He was investigating the hearts and the souls of his people.
He told me once that he loved hope more than anything else, for hope was pure and perfect. You could hope for a better world despite knowing it would never come. You could hope for a victory and never have to imagine what would come afterwards, when the memory of the victory faded.
'Ha'Cormar'ah,' said a voice quietly to him. He turned to see someone looking at him. He had made no attempt at disguise, but neither had he made any effort to draw attention to himself. No one had spared him a second glance. He was sure the agents and the eyes of the Kha'Ri would have noticed him, but to his people, he was no one.
'Yes?' he said.
The Narn nodded, and then seemed to shimmer.
I have spent thirty years trying to understand everything he told me, and the most important lesson I have learned in all that time is that I never will. I miss him every day. I miss his wisdom, his kindness, his understanding, his drive.
Most of all I miss the dreams of the young man he must once have been. There is no one left now who knew that young man. They are all gone. Speak his name to a few elderly men and women and their eyes will light up, their years drop away and they will remember his face and his speeches, but they will not remember him.
Still, perhaps that is magic enough. Perhaps that is legacy enough. It is more than most of us can ask for, to be remembered in that way.
As a legend.
G'Kar realised what it was almost instantly, memories left over from his sojourn in the Great Machine rising in his mind. But he was paralysed by a sheer lack of comprehension.
Not here! He had expected many things. Thenta Ma'Kur, alien mercenaries, common street thugs, but not this.
The thing that was not a Narn moved too quickly for him to react. One blow staggered him and the second felled him.
He stared up into the sun with unblinking eyes.
Not a Faceless. He had never expected a Shadowspawn here.
He told me once, bitter and angry, how much he resented being a legend. He would have been happy to have his name forgotten and erased from history. Alas, by writing this tome I fear I have removed any hope of that.
But most of all he wished to have his message remembered, his words, his meaning. That was what mattered, not his name.
I hope I have managed to do that, even a little.
No one noticed as the body of Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar was removed.
In less than a minute it was as if he had never been there at all.
L'Neer of Narn, Learning at the Prophet's Feet.
* * * John J. Sheridan. Saviour of the galaxy. Defender of the true and the virtuous.
You can hide no secrets from me, Sheridan.
All was dark, save for the light of the tiny candle at the foot of the mirror. The mirror was vast, towering up as far as the eye could see, but all he could see in it was himself, staring back at him, speaking with a voice not his own.
'Is this a dream?' he asked himself.
That depends. Are you a man dreaming you are a ghost, or a ghost dreaming you are a man? Is anything real? Is Delenn real, or is her touch only an illusion? Am I real?
'Who are you?'
Who are you?
We have been over this, Sheridan. You don't know who you are. Look, we have stripped everything away, you and I. All that remains is the darkness, a tiny light, the mirror, and yourself. Shorn of all encumbrances and burdens and duties. Here of all places you can surely know who you are.
'How can any of us answer that question?'
Very well, then. Another question. A different one. Who do you want to be?
'My father,' he replied instantly. 'I want to be my father.'
The one who joined the Shadows, who allied with them, fought for them, sent countless millions to their deaths in their cause?
'No. That man was not my father. That man was someone who once had been my father. I want to be my father as he was when I was a child.'
Both men are one and the same, surely. The man you remember became the man who served the Shadows. The man who served the Shadows still had some of the man who poured water on to your roof at night to help you sleep. Which man was real, and which the illusion?
'They were both real, and whatever he did, he was still my father. I forgave him, at the end.'
After all he did, you still forgive him?
'Yes.'
You believe in redemption, then? You believe that a man might be forgiven his sins, his errors, whether intentional or not — they can all be forgiven and atoned for? Any man can seek redemption?
Or any woman?
'I....'
Can you be forgiven, Sheridan? The things you did, is there absolution for them?
'I....'
You forgave your father. Why not yourself? What is it you have done that you cannot forgive, Sheridan? You killed Minbari, a great many of them, but that was war. You sent people to die in your war, but that was for a greater cause, was it not? You took up arms against your own people, but it was for their own good. You killed your wife on the deck of your own ship, but that was just a misunderstanding. Not your fault at all. You left Delenn and your unborn child on Z'ha'dum, but your instincts told you she was dead, and you did not know she was pregnant, so what blame there?
What can you not forgive, Sheridan?
No answer, not for me.... not for yourself. No answer....
'I.... I can't.... I can't forgive any of....' Sheridan looked up. The mirror was empty. He reached forward to touch it and it shattered at his touch. Behind it lay a small walking stick, topped with silver. He made to pick it up, but it was impossibly hot to his touch.
'Where are you?' he called. 'Where are you?'
There was no answer.
* * * Senna lay quietly on the bed, staring up at the grey ceiling. The pain in her back had lessened, but it had never really gone away. She doubted it ever would. Still, sometimes she was glad of it. The pain there was physical, easily attributable to something clear and obvious. The other types of pain she was feeling were not so easy to forget.
They were travelling through hyperspace now. The entire fleet. A group of monsters and traitors and
