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The flagship of the Centauri Republican Fleet, Alon Irioris Nessea Altamar (a mouthful that vaguely translates to ‘grandest-of-all star-traveling lion’ – the ‘lion’ in question being the Centauri kind, bright purple, with ten-inch teeth) is quite possibly the most luxurious mode of transportation available in the galaxy, at least on this side of the Rim. The ship is one jump-gate away from the Narn home-world, meant to be arriving on the occasion of the Interstellar Alliance’s yearly council session being held on Narn coinciding with the Centauri emperor’s state visit, (one a week ahead of the other.)
Surrounded by steam thicker than soup, up to his shoulders in perfumed water and towering bubbles, G’Kar sits in the frankly obscenely-sized marble tub in the imperial suite aboard the ‘Nessea, soaking his old bones and idly wondering why ‘lion’ is such a common interplanetary term for such wildly varying species of animal. Simply another mystery of the universe like those Swedish Meatballs, perhaps.
A Centauri ‘lion’ is many things: a leading cause of death for over-confident trophy hunters on Centauri game preserves; a heraldic symbol of strength, bravery, and power; even a mawkish endearment to one’s valiant paramour…
Londo, Imperial White coat of office exchanged for a decidedly un-imperial white fuzzy robe, sits on the edge of the tub with a drink in his hand, idly trailing fingertips through the water. With the aid of much dye, his great crest is still valiantly holding out against the encroaching gray – and now it rises through the steam like the dark sail of an ancient water-ship in the fog.
G’Kar takes the drink from the emperor’s hand and sips at it. He gets ready to make a face, but is pleasantly surprised by the strong, spicy flavor of Narn taree, diluted with fruit juice and a few cubes of ice. “Not your usual choice for space travel,” G’Kar comments, taking another, deeper drink. A strangely nostalgic refreshment – he hadn’t drank such sweet, diluted taree since his last holy-day as a child, at home with his family.
“I thought it appropriate.”
“Learn to eat spoo fresh, and then I’ll be impressed.”
“Fah! My dear Lord G’Kar, we have our limits,” come the ringing tones of the Courtly Centauri ‘royal we,’ and the mention of G’Kar’s detested courtly title – pulled out when Londo is deliberately trying to needle him, some playful distraction from their usual banter in Interlac.
G’Kar gives him a measured look, his good eye half-closed and his prosthetic recharging in a glass somewhere on the counter by the sink.
Londo’s thin lips are a little pale, the shadows around his eyes a little deeper. He hasn’t been sleeping well, these past few months, G’Kar knows – he wakes in the night, gasping for air, clawing at his shoulder, wild-eyed. His weak Centauri eyes see nothing in the dark, and G’Kar takes his arms and holds them still, speaks to him in a low voice, words that Londo may not understand. Words his father taught him, spoken a hundred years ago on the southernmost coast of the Western Continent – many miles south of G’Khamazad – a prayer to the universe in G’Quan’s name. G’Kar only knows these words, of that now-dying language. An archaic form of the Holy Five Pleas.
Let us look for the true shape of the universe. Let us see with eyes undimmed. Let this pass, and another thing come. Let us remain. Let nothing be unchanged. Such is the way, seen by G’Quan.
Londo listens. Breathes. Only then does he mutter something about a nightmare, and turns onto his side, feigning sleep until morning. He pretends not to know what G’Kar speaks of when questioned the next morning.
G’Kar drinks the cold, sweetened taree again. “Limits,” he repeats. “Yes. Well, I suppose the Centauri emperor drinking a coarse, Narnish drink is a politically bold move.”
“My drinking and my politics have nothing to do with each other.”
“Say that after a meeting with Lord Yalten, and maybe I’ll believe you. You finished a bottle of brivari that night in record speed. When you were outlining the interspecies marriage bill, he looked like he would faint.”
“Yes, as though I would drag him before his familial altar myself and tie him to a Pak’ma’ra. I really need a new minister of Public Relations – this one is ever so useless.”
G’Kar washes a laugh down with Londo’s drink.
“The contents of my glass are for me, politics notwithstanding.” Londo huffs. “Give it back.” With an imperturbable expression, G’Kar hands the nearly empty cup back and Londo grimaces at him. “Greedy old thing,” he mutters, draining it, then dropping it onto the surface of the bath-water to float away, somewhere into the steam, between towering islands of bubbles. They watch it disappear, then find themselves both looking back at one another.
The steam seems to thicken, the air heat up just a few degrees more.
G’Kar reaches out of the water, bare, speckled arm glistening with water droplets and perfume oils, to lay his hand against Londo’s side, over the robe. “Am I?” He strokes up and down, then hooks his fingers into the tie of the robe to pull him a little closer, making him lean perilously over the tub.
“Terribly,” Londo rasps, something beginning to slither inside his robe. “Few can boast having an emperor… Service them in the bath, yes?”
“Oho,” says G’Kar, not hiding a modicum of glee. “Is that how it’s going to be?”
