been heeded.
No one could fight his destiny. The older one was, the more inevitable it became.
He reached the boundary of the Starfire Wheel. Even through the shield he could feel the crackling heat in the air. He raised his hands, and the wall fell.
Sinoval's body, now with nothing to support it, slumped and rolled to the floor. The Vorlon, its energy form now equally unrestrained, began to thrash and ascend, rising towards the ceiling, spreading its tentacles of light and energy.
The Primarch took a moment to ensure that Sinoval's body was clear of the circumference of the Starfire Wheel. It was wider now than it had been. He could feel the air burning, tiny bolts of lightning filling the void around his body of flesh.
The Vorlon swished, and turned to face the Primarch. It said two words.
<Innocent blood.>
'I know the law,' said the Primarch softly. 'But I know other laws as well, older laws. The doom of innocent blood can be averted, if one who is also innocent accepts the death that is the price of the doom.'
The Vorlon paused, its energy-body hesitating.
<No!> it said, understanding coming at last. It made to flee the circle of the Wheel.
But too late.
The Primarch stepped forward, into the Wheel. His hands crackling with power, he turned the Well of Souls on the Vorlon. A billion voices overwhelmed it, the voices of its ancestors, the voices of the ancestors of the entire galaxy.
The Primarch dropped his shell of mortal flesh, and became what he had been ever since he had taken custody of Cathedral and the awesome burden and responsibility it bore. He became the physical focus of the sentience that was the Well of Souls.
The Starfire Wheel slid open its final notch. There was a blaze of energy, the Vorlon cried out....
And Cathedral welcomed home its Primarch, allowing him to rest at last.
Mr. Welles was a man who understood all too well the ways and means of manipulating people. He could do this on a large scale, to a crowd, or a mob, or even the entire public; and he could do it to a small group, or individuals. He was not especially proud of these skills, but they had served humanity well enough in the past. He had served a necessary purpose in the Resistance Government, and there had been a time — he could not remember when, but surely there had been such a time — when he had been working towards some goal that could be considered 'good'.
Not any more. He had watched his Government fall apart. He had never had many friends. He had no children. The number of people who had ever understood him was limited, and most of these were gone.
He preferred to remain in his office as much as possible. He didn't like his apartment. It wasn't that it was too small, or too dingy or poorly furnished. Indeed not, he was eligible for free accommodation in some of the best areas on Proxima.
It was just that when he was at home, he was not at his job. He was a real person at home, and he could feel the eyes of his dead wife on him whenever he was there. He had burned every picture he had of her, but still he could feel her there.
But when he was at work, she could not find him. He was a different person when he was at work, and so she could not see him. As a result he made a point of spending as much time at work as possible. His staff interpreted that as workaholism, and he made no attempt to correct the assumption.
For the last few days, ever since he had received the message from Ambassador Sheridan, he had felt the eyes of another always upon him, and she could find him wherever he was. He could not burn everything he had of hers. He could not try to forget her, because she was not a part of his personal life, she was a part of his job, and he could no longer keep them separate.
He walked down the corridor, trying to steel himself for this. He habitually spent a great deal of time preparing each interview and meeting. Initial interviews were always important, and he devoted even more time to them. He never went to a meeting without all the facts and information he would need. Whether he was meeting the leader of the human race or an alien war criminal, this never changed.
This time, he could not prepare. Anything he did would be washed away by the first sight of her. For the first time he could remember, he went to a meeting completely cold. And this was in all probability the most important meeting he would ever attend. The future of the human race might depend upon it.
He reached the door, and breathed out slowly. Morishi was on guard there. A good man. Efficient.
'She is waiting for you, sir.'
'Good. As soon as the door is closed, deactivate all recording equipment, visual and audio. Employ full precautions against listening devices. No one is to enter that room until I leave, for any reason. No one is to try to contact me while I am in that room, for any reason. Not even the President.'
Morishi looked troubled. These precautions were not unheard of, but they were rare.
'She will not be able to hurt me,' Welles said, in what he hoped was a reassuring voice. 'She is secured to her chair?'
'Yes, sir.'
'There, you see. She cannot move, and she would be too weak to put up a fight even if she could.'
'Yes, sir. Your instructions will be followed.'
'Good.' Welles turned to the door, and breathed out again. He raised his palm to the scanner and typed in a quick six-digit code. Few people knew it was his wife's date of birth.
The door opened and he stepped inside. The door closed immediately behind him, but he did not notice. As soon as he stepped into the room, Delenn of Mir looked up, and the instant her deep green eyes hit him, he could see nothing else.
Consciousness and rational thought returned to Sinoval the instant he heard the Vorlon's cry of one single word.
<No!>
Ignoring the pain of his multitude of injuries he leapt to his feet, momentarily surprised to see himself outside the Starfire Wheel. He looked into it, and saw the Primarch's form change. One moment he was the same tall, old, dignified and wise humanoid being he had always been. A heartbeat later, he was.... many things. He was knowledge, and power, and wisdom, and sorrow, and regret and.... memory.
The Starfire Wheel slid open its final notch, and there was a blaze of light and heat. There was a scream that ended suddenly, and then there was nothing.
There was stillness. The Wheel was closed. Of the Vorlon and the Primarch, there was no sign.
Reeling with what he had just seen, Sinoval turned to the Soul Hunters emerging from the shadows. 'Did you catch it?' he asked. The Primarch was.... gone. Sherann was.... dead. This had to have been for something.
'Did you save it?'
One of them, one who looked older than the others, held up a glowing, golden orb. Sinoval could clearly see the thrashing form of the Vorlon within it.
He closed his eyes and sank wearily to the floor, not from the pain of his wounds, but from the realisation of what he had done and what it had cost. He raised his hand and clenched it into a fist, trembling slightly.
Then he opened his eyes and rose, walking to the place where Sherann's body lay. He looked at the terrible wound in her chest, and sighed softly. Her eyes, filled with blood, seemed to be accusing him. He closed them gently, not wishing to see them any longer.
He then turned, and found that all the Soul Hunters, including his guards and the one with the Vorlon's soul....
All of them were kneeling.
'What are you doing?' he asked. Some sort of mourning ritual?
'We are swearing fealty,' said the one with the soul globe. 'We are swearing fealty to our new Primarch Majestus et Conclavus.'
