Finally he stumbled to a halt, collapsing to his knees. Above him the sky beat like a black heart and clouds of lightning split the darkness. There was a smell he had never noticed before — the smell of an abattoir.
A figure approached him and he looked up, half-afraid of what permutation of his life he would see now.
The mirrors shattered and a familiar figure stood in front of him.
"We do not have time for mirrors any longer," Sinoval said.
"You," Sheridan whispered, understanding dawning at last. "What is this? Some sort of trap. You…. oh, God. You did something to me on that space station. You…. took something, or gave me something. All those dreams…. those mirrors, the voice, the questions….
"All of that was you."
Sinoval nodded.
"So what is it then? Are you trying to drive me mad? Am I a drooling wreck wherever my body is now, staring at bright lights and pretty colours? Is this all just a plan for revenge?"
"Do you truly think so little of me, Sheridan? Do you truly think I would be that petty?"
Sheridan paused, and bowed his head. "No, I don't." He looked up. "But if it served your goals, you would drive me insane in a second, wouldn't you?"
Sinoval seemed to consider that. "It would take longer than a second, but yes, I would. Fortunately for you, that was not my goal. We do not have a great deal of time, Sheridan. I have had to advance things a lot more quickly than I would have liked, but such is war, hmm?
"Every question I asked you. You could not answer a single one of them, could you?"
"What do you…? I don't have to answer any questions, least of all from you!"
"Damn it, Sheridan! Listen to me! I cannot do this alone. I inspire fear, perhaps awe. You inspire respect. They will follow me out of fear, but they will follow you out of love, and which do you think is stronger? But they will only follow you if your mind is clear.
"Yes, I took something from you. A tiny part of your soul. No more than droplets of water from the surface of a lake, but enough to give me a link. Into your dreams, into your fantasies, into your mind. I created a soulscape to force you to confront what you have become. There were…. other plans, but they failed, and I was forced to rely on what I had. Unfortunately they have found this out, and set a trap.
"To be honest, I think this was just a warning, a hint to me of what they are capable of. They actually fear me, do you realise that? They must, to threaten…. this.
"But that is my problem. I can free us, Sheridan, take you back to your body, but there will not be another chance. I will not be able to do this again. They know what I am doing, and I cannot do this alone.
"Sheridan. Who are you?"
"I don't have to answer your…!"
"Sheridan! Look at yourself in the mirror! Look at Delenn. Think about what you have become. Where are your friends, Sheridan? Where are those you love? Your precious Alliance, what has it become? Are you really who you want to be?
"Are you who Delenn wants you to be?"
"I…." Sheridan bowed his head, shaking. "What…. what did they do to me?"
"Nothing you were not willing to do to yourself. That is the tragedy of it. They healed you, yes, body and soul, but they did it by breaking you and putting the pieces back together. Some…. pieces just became set too far back. Occasionally they would reach out and intervene directly, but for the most part that was not necessary. They made you susceptible to their plans, to their desires, but the truth is, they did not have to do very much, did they? You have always been a creature of order, Sheridan."
"What of it? Is that such a bad thing?"
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. My inclinations have always been towards chaos. A raised blade, a battlefield, the carrion scavengers circling in the sky. That is my world, but I will not force it upon others who do not accept it. The life I live is my choice, no one else's. Look at your life, Sheridan. Look at what you have become."
"The…. the things they did to me. Can you undo them?"
"No. Another could have, perhaps, but she is lost to me. You can undo it yourself. Just think about who you are and who you want to be. That is all. It is not about me. It is about you."
"I can do this all myself?"
"If you want to enough. If you think the road you are about to walk down is not the path you desire. Delenn made her choice once. I made mine. This is yours. You have made mistakes in the past, but now is your chance to undo them.
"Sheridan, who are you?"
He stood up. "Not who I want to be. Take me back."
"We will not meet again," Sinoval said, holding up his hand and tracing patterns in the air.
Sheridan looked at him, and in the split second before they both disappeared, he said one word.
"Good."
* * *
"You will not die!" Marrago screamed into the uncaring air.
Beneath his feet he could feel the ship leaving hyperspace. Dasouri had taken them into the battle at last, not caring to wait any longer for orders.