--
Though G’Kar’s deep eye-ridges shade his gaze more than enough, Londo must squint behind dark glasses to hide from the bright red sun, and the reflective glare of the desert sands. Their full-moon shape casts long shadows down his cheeks.
When the transport doors open, the emperor ceases leaning on his Narn bodyguard’s arm, and begins an unhurried stride down the extending gangplank – rows of guardsmen moving down and to each side of the luxuriously carpeted path. An entourage of minor courtiers, mostly young people hand-picked by the emperor and his aide, the estimable, though no longer so young, Lord Cotto – follow them at some small distance. Vir himself was somewhere on Minbar with his wife on a well-deserved vacation, one Londo insisted he take, nearly at sword-point.
“You are no use to the Republic if you work yourself to madness!” were the emperor’s exact words. And Vir, used to his mentor’s biting tones concealing a great deal of avuncular affection, had finally accepted the gift in its intended spirit.
They are met with muted fanfare and the sober faces of Kha’Ri councillors and a few various alien Alliance representatives. Somewhere, a little out of sight, a traditional band begins to play.
“Is that a funeral march?” Londo asks in an undertone, casting a slightly helpless look at G’Kar. “Don’t tell me it’s over before it’s started…”
G’Kar can’t help the amused twitch of his lips. “Not at all. It’s a traditional festive tune. Most common at state functions, weddings, and name-days. Rei’kel Tha.”
“Weddings?”
“Happy occasions, Mollari, on any other world but yours. You can take my arm again, if you like.”
“I’ve had enough weddings for a lifetime, thank you, G’Kar,” Londo says dryly. They proceed very slowly – either giving in to the momentousness of the occasion, or in accommodation of Londo’s well-disguised exhaustion. “Besides, I don’t think your people would be very happy about that, hm?”
“Maybe public knowledge of my willing participation in Centauri debauchery will finally stop crowds of them from asking me what the meaning of life is,” he says a little hopefully.
As the Centauri in question (the one regularly involved in said debauchery, that is) Londo takes a breath to respond, but they have already reached the knot of dignitaries at the end of the strip.
The councillor that strides out to meet them is a familiar face.
“Welcome to the Homeworld,” she intones, and gives a crisp, formal salute. “The Kha’Ri greets you, Emperor of the Centauri.”
Londo bows solemnly in answer. “We are honored.”
“Councillor Na’Toth,” G’Kar says, eyes sparkling.
“Prophet G’Kar,” Na’Toth answers back with familiar dry humor. She smirks when G’Kar winces at the title – even after a decade, the old Narn will never be used to the title. Never having been religious herself, Na’Toth has no reverence for a supposedly holy figure, only respect and deep affection for her former mentor.
On the occasion of this momentous arrival, they are invited to the opening ceremony of the opening of a public park and nature preserve – the work of nearly a decade of environmental science, careful conservation, and some naturalistic terraforming, a project jointly funded by both various Narn organizations, and, more discreetly – the Imperial Treasury.
G’Kar had only seen pictures and a few early scans of the land, when its suitability had been widely debated. Now, he can certainly say it is a grand success. This is far beyond even the Narn of his childhood, the scarred and pitted earth around the great mines, the endless flat fields of industrial farmland, the deep purple and pale gray of a polluted sky… This is the Narn his parents barely remembered, the Narn of his grandparents’ youth, before the Centauri had come – something from rare surviving historical files and even older storybooks.
The grass is thick and yellow. Tall stalks with green flowers wink between its gently whispering blades. Squat, gnarled trees with leaves of lilac and deep purple wind their long, crooked branches low to the ground.
It is a strange, slow transition from coarse sand, to dark rock, to the very beginnings of verdant growth that get higher and higher, until the grass is tall enough to brush against the shoulders of a grown man.
He forgets about the cameras, and spares a thought of momentary gratitude to Londo who only rests a hand on his elbow, then nudges him forward. Londo remains with the other officials, his entourage, his guard, but G’Kar, as if hypnotized, steps forward, feeling the change of terrain under his boots.
Chest deep in the grass, G’Kar takes off one glove and feels the slight sandpapery texture of a native flower petal against the very tips of his fingers. His heart aches with lightness, and he smiles at the distant mountains. In his lifetime, he sees flowers grow again on Narn, not to be harvested – for no other reason than that they belong there.
“By, G’Quan,” he says with a rusty laugh. “Look at it!”
Na’Toth grins at him, standing at the edge of the field, arms spread wide. “Nothing like it, is there?”
“No, there is not,” G’Kar agrees. He covers his stinging eyes for a brief moment, then puts his glove back on and goes to rejoin the group.
--
Accommodation in the capital is in a large estate with a courtyard in the center, its colored tiles forming a bright design when looked at from the top floors, where the dining hall is – and the state dinner is in full swing.
To satisfy both Centauri hierarchical propriety, with those of the highest rank at the head of the table, and Narn meritocratic democracy – they are seated at the long sides of a narrow table, emperor in the middle on one side, entourage around him – and various councillors filling out the other side.
