A Dark, Distorted Mirror. Volume 4. A Future, Born in Pain

refused to allow herself to be.

Timov stopped and looked down at the second body, the one covered with darkness. She sighed. 'Ah, poor Mariel. She never did have the sense to know when to come in out of the rain.'

'Timov, you should....'

'Oh, I'm fully aware of what you think I should do, Londo. I heard all about your little proclamations earlier. Sending everyone away like that.... Maybe the others will buy into the Imperial edicts rot and all that, but I know you too well. I've never obeyed a single order you gave me in all these years of marriage, and I won't be starting now. You can't get rid of me, Londo.'

'You don't understand. You'll be in danger.'

'Oh? Then I suppose today was a simple walk in the park, was it? I have always been in danger, Londo. I was raised knowing that would be the case, and I've never shirked from it yet. You cannot get rid of me.'

'But Timov....'

'Stop it. I'm not listening. No.... you may be our Emperor, but you're also a man, and you can't begin the fight back if you drop dead from lack of sleep. Things may look better in the morning. Now come to bed, Londo dear.'

In spite of himself, Londo smiled. 'Yes, darling,' he said, without a hint of sarcasm.

No, maybe he was not all alone after all.

Chapter 4

'So this is what victory feels like. All these years and yet.... what has our struggle brought us?'

'There is a saying among some peoples. Everyone gains exactly what they deserve. It would appear you have gained the victory which you most deserved.'

'For all our sakes, I hope not.'

* * *

She sleeps, her mind filled with dreams, and memories....

.... of what it was like to be dead.

There are times awake when she still feels tentatively for the burn marks left by the shot that killed her. They are not there, but that does not stop her looking. She remembers it clearly, tears in her eyes, a soft determination, and the final words in her mind, the words she could not give voice to.

John, I love you.

Then came a moment of pain, and she was dead.

It was not what she had expected. She was a priestess. She had grown up learning about the passage of souls, the continual cycle of birth and rebirth, of which death was only a part. She had dreamed of a place where no shadows fall, a place where she could be at peace, away from struggle and war and loss, where she could wait for her love to come to her.

Instead, there had been nothing. An empty blackness stretching out before her in all directions. She had never in all her life felt so alone.

She had been there for so long, crying out for someone, for anyone. There had been nothing. Then, just when fear was all she knew and all it seemed she had ever known, he had come to her. Lorien, the eldest of the elder races, the first of the first ones. He had smiled, and she had returned to the world of flesh.

She still dreamed about being dead. Sometimes she awoke to darkness and felt she was still dead, that all her life since that moment had been a dream. There were times in the night when all she could hear was her own heart beating, an echo of an echo of a mockery of her life.

She knew what she had to do now. She had rested enough. She was well now. She had said her final goodbyes. She had visited the grave of Mr. Welles and rested there in silent meditation for several hours, hoping he had at last found peace. She had gone to Dexter Smith and spoken of his dreams for Sector 301. She had visited the shrine that had arisen at the place of her death and tried to impart something to the people who expected her to solve all their problems for them. She had communicated with the Alliance Council, preparing herself for her return to them.

There was just one person she needed to talk to.

She reached out across the bed, and her eyes stung with tears. Of course. He was not there. He had not been there since that first night she had returned from the hospital. He had loved her then. He loved her still, but their responsibilities hung over them both. There was a sadness in him as well, a dark hollow behind his eyes, as if he had sacrificed everything to survive, and now could never bring any of it back.

Delenn of Mir sighed, and as she had for the past so many nights, she fell asleep alone.

* * *

'I will.... be going then.'

There was an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the cries of mourning that echoed in Delenn's mind. Sorrowful thoughts, dark and anguished.... And some of them were directed at the man in front of her.

'That's.... probably for the best,' he said finally, and she could hear the pain in his words. It was true. It was for the best. Politically, militarily, personally....

John had to remain here, on Proxima. The world was set to fly apart, torn between recent tensions, the deaths of President Clark and Mr. Welles, the constant threat of Shadow reprisal, the surge in anti–alien prejudice.... they needed someone here, someone special. Not just a symbol, a leader.

That had to be John. He was the only choice. He was the leader of the Alliance war fleet after all, and also the most obvious sign of human involvement in the alliance of races. No one else would do. Corwin was a soldier, not a leader - although one day he would be - Welles was dead, Dexter represented only his own province and his own people.... It had to be John.

'You'll be.... safer there,' John continued, the words sounding painful and forced. 'We're still catching some of the extremists, some of Clark's men.... people who blame you. There's also the possibility of a counterattack, of course.'

All true, but none of these were the real reasons she needed to go to Kazomi 7 rather than remain here. The real reasons she couldn't give voice to.... not to him.

She didn't want to be near him. She didn't want to have to hold in her regret and guilty thoughts whenever she was around him. She didn't want to have to concentrate so hard not to say the words that would destroy him.

I killed our son.

She had tried telling herself a thousand times that was not true, and on some level she knew it. On that level she knew that others were to blame. If the Vorlons hadn't made her that fatal offer. If John hadn't been so badly hurt.... But if she hadn't accepted their proposals....

If, if, if.... so many ifs.... none of which resolved the main issue that their son was dead, and they both had to grieve for him, but neither of them had time. If she stayed here, sooner or later they would grieve, and then both of them would be destroyed.

'Then.... I will be leaving soon,' she whispered.

He looked unhappy, not surprisingly. He also looked tired. He had told her what had happened to him, the dealings with the Alliance, the strangeness of the Dark Star ships, the argument with Sinoval. He had kept some things quiet, she knew, but she had not pressed him on them. Compared to what he had told her, any secrets he still kept would be inconsequential.

Our son is dead.

No! Reach out to him! Tell him you love him!

In truth she was unhappy here on Proxima, and she couldn't wait to leave. She was a leader and a leader of leaders. She wanted to make everything better, to heal the galaxy and everyone in it, to create a universe where everything would be so much simpler.

But here.... here nothing was simple. There were countless divisions between peoples who should be allies, divisions wrought from fear and hatred and mistrust. It fell to precious few people to try to undo those divisions, to