"I am as ever, my lady's to command."
"Then you would be the first," she drawled. "I have a hard enough time commanding my serving maids. When my husband was.... well, I had some little authority. He has been in a coma for several months now, and my little power wanes every day. I have accustomed myself to the realisation that he may never awake. I cannot simply wait for something that may never happen. If I am to save our people, I will have to act now."
"Do our people need saving, my lady?"
"Durla.... I know you are neither blind nor stupid. Please do not pretend to be either. Can you say you are truly happy with the way things are? Have you seen those.... Inquisitors moving around? Is there no one close to you whom they have taken away? Do you truly wish to serve a human standing beside the Purple Throne?"
"If you mean Mr. Morden, he freed me from my imprisonment."
"He did so because he wanted a tame pet on a leash, someone he could set on those who defied him. Are you happy being a human's lapdog?"
"I am a Centauri. My family is ancient and proud. Some say I dishonoured that memory."
"I know your past," Timov interrupted. "You were exiled when it was discovered you murdered your brother."
"It was over a woman."
"Such arguments usually are," Timov smiled. "Although never over me, I recall."
"When he freed me, I told Mr. Morden what I wanted from him."
"Has he given it to you?"
"No, and I doubt he ever will, but then I doubt the same thing regarding you. Your husband, when he ruled, was weak and spineless. He did not listen. He did not care for my talents and he imprisoned me rather than allow me to redeem myself from whatever.... transgressions I might have committed. I want to see the Centauri race return to the stars, by our own destiny rather than at the whim of another. I have resigned myself to that never happening."
"Under my husband, no. It will not. But we have accepted that my husband is likely never to recover. For myself, I want a quiet retirement, and if he does recover, a place somewhere near the ocean where he can recuperate free from the burdens of his position. He has done enough for these people already.
"But most of all, I want those humans and their Inquisitors and everything to do with the Alliance gone from our space. We can work together to achieve that, and both of us will get what we want.
"How does Emperor Durla Antignano sound to you, hmm?"
"I have come home."
G'Kar looked up at the red sky as he set foot on his homeworld for the first time in over a year. It was nearly sunset. He remembered looking up at that sky hundreds of times, as a pouchling, as a warrior against the Centauri, as a prophet. He remembered thinking how fortunate he was to call such a world home.
Now it was polluted and scarred. There was a darkness at its heart, but then, as he thought about it, he realised there had always been a darkness here. Perhaps it had begun with the Centauri Occupation, perhaps earlier than that, but it had always been here.
The Centauri had taught them a lot, mostly unwittingly. Above all, they had taught the Narn how to hate.
And now they were reaping the harvest they had sown.
"If we cannot live together, we shall surely die apart," he whispered. No one listened. No one understood, and no one listened, and no one cared.
He felt as if his entire life had suddenly become incredibly pointless. If he had still been at the heart of the Great Machine he could have seen this coming, he could have worked to prevent it, he could....
No. No 'if onlys'. That way lay madness.
For so long the focus of his life had been to fight a war. It seemed he had always been at war, with one race or another. Then he had seen that black, terrible Shadow ship high in the night, and he had known his purpose.
But now that purpose was gone, evaporated into dust, and just how much of that victory had been down to him? How much had he really accomplished? Would he have been better off merely leaving everything alone and sitting back and letting the darkness come? Would the Narn and the Centauri have been better off without his prophecies?
He could not answer those questions, and the Prophet could not see far enough into the future to know what would come.
He knew only that he had to try.
G'Kar was a great man, and a true inspiration. It is sad that only with his death is it possible for this to be appreciated. During his life he was too often weighed down by thoughts of his mistakes, of his errors, of his lapses of judgement, of things that no one could possibly blame him for.
That, I think, was both his greatest failing and his greatest strength. He could not perceive himself as the inspiration he truly was.
For good or ill, and I cannot say, for I am no Prophet, he changed our people.
L'Neer of Narn, Learning at the Prophet's Feet.
There was heat and motion and energy and power. There was noise. There was the sound of her thoughts, echoing loudly in his mind. Dexter Smith had never wanted to be a true telepath, never asked for their sort of power, but now he wished he could have it. If this was what they felt all the time, this blessed, wondrous communion of thoughts and voices and souls, then he would gladly trade everything for that.
Talia kissed him harder and he marvelled at the thoughts in his mind. He could feel her passion, her determination, her love for her people and her conviction that what she was doing was right. He could feel the lessening of her sense of fear, her knowledge of the vast forces arrayed against them and her joy in knowing she had one ally, however insignificant.
Not that she thought he was insignificant.
I can feel you as well, she thought in his mind.
Is this what it is always like? he thought back.
No, she replied, and he caught the mental image of a sad, satisfied smile. I wish it were. Her hands curled around his back.
He could see her childhood, her daughter, old friends long since dead. Her entire life was laid open to him, and he felt his open to her. For a moment he felt a pang of anguish at that, that she could see all his secrets, all his shames, that one moment of a life ending behind a pair of green eyes.
And then he felt it, at the back of her mind. She was trying to hide it from him, but it was there.
Guilt. A tiny pang of guilt.
He pulled back, shaking. She tried to hold on to him, but he slid away from her embrace. Breathing harshly, he stepped off the bed and fell against the far wall.
"What?" she breathed. "Dexter, what...?"
"I'm sorry," he whispered, closing his eyes. He could not feel her any more. Her mind was closed to him. "I can't do this. You're married."
"I.... Dexter...."
"No.... Please don't." He sank down to a sitting position, his head in his hands. "My head feels awful. I think we drank too much."
She sat up, and he could hear her starting to button up her top. "Dexter...." She stopped, as if she had nothing else to add.
"You love him," he said, after a while. "The two of you have a daughter, and you love him." He looked up, staring at her. "You do love him, don't you?"
Tears welling in her eyes, she nodded. "Do you...." She hesitated. "Is it wrong for one woman to love two men at the same time?"
"No more than for one man and two women. Damn! I wish I'd got to you first." He stood up. "I do want to, Talia. You know that. You know how much you mean to me. I've been thinking about you ever since...." He breathed out slowly. "We'd both regret this."