G’Kar elects to sit to the emperor’s right side, as always, studiously overlooking the oddly hungry look directed at him by Councillor Ta’Jiri, and the very surly glare of the young Councillor Sha’Kal. Na’Toth’s brow ridges rise, but she says nothing.
Conversation is a little awkward and subdued. The councillors and their aides are reserved and stiff, the young nobles, though trying to appear friendly, are quite put off, and begin to drink heavily, in true Centauri fashion.
The young noblewoman seated next to him, whose name he cannot remember for the life of him, nearly knocks her goblet into his lap when the decorative lace of her sleeve gets caught on the table, and she flushes, looking at him, round eyes full of shame in its purest form.
“L-lord G’Kar, I…”
“No, no, my dear.” He puts the cup a little further from the edge of the table. “The trick is,” he says in an undertone, “In the manner of His Majesty, never to actually let the cup leave your hand unless it’s empty.”
She covers her mouth to stifle a giggle, then looks mortified again, glancing past him at Londo who is sedately putting away another helping of h’aeotor and loudly discussing the various tapestries around the dining hall with Na’Toth and Councillor Ko’Dok.
When he looks back, he finds himself fixed with the burning gaze of Sha’Kal again, whose gloved fist is so tight around his fork that G’Kar is sure that were it not for the dining table between them, that fork would be now buried in his remaining eye. He glances at the Centauri girl, then back to Sha’Kal with incomprehension; is it some political or religious grievance, or does he simply have designs on the girl himself? For G’Quan’s sake, she is young enough to be G’Kar’s granddaughter – Sha’Kal is not his rival.
Well. He leans over to Londo, says, “I’ll be right back,” stands up from the table, and goes to the balcony, just out of earshot. After a moment, Sha’Kal follows him, and Na’Toth follows him.
Sha’Kal does not give him a polite salute, not even an inclination of the head.
G’Kar waits, then says mildly: “You seem to have something to say.”
Sha’Kal stiffens. “I doubt it is something you wish to hear, Lord.”
G’Kar sighs softly. Right. He quickly lays a quelling hand on Na’Toth’s shoulder, knowing without looking that the expression on her face is the one that sends much smarter beings running, and usually preempts some devastating consequences for those stupid enough to stand and face it. “Have it out with.”
“Why must he who speaks for our people in the Alliance be one who beds down on the Centauri home-world?!” Sha’Kal bursts out.
“Councillor Sha’Kal, the various places I have made my bed over the years are my own concern. Tell me I have betrayed my people, if you can, but do not begrudge me the spirit of cooperation, which has won us all so much.”
“You betrayed our people when you refused to take a seat on the Kha’ri eleven years ago!”
G’Kar pauses. Ah, and there is that old problem. So many factions, all of them upset and for so many different reasons… At least now he knows what he is dealing with. “I was not asked to take a seat on the Kha’Ri, I was asked to head it. To rule our people as some symbol of freedom from Centauri aggression. I saw for myself the consequences of such unfettered power. Your spots hadn’t even come in, had they, when Cartagia was emperor?”
Sha’Kal bristles. “I may be young, False Prophet, but I do not let the Centauri Emperor whisper into my ears!”
G’Kar snorts. “If you ever do see Mollari II whisper, record it. It is a historical event.”
“G’Kar.” Na’Toth rises to stand between them. “Councillor Sha’Kal is an anxious man, and he has not yet developed a sense of humor. Let him be, before he challenges you to a duel, and it becomes embarrassing. Well. More embarrassing.” She turns her sharp gaze upon Sha’Kal and jabs a suddenly furious finger into the shining breast-panel of his ceremonial coat. “And you – you speak well in civic matters, which is why you have been afforded a voice upon our council. But do not presume to lecture one who has helped take our people from ruin to prosperity. During your schooling, not so long ago, what page in your history textbooks did you have to turn to in order not to see this man?”
A little taken aback, G’Kar lays a hand on her elbow. To have such a staunch defender warms his heart, but this sort of thing is exactly why he does not spend too much time among his own people. “Na’Toth, let him be. A voice of dissent is a healthy thing – I cannot always be agreed with. The personal comments are a bit much… But as a public figure, one copes.”
Na’Toth gives him a flat look. “You only say that because you don’t read the tabloids.”
“Oh, Na’Toth. If those are to be taken to heart, I shall spend the rest of my life defending myself against accusations of bedding half the Centauri Royal Court and selling state secrets to the Humans…”
“Not to mention your secret half-Minbari lovechild with Delenn,” Na’Toth adds dryly.
That one he hadn’t heard yet. “By G’Quan, what imagination!”
“That’s not biologically possible,” Sha’Kal says, somewhat distracted by the sudden swerve in topics, and mildly horrified at the concept.
“My dear young man, that doesn’t stop anyone,” G’Kar says.
Sha’Kal looks down, lips pinched.
“Sha’Kal, your words are not new to me. The Centauri are divided into many camps, some who go so far as to admire me and some that decry my undue influence over their emperor. And it is much the same on our world. Those, who, like you, believe I am swayed by Mollari at the detriment of Narn, others who believe I sway him for the good of Narn, and still others who look up to me or are furious at me for other reasons entirely.”
