was racing. He could feel his skin crawl with the rush of power.

"You might as well be hung for a sheep...."

His eyes blazed furiously. Fire crackled from his fingertips.

"As a lamb!"

He hurled the fireball forward, instantly forming another conjuration. He watched as the Vorlon's encounter suit became an inferno, flames licking over every inch of it. Behind him a circle of ruins and flames and darkness formed. Something emerged from it, something black and crackling with electricity. It moved with an arachnid grace, its many eyes blazing with fiery light.

Through the flames engulfing it, Ulkesh's eye stalk turned.

<You dare!?>

Vejar reeled before the voice in his mind. Blood filled his eyes and mouth and he had to steady himself against the wall, pouring all his concentration into controlling and animating the construction he had summoned. It was not a true Shadow of course, just a manifestation of his will, but it would be enough for a short time.

The animated Shadow moved forward, spiked limbs flailing at the Vorlon's encounter suit. The Shadow seemed not to feel the heat as it rained blow after blow on the Vorlon's chest. Vejar reached out his arm, guiding his creation, his other arm supporting him against the wall.

<You dare!> the Vorlon cried again, and Vejar slumped. The Shadow faded for a moment, but Vejar closed his eyes and concentrated harder and it reformed.

A crack appeared in the encounter suit, and then another. A brilliant light began to pour through, so bright Vejar could see it even with his eyes closed. He reeled before the psychic onslaught, and fell, feeling his Shadow collapse.

Opening his eyes, he saw the Vorlon before him. It had abandoned illusions and appeared as it truly was, light and energy and malevolence, crackling with power and fury. Vejar felt its presence in his mind, and screamed.

<Behold the price of challenging us!>

"I'm not afraid of you," Vejar spat. He looked up in defiance. "I'm not afraid of you."

Once, over two years ago, Delenn had come to him, seeking an explosive device, something powerful enough to tear open the guts of a planet. Vejar had told her that such a thing was within his power to create, and so it was. What he had given her was something very different, but that did not mean he could not create such a weapon.

Or something similar, but less powerful.

"Damn you, Galen," he whispered.

He looked up at Lyta, past the swirling mass of the Vorlon. He wondered if she was worth all this.

Then he created the explosion that tore apart the top half of the building.

Whose face do you see in the mirror, Sheridan?

Whose face do you see in your mind's eye?

Who are you? They ask that question, over and over again. Who are you? Can you answer that question, Sheridan? Can you?

John J. Sheridan. Son of David Sheridan. Brother of Elizabeth. Husband of Anna. Lover of Delenn. General of the Alliance fleet.

Strip away the layers. Your father is gone. Your sister is gone. Your wife is gone. Your daughter is gone. All you have are Delenn and the Dark Stars.

Delenn went away once. When she came back, she was.... changed. Is she truly the same person you once knew? Do you love her as much as you once did? Do you even love her at all any more?

Strip away the Dark Stars and the Alliance. What are they anyway? The threat they were created to combat is gone, never to return. The little the Shadows left behind cannot trouble such as you. Why does the Alliance exist but to keep power in the hands of those who now possess it?

Does the Alliance mean anything to you? Does Delenn mean anything to you?