They had been discussing the status of the new Rangers. It had been shortly after Branmer's death and Neroon's disappearance. Delenn, Rathenn and Hedronn had been arguing for caution, only to be butted aside by Sinoval's arrogant and all-powerful confidence. He had said something that had always stuck with her, and she had mentally sworn to prove his statement wrong.
She had failed.
He had been right.
"This is a time for warriors, not healers."
This time did need warriors. The healers would come later, but what was there to heal with everyone dead? You could not bring peace to an enemy concerned only with your destruction. She had once believed it might be possible, but not now. And it might never be again.
John was a warrior. Even Sinoval had acknowledged as much, in his own way. Delenn would never be a warrior. She could fight when she had to, but her heart was never in it. The terrible mistake she had once made always haunted her whenever she was at war.
John was a warrior, and she was not. At this time, in this place, a warrior was needed. There would be other healers after the war, but warriors were needed to end it.
She hoped he would understand. She would leave a message, try to explain what she felt, why this had been necessary. She had composed the message in her mind, remembering all the things she could never say to him.
She had no idea how long she had been standing there. She had preparations to make, things to do.... for the future. But she could not tear herself away from this place. She had to watch, had to be sure.
Finally there was a movement beside her, and he was there, light and power and beauty and malice and conviction all in one form. She understood now why Sinoval hated the Vorlons so, why he would risk everything to destroy them. At this moment, she felt the same.
<It is done.>
"He is...." She swallowed. "He is healed?"
<Yes.>
"Of the virus?"
<Yes.>
"Of his injuries?"
<Yes.>
"Of his pain?"
<Yes.>
"One night. You promised us that much, remember? We will have one night together."
<Yes. We promised.>
"Good." She breathed out, harshly. "Is he...? Will he need time to recover?"
<He is well.>
She turned away from the being she hated more than anything else in the universe, and walked through the door to the chamber where she had last seen John. He had been trapped by wires and tubes and glass, a prisoner in his own body. She did not want to continue, afraid of what she would see now. What if the Vorlon had lied? What if they hadn't been able to cure him? What if...?
There he was. He was.... Oh, blessed Valen. He was standing.
She ran forward and he saw her there, his face breaking into a wide smile. "Delenn!" he cried. He stepped forward and spread out his arms to welcome her. He could move. He could touch her, feel her warmth and her tears and her love.
She held herself against him tightly, crying with joy and sorrow and terror.
He said her name over and over again. She said nothing. There was nothing she could say.
Narn and Centauri. For so long these two races had been linked by bloodshed and hatred and war. A cycle of vengeance that would never end. The Narns sought preservation and freedom for their race and their world. The Centauri wished a return to greater glories and higher victories.
The karmic wheel had spun around and around these two races many times before, and now it looked as if the war would finally be over, and one side would achieve total victory.
The Narns had taken many of the Centauri colonies, including their biggest supply worlds. The Centauri Royal Court had been torn by in-fighting, by civil war, by an insane group of fanatics and by chaos spread with the best of intentions. A desperate Centauri fleet had been assembled to try to hold off the Narns.
Each side was confident of victory, but the price in blood and lives would be high.
The Narn fleet bore down on the Centauri homeworld.
And then a third side intervened. Space shimmered, and they were there, ancient vessels built for the dissemination of chaos. They screamed as they came into sight, and without the slightest hesitation they made for the Narn fleet.
The first Narn warship died within moments, torn apart by the Shadow ships. A second soon followed. In those few moments the Narn war machine turned from disciplined order into anarchic chaos.
Aboard the flagship Pride of the Kha'Ri, Warleader G'Sten quickly managed to regain his grasp of leadership and began barking orders. He had never seen these ships before, but he knew someone who had. His nephew had once tried to warn him of their terrible evil, but he had not listened. He now wished he had.
The Centauri fleet took no action, obeying the orders of its commander, the Lord-General Marrago. He sat on the bridge of the Valerius and watched, reassuring his stunned captains. Soon, word of their Emperor's power spread throughout the fleet. The Emperor had promised them safety, and here he was, fulfilling his promises, bringing these ancient and powerful allies to their cause.
Marrago watched, and reported, and did not smile. Not once.
More Narn vessels fell before the onslaught, and G'Sten soon realised that victory was impossible. The enemy ships were uncountable, and beyond them lay the Centauri fleet. Better now to save as many of his ships as he could. Better to save as many of his soldiers as he could.
The order to retreat was given, and acted upon desperately. The Shadows were content to let the Narns flee. They had wreaked enough damage. Once every Narn invader had left the heavens of Centauri Prime the Shadows themselves disappeared.
A wild cheer rocked the fleet. Only two people abstained. Carn Mollari, nephew of the Emperor and Captain of the Valerius. He had seen, and fought, such ships before, and he knew what they meant.
And Lord-General Marrago. After a fashion, he had seen these ships before as well.
Once the Shadows had gone he rose from his seat and left the ship, not saying a word to anyone. He was Lord-General of the Centauri Republic, and he had duties. One of those duties was to report what he had seen to the Emperor, who was also his friend.
Another duty was to find and intercept one person who would learn of these events far sooner than anyone should. This person, this human, was to be found, and dealt with.
Marrago made his way to the nearest shuttle, and from there to the capital.
Kozorr drew his pike slowly and looked around him, his expression hardening. This place, for all its wonder, was a sign of the corruption and evil that had overtaken Sinoval. It was not a temple of wonder as he had first thought. As he looked around he saw the Well of Souls for what it truly was: a prison, holding the trapped souls of the dead, denying them the chance to progress on to the next life.
Kozorr had never been a true believer. He had never been a priestling. He had believed only in the intricacy of battle, in the sure and certain knowledge of what was right and what was wrong. As he looked around at this ancient prison, however, he believed. He believed everything.
Leave us, boomed the voice of the Well. You have no place here.
He ignored it, and continued his search. There was something.... that would mark the heart of this place. The globes in the walls around him were the souls, he knew that, but which one was the central soul? Where was the key?
If you will not leave, then you will be destroyed.