“…Politics,” Sha’Kal mutters.
“Indeed.”
--
The suite arranged for the emperor is large, but in a purely Narn style – stone floor, wall hangings in tasteful neutral bright reds, low couches with traditional reed mats, and a very large bed of carven stonework. The bedroom opens out onto a large balcony with two sliding doors – a definite security hazard, at G’Kar’s first glance, but then he sees the blinking green lights of the sensors around the periphery of the doorway and the railings, and decides it isn’t entirely a lost cause.
Londo stands on the balcony in his shirtsleeves and breathes the fresh air, looking down into the courtyard. His temples are beaded with sweat, though he is still a little pale, despite the heat. “I shall have tiles like this installed in the Western Gardens,” he declares. “I didn’t know… Well. They are very beautiful.”
“Yes.”
“What did you talk about with Na’Toth and that young man?”
“Politics,” sighs G’Kar. “I think you may understand it better than most, Mollari. Being surrounded by controversy wherever one goes…”
“Well. That’s what being emperor is, too. The liberals call me conservative, the conservatives call me liberal, and the rest just want to throw their orgies and illegal bird-races in peace.”
G’Kar snorts. The breeze from the south is dry and hot, the light pleasantly ruddy – politics aside, it is a pleasure to be on his home-world again. He opens his mouth to speak, but is interrupted.
“Hush,” Londo tells him. “Look, listen.” He waves G’Kar over and lays a hand on his arm, directing his gaze toward a pair of people below.
One of the young courtiers in the imperial entourage – the very same girl who had nearly upset her drink at dinner – shares a bench with a young bespectacled Narn Kha’Ri attache. G’Kar still can’t remember the girl’s name, and the attache looks far too junior for him to have been even a contemporary of Na’Toth. The thought occurs to him that the boy is probably of an age to be Na’Toth’s child.
He listens.
“…I have heard that the emperor is planning to bring the bill before the Alliance referendum this coming cycle, with the rest of the advisory board behind it,” the Centauri girl says in a carrying, animated undertone. “I don’t know which way the League will swing, but I can guess that Minbar and Earth will stand for it. It’s both of our peoples that worry me in this matter, frankly.”
The Narn rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Codifying the interspecies marriage amendment for every Alliance world, you mean?”
“Yes, exactly that one.”
“Do you truly think it will pass?”
“Even if it does not, it will still bring the matter to public attention and wide discussion. It bodes well, do you not think so?”
“It’s worrisome, I think. Too much too soon. Marriage means such different things on different worlds. It could lead to disaster.”
“Or better-forged alliances. Deeper understanding. A real ‘we are one’ sort of thing, don’t you think?”
The young Narn can’t help a small smile at that. “You are a follower of G’Kar, lady?” he teases, looking at her over the top of his glasses.
The Centauri girl flushes and looks away, having nearly choked on her breathless enthusiasm. “Of course, I admire him, but… A-anyway,” she says. “If you want proof that it’s a good idea, just look at history!
“So your argument is something like, ‘Sheridan and Delenn did it, why shouldn’t the rest of us?’”
“Exactly! And, traditional alliance aside, it’s become far more fashionable to marry for love, now.”
“On your world. Here, it is more than common.”
“In that case, suppose you went out into the market district right now and fell in love with… Oh, a Human, or something! Why should love, the cry of a soul out for warmth and closeness, be bound by something as trivial as species?”
“A soul’s cry…” the young Narn repeats quietly. “I like that. Is it a reference to something?”
The girl fans herself, clearly more and more flustered as the conversation gets away from her, both due to her own passion, and the young man’s clever needling. “The composer and lyricist Master Dorva, about five hundred years ago. The opera ‘Mi Gri Vitaro.’ It’s a true classic, on my world.”
“I have not seen it.”
“Well, naturally. I-I mean. Well. I haven’t seen a lot of Narn media, myself. I can… I can send you a recording, if you like. I’ll need your comm-code.”
The young Narn scrutinizes her for a moment, then smiles again. “Alright. Here, you can scan it… And if you take recommendations, I might send you some literature of my world.”
“I do! I do take recommendations…” The Centauri girl’s voice becomes breathless again, and G’Kar’s brow-ridges rise as he looks back at Londo.
Londo’s teeth flash in a little grin, endeared by the children’s antics. “Aren’t they cute?” he leans over to say into G’Kar’s ear.
“Very,” G’Kar says dryly. “Did you tell her about the bill on purpose?”
“I may have mentioned something within earshot. This one, particularly, is a little bird that twitters constantly. And there is nothing like healthy gossip to get people’s interest up about something, no? She is most enthusiastic about the prospect.” He snaps his fingers a few times. “Ah, what’s her name… Belar, daughter of Tirell,” he says. “A little flaky, but a good, fashionable liberal influence in the Court – terribly rich, of course, and from not so old a family that her lips have fused together from frowning and being told to hide her opinions.”
“The new generation…”
“Look,” says Londo. “I think he’s offering to get her a drink.”
“After everything she drank at dinner?”
