carefully, a little more precisely. They spoke in hushed voices, casting the occasional fearful glance in his direction.
He was different, and not in any way they liked.
General John Sheridan did not seem to notice the fear in the eyes of his crew. He did not seem to notice anything at all. In fact, he spent the whole journey back to Babylon 5 staring at the bridge of his ship.
But there were a few, those who had known him longest, people like Ko'Dath and G'Dan, who would swear blind he was not staring at nothing. They thought, in some way they could not truly express, that he was looking at something.
Something none of them could see, and something none of them would probably want to.
But no one spoke about it.
Not a single word.
He could have been sleeping. He could have been resting quietly in his bed, enjoying the peace that comes with old age.
But he was not sleeping. This was not his bed.
And he was most definitely not at peace.
As she did every night, Timov walked into the room slowly and with perfect elegance. In one hand she was carrying a glass of jhala, in the other a glowing light globe.
As she did every night, Timov set the globe on the table beside her husband's bed. Next to it, she placed the glass of jhala. If he did not wake up tonight, one of the servants or medics would come and remove it in the morning, and doubtless drink it themselves.
As she did every night, Timov settled herself into the chair next to the bed and took his cold, cold hands in hers. She looked up at the clock on the far side of the room, not at the harsh machines keeping her husband's body alive.
And as she did every night, she spoke the three words, not to her husband, not to a servant or a guard or a doctor. Not even to herself. They were spoken to a man she hardly knew, had seldom talked to and had not seen in over a year.
As she did every night, she looked into the shadows at the corner of the room, hoping, almost praying that there would be the slightest sign of movement there, the faintest trace. She could not see him, but she knew from experience that that did not mean he was not there.
'Where are you?'
As it had been every night, there was no reply, no twitch of the shadows, no hint of motion, no sound of breath.
There was nothing.
And as she did every night, Timov sat forward in her chair, holding her husband's cold, cold hands, and looking into her husband's still, cold face, and she waited for him to wake up. It would not do for him to wake up to a lonely and empty room.
And as she did every morning, she turned and left the room, with her husband's motionless body still there, still alive, still trapped, still silent, still not showing the slightest indication that she had been there.
But as she did every morning, she walked from the room with pride and determination that belied her lack of sleep. She was Timov, daughter of Alghul, wife of Emperor Mollari II.
And she had work to do.
The apartment seemed darker than usual as he entered. There seemed to be things moving in the corners, just on the edge of his perception. As soon as he looked directly at them, they were still.
He dropped his coat casually on the chair, stepped over the pile of yesterday's newspapers on the floor, looked at the even larger pile of paperwork on the desk and sighed, going over to the commscreen.
'You have two audio messages,' it said, and he activated them.
'Dexter,' came the first. 'It's Bethany. I was just wondering if you wanted to have dinner some time next week. I got a bottle of wine today and it'd be a shame to drink it alone. Let me know.'
He sighed. That was not something he wanted to consider just now. He played the second message.
'Greetings, brother.' He froze. It was the voice of the.... thing they had captured. That was impossible. He checked the time of the message, and his eyes widened. More than two hours after it had.... died, or dissolved, or committed suicide or whatever. He played the rest of the message.
'We cannot be got rid of so easily. Think on what we have said, brother. It will be so much easier if you join us of your own free will. We are the fortunate ones. There are many worse places to be.
'Think on it for a moment, brother. We will be watching you.'
The message ended, and Dexter slowly looked around at the shadows of his room, one by one. 'I don't scare that easily,' he said, lying.
He went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of beer. Drinking it slowly and kicking off his shoes, he went over to the table and looked at the pile of paperwork there.
'Nope,' he said. 'A problem for another day.' He set down the bottle and picked up the pack of playing cards hidden beneath the financial budget documents. There were all sorts of silly cards available these days, even ones with Sheridan as the King of Spades and Delenn as the Queen of Hearts and other nonsense. But these were simple, normal, traditional cards.
He began to shuffle them idly, cutting and reshuffling. 'So,' he said, to no one in particular. 'Explain that dealer chip again?'
A handful of cards caught on his finger and fell to the table. Muttering angrily, he set down the rest of the pack and picked them up.
The King of Clubs. The King of Spades. The Eight of Clubs. The Eight of Spades.
'You have got to be kidding me,' he said, as he picked up the fifth card.
The Jack of Diamonds.
Dead Man's Hand.
Sighing, he threw all the cards over his shoulder. He could pick them up tomorrow. Things would feel a little better tomorrow. He'd come up with a reply to Bethany's invitation, finish off his speech to the Senate on Section 31(3) of the Wartime Emergency Provisions, and not jump at things that weren't there.
Everything would be better tomorrow.
He went to bed.
He was surrounded by darkness and only darkness. He worked the forms as assiduously as he ever had when he was a student. He danced with unseen opponents, recognising their moves and countering them with his own. Stormbringer seemed to flow in his hands, as much a part of him as ever. He had heard legends of warriors whose blades changed to match them, becoming a part of their soul, even. Well, Stormbringer was a part of his soul. It had been forged as such — a mirror to the darkness within him.
'But less of a darkness now, hmm, brother?' Sinoval said. He stopped his dance, and inclined his head in a gesture of respect to his imaginary opponents. 'You see, Sech Durhan,' he said. 'I have not forgotten your teachings.'
He then sat down to meditate. He did not sleep any more, and it was surprising how much more time was available without the need for slumber. There were countless affairs that needed his attention, however, and all his time was still taken up twice over.
There was another lesson he had learned from Durhan all those years ago. Make time for rest. Make time for nothingness. Make time to clear thoughts and mind and remember in that time precisely who and what you are.
'I know who I am,' he said to the darkness. 'I know what I am. I am not afraid, not of myself, and not of my enemies.' He breathed out slowly. He no longer needed to breathe these days either, but it was a refreshingly normal action.
He sensed her arrival a few moments before she entered. He had tried to warn her about entering his donjon, but naturally she did not listen. He was fortunate she had heeded his advice about not entering the Well of Souls itself.