"You will not die!"
The Shadow creature raged at him, striking and lashing out. One claw carved a blood-red line across his arm, but he hardly noticed. All was blood, one drop onto another. His blood, her blood, all was one.
"I will not let you die!"
He struck out with his kutari, not even conscious of its being in his hand. The forms, the attack, the defence, all were subconscious. Years of training had taken over, a soldier's training.
"I will not lose you!"
He was sobbing, hardly able even to see the creature through the flood of tears in his eyes. He could not feel the pain in his arm, or his back, or anywhere else he was wounded. The pain he felt was deeper and more potent and hurt him everywhere.
"Lyndisty! I won't let you die!"
The Wykhheran was puzzled, but then it knew it did not have to understand. His lord had bade him kill this one, this Sin-tahri who acted as a Master. And yet the Sin-tahri was acting strangely now. It was making loud noises, the same loud noises over and over again. There was water in its eyes. It seemed to be in grief, and the Wykhheran had never known a Master behave in grief.
The smaller Sin-tahri female on the floor was dying slowly. Was that why the one who acted like a Master grieved? What was she to this one? The Wykhheran did not know. Perhaps his lord would tell him later.
The fight was hard, but then the Wykhheran had expected it to be. Despite its size and age, the Sin-tahri would fight hard and well, a sharp tooth of metal in its hand, one wielded as if it were a claw. The claw struck quickly, but hard, and it caused pain.
Pain was nothing. The Wykhheran had been forged to feel no pain.
The Sin-tahri staggered back, standing over the fallen female. It would not take another step back, guarding her body. Was she special? She was smaller and weaker, but she could be a priest, some Sin-tahri equivalent to the Priests of Fallen Midnight?
But she did not look like a Master. The Wykhheran had seen her through his lord's eyes. She was weak and afraid. Her wounds had come from herself and that was surely a sign of weakness.
The Wykhheran did not understand these Sin-tahri. They were too strange.
It lashed out and the Sin-tahri fell back over the body of the female. Tasting blood in its mouth, the Wykhheran moved forward, and then the voice spoke.
This ends now.
The voice of the Chaos-Bringer, last legacy of the Masters. His voice. The one spoken of, whispered in moonlight and midnight and madness. Known among the Faceless, the Z'shailyl, the Wykhheran, even the Zarqheba.
Sinoval. The Chaos-Bringer. Enemy of the Light. Wielder of Darkness.
The Chaos-Bringer had spoken and the Wykhheran obeyed. The Masters had charged them all, speaking through the spark created at Thrakandar. They would serve the Chaos-Bringer. They would obey his words.
This ends now.
The Wykhheran stopped, ever eager to obey. Even when the Sin-tahri drove its tooth into it, the Wykhheran did nothing. It remained still and peaceful as the Sintahri hacked it apart, even to the point of ultimate death.
It died as it had lived. Ever obedient to the Masters.
Later, when the battle was over, Dasouri sent some of his crew to find their captain. They found him in his quarters, beside the dead body of a mighty and horrific beast. He was kneeling on top of Senna's body, furiously trying to beat life into her hearts, tying bandages around the wounds on her arms and legs and body that no longer flowed with blood, vainly crying out the name of a different woman altogether and heedless of the fact that she too was quite dead.
* * *
G'Kar spoke hollowly, the deaths of millions now weighing on his soul.
"I knew," he began. "I knew there was a plan here, some ploy for revenge against the Centauri. I knew you were involved. I knew that you would be watching me if I came, and that you would move. I hoped…. no, I knew you, Da'Kal. You would not have me killed from a distance. You would want to bring me to you, perhaps even recruit me.
"There is a transmitting device hidden in one of my teeth. It is one of the newest pieces of Alliance technology, undetectable and capable of bypassing any known scanning device. I ordered its creation from information I acquired from the Great Machine.
"Every word of our conversation has been heard by my Rangers here. Every word has been heard by my Rangers at Babylon 5.
"Every word will have been heard by the Vorlons.
"How could you, Da'Kal? How could you turn to the Shadows?"
"The Shadows are dead and gone!" she cried. "All that is left are those who followed them, and why should we not enlist their aid? Who is to tell us what we may or may not do with our freedom?"
"The Vorlons will," G'Kar said sadly.
"We have done nothing wrong. I have done nothing of which a Narn should be ashamed."
"The Vorlons think otherwise. Ah, Da'Kal, I have seen them these past years. Once they were friends and allies, benevolent protectors, but what they have become…. I have seen it with the Centauri and the Drazi. They will send in the Inquisitors and the Dark Stars, and they will make slaves of us all, those they do not kill.
"Do you see what your lust for revenge has brought, Da'Kal?"
"Let them come! We will fight their Inquisitors and their Dark Stars and whatever else they throw at us. We will never be slaves again!"
"Then we will be dead."
"Do you hear me, Vorlons? I am Da'Kal of Narn and I do not fear you! Send whatever force you like, and we will destroy it."
"You have doomed us all, Da'Kal."
She looked at him, the light globe held before her like a talisman.
"No, you have killed us all, G'Kar. You speak of peace and unity when what we need is war and revenge. We will never be safe while the Centauri live. We will destroy them, and if the Alliance try to enslave us we will destroy them as well.
"If you had been stronger, G'Kar, you would have seen this for yourself."
"If you had been wiser, you would have seen for yourself how wrong that is."
She cried out, a wordless scream of anger and frustration and betrayal. She hurled the light globe towards him and it shattered against the side of his face. Blood filled his vision and he slumped back, now staring only at darkness.
Darkness everywhere.
Only the sound of the door opening and closing told him that she had left.
* * *
The battle was still; a silent, frozen image. On one side, the raiders of the Brotherhood Without Banners and their Tuchanq allies. On the other, the Dark Stars of the United Alliance.
And in the middle, the Emissary of Death. Cathedral.
For a long time there was silence. Moreil, watching from the observation point of his ship, could not say a word, simply staring at the unmoving vessel. His Wykhheran could not speak or move, impulses they did not understand filling their minds. Mi'Ra's body cooled on the floor.
Then a sound reached all their ears, Alliance and raider and Tuchanq and Centauri alike. It reached the planet and it reached space.
It was music, a song.
To Moreil it was hideously ugly, and he winced, raising his hands to cover his ears, slumping to the ground in pain.
To the telepaths trapped within the Dark Stars it was a thousand different songs — nursery rhymes, concert arias, hymns — it was something different to each one of them. Each one heard a tiny part of their life and the first piece of their past touched them.
Lord-General Marrago did not hear it. Not so much as a single note.
The Tuchanq heard it, all those on the ships and all those on the world below, and they fell to the ground in joy. Some of them cried, some shouted out their gladness to the heavens, most joined in.
The Song of the Land was being sung again.
And then, once the song was finished, the voice spoke to them again, the voice of Death that came from Cathedral.
This ends now. If anything thinks I am joking, just try it.
And it did end.
But in a sense, it began as well.
* * *
There was light and darkness and a mirror shattering, and a voice and a million questions he could not answer. There was hatred and love and a great and terrible anger, and there were mirrors, hundreds of mirrors, all showing him different things.
All showing him what he had been, or could have been, or still might be.
His eyes opened and General John J. Sheridan sat up in his hospital bed.
* * *
There is disturbing news, Light Cardinal.
Reveal it…. Yes, this is now known.
We must send the Inquisitors. The world must be purified.
No. The darkness runs deep and long. Three races already have felt the touch of the Inquisitors and still more turn to the Darkness. A greater lesson is needed, one that will fill all their eyes with light and leave no shadows in their minds; no doubt or questioning, only fear and obedience.
We await your command, Light Cardinal.
Awake the Death of Worlds.
Gareth D. Williams
Part 4. Hopes, Aspirations and Dreams
All things have a price, all actions have a consequence, but no one suspected this. Across an entire world, eyes look up at the heavens to see a black shadow fall across the sun, and a voice speaks to an entire race. "Behold the price of disobedience. Behold the price of dealing with the Shadow." And then the screaming begins.
Sinoval had been gone from our sight and our hearing for almost two years by that time, and had become little more than a fable or a legend. To some he was a great rebel hero, attacking an unjust and oppressive r?gime — a Robin Hood, a Sivalar'Miko, a Vizhtan.