“Fah! She is Centauri.” He pulls G’Kar away from the balcony, back into the room. “Now, G’Kar, should you not make some public appearance without me? Before I make my speech, perhaps?”
“I am desperately trying to avoid that. Without you at my side, I become ‘Prophet G’Kar’ to the people, and that is something very volatile. Faith, without much understanding, and in my name.”
“So you would rather be ‘Lord G’Kar’ and remain guarding me until the summit, when we take our seats on the Advisory Board?”
“I would rather none of those appellations had attached themselves to me at all.”
“Perhaps I should save you even more trouble and make you ‘Minister G’Kar.’”
“Don’t you dare.”
Londo gives a shark-like grin. “Alright, then, what’s worse, tell me: Lord G’Kar or Prophet G’Kar?”
G’Kar groans. “I’m still angry about the ‘Lord’ thing, I’ll have you know.”
“It’s been over ten years, get over it. If the court wanted to object to your constant presence on the basis of your lacking a title, then they would have to think of something else. Besides I could hardly have you passing me notes, and giving well-timed interruptions during Centaurum meetings without having you be a titled, ranked member.”
“You conveniently leave out that the notes contained only caricatures, mostly of Lord Velaro and that awful little tuft he was growing on his chin back then.”
“Yes, but the rest of them didn’t know that.”
It’s a very old, very comfortable argument – like a soft, warm coat that has been through the wash so many times the fabric is worn thin and smooth. G’Kar accepts it as the distraction tactic it is.
“It’s the other way around on Narn, you know,” G’Kar counters. “I was called ‘Lord’ today by a young Councillor who wished to wound me with it.”
“Ah. So, did Na’Toth bite his nose off?” Londo asks.
“I didn’t let it get to that point.”
Londo makes a grand, sweeping gesture. “A prophet to the Narns, a lord among the Centauri, a leader of the Interstellar Alliance… My, my, G’Kar – perhaps ‘King of the Galaxy’ is the next title you’ll find yourself stumbling into, hm?”
“G’Quan forbid.”
“Besides, a Centauri lordship is no small thing, and it doesn’t come with any spiritual duties.” He wiggles his fingers vaguely.
“I suppose the scandal factor makes up for some of the inconvenience,” G’Kar admits.
“Oh, come now, G’Kar. You love it when the nobles are forced to bow and scrape and call you ‘Your Lordship.’” Londo cackles. “I believe you once called it, what, ‘reparations’?”
G’Kar snorts.
He had been absolutely furious, the day he had found out Londo made him a lord of the Republic. The day he had found out – two days after the decree had actually gone into effect. Londo had made a royal decree, bypassed the Centaurum, and had even managed to keep it out of the newsfeeds, but only until the next Centaurum convocation. Lord Strevell had been waxing poetical about the budgetary constraints on public works, G’Kar had audibly snorted when the man mentioned that public education was a waste of money anyway, given that the lower classes could just as easily go into the trades, or the Guilds, and Lord Velaro, still trying to grow that miserably lopsided little goatee had said, very venomously, “Would Lord G’Kar like to make an official statement?”
G’Kar had momentarily thought it was a jibe. It was, but when he glanced over at Londo, the emperor was steadily not looking at him, and was shifting in his seat uncomfortably.
“Though my knowledge of the Centauri legal system is imperfect,” G’Kar had managed to say, suddenly feeling quite cold all over, “Even Lord Strevell must be aware that membership in any guild requires an academic degree.”
After the session had adjourned, in the relative privacy of the royal bedchamber, G’Kar had paced and shouted, while Londo justified himself. He’d calmed down eventually, and gone to bed with mixed feelings on the matter. Londo had not convinced him fully, but he could eventually admit there were some benefits.
“What are you thinking about G’Kar?”
“Power.”
Londo rests his hand on G’Kar’s, then slips his cool fingers under the cuff of his coat and strokes the scales there, feather-light, watching G’Kar’s very slight intake of breath like a hunting-bird watches for the silvery glint of fish in mountain streams. Just the barest glimpse… And swoops down. He leans in, touches G’Kar’s jaw, breath warm across his lips. “Contemplating galactic dominion after all?” he asks.
G’Kar closes the distance.
Later, tracing a familiar route over the spots on G’Kar’s shoulder, Londo sleepily murmurs to him in Centauri, “My lord, my lion…”
G’Kar can’t help laughing, tugging the blanket up over both of them. “Oh, stop it, by G’Quan…”
This time, a blessing – Londo sleeps peacefully through the entire night.
--
Breakfast is held in the courtyard in the open air, a more formal occasion than dinner, in the reverse of Centauri tradition. The seating arrangements are much the same as yesterday. He watches, with some amusement as young Belar and the little attache shoot each other furtive looks and shy smiles.
Londo taps his spoon against his goblet, and the table falls silent. He rises, smiling his toothy statesman’s smile. “I would like to propose a toast…” he says, then sways. He catches himself on the table.
G’Kar begins to rise, reaching for his shoulder.
