"You're being too complacent. Where's his ship? Why haven't they joined us yet?"
"Perhaps he is dead."
"If this fails, Moreil...."
"Then it will fail because we were too weak, and the failure will make us stronger. What else is this about, if not the strengthening and the purifying of the weak?"
"Vengeance," she hissed. "It is about vengeance, and if all you care about is battle, why aren't you down there taking part in it, instead of just watching up here?"
"Ah." Moreil smiled again. "I am Z'shailyl, and mine is the power to read the ebb and flow of war. I can sense great warriors and great deeds. Somewhere hidden from mortal eyes, hidden even from the eyes of the Faceless, but not from the eyes of the Z'shailyl....
"Hidden somewhere is...."
His eyes gleamed.
"Death."
* * *
G'Kar spoke to me often, of a great many things. His love for his people, his dreams for the future, his friends and allies. One topic he rarely touched upon was his involvement in the early wars with the Centauri, of the occupation and rebellion where he first rose to prominence as a soldier, not a prophet.
Many years ago I asked him about those times, and his face grew dark. He would not talk about it then, nor for many years to come, but eventually he did, and I knew then just how much those years weighed upon his mind. Not merely for the friends and family he lost. Not even because they reminded him of Da'Kal.
No, it was because those years reminded him of what he had once been. He had killed Centauri without a thought, without a qualm. He had even gloried in it. The death of a Centauri was something to be celebrated. He regretted bitterly that he had felt that way, just as he regretted the creation of a world that had done that to him and to people like him.
But most of all he regretted the way those years had touched and tainted our entire people. Every Narn who had lived through those years had been marked by them and that taint had corrupted their souls all their lives. He once told me that he hoped that my generation, one of the first born since the liberation, would be able to approach the future unshackled by the old hatreds.
He was not optimistic about that possibility, and, sadly, neither am I. But he tried to bring it about until the day he died. Indeed, it was that never-ending dream that caused his death. He tried, always, and so shall I.
L'Neer of Narn, Learning at the Prophet's Feet .
* * *
He could hear the screams and smell the smoke in the air. Around him hundreds of his people huddled close together, united by fear. Above them, Centauri ships were tearing the city apart. Na'Killamars had been suspected — albeit justly — of harbouring a resistance cell, and the Centauri had tired of fighting the resistance on their own terms.
Da'Kal held herself close to him, and he could smell her fear. He knew as well as she did that this bunker would not hold forever. Once the softening-up of the surface was complete, the Centauri would send in their ground troops and they would find this place. Once they did....
Da'Kal kissed him, powerfully and forcefully. "Never leave me," she whispered with a fierce passion. "We will always be together."
G'Kar kissed her back. "Always," he replied, his eyes blazing. The Centauri would come, and he would be ready for them. He would fight them. No longer would he be their slave.
And nor would Da'Kal.
The bombing stopped, and a heavy, thick silence fell over the dark room. Then a Narn coughed and the silence was broken, but for that one moment it had seemed infinitely oppressive and commanding.
The Centauri had stopped. Had they given up and gone home?
Another blast ripped through the air and the wall of the bunker shuddered.
Or had they found what they were looking for?
G'Kar rose to his feet as the wall was forced inwards. Chinks of sunlight appeared. Silhouetted there was a tall figure, holding a plasma weapon in his hands.
A tall figure.... but she was not holding anything. And the light was a door opening, not the bunker wall being ripped apart.
And he was alone.
And he was older.
And he did not have a sword.
G'Kar blinked against the tide of memory and shielded his face from the light. The present returned to bury the past, but he had a feeling it was still the past, merely made-over and redecorated in new colours.
"G'Kar," said a voice, filled with passion and pathos and sorrow. "G'Kar."
"Da'Kal," he sighed. "Oh, Da'Kal, what have you done?"
* * *
Sinoval knew the histories, of course. The Well had made sure of that. The old secrets, the ancient memories. The ancient war. The evil the Vorlons had unleashed upon the galaxy in their moment of hubris. The evil that destroyed the Enaid Accord, that shattered Golgotha, that engulfed the galaxy in war.
The voices in the shadow of hyperspace.
The voices from another universe.
He stood in the gateway, staring at the flickering light that was a million stars slowly being devoured, one at a time, by an evil that had destroyed an entire universe.
Beneath him the city throbbed with dark life, a city and a tower coated in blood.
Sheridan was nowhere to be found. The mirror was shattered, the orb that Sinoval had used to steal the mirror of Sheridan's soul was gone. Without it he had no way to control this soulscape. Somehow he had lost control of the world he had created to purge the Vorlon influence from Sheridan's mind.
The evil was moving in the city below him. The evil seeking always for more worlds to destroy, for more stars to devour.
The ancient evil the Well of Souls was charged with defeating.
"You have done this," he said.
Beside him there came the soft, gentle tapping of metal hitting stone. "We had to match the power of the Well of Souls one way or another," said a clipped, precise, meticulously pronounced voice. "The collective consciousness of a million dead races would take more to defeat than we can spare at present."
Sinoval looked at him. The human, dressed in an ancient style, dead in his eyes, dead in his soul. A cold, harsh, calculating man, renowned for murder. Not the murder of millions or thousands or even hundreds. Before he had been made an Inquisitor he had killed five people, and only five. A small number even by the standards of human murderers — but he was special.
He had stared into infinity, into the centre of the universe. Somehow, during that last taking of life, he had seen something that had changed him forever.
He had seen into a new universe.
"Sebastian," he said. "Your name is Sebastian."
The human nodded, touching the brim of his hat. "We have not yet met in the flesh, and we are not doing so now, so you will have to forgo the formality of an introduction. When you are brought to our worlds to face judgment, then there will be time for politeness."
"You have a bizarre understanding of etiquette."
The man nodded. "I do what is required of me. Look upon this place, Sinoval. Look, and wonder how it is you will escape, for that will never happen. This is what awaits you."
Sinoval looked at him. "You are playing a game you do not understand."
"On the contrary, sir, we understand it very well. Good day, Primarch."
With that, the Inquisitor was gone.
Leaving Sinoval alone.
* * *