“Oh, Great Maker, not this-” Londo gasps. He drops the goblet and his hand curls into a claw over his chest, crumpling the white brocade of his coat. He falls in an instant, as though the planet had suddenly moved out from under his feet.
--
Timov startles slightly when she picks up the call and sees him. “Oh. G’Kar. You look awful,” she says, a little sharply, clearly startled. “What is it?”
“Londo has had another heart attack,” G’Kar says without preamble. “He has passed through it quickly, and is recovering better than expected. I thought I should tell you before the news reaches you otherwise.”
Timov's pinched face pales. “Which of his hearts?”
“The right one, not the left, thank G’Quan. It’s not as bad as his first attack on Babylon 5. The physicians say it is no longer life-threatening, but that he must rest for a long while to recover entirely. He’s on blood thinners now. Resting.” G’Kar steps to the side so that she can see Londo in the medical center’s bed – pale, unconscious, but steadily breathing.
She shuts her eyes, and G’Kar returns to the center of the screen, blocking her husband from sight. “It’s as though he simply can’t keep himself appropriately well!” she snaps. “Really!” her voice shakes slightly.
“I am sorry,” G’Kar murmurs.
“It’s not your doing,” Timov bites out. “Don’t be ridiculous. If anything, that he’s gone on this long without another one is thanks to you.”
“I would give more than half the credit to Vir.”
“Yes, yes. Him too. Sensible boy.” Her shoulders droop and she pinches the bridge of her nose. “…We are, all of us, getting old now, aren’t we?” she asks suddenly, a melancholy resignation settling over her. She looks away for a moment, blinking rapidly. “…How distasteful.”
G’Kar gives her a wistful, tired smile. “Mollari and I, perhaps, but never you. ‘Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety.’”
“What is that, Minbari poetry?”
“Human, actually.”
“Come off it. You know that sort of thing has never worked on me.” Despite her words, Timov’s eyes sparkle back at him.
“So I keep hearing.”
“You sly old thing.”
“You are not the only one who says so.”
“Keep me updated,” she instructs. “And… Keep him alive.”
“With my last breath,” he promises.
When the connection ends, G’Kar remains standing, looking with unseeing eyes into the blackness of the blank screen. He sends a quick message to Vir – the news would likely have reached him already, through the Rangers, to Minbar, but if he knows the young Centauri at all, then he would be fretting anyway. Or perhaps not so young any longer.
He slowly turns and returns to his chair beside the emperor’s bed, continuing his vigil.
Let us look for the true shape of the universe. Let us see with eyes undimmed. Let this pass, and another thing come. Let us remain. Let nothing be unchanged. Such is the way, seen by G’Quan.
--
Londo wakes fully a day later. He is forbidden from leaving bed rest, and he complains as heartily as he is able, which is not very. G’Kar finally gets some sleep, refusing to leave the room itself and making his bed on the adjacent medical station.
The ‘Nessea’s facilities have more than enough space for that.
He half-dreams of the gray corridors of Babylon 5, the sickly white light of their med-bay, and the words he read on Londo’s lips through a pane of glass. He wakes, with a slight start.
It it only afterwards, when the emperor has argued that he can rest just as well in his quarters, during a light dinner of medically-recommended protein mush and fresh seasonal fruits from the planet below, that G’Kar mentions:
“I spoke with your wife.”
Londo gives a pale smirk. “Why, my dear G’Kar, you couldn’t wait for me to die before making a move on Timov? And just when I have decided to move the interspecies marriage bill forward… What suspiciously felicitous timing.”
G’Kar tries very, very hard not to be too angry with him. “I spoke with her because I would rather she know of your condition from me, than from the news-feeds. My being a somewhat mitigating influence on the one-woman storm you’re very likely to face upon returning to Centauri Prime.” In sharp, deliberate motions, he shucks his gloves and begins to peel a nek’thel fruit, sectioning it out with a claw-tip.
“Great Maker,” Londo murmurs. “Well, what did she say?”
G’Kar places the peeled and sectioned fruit before him. The pale green oblong wedges shimmer damply in the dimmed light. “She said you were old,” he says snidely.
“She must have been truly discomfited to say something so painfully obvious.” Londo frowns around a mouthful. “I shall have to buy her another set of jewels when I return, or, no, perhaps a ship…”
“You have never managed to buy your way into her good graces, and yet you never cease trying.”
“True. What to give a lady that has everything…? I made you a Lord, I gifted Vir that estate on Frallis II-”
The armrest of the ornate chair beside the bed creaks under G’Kar’s tightening grip. “I sometimes still don’t know whether you are serious, or you simply enjoy making everyone around you angry with you.”
Londo gives G’Kar a very tender pale smile, laying an unsteady, cold hand atop his. “And when you are angry with me, then you forget to be worried for a bit, no?”
“You sly bastard,” G’Kar says helplessly.
“Unfortunately, I knew my father quite well,” Londo counters, then adds with some pride: “‘Sly,’ I shall not argue with – I am a Centauri nobleman after all.”
--
Four days later, the emperor grows far more restless. “I am no infirm dotard!” he snaps. “You see? I can stand!” With a defiant jerkiness of movement, he struggles into his dressing-gown over his shirtsleeves and knee-britches, and G’Kar rolls his eyes.
“Yes, I see. And when you fall, at least it will be on the carpet. It’s quite soft in here.”
“You have a poisonous tongue, G’Kar, have I told you this?”
“You’ve described it in various ways over the years.”
Londo glares, tugging his boots on. He is already out of breath, and so cannot come up with any retort.
G’Kar changes tactics. “You must rest, Mollari,” he says sternly.
“My address is today. The speech. I’ll see it through, G’Kar. I must see it through.” Shakily, he begins to powder himself, trying to bring color back to his face.
“The last time you had an attack like this, you were bed-ridden for weeks, and you were far younger!”
Londo grins, a little wildly. “Don’t exaggerate, I was not so young. Come now, G’Kar, this one was not so bad as all that, hm? I shall not let Lord Yalten’s sleepless nights go to naught.”
He reaches to dip into the rouge powder again, but G’Kar catches his trembling fingers and squeezes them, unable to force any more words out. Londo sighs and rests his other hand on top of G’Kar’s.
“I had not dreamed of my death in a little over ten years,” he says in a low voice. “Have I told you this?”
G’Kar swallows. “No.”
“I used to dream of a future… Being emperor, and the life being choked from my throat.”
That was a fragment of a memory, seen through the fog of pain and anguish in Londo’s mind, many, many years ago when he had taken the Dust. He had seen many things, strange and familiar, through the eyes of one he gained true knowledge of in that moment.
“Once, I dreamed of the electro-whip and… One that was not Cartagia.”
G’Kar frowns at that, and at the shadow that passes over Londo’s face, the darkening of his eyes. Centauri seer-dreams are one of their most alien aspects – alien in the way Minbari are, with their motionless crystal cities; or the way the Vorlons had been, in their cryptic wisdom; even in the sharp, assessing gazes of Human telepaths. A deep, unsettling discomfort with an incomprehensible ability. Looking into the space between stars into the inky black void. Truly alien.
“…Yesterday, I dreamt of Turhan, and a green and yellow field where there was once endless sand. He spoke to me.”
Londo’s voice is low and far-away, like the recitation of a prayer in the fumes of the G’Quan Eth. His eyes are glassy, and his grip tightens on G’Kar’s.
He speaks suddenly in Southern dialect, Narn words falling easily from alien lips, uncharacteristically un-accented. “Three emperors. Three warnings. A fate unmade. A wrong corrected. What must be said…” His eyes glisten and his voice grows hoarse. “I saw a boy in the rubble…” he whispers. “Only the third shot hit home… And he will be an old man in a towering forest, someday yet…”
G’Kar scarcely dares to breathe, and when Londo stops speaking, his eyes flutter shut and silence falls, he cautiously reaches out to touch the back of his hand to one pale, motionless cheek. “Londo…?” he whispers.
Londo shivers slightly, blinks, then peers at G’Kar. “You look strange. Did I say something?”
“You… Prophesized, I think.” G’Kar very carefully does not let his voice shake.
“Gods.” Londo grimaces. Yet some color is beginning to return to his face. “And I’m still in my dressing-gown…” He rubs his face and smudges a spot of rouge beneath his eye.
More slowly now, in silence, he shucks his dressing-gown in favor of his waistcoat, the one with a personal shielding device installed – though the greatest danger to his life is within him – and his heavy white brocade coat. G’Kar wordlessly helps him with the buttons, and remains in the bedchamber while Londo goes to the comm unit and gives instructions for a shuttle and ground transport to the Alliance embassy.
When he returns, G’Kar shows him the tablet where he had brought up a semi-holographic satellite map of G’Khamazad and the surrounding areas. Mountains rise as transparent little pyramids, and the rolling red sands shimmer faintly. He makes a gesture to zoom in, a little to the south, further inland.
Half-buried in the sands there are several stone structures, weathered by time, yet clearly some former blast zone from one of the occupations. Londo frowns. “What is this?”
“Laigi Township. One of the central points of the Narn Resistance during the first occupation.” G’Kar zooms in further, and the dilapidated former town hall rises in glowing miniature in the center of the tablet. “Does this place look familiar to you?”
“No…” But there is a flicker of something in Londo’s eyes as he trails off.
“This was where I killed for the first time. A guard, from the lord’s house who had followed me. I stunned him with a rock from above and stole his rifle. He came at me with his sword and I shot him. I missed twice before I hit him.”
Londo’s fingers fly to his temple. “I dreamt this…” he murmurs. “Urza always said I would have been a prophetess had I been born a woman. Maybe it’s something in the sands here…” He sighs. “Will you forgive me? I must do this.”
“I cannot stop you, Mollari. But I will only forgive you if you remain alive.”
“I shall.” Londo smiles. “That I shall do.”
--
G’Kar stands behind the curtain of the stage, watching the emperor on the security monitor.
Londo gives his audience a crooked smile. He takes a breath and begins, in Narn Standard, heavily-accented, but with a fluency G’Kar had not even known Londo possessed: “My minister of Public Relations is likely tying himself into knots as he watches this live, back home. He had written me a wonderful speech, in wonderful Interlac. For what he was advised to do, by certain members of my court, he had done well. Though likely, the credit for this wonderful, over-long speech is due to some group of underfed, over-caffeinated underlings, no?”
There is a smattering of laughter.
“I am not going to read that speech to you here. I have said such things before, and you all, no doubt, have heard such things before, many times.”
Silence.
“To stand here in a time of great peace, on Narn itself, as the emperor of the Centauri Republic, is a very weighty thing. If it were up to certain people, I would not mention even this strange feeling today. I would speak instead in broad terms of alliances, of the glorious, carefully-censored chronicle of the Republic, and I would work hard in order not bring to mind that long and bloody history that has touched many of us here today, and that will continue to echo through the future in our grandchildren’s history books.
“But only there. Only in books. That is my hope. That is the hope of all of us, here, today – and all of us who believe in the Interstellar Alliance and its principles. The hope we have to have in one another, every day that we commit ourselves to peace and understanding.
“My forebear, the late Emperor Turhan, had once intended to do this thing that I now do, but he passed before he could achieve it. He wished to give formal apology to the Narn government, the Narn people, for the things that our people have enacted against yours. For that very same long and bloody history.
“I lay it at your feet now, Great Maker help me.”
The address to the ‘Great Maker’ is in Common Centauri, a slightly breathless mutter. Londo bows his head for a moment, bracing himself against the podium. A moment later he raises his head again and continues with renewed strength.
“By avoiding the mention of our wrongs, we cannot face them, we cannot learn from them. And for the sake of our grandchildren with those history books, and for their children, and so forth – we can hope to save them from our parents’ fates, and from ours.
“This is why this Interstellar Alliance was formed. When the Shadows and the Vorlons came, it no longer mattered who was Centauri, or Brakiri, or Gaim, or Narn, or Minbari. Us, younger races of the galaxy, faced death and destruction on a scale we had never before contemplated, and to one degree or another, we faced it together. I am old, now, and for most of my life I have been a politician – and yet I wish to throw out a very appropriately Human cliché: that all this is bigger than politics.
“After all, Sheridan’s alliance was based on the simple principle that we were stronger together then alone. In these intervening years of peace between our many peoples, I believe that to be truer now than ever before. I see before me now many Narns, yes, but also my own people, and Minbari, Humans, Drazi, and many others – all gathered together in our common cause. That is our strength, and the reason why I say this.
“In the words of the Alliance charter that we must try to live up to each day: ‘We are one.’”
Londo pauses. His eyes close momentarily. He leans away from the amplifier, a closed fist brought to his mouth to smother a cough.
“…By injuring one another, we hack at pieces of our very selves. If those wounds are to heal, they cannot be allowed to fester in the dark. Though they are ugly, and painful, and will likely scar – they can only heal when they are opened to the air.
“As Emperor, I speak for all my people. I speak for the Republic.
“We are sorry.”
A quiet murmur goes through the hall. Though he had given his whole speech in grammatically perfect, though heavily accented Narn Standard, the final apology is given in Courtly Centauri – the royal ‘we.’ The ‘we’ of all the Republic.
The Emperor gives a slow bow, and retreats behind the curtains.
G’Kar is at his side instantly, an arm to lean on. “Your Minister of Public Relations is going to have a breakdown, if he hasn’t already. Do you think he’ll be assassinated this week or next?”
“Don’t be dramatic. These are modern times. Yalten will take a long vacation off Prime, retire early, and he’ll be fine.” Londo leans heavily against G’Kar. He has sweated through his powder, and his lips are nearly gray. “I had to do it,” he murmurs. “While I still could.”
“Don’t talk like that,” G’Kar says, more sharply than he intends. He half-carries Londo back to the embassy lounge, the guards following at a distance, impassive – knowing not to interfere.
“No, no, don’t start that. You were right, G’Kar, I am old. I did not think even that I would come this far. Time is not a luxury the old can afford.”
“Had I known what you intended, I would have stood with you.”
“I think it was right that I stood alone. For this. I could not make it seem as though I had your presence to validate the statement and manipulate your people’s perception, nor make it seem to my people as if you’d somehow put me up to it.”
“Meanwhile, like the last idiot, I never even suspected,” G’Kar grumbles.
“You’re well aware how much we complicate things, politically, for one another…” Londo says, already out of breath. “I had to… Make a statement.”
“Have you become an honest politician, Mollari? Will wonders never cease?”
“Come, come – you go much too far.” Londo sways, his knees buckle, and G’Kar is the only thing keeping him upright in a one-armed embrace against his side.
“Londo.”
“I’ll be alright for a while yet, don’t worry…” he mutters as G’Kar lowers him down to the couch and grips both his hands, on one knee before him. “It’s changed, you see… It’s all changed… In my dream, I am an old, old man. Terribly old. It’s twenty years from now and I am dying. There are trees overhead… And someone is holding onto my hands